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Oliver Twist
By
Charles Dickens
Contents
Chapter
II - Treats Of Oliver Twist's Growth, Education, And Board
Chapter
IV - Oliver, Being Offered Another Place, Makes His First Entry Into Public
Life
Chapter
VII - Oliver Continues Refractory.
Chapter
VIII - Oliver Walks To London. He Encounters On The Road A Strange Sort Of
Young Gentleman
Chapter
XV - Showing How Very Fond Of Oliver Twist, The Merry Old Jew And Miss Nancy
Were
Chapter
XVI - Relates What Became Of Oliver Twist, After He Had Been Claimed By Nan=
cy
Chapter
XVIII - How Oliver Passed His Time In The Improving Society Of His Reputable
Friends
Chapter
XIX - In Which A Notable Plan Is Discussed And Determined On
Chapter
XX - Wherein Olver Is Delivered Over To Mr William Sikes. <=
/span>
Chapter
XXV - Wherein This History Reverts To Mr Fagin And Company
Chapter
XXVIII - Looks After Oliver, And Proceeds With His Adventures
Chapter
XXIX - Has An Introductory Account Of The Inmates Of The House, To Which Ol=
iver
Resorted
Chapter
XXX - Relates What Oliver's New Visitors Thought Of Him..
Chapter
XXXI - Involves A Critical Position.
Chapter
XXXII - Of The Happy Life Oliver Began To Lead With His Kind Friends
Chapter
XXXIII - Wherein The Happiness Of Oliver And His Friends, Experiences A Sud=
den
Check
Chapter
XXXVII - In Which The Reader May Perceive A Contrast, Not Uncommon In
Matrimonial Cases
Chapter
XL - A Strange Interview, Which Is A Sequel To The Last Chamber
Chapter
XLIII - Wherein Is Shown How The Artful Dodger Got Into Trouble
Chapter
XLIV - The Time Arrives For Nancy To Redeem Her Pledge To Rose Maylie. She
Fails
Chapter
XLV - Noah Claypole Is Employed By Fagin On A Secret Mission
Chapter
XLVI - The Appointment Kept
Chapter
XLVII - Fatal Consequences
Chapter
XLVIII - The Flight Of Sikes
Chapter
L - The Pursuit And Escape
Chapter
LII - Fagin's Last Night Alive
Among
other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be
prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious
name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a
workhouse; and in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need n=
ot
trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence =
to
the reader, in this stage of the business at all events; the item of mortal=
ity
whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter.
For
a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble, by =
the
parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether the child
would survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is somewhat more th=
an
probable that these memoirs would never have appeared; or, if they had, that
being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed the
inestimable merit of being the most concise and faithful specimen of biogra=
phy,
extant in the literature of any age or country.
Although
I am not disposed to maintain that the being born in a workhouse, is in its=
elf
the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befall a hum=
an
being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it was the best t=
hing
for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact is, that
there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself t=
he
office of respiration, - a troublesome practice, but one which custom has
rendered necessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping =
on a
little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and the n=
ext:
the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during this b=
rief
period, Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts,
experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably
and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by, however,
but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowa=
nce
of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver and
Nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that, after a few
struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the inma=
tes
of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been imposed upon the pari=
sh,
by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a m=
ale
infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, f=
or a
much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter.
As
Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the
patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustl=
ed;
the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a fai=
nt
voice imperfectly articulated the words, 'Let me see the child, and die.'
The
surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the
palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, =
he
rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, with more kindness than might =
have
been expected of him:
'Oh,
you must not talk about dying yet.'
'Lor
bless her dear heart, no!' interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her
pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a
corner with evident satisfaction.
'Lor
bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had
thirteen children of her own, and all on 'em dead except two, and them in t=
he
wurkus with me, she'll know better than to take on in that way, bless her d=
ear
heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there's a dear young lamb do.'
Apparently
this consolatory perspective of a mother's prospects failed in producing its
due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards =
the
child.
The
surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips
passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly
round; shuddered; fell back - and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and
temples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked of hope and comfort.
They had been strangers too long.
'It's
all over, Mrs Thingummy!' said the surgeon at last.
'Ah,
poor dear, so it is!' said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bott=
le,
which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the child. 'P=
oor
dear!'
'You
needn't mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse,' said the surgeon,
putting on his gloves with great deliberation. 'It's very likely it will be troublesome. Give it a lit=
tle gruel
if it is.' He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the
door, added, 'She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?'
'She
was brought here last night,' replied the old woman, 'by the overseer's ord=
er.
She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her sh=
oes
were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to, no=
body
knows.'
The
surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. 'The old story,' he
said, shaking his head: 'no wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good-night!'
The
medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having once more
applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fir=
e,
and proceeded to dress the infant.
What
an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped=
in
the blanket which had hitherto formed his only covering, he might have been=
the
child of a nobleman or a beggar; it would have been hard for the haughtiest
stranger to have assigned him his proper station in society. But now that he
was enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow in the same
service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his place at once - a pa=
rish
child - the orphan of a workhouse - the humble, half-starved drudge - to be
cuffed and buffeted through the world - despised by all, and pitied by none=
.
Oliver
cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to the te=
nder
mercies of church-wardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the lo=
uder.
Chapter II - Treats Of Oliver Twist's Growth, Educatio=
n, And
Board
For
the next eight or ten months, Oliver was the victim of a systematic course =
of
treachery and deception. He was brought up by hand. The hungry and destitute
situation of the infant orphan was duly reported by the workhouse authoriti=
es
to the parish authorities. The parish authorities inquired with dignity of =
the
workhouse authorities, whether there was no female then domiciled in 'the
house' who was in a situation to impart to Oliver Twist, the consolation and
nourishment of which he stood in need. The workhouse authorities replied wi=
th
humility, that there was not. Upon this, the parish authorities magnanimous=
ly
and humanely resolved, that Oliver should be 'farmed,' or, in other words, =
that
he should be dispatched to a branch-workhouse some three miles off, where
twenty or thirty other juvenile offenders against the poor-laws, rolled abo=
ut
the floor all day, without the inconvenience of too much food or too much
clothing, under the parental superintendence of an elderly female, who rece=
ived
the culprits at and for the consideration of sevenpence-halfpenny per small
head per week. Sevenpence-halfpenny's worth per week is a good round diet f=
or a
child; a great deal may be got for sevenpence-halfpenny, quite enough to
overload its stomach, and make it uncomfortable. The elderly female was a w=
oman
of wisdom and experience; she knew what was good for children; and she had a
very accurate perception of what was good for herself. So, she appropriated=
the
greater part of the weekly stipend to her own use, and consigned the rising
parochial generation to even a shorter allowance than was originally provid=
ed
for them. Thereby finding in the lowest depth a deeper still; and proving
herself a very great experimental philosopher.
Everybody
knows the story of another experimental philosopher who had a great theory
about a horse being able to live without eating, and who demonstrated it so
well, that he had got his own horse down to a straw a day, and would
unquestionably have rendered him a very spirited and rampacious animal on
nothing at all, if he had not died, four-and-twenty hours before he was to =
have
had his first comfortable bait of air. Unfortunately for, the experimental
philosophy of the female to whose protecting care Oliver Twist was delivered
over, a similar result usually attended the operation of her system; for at the very moment when the child had contrived=
to
exist upon the smallest possible portion of the weakest possible food, it d=
id
perversely happen in eight and a half cases out of ten, either that it sick=
ened
from want and cold, or fell into the fire from neglect, or got half-smother=
ed
by accident; in any one of which cases, the miserable little being was usua=
lly
summoned into another world, and there gathered to the fathers it had never
known in this.
Occasionally,
when there was some more than usually interesting inquest upon a parish chi=
ld
who had been overlooked in turning up a bedstead, or inadvertently scalded =
to
death when there happened to be a washing - though the latter accident was =
very
scarce, anything approaching to a washing being of rare occurrence in the f=
arm
- the jury would take it into their heads to ask troublesome questions, or =
the
parishioners would rebelliously affix their signatures to a remonstrance. B=
ut
these impertinences were speedily checked by the evidence of the surgeon, a=
nd
the testimony of the beadle; the former of whom had always opened the body =
and
found nothing inside (which was very probable indeed), and the latter of wh=
om
invariably swore whatever the parish wanted; which was very self-devotional.
Besides, the board made periodical pilgrimages to the farm, and always sent=
the
beadle the day before, to say they were going. The children were neat and c=
lean
to behold, when they went; and =
what
more would the people have!
It
cannot be expected that this system of farming would produce any very
extraordinary or luxuriant crop. Oliver Twist's ninth birthday found him a =
pale
thin child, somewhat diminutive in stature, and decidedly small in
circumference. But nature or inheritance had implanted a good sturdy spirit=
in
Oliver's breast. It had had plenty of room to expand, thanks to the spare d=
iet
of the establishment; and perhaps to this circumstance may be attributed his
having any ninth birth-day at all. Be this as it may, however, it was his n=
inth
birthday; and he was keeping it in the coal-cellar with a select party of t=
wo
other young gentleman, who, after participating with him in a sound thrashi=
ng, had
been locked up for atrociously presuming to be hungry, when Mrs Mann, the g=
ood
lady of the house, was unexpectedly startled by the apparition of Mr Bumble,
the beadle, striving to undo the wicket of the garden-gate.
'Goodness
gracious! Is that you, Mr Bumble, sir?' said Mrs Mann, thrusting her head o=
ut
of the window in well-affected ecstasies of joy. '(Susan, take Oliver and t=
hem
two brats upstairs, and wash 'em directly.) - My heart alive! Mr Bumble, how
glad I am to see you, sure-ly!'
Now,
Mr Bumble was a fat man, and a choleric; so, instead of responding to this
open-hearted salutation in a kindred spirit, he gave the little wicket a
tremendous shake, and then bestowed upon it a kick which could have emanated
from no leg but a beadle's.
'Lor,
only think,' said Mrs Mann, running out, - for the three boys had been remo=
ved
by this time, - 'only think of that! That I should have forgotten that the =
gate
was bolted on the inside, on account of them dear children! Walk in sir; wa=
lk
in, pray, Mr Bumble, do, sir.'
Although
this invitation was accompanied with a curtsey that might have softened the
heart of a church-warden, it by no means mollified the beadle.
'Do
you think this respectful or proper conduct, Mrs Mann,' inquired Mr Bumble,
grasping his cane, 'to keep the parish officers a waiting at your garden-ga=
te,
when they come here upon porochial business with the porochial orphans? Are=
you
aweer, Mrs Mann, that you are, as I may say, a porochial delegate, and a
stipendiary?'
'I'm
sure Mr Bumble, that I was only a telling one or two of the dear children a=
s is
so fond of you, that it was you a coming,' replied Mrs Mann with great
humility.
Mr
Bumble had a great idea of his oratorical powers and his importance. He had
displayed the one, and vindicated the other. He relaxed.
'Well,
well, Mrs Mann,' he replied in a calmer tone; 'it may be as you say; it may=
be.
Lead the way in, Mrs Mann, for I come on business, and have something to sa=
y.'
Mrs
Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor; placed a s=
eat
for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and cane on the table bef=
ore
him. Mr Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his walk had
engendered, glanced complacently at the cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he smi=
led.
Beadles are but men: and Mr Bumble smiled.
'Now
don't you be offended at what I'm a going to say,' observed Mrs Mann, with
captivating sweetness. 'You've had a long walk, you know, or I wouldn't men=
tion
it. Now, will you take a little drop of somethink, Mr Bumble?'
'Not
a drop. Nor a drop,' said Mr Bumble, waving his right hand in a dignified, =
but
placid manner.
'I
think you will,' said Mrs Mann, who had noticed the tone of the refusal, and
the gesture that had accompanied it. 'Just a leetle drop, with a little cold
water, and a lump of sugar.'
Mr
Bumble coughed.
'Now,
just a leetle drop,' said Mrs Mann persuasively.
'What
is it?' inquired the beadle.
'Why,
it's what I'm obliged to keep a little of in the house, to put into the ble=
ssed
infants' Daffy, when they ain't well, Mr Bumble,' replied Mrs Mann as she
opened a corner cupboard, and took down a bottle and glass. 'It's gin. I'll=
not
deceive you, Mr B. It's gin.'
'Do
you give the children Daffy, Mrs Mann?' inquired Bumble, following with his
eyes the interesting process of mixing.
'Ah,
bless 'em, that I do, dear as it is,' replied the nurse. 'I couldn't see 'em
suffer before my very eyes, you know sir.'
'No';
said Mr Bumble approvingly; 'no, you could not. You are a humane woman, Mrs
Mann.' (Here she set down the glass.) 'I shall take a early opportunity of
mentioning it to the board, Mrs Mann.' (He drew it towards him.) 'You feel =
as a
mother, Mrs Mann.' (He stirred the gin-and-water.) 'I - I drink your health
with cheerfulness, Mrs Mann'; and he swallowed half of it.
'And
now about business,' said the beadle, taking out a leathern pocket-book. 'T=
he
child that was half-baptized Oliver Twist, is nine year old to-day.'
'Bless
him!' interposed Mrs Mann, inflaming her left eye with the corner of her ap=
ron.
'And
notwithstanding a offered reward of ten pound, which was afterwards increas=
ed
to twenty pound. Notwithstanding the most superlative, and, I may say,
supernat'ral exertions on the part of this parish,' said Bumble, 'we have n=
ever
been able to discover who is his father, or what was his mother's settlemen=
t,
name, or con - dition.'
Mrs
Mann raised her hands in astonishment; but added, after a moment's reflecti=
on,
'How comes he to have any name at all, then?'
The
beadle drew himself up with great pride, and said, 'I inwented it.'
'You,
Mr Bumble!'
'I,
Mrs Mann. We name our fondlings in alphabetical order. The last was a S, - =
Swubble,
I named him. This was a T, - Twist, I named him.
The next one comes will be Unwin, and the next Vilkins. I have got names re=
ady
made to the end of the alphabet, and all the way through it again, when we =
come
to Z.'
'Why,
you're quite a literary character, sir!' said Mrs Mann.
'Well,
well,' said the beadle, evidently gratified with the compliment; 'perhaps I=
may
be. Perhaps I may be, Mrs Mann.' He finished the gin-and-water, and added,
'Oliver being now too old to remain here, the board have determined to have=
him
back into the house. I have come out myself to take him there. So let me see
him at once.'
'I'll
fetch him directly,' said Mrs Mann, leaving the room for that purpose. Oliv=
er,
having had by this time as much of the outer coat of dirt which encrusted h=
is
face and hands, removed, as could be scrubbed off in one washing, was led i=
nto
the room by his benevolent protectress.
'Make
a bow to the gentleman, Oliver,' said Mrs Mann.
Oliver
made a bow, which was divided between the beadle on the chair, and the cock=
ed
hat on the table.
'Will
you go along with me, Oliver?' said Mr Bumble, in a majestic voice.
Oliver
was about to say that he would go along with anybody with great readiness,
when, glancing upward, he caught sight of Mrs Mann, who had got behind the
beadle's chair, and was shaking her fist at him with a furious countenance.=
He
took the hint at once, for the fist had been too often impressed upon his b=
ody
not to be deeply impressed upon his recollection.
'Will
she go with me?' inquired poor Oliver.
'No,
she can't,' replied Mr Bumble. 'But she'll come and see you sometimes.'
This
was no very great consolation to the child. Young as he was, however, he had
sense enough to make a feint of feeling great regret at going away. It was =
no
very difficult matter for the boy to call tears into his eyes. Hunger and
recent ill-usage are great assistants if you want to cry; and Oliver cried =
very
naturally indeed. Mrs Mann gave him a thousand embraces, and what Oliver wa=
nted
a great deal more, a piece of bread and butter, less he should seem too hun=
gry
when he got to the workhouse. With the slice of bread in his hand, and the =
little
brown-cloth parish cap on his head, Oliver was then led away by Mr Bumble f=
rom
the wretched home where one kind word or look had never lighted the gloom of
his infant years. And yet he burst into an agony of childish grief, as the
cottage-gate closed after him. Wretched as were the little companions in mi=
sery
he was leaving behind, they were the only friends he had ever known; and a
sense of his loneliness in the great wide world, sank into the child's heart
for the first time.
Mr
Bumble walked on with long strides; little Oliver, firmly grasping his
gold-laced cuff, trotted beside him, inquiring at the end of every quarter =
of a
mile whether they were 'nearly there.' To these interrogations Mr Bumble
returned very brief and snappish replies; for the temporary blandness which
gin-and-water awakens in some bosoms had by this time evaporated; and he was
once again a beadle.
Oliver
had not been within the walls of the workhouse a quarter of an hour, and had
scarcely completed the demolition of a second slice of bread, when Mr Bumbl=
e,
who had handed him over to the care of an old woman, returned; and, telling=
him
it was a board night, informed him that the board had said he was to appear
before it forthwith.
Not
having a very clearly defined notion of what a live board was, Oliver was
rather astounded by this intelligence, and was not quite certain whether he
ought to laugh or cry. He had no time to think about the matter, however; f=
or Mr
Bumble gave him a tap on the head, with his cane, to wake him up: and anoth=
er
on the back to make him lively: and bidding him to follow, conducted him in=
to a
large white-washed room, where eight or ten fat gentlemen were sitting roun=
d a
table. At the top of the table, seated in an arm-chair rather higher than t=
he
rest, was a particularly fat gentleman with a very round, red face.
'Bow
to the board,' said Bumble. Oliver brushed away two or three tears that were
lingering in his eyes; and seeing no board but the table, fortunately bowed=
to
that.
'What's
your name, boy?' said the gentleman in the high chair.
Oliver
was frightened at the sight of so many gentlemen, which made him tremble: a=
nd
the beadle gave him another tap behind, which made him cry. These two causes
made him answer in a very low and hesitating voice; whereupon a gentleman i=
n a
white waistcoat said he was a fool. Which was a capital way of raising his
spirits, and putting him quite at his ease.
'Boy,'
said the gentleman in the high chair, 'listen to me. You know you're an orp=
han,
I suppose?'
'What's
that, sir?' inquired poor Oliver.
'The
boy is a fool - I thought he wa=
s,'
said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
'Hush!'
said the gentleman who had spoken first. 'You know you've got no father or
mother, and that you were brought up by the parish, don't you?'
'Yes,
sir,' replied Oliver, weeping bitterly.
'What
are you crying for?' inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. And to =
be
sure it was very extraordinary. What could
the boy be crying for?
'I
hope you say your prayers every night,' said another gentleman in a gruff
voice; 'and pray for the people who feed you, and take care of you - like a
Christian.'
'Yes,
sir,' stammered the boy. The gentleman who spoke last was unconsciously rig=
ht.
It would have been very like a Christian, and a marvellously good Christian
too, if Oliver had prayed for the people who fed and took care of him. But he hadn't, because nobody=
had
taught him.
'Well!
You have come here to be educated, and taught a useful trade,' said the
red-faced gentleman in the high chair.
'So
you'll begin to pick oakum to-morrow morning at six o'clock,' added the sur=
ly
one in the white waistcoat.
For
the combination of both these blessings in the one simple process of picking
oakum, Oliver bowed low by the direction of the beadle, and was then hurried
away to a large ward; where, on a rough, hard bed, he sobbed himself to sle=
ep.
What a novel illustration of the tender laws of England! They let the paupe=
rs
go to sleep!
Poor
Oliver! He little thought, as he lay sleeping in happy unconsciousness of a=
ll
around him, that the board had that very day arrived at a decision which wo=
uld
exercise the most material influence over all his future fortunes. But they
had. And this was it:
The
members of this board were very sage, deep, philosophical men; and when they
came to turn their attention to the workhouse, they found out at once, what
ordinary folks would never have discovered - the poor people liked it! It w=
as a
regular place of public entertainment for the poorer classes; a tavern where
there was nothing to pay; a public breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper all t=
he
year round; a brick and mortar elysium, where it was all play and no work.
'Oho!' said the board, looking very knowing; 'we are the fellows to set thi=
s to
rights; we'll stop it all, in no time.' So, they established the rule, that=
all
poor people should have the alternative (for they would compel nobody, not
they), of being starved by a gradual process in the house, or by a quick one
out of it. With this view, they contracted with the water-works to lay on an
unlimited supply of water; and with a corn-factor to supply periodically sm=
all
quantities of oatmeal; and issued three meals of thin gruel a day, with an
onion twice a week, and half a roll of Sundays. They made a great many other
wise and humane regulations, having reference to the ladies, which it is not
necessary to repeat; kindly undertook to divorce poor married people, in
consequence of the great expense of a suit in Doctors' Commons; and, instea=
d of
compelling a man to support his family, as they had theretofore done, took =
his
family away from him, and made him a bachelor! There is no saying how many
applicants for relief, under these last two heads, might have started up in=
all
classes of society, if it had not been coupled with the workhouse; but the
board were long-headed men, and had provided for this difficulty. The relief
was inseparable from the workhouse and the gruel; and that frightened peopl=
e.
For
the first six months after Oliver Twist was removed, the system was in full=
operation.
It was rather expensive at first, in consequence of the increase in the
undertaker's bill, and the necessity of taking in the clothes of all the
paupers, which fluttered loosely on their wasted, shrunken forms, after a w=
eek
or two's gruel. But the number of workhouse inmates got thin as well as the
paupers; and the board were in ecstasies.
The
room in which the boys were fed, was a large stone hall, with a copper at o=
ne
end: out of which the master, dressed in an apron for the purpose, and assi=
sted
by one or two women, ladled the gruel at mealtimes. Of this festive composi=
tion
each boy had one porringer, and no more - except on occasions of great publ=
ic
rejoicing, when he had two ounces and a quarter of bread besides.
The
bowls never wanted washing. The boys polished them with their spoons till t=
hey
shone again; and when they had performed this operation (which never took v=
ery
long, the spoons being nearly as large as the bowls), they would sit starin=
g at
the copper, with such eager eyes, as if they could have devoured the very
bricks of which it was composed; employing themselves, meanwhile, in sucking
their fingers most assiduously, with the view of catching up any stray spla=
shes
of gruel that might have been cast thereon. Boys have generally excellent
appetites. Oliver Twist and his companions suffered the tortures of slow
starvation for three months: at last they got so voracious and wild with
hunger, that one boy, who was tall for his age, and hadn't been used to that
sort of thing (for his father had kept a small cook-shop), hinted darkly to=
his
companions, that unless he had another basin of gruel per diem, he was afra=
id
he might some night happen to eat the boy who slept next him, who happened =
to
be a weakly youth of tender age. He had a wild, hungry eye; and they implic=
itly
believed him. A council was held; lots were cast who should walk up to the
master after supper that evening, and ask for more; and it fell to Oliver
Twist.
The
evening arrived; the boys took their places. The master, in his cook's unif=
orm,
stationed himself at the copper; his pauper assistants ranged themselves be=
hind
him; the gruel was served out; and a long grace was said over the short
commons. The gruel disappeared; the boys whispered each other, and winked at
Oliver; while his next neighbors nudged him. Child as he was, he was desper=
ate
with hunger, and reckless with misery. He rose from the table; and advancin=
g to
the master, basin and spoon in hand, said: somewhat alarmed at his own
temerity:
'Please,
sir, I want some more.'
The master was a fat, healthy man; but he turned very pale. He gazed in stupefi= ed astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then clung for suppor= t to the copper. The assistants were paralysed with wonder; the boys with fear.<= o:p>
'What!'
said the master at length, in a faint voice.
'Please,
sir,' replied Oliver, 'I want some more.'
The
master aimed a blow at Oliver's head with the ladle; pinioned him in his ar=
m;
and shrieked aloud for the beadle.
The
board were sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr Bumble rushed into the room =
in
great excitement, and addressing the gentleman in the high chair, said,
'Mr
Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! Oliver Twist has asked for more!'
There
was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance.
'For
more!' said Mr Limbkins. 'Compo=
se
yourself, Bumble, and answer me distinctly. Do I understand that he asked f=
or
more, after he had eaten the supper allotted by the dietary?'
'He
did, sir,' replied Bumble.
'That
boy will be hung,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. 'I know that =
boy
will be hung.'
Nobody
controverted the prophetic gentleman's opinion. An animated discussion took
place. Oliver was ordered into instant confinement; and a bill was next mor=
ning
pasted on the outside of the gate, offering a reward of five pounds to anyb=
ody
who would take Oliver Twist off the hands of the parish. In other words, fi=
ve
pounds and Oliver Twist were offered to any man or woman who wanted an
apprentice to any trade, business, or calling.
'I
never was more convinced of anything in my life,' said the gentleman in the
white waistcoat, as he knocked at the gate and read the bill next morning: =
'I
never was more convinced of anything in my life, than I am that that boy wi=
ll
come to be hung.'
As
I purpose to show in the sequel whether the white waistcoated gentleman was
right or not, I should perhaps mar the interest of this narrative (supposin=
g it
to possess any at all), if I ventured to hint just yet, whether the life of
Oliver Twist had this violent termination or no.
For
a week after the commission of the impious and profane offence of asking for
more, Oliver remained a close prisoner in the dark and solitary room to whi=
ch
he had been consigned by the wisdom and mercy of the board. It appears, at
first sight not unreasonable to suppose, that, if he had entertained a beco=
ming
feeling of respect for the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistco=
at,
he would have established that sage individual's prophetic character, once =
and
for ever, by tying one end of his pocket-handkerchief to a hook in the wall,
and attaching himself to the other. To the performance of this feat, howeve=
r,
there was one obstacle: namely, that pocket-handkerchiefs being decided
articles of luxury, had been, for all future times and ages, removed from t=
he
noses of paupers by the express order of the board, in council assembled:
solemnly given and pronounced under their hands and seals. There was a still
greater obstacle in Oliver's youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly=
all
day; and, when the long, dismal night came on, spread his little hands befo=
re
his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in the corner, tried to sl=
eep:
ever and anon waking with a start and tremble, and drawing himself closer a=
nd
closer to the wall, as if to feel even its cold hard surface were a protect=
ion
in the gloom and loneliness which surrounded him.
Let
it not be supposed by the enemies of 'the system,' that, during the period =
of
his solitary incarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of exercise, the
pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious consolation. As for
exercise, it was nice cold weather, and he was allowed to perform his ablut=
ions
every morning under the pump, in a stone yard, in the presence of Mr Bumble,
who prevented his catching cold, and caused a tingling sensation to pervade=
his
frame, by repeated applications of the cane. As for society, he was carried
every other day into the hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flog=
ged
as a public warning and example. And so for from being denied the advantage=
s of
religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening =
at
prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, a
general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein inse=
rted
by authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuou=
s,
contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver
Twist: whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive
patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct
from the manufactory of the very Devil himself.
It
chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and
comfortable state, that Mr Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the H=
igh
Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain
arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr
Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them with=
in
full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arthimetical
desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when
passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.
'Wo
- o!' said Mr Gamfield to the donkey.
The
donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether=
he
was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed=
of
the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without
noticing the word of command, he jogged onward.
Mr
Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more
particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his he=
ad,
which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, catch=
ing
hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle remind=
er
that he was not his own master; and by these means turned him round. He the=
n gave
him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again. Hav=
ing
completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill.
The
gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands
behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in t=
he
board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr Gamfield and the
donkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he
saw at once that Mr Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist
wanted. Mr Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the document; for five pounds
was just the sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it =
was
encumbered, Mr Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, well
knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register sto=
ves.
So, he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touch=
ing
his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white
waistcoat.
'This
here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis,' said Mr Gamfield.
'Ay,
my man,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending sm=
ile.
'What of him?'
'If
the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good 'spect=
able
chimbley-sweepin' bisness,' said Mr Gamfield, 'I wants a 'prentis, and I am
ready to take him.'
'Walk
in,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr Gamfield having lingered
behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of =
the
jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman wi=
th
the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him.
'It's a nasty trade,' said Mr Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish.<= o:p>
'Young
boys have been smothered in chimneys before now,' said another gentleman.
'That's
acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make 'em =
come
down again,' said Gamfield; 'that's all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke a=
in't
o' no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only sinds him to sleep,=
and
that's wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen'l'men, and
there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make 'em come down vith a run. It's
humane too, gen'l'men, acause, even if they've stuck in the chimbley, roast=
ing
their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate theirselves.'
The
gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanat=
ion;
but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr Limbkins. The board th=
en
proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a t=
one,
that the words 'saving of expenditure,' 'looked well in the accounts,' 'hav=
e a
printed report published,' were alone audible. These only chanced to be hea=
rd,
indeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great empha=
sis.
At
length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed
their seats and their solemnity, Mr Limbkins said:
'We
have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of it.'
'Not
at all,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
'Decidedly
not,' added the other members.
As
Mr Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having brui=
sed
three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the board had,
perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that this
extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very
unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but still, as he =
had
no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, a=
nd
walked slowly from the table.
'So
you won't let me have him, gen'l'men?' said Mr Gamfield, pausing near the d=
oor.
'No,'
replied Mr Limbkins; 'at least, as it's a nasty business, we think you ough=
t to
take something less than the premium we offered.'
Mr
Gamfield's countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he returned to the
table, and said,
'What'll
you give, gen'l'men? Come! Don't be too hard on a poor man. What'll you giv=
e?'
'I
should say, three pound ten was plenty,' said Mr Limbkins.
'Ten
shillings too much,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
'Come!'
said Gamfield; 'say four pound, gen'l'men. Say four pound, and you've got r=
id
of him for good and all. There!'
'Three
pound ten,' repeated Mr Limbkins, firmly.
'Come!
I'll split the diff'erence, gen'l'men,' urged Gamfield. 'Three pound fiftee=
n.'
'Not
a farthing more,' was the firm reply of Mr Limbkins.
'You're
desperate hard upon me, gen'l'men,' said Gamfield, wavering.
'Pooh!
pooh! nonsense!' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. 'He'd be cheap =
with
nothing at all, as a premium. Take him, you silly fellow! He's just the boy=
for
you. He wants the stick, now and then: it'll do him good; and his board nee=
dn't
come very expensive, for he hasn't been overfed since he was born. Ha! ha! =
ha!'
Mr
Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table, and, observing a s=
mile
on all of them, gradually broke into a smile himself. The bargain was made.=
Mr
Bumble, was at once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to=
be
conveyed before the magistrate, for signature and approval, that very
afternoon.
In
pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his excessive astonishme=
nt,
was released from bondage, and ordered to put himself into a clean shirt. He
had hardly achieved this very unusual gymnastic performance, when Mr Bumble
brought him, with his own hands, a basin of gruel, and the holiday allowanc=
e of
two ounces and a quarter of bread. At this tremendous sight, Oliver began to
cry very piteously: thinking, not unnaturally, that the board must have
determined to kill him for some useful purpose, or they never would have be=
gun
to fatten him up in that way.
'Don't
make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food and be thankful,' said Mr Bum=
ble,
in a tone of impressive pomposity. 'You're a going to be made a 'prentice o=
f,
Oliver.'
'A
prentice, sir!' said the child, trembling.
'Yes,
Oliver,' said Mr Bumble. 'The kind and blessed gentleman which is so many
parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own: are a going to
'prentice' you: and to set you up in life, and make a man of you: although =
the
expense to the parish is three pound ten! - three pound ten, Oliver! - seve=
nty
shillins - one hundred and forty sixpences! - and all for a naughty orphan
which nobody can't love.'
As
Mr Bumble paused to take breath, after delivering this address in an awful
voice, the tears rolled down the poor child's face, and he sobbed bitterly.=
'Come,'
said Mr Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for it was gratifying to his feeli=
ngs
to observe the effect his eloquence had produced; 'Come, Oliver! Wipe your =
eyes
with the cuffs of your jacket, and don't cry into your gruel; that's a very
foolish action, Oliver.' It certainly was, for there was quite enough water=
in
it already.
On
their way to the magistrate, Mr Bumble instructed Oliver that all he would =
have
to do, would be to look very happy, and say, when the gentleman asked him i=
f he
wanted to be apprenticed, that he should like it very much indeed; both of =
which
injunctions Oliver promised to obey: the rather as Mr Bumble threw in a gen=
tle
hint, that if he failed in either particular, there was no telling what wou=
ld
be done to him. When they arrived at the office, he was shut up in a little
room by himself, and admonished by Mr Bumble to stay there, until he came b=
ack
to fetch him.
There
the boy remained, with a palpitating heart, for half an hour. At the expira=
tion
of which time Mr Bumble thrust in his head, unadorned with the cocked hat, =
and
said aloud:
'Now,
Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman.' As Mr Bumble said this, he put on a
grim and threatening look, and added, in a low voice, 'Mind what I told you,
you young rascal!'
Oliver
stared innocently in Mr Bumble's face at this somewhat contradictory style =
of
address; but that gentleman prevented his offering any remark thereupon, by
leading him at once into an adjoining room: the door of which was open. It =
was
a large room, with a great window. Behind a desk, sat two old gentleman with
powdered heads: one of whom was reading the newspaper; while the other was
perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piec=
e of
parchment which lay before him. Mr Limbkins was standing in front of the de=
sk
on one side; and Mr Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; w=
hile
two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about.
The
old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit =
of
parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed by =
Mr
Bumble in front of the desk.
'This
is the boy, your worship,' said Mr Bumble.
The
old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, a=
nd
pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned=
old
gentleman woke up.
'Oh,
is this the boy?' said the old gentleman.
'This
is him, sir,' replied Mr Bumble. 'Bow to the magistrate, my dear.'
Oliver
roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his
eyes fixed on the magistrates' powder, whether all boards were born with th=
at
white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that accoun=
t.
'Well,'
said the old gentleman, 'I suppose he's fond of chimney-sweeping?'
'He
doats on it, your worship,' replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch, to
intimate that he had better not say he didn't.
'And
he will be a sweep, will he?'
inquired the old gentleman.
'If
we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run away simultaneous,
your worship,' replied Bumble.
'And
this man that's to be his master - you, sir - you'll treat him well, and fe=
ed
him, and do all that sort of thing, will you?' said the old gentleman.
'When
I says I will, I means I will,' replied Mr Gamfield doggedly.
'You're
a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest, open-hearted man,' said=
the
old gentleman: turning his spectacles in the direction of the candidate for
Oliver's premium, whose villainous countenance was a regular stamped receipt
for cruelty. But the magistrate was half blind and half childish, so he
couldn't reasonably be expected to discern what other people did.
'I
hope I am, sir,' said Mr Gamfield, with an ugly leer.
'I
have no doubt you are, my friend,' replied the old gentleman: fixing his
spectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about him for the inkstand.=
It
was the critical moment of Oliver's fate. If the inkstand had been where the
old gentleman thought it was, he would have dipped his pen into it, and sig=
ned
the indentures, and Oliver would have been straightway hurried off. But, as=
it
chanced to be immediately under his nose, it followed, as a matter of cours=
e,
that he looked all over his desk for it, without finding it; and happening =
in
the course of his search to look straight before him, his gaze encountered =
the pale
and terrified face of Oliver Twist: who, despite all the admonitory looks a=
nd
pinches of Bumble, was regarding the repulsive countenance of his future
master, with a mingled expression of horror and fear, too palpable to be
mistaken, even by a half-blind magistrate.
The
old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and looked from Oliver to Mr
Limbkins; who attempted to take snuff with a cheerful and unconcerned aspec=
t.
'My
boy!' said the old gentleman, 'you look pale and alarmed. What is the matte=
r?'
'Stand
a little away from him, Beadle,' said the other magistrate: laying aside the
paper, and leaning forward with an expression of interest. 'Now, boy, tell =
us
what's the matter: don't be afraid.'
Oliver
fell on his knees, and clasping his hands together, prayed that they would
order him back to the dark room - that they would starve him - beat him - k=
ill
him if they pleased - rather than send him away with that dreadful man.
'Well!'
said Mr Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most impressive solemnity.
'Well! of all the artful and designing orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you=
are
one of the most bare-facedest.'
'Hold
your tongue, Beadle,' said the second old gentleman, when Mr Bumble had giv=
en
vent to this compound adjective.
'I
beg your worship's pardon,' said Mr Bumble, incredulous of having heard ari=
ght.
'Did your worship speak to me?'
'Yes.
Hold your tongue.'
Mr
Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold his tongue=
! A
moral revolution!
The
old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his companion, he
nodded significantly.
'We
refuse to sanction these indentures,' said the old gentleman: tossing aside=
the
piece of parchment as he spoke.
'I
hope,' stammered Mr Limbkins: 'I hope the magistrates will not form the opi=
nion
that the authorities have been guilty of any improper conduct, on the
unsupported testimony of a child.'
'The
magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the matter,' sa=
id
the second old gentleman sharply. 'Take the boy back to the workhouse, and
treat him kindly. He seems to want it.'
That
same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and
decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be
drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr Bumble shook his head with gloomy
mystery, and said he wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr Gamfield
replied, that he wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed with
the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally opposite
description.
The next morning, the pub=
lic
were once informed that Oliver Twist was again To Let, and that five pounds
would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him.
Chapter IV - Oliver, Being Offered Another Place, Make=
s His
First Entry Into Public Life
In
great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in
possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is
growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in
imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the
expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound=
to
a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that co=
uld
possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would fl=
og
him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his
brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally kn=
own,
very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The mo=
re
the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more
manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusi=
on
that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to s=
ea
without delay.
Mr
Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the =
view
of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any
friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his
mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr Sowerber=
ry,
the parochial undertaker.
Mr
Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of thread=
bare
black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer.
His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he w=
as
in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and=
his
face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr Bumble, and shook him
cordially by the hand.
'I
have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr Bumble,' s=
aid
the undertaker.
'You'll
make your fortune, Mr Sowerberry,' said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb =
and
forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ing=
enious
little model of a patent coffin. 'I say you'll make your fortune, Mr
Sowerberry,' repeated Mr Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in=
a
friendly manner, with his cane.
'Think
so?' said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the
probability of the event. 'The prices allowed by the board are very small, =
Mr
Bumble.'
'So
are the coffins,' replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to=
a
laugh as a great official ought to indulge in.
Mr
Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laugh=
ed a
long time without cessation. 'Well, well, Mr Bumble,' he said at length,
'there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the
coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we
must have some profit, Mr Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive arti=
cle,
sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham.'
'Well,
well,' said Mr Bumble, 'every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of=
course,
allowable.'
'Of
course, of course,' replied the undertaker; 'and if I don't get a profit up=
on
this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see=
- he!
he! he!'
'Just
so,' said Mr Bumble.
'Though
I must say,' continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations
which the beadle had interrupted: 'though I must say, Mr Bumble, that I hav=
e to
contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout
people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have p=
aid
rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; =
and
let me tell you, Mr Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation
makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to pr=
ovide
for, sir.'
As
Mr Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; =
and
as Mr Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honou=
r of
the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject.
Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme.
'By
the bye,' said Mr Bumble, 'you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A
porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may =
say,
round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr Sowerberry, liberal terms?' A=
s Mr
Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three dist=
inct
raps upon the words 'five pounds': which were printed thereon in Roman capi=
tals
of gigantic size.
'Gadso!'
said the undertaker: taking Mr Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his offic=
ial
coat; 'that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know =
- dear
me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr Bumble! I never noticed it befor=
e.'
'Yes,
I think it rather pretty,' said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at t=
he
large brass buttons which embellished his coat. 'The die is the same as the
porochial seal - the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The b=
oard
presented it to me on Newyear's morning, Mr Sowerberry. I put it on, I
remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesm=
an,
who died in a doorway at midnight.'
'I
recollect,' said the undertaker. 'The jury brought it in, ‘Died from
exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life,’ di=
dn't
they?'
Mr
Bumble nodded.
'And
they made it a special verdict, I think,' said the undertaker, 'by adding s=
ome
words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had - '
'Tush!
Foolery!' interposed the beadle. 'If the board attended to all the nonsense
that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd have enough to do.'
'Very
true,' said the undertaker; 'they would indeed.'
'Juries,'
said Mr Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working int=
o a
passion: 'juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches.'
'So
they are,' said the undertaker.
'They
haven't no more philosophy nor political economy about 'em than that,' said=
the
beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously.
'No
more they have,' acquiesced the undertaker.
'I
despise 'em,' said the beadle, growing very red in the face.
'So
do I,' rejoined the undertaker.
'And
I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort, in the house for a week or
two,' said the beadle; 'the rules and regulations of the board would soon b=
ring
their spirit down for 'em.'
'Let
'em alone for that,' replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled, approvin=
gly:
to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer.
Mr
Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside of the
crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engender=
ed;
fixed the cocked hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker, said in a ca=
lmer
voice:
'Well;
what about the boy?'
'Oh!'
replied the undertaker; 'why, you know, Mr Bumble, I pay a good deal towards
the poor's rates.'
'Hem!'
said Mr Bumble. 'Well?'
'Well,'
replied the undertaker, 'I was thinking that if I pay so much towards 'em, =
I've
a right to get as much out of 'em as I can, Mr Bumble; and so - I think I'll
take the boy myself.'
Mr Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him into the building. Mr Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five minutes; and it was arranged that Oliver should go to him that evening 'upon liking' - a phrase which me= ans, in the case of a parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon a short trial, that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too much fo= od into him, he shall have him for a term of years, to do what he likes with.<= o:p>
When
little Oliver was taken before 'the gentlemen' that evening; and informed t=
hat
he was to go, that night, as general house-lad to a coffin-maker's; and tha=
t if
he complained of his situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he w=
ould
be sent to sea, there to be drowned, or knocked on the head, as the case mi=
ght
be, he evinced so little emotion, that they by common consent pronounced hi=
m a
hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr Bumble to remove him forthwith.
Now,
although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the world, sh=
ould
feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at the smallest
tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they were rather out, in =
this
particular instance. The simple fact was, that Oliver, instead of possessing
too little feeling, possessed rather too much; and was in a fair way of bei=
ng
reduced, for life, to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness by the ill
usage he had received. He heard the news of his destination, in perfect
silence; and, having had his luggage put into his hand - which was not very
difficult to carry, inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits of a
brown paper parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep - he pull=
ed
his cap over his eyes; and once more attaching himself to Mr Bumble's coat
cuff, was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering.
For
some time, Mr Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice or remark; for the
beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should: and, it bein=
g a
windy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr Bumb=
le's
coat as they blew open, and disclosed to great advantage his flapped waistc=
oat
and drab plush knee-breeches. As they drew near to their destination, howev=
er, Mr
Bumble thought it expedient to look down, and see that the boy was in good
order for inspection by his new master: which he accordingly did, with a fit
and becoming air of gracious patronage.
'Oliver!'
said Mr Bumble.
'Yes,
sir,' replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice.
'Pull
that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir.'
Although
Oliver did as he was desired, at once; and passed the back of his unoccupied
hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at h=
is
conductor. As Mr Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. It
was followed by another, and another. The child made a strong effort, but it
was an unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his other hand from Mr Bumble's he cov=
ered
his face with both; and wept until the tears sprung out from between his ch=
in
and bony fingers.
'Well!'
exclaimed Mr Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little charge a loo=
k of
intense malignity. 'Well! Of all the
ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the =
- '
'No,
no, sir,' sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-known can=
e;
'no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! I am a very
little boy, sir; and it is so - so - '
'So
what?' inquired Mr Bumble in amazement.
'So
lonely, sir! So very lonely!' cried the child. 'Everybody hates me. Oh! sir,
don't, don't pray be cross to me!' The child beat his hand upon his heart; =
and
looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony.
Mr
Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment,=
for
a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after
muttering something about 'that troublesome cough,' bade Oliver dry his eyes
and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in
silence.
The
undertaker, who had just putup the shutters of his shop, was making some
entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, w=
hen Mr
Bumble entered.
'Aha!'
said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of=
a
word; 'is that you, Bumble?'
'No
one else, Mr Sowerberry,' replied the beadle. 'Here! I've brought the boy.'
Oliver made a bow.
'Oh!
that's the boy, is it?' said the undertaker: raising the candle above his h=
ead,
to get a better view of Oliver. 'Mrs Sowerberry, will you have the goodness=
to
come here a moment, my dear?'
Mrs
Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the fo=
rm
of a short, then, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance.
'My
dear,' said Mr Sowerberry, deferentially, 'this is the boy from the workhou=
se
that I told you of.' Oliver bowed again.
'Dear
me!' said the undertaker's wife, 'he's very small.'
'Why,
he is rather small,' replied Mr
Bumble: looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he was no bigger; 'h=
e is
small. There's no denying it. But he'll grow, Mrs Sowerberry - he'll grow.'=
'Ah!
I dare say he will,' replied the lady pettishly, 'on our victuals and our
drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more=
to
keep, than they're worth. However, men always think they know best. There! =
Get
downstairs, little bag o' bones.' With this, the undertaker's wife opened a
side door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cel=
l,
damp and dark: forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated
'kitchen'; wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes down at heel, and blue
worsted stockings very much out of repair.
'Here,
Charlotte,' said Mr Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, 'give this boy
some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip. He hasn't come home since =
the
morning, so he may go without 'em. I dare say the boy isn't too dainty to e=
at
'em - are you, boy?'
Oliver,
whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was trembling with
eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse
broken victuals was set before him.
I
wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within hi=
m;
whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen Oliver Twist clutc=
hing
at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected. I wish he could have witne=
ssed
the horrible avidity with which Oliver tore the bits asunder with all the
ferocity of famine. There is only one thing I should like better; and that
would be to see the Philosopher making the same sort of meal himself, with =
the
same relish.
'Well,'
said the undertaker's wife, when Oliver had finished his supper: which she =
had
regarded in silent horror, and with fearful auguries of his future appetite:
'have you done?'
There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the affirmative.<= o:p>
'Then
come with me,' said Mrs Sowerberry: taking up a dim and dirty lamp, and lea=
ding
the way upstairs; 'your bed's under the counter. You don't mind sleeping am=
ong
the coffins, I suppose? But it doesn't much matter whether you do or don't,=
for
you can't sleep anywhere else. Come; don't keep me here all night!'
Oliver
lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress.
Oliver,
being left to himself in the undertaker's shop, set the lamp down on a
workman's bench, and gazed timidly about him with a feeling of awe and drea=
d,
which many people a good deal older than he will be at no loss to understan=
d.
An unfinished coffin on black tressels, which stood in the middle of the sh=
op,
looked so gloomy and death-like that a cold tremble came over him, every ti=
me
his eyes wandered in the direction of the dismal object: from which he almo=
st
expected to see some frightful form slowly rear its head, to drive him mad =
with
terror. Against the wall were ranged, in regular array, a long row of elm
boards cut in the same shape: looking in the dim light, like high-shouldered
ghosts with their hands in their breeches pockets. Coffin-plates, elm-chips,
bright-headed nails, and shreds of black cloth, lay scattered on the floor;=
and
the wall behind the counter was ornamented with a lively representation of =
two
mutes in very stiff neckcloths, on duty at a large private door, with a hea=
rse
drawn by four black steeds, approaching in the distance. The shop was close=
and
hot. The atmosphere seemed tainted with the smell of coffins. The recess
beneath the counter in which his flock mattress was thrust, looked like a
grave.
Nor
were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He was alone in=
a
strange place; and we all know how chilled and desolate the best of us will
sometimes feel in such a situation. The boy had no friends to care for, or =
to
care for him. The regret of no recent separation was fresh in his mind; the
absence of no loved and well-remembered face sank heavily into his heart.
But
his heart was heavy, notwithstanding; and he wished, as he crept into his
narrow bed, that that were his coffin, and that he could be lain in a calm =
and
lasting sleep in the churchyard ground, with the tall grass waving gently a=
bove
his head, and the sound of the old deep bell to soothe him in his sleep.
Oliver
was awakened in the morning, by a loud kicking at the outside of the shop-d=
oor:
which, before he could huddle on his clothes, was repeated, in an angry and
impetuous manner, about twenty-five times. When he began to undo the chain,=
the
legs desisted, and a voice began.
'Open
the door, will yer?' cried the voice which belonged to the legs which had
kicked at the door.
'I
will, directly, sir,' replied Oliver: undoing the chain, and turning the ke=
y.
'I
suppose yer the new boy, ain't yer?' said the voice through the key-hole.
'Yes,
sir,' replied Oliver.
'How
old are yer?' inquired the voice.
'Ten,
sir,' replied Oliver.
'Then
I'll whop yer when I get in,' said the voice; 'you just see if I don't, tha=
t's
all, my work'us brat!' and having made this obliging promise, the voice beg=
an
to whistle.
Oliver
had been too often subjected to the process to which the very expressive
monosyllable just recorded bears reference, to entertain the smallest doubt
that the owner of the voice, whoever he might be, would redeem his pledge, =
most
honourably. He drew back the bolts with a trembling hand, and opened the do=
or.
For
a second or two, Oliver glanced up the street, and down the street, and over
the way: impressed with the belief that the unknown, who had addressed him
through the key-hole, had walked a few paces off, to warm himself; for nobo=
dy
did he see but a big charity-boy, sitting on a post in front of the house,
eating a slice of bread and butter: which he cut into wedges, the size of h=
is
mouth, with a clasp-knife, and then consumed with great dexterity.
'I
beg your pardon, sir,' said Oliver at length: seeing that no other visitor =
made
his appearance; 'did you knock?'
'I
kicked,' replied the charity-boy.
'Did
you want a coffin, sir?' inquired Oliver, innocently.
At
this, the charity-boy looked monstrous fierce; and said that Oliver would w=
ant
one before long, if he cut jokes with his superiors in that way.
'Yer
don't know who I am, I suppose, Work'us?' said the charity-boy, in
continuation: descending from the top of the post, meanwhile, with edifying
gravity.
'No,
sir,' rejoined Oliver.
'I'm
Mister Noah Claypole,' said the charity-boy, 'and you're under me. Take down
the shutters, yer idle young ruffian!' With this, Mr Claypole administered a
kick to Oliver, and entered the shop with a dignified air, which did him gr=
eat
credit. It is difficult for a large-headed, small-eyed youth, of lumbering =
make
and heavy countenance, to look dignified under any circumstances; but it is
more especially so, when superadded to these personal attractions are a red
nose and yellow smalls.
Oliver,
having taken down the shutters, and broken a pane of glass in his effort to
stagger away beneath the weight of the first one to a small court at the si=
de
of the house in which they were kept during the day, was graciously assiste=
d by
Noah: who having consoled him with the assurance that 'he'd catch it,'
condescended to help him. Mr Sowerberry came down soon after. Shortly
afterwards, Mrs Sowerberry appeared. Oliver having 'caught it,' in fulfilme=
nt of
Noah's prediction, followed that young gentleman down the stairs to breakfa=
st.
'Come
near the fire, Noah,' said Charlotte. 'I saved a nice little bit of bacon f=
or
you from master's breakfast. Oliver, shut that door at Mister Noah's back, =
and
take them bits that I've put out on the cover of the bread-pan. There's your
tea; take it away to that box, and drink it there, and make haste, for they=
'll
want you to mind the shop. D'ye hear?'
'D'ye
hear, Work'us?' said Noah Claypole.
'Lor,
Noah!' said Charlotte, 'what a rum creature you are! Why don't you let the =
boy
alone?'
'Let
him alone!' said Noah. 'Why everybody lets him alone enough, for the matter=
of
that. Neither his father nor his mother will ever interfere with him. All h=
is
relations let him have his own way pretty well. Eh, Charlotte? He! he! he!'=
'Oh,
you queer soul!' said Charlotte, bursting into a hearty laugh, in which she=
was
joined by Noah; after which they both looked scornfully at poor Oliver Twis=
t,
as he sat shivering on the box in the coldest corner of the room, and ate t=
he
stale pieces which had been specially reserved for him.
Noah
was a charity-boy, but not a workhouse orphan. No chance-child was he, for =
he
could trace his genealogy all the way back to his parents, who lived hard b=
y;
his mother being a washerwoman, and his father a drunken soldier, discharged
with a wooden leg, and a diurnal pension of twopence-halfpenny and an
unstateable fraction. The shop-boys in the neighbourhood had long been in t=
he
habit of branding Noah in the public streets, with the ignominious epithets=
of
'leathers,' 'charity,' and the like; and Noah had bourne them without reply.
But, now that fortune had cast in his way a nameless orphan, at whom even t=
he
meanest could point the finger of scorn, he retorted on him with interest. =
This
affords charming food for contemplation. It shows us what a beautiful thing
human nature may be made to be; and how impartially the same amiable qualit=
ies
are developed in the finest lord and the dirtiest charity-boy.
Oliver
had been sojourning at the undertaker's some three weeks or a month. Mr and=
Mrs
Sowerberry - the shop being shut up - were taking their supper in the little
back-parlour, when Mr Sowerberry, after several deferential glances at his
wife, said,
'My
dear - ' He was going to say more; but, Mrs Sowerberry looking up, with a
peculiarly unpropitious aspect, he stopped short.
'Well,'
said Mrs Sowerberry, sharply.
'Nothing,
my dear, nothing,' said Mr Sowerberry.
'Ugh,
you brute!' said Mrs Sowerberry.
'Not
at all, my dear,' said Mr Sowerberry humbly. 'I thought you didn't want to
hear, my dear. I was only going to say - ' 'Oh, don't tell me what you were
going to say,' interposed Mrs Sowerberry. 'I am nobody; don't consult me, p=
ray.
I don't want to intrude upon yo=
ur secrets.'
As Mrs Sowerberry said this, she gave an hysterical laugh, which threatened
violent consequences.
'But,
my dear,' said Sowerberry, 'I want to ask your advice.'
'No,
no, don't ask mine,' replied Mrs Sowerberry, in an affecting manner: 'ask
somebody else's.' Here, there was another hysterical laugh, which frightene=
d Mr
Sowerberry very much. This is a very common and much-approved matrimonial
course of treatment, which is often very effective. It at once reduced Mr
Sowerberry to begging, as a special favour, to be allowed to say what Mrs
Sowerberry was most curious to hear. After a short duration, the permission=
was
most graciously conceded.
'It's
only about young Twist, my dear,' said Mr Sowerberry. 'A very good-looking =
boy,
that, my dear.'
'He
need be, for he eats enough,' observed the lady.
'There's
an expression of melancholy in his face, my dear,' resumed Mr Sowerberry,
'which is very interesting. He would make a delightful mute, my love.'
Mrs
Sowerberry looked up with an expression of considerable wonderment. Mr
Sowerberry remarked it and, without allowing time for any observation on the
good lady's part, proceeded.
'I
don't mean a regular mute to attend grown-up people, my dear, but only for
children's practice. It would be very new to have a mute in proportion, my
dear. You may depend upon it, it would have a superb effect.'
Mrs
Sowerberry, who had a good deal of taste in the undertaking way, was much
struck by the novelty of this idea; but, as it would have been compromising=
her
dignity to have said so, under existing circumstances, she merely inquired,
with much sharpness, why such an obvious suggestion had not presented itsel=
f to
her husband's mind before? Mr Sowerberry rightly construed this, as an
acquiescence in his proposition; it was speedily determined, therefore, that
Oliver should be at once initiated into the mysteries of the trade; and, wi=
th
this view, that he should accompany his master on the very next occasion of=
his
services being required.
The
occasion was not long in coming. Half an hour after breakfast next morning,=
Mr
Bumble entered the shop; and supporting his cane against the counter, drew
forth his large leathern pocket-book: from which he selected a small scrap =
of
paper, which he handed over to Sowerberry.
'Aha!'
said the undertaker, glancing over it with a lively countenance; 'an order =
for
a coffin, eh?'
'For
a coffin first, and a porochial funeral afterwards,' replied Mr Bumble,
fastening the strap of the leathern pocket-book: which, like himself, was v=
ery
corpulent.
'Bayton,'
said the undertaker, looking from the scrap of paper to Mr Bumble. 'I never
heard the name before.'
Bumble
shook his head, as he replied, 'Obstinate people, Mr Sowerberry; very
obstinate. Proud, too, I'm afraid, sir.'
'Proud,
eh?' exclaimed Mr Sowerberry with a sneer. 'Come, that's too much.'
'Oh,
it's sickening,' replied the beadle. 'Antimonial, Mr Sowerberry!'
'So
it is,' acquiesced the undertaker.
'We
only heard of the family the night before last,' said the beadle; 'and we
shouldn't have known anything about them, then, only a woman who lodges in =
the
same house made an application to the porochial committee for them to send =
the
porochial surgeon to see a woman as was very bad. He had gone out to dinner;
but his 'prentice (which is a very clever lad) sent 'em some medicine in a
blacking-bottle, offhand.'
'Ah,
there's promptness,' said the undertaker.
'Promptness,
indeed!' replied the beadle. 'But what's the consequence; what's the ungrat=
eful
behaviour of these rebels, sir? Why, the husband sends back word that the
medicine won't suit his wife's complaint, and so she shan't take it - says =
she
shan't take it, sir! Good, strong, wholesome medicine, as was given with gr=
eat
success to two Irish labourers and a coal-heaver, only a week before - sent=
'em
for nothing, with a blackin'-bottle in, - and he sends back word that she
shan't take it, sir!'
As
the atrocity presented itself to Mr Bumble's mind in full force, he struck =
the
counter sharply with his cane, and became flushed with indignation.
'Well,'
said the undertaker, 'I ne - ver - did - '
'Never
did, sir!' ejaculated the beadle. 'No, nor nobody never did; but now she's
dead, we've got to bury her; and that's the direction; and the sooner it's
done, the better.'
Thus
saying, Mr Bumble put on his cocked hat wrong side first, in a fever of
parochial excitement; and flounced out of the shop.
'Why,
he was so angry, Oliver, that he forgot even to ask after you!' said Mr
Sowerberry, looking after the beadle as he strode down the street.
'Yes,
sir,' replied Oliver, who had carefully kept himself out of sight, during t=
he
interview; and who was shaking from head to foot at the mere recollection of
the sound of Mr Bumble's voice.
He
needn't haven taken the trouble to shrink from Mr Bumble's glance, however;=
for
that functionary, on whom the prediction of the gentleman in the white
waistcoat had made a very strong impression, thought that now the undertaker
had got Oliver upon trial the subject was better avoided, until such time a=
s he
should be firmly bound for seven years, and all danger of his being returned
upon the hands of the parish should be thus effectually and legally overcom=
e.
'Well,'
said Mr Sowerberry, taking up his hat, 'the sooner this job is done, the
better. Noah, look after the shop. Oliver, put on your cap, and come with m=
e.'
Oliver obeyed, and followed his master on his professional mission.
They
walked on, for some time, through the most crowded and densely inhabited pa=
rt
of the town; and then, striking down a narrow street more dirty and miserab=
le
than any they had yet passed through, paused to look for the house which was
the object of their search. The houses on either side were high and large, =
but
very old, and tenanted by people of the poorest class: as their neglected a=
ppearance
would have sufficiently denoted, without the concurrent testimony afforded =
by
the squalid looks of the few men and women who, with folded arms and bodies
half doubled, occasionally skulked along. A great many of the tenements had
shop-fronts; but these were fast closed, and mouldering away; only the upper
rooms being inhabited. Some houses which had become insecure from age and
decay, were prevented from falling into the street, by huge beams of wood
reared against the walls, and firmly planted in the road; but even these cr=
azy
dens seemed to have been selected as the nightly haunts of some houseless
wretches, for many of the rough boards which supplied the place of door and
window, were wrenched from their positions, to afford an aperture wide enou=
gh
for the passage of a human body. The kennel was stagnant and filthy. The ve=
ry
rats, which here and there lay putrefying in its rottenness, were hideous w=
ith
famine.
There
was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver and his
master stopped; so, groping his way cautiously through the dark passage, and
bidding Oliver keep close to him and not be afraid the undertaker mounted to
the top of the first flight of stairs. Stumbling against a door on the land=
ing,
he rapped at it with his knuckles.
It
was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker at once =
saw
enough of what the room contained, to know it was the apartment to which he=
had
been directed. He stepped in; Oliver followed him.
There
was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically, over the em=
pty
stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, and was
sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner; and =
in a
small recess, opposite the door, there lay upon the ground, something cover=
ed
with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward the place,=
and
crept involuntarily closer to his master; for though it was covered up, the=
boy
felt that it was a corpse.
The
man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly; his eyes
were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled; her two remaining teeth
protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver=
was
afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had
seen outside.
'Nobody
shall go near her,' said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker
approached the recess. 'Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you've a life to
lose!'
'Nonsense,
my good man,' said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all
its shapes. 'Nonsense!'
'I
tell you,' said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the
floor, - 'I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest
there. The worms would worry her - not eat her - she is so worn away.'
The
undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from his
pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body.
'Ah!' said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of = the dead woman; 'kneel down, kneel down - kneel round her, every one of you= , and mark my words! I say she was starved to death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her; and then her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark - in the dark! She couldn't even see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. W= hen I came back, she was dying; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they starved her to death. I swear it before the God that saw it! They star= ved her!' He twined his hands in his hair; and, with a loud scream, rolled grovelling upon the floor: his eyes fixed, and the foam covering his lips.<= o:p>
The
terrified children cried bitterly; but the old woman, who had hitherto rema=
ined
as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that passed, menaced them in=
to
silence. Having unloosened the cravat of the man who still remained extende=
d on
the ground, she tottered towards the undertaker.
'She
was my daughter,' said the old woman, nodding her head in the direction of =
the
corpse; and speaking with an idiotic leer, more ghastly than even the prese=
nce
of death in such a place. 'Lord, Lord! Well, it is strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman then,
should be alive and merry now, and she lying there: so cold and stiff! Lord,
Lord! - to think of it; it's as good as a play - as good as a play!'
As
the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment, the
undertaker turned to go away.
'Stop,
stop!' said the old woman in a loud whisper. 'Will she be buried to-morrow,=
or
next day, or to-night? I laid her out; and I must walk, you know. Send me a
large cloak: a good warm one: for it is bitter cold. We should have cake and
wine, too, before we go! Never mind; send some bread - only a loaf of bread=
and
a cup of water. Shall we have some bread, dear?' she said eagerly: catching=
at
the undertaker's coat, as he once more moved towards the door.
'Yes,
yes,' said the undertaker,'of course. Anything you like!' He disengaged him=
self
from the old woman's grasp; and, drawing Oliver after him, hurried away.
The
next day, (the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half-quartern l=
oaf
and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr Bumble himself,) Oliver and his
master returned to the miserable abode; where Mr Bumble had already arrived,
accompanied by four men from the workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An =
old
black cloak had been thrown over the rags of the old woman and the man; and=
the
bare coffin having been screwed down, was hoisted on the shoulders of the
bearers, and carried into the street.
'Now,
you must put your best leg foremost, old lady!' whispered Sowerberry in the=
old
woman's ear; 'we are rather late; and it won't do, to keep the clergyman
waiting. Move on, my men, - as quick as you like!'
Thus
directed, the bearers trotted on under their light burden; and the two mour=
ners
kept as near them, as they could. Mr Bumble and Sowerberry walked at a good
smart pace in front; and Oliver, whose legs were not so long as his master'=
s,
ran by the side.
There
was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr Sowerberry had anticipated,
however; for when they reached the obscure corner of the churchyard in which
the nettles grew, and where the parish graves were made, the clergyman had =
not
arrived; and the clerk, who was sitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed to
think it by no means improbable that it might be an hour or so, before he c=
ame.
So, they put the bier on the brink of the grave; and the two mourners waited
patiently in the damp clay, with a cold rain drizzling down, while the ragg=
ed
boys whom the spectacle had attracted into the churchyard played a noisy ga=
me
at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements by jumping
backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr Sowerberry and Bumble, being
personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the paper=
.
At
length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr Bumble, and
Sowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave. Immediately
afterwards, the clergyman appeared: putting on his surplice as he came alon=
g. Mr
Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and the reverend
gentleman, having read as much of the burial service as could be compressed
into four minutes, gave his surplice to the clerk, and walked away again.
'Now,
Bill!' said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. 'Fill up!'
It
was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full, that the uppermost
coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in =
the
earth; stamped it loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and wal=
ked
off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun bei=
ng
over so soon.
'Come,
my good fellow!' said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. 'They want to sh=
ut
up the yard.'
The
man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the grave s=
ide,
started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked
forward for a few paces; and fell down in a swoon. The crazy old woman was =
too
much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker had
taken off), to pay him any attention; so they threw a can of cold water over
him; and when he came to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the
gate, and departed on their different ways.
'Well,
Oliver,' said Sowerberry, as they walked home, 'how do you like it?'
'Pretty
well, thank you, sir' replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. 'Not ve=
ry
much, sir.'
'Ah,
you'll get used to it in time, Oliver,' said Sowerberry. 'Nothing when you =
are used to it, my boy.'
Oliver
wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr
Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask the question; and
walked back to the shop: thinking over all he had seen and heard.
The
month's trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a nice sickly
season just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins were looking up; an=
d,
in the course of a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great deal of experience. T=
he
success of Mr Sowerberry's ingenious speculation, exceeded even his most
sanguine hopes. The oldest inhabitants recollected no period at which measl=
es
had been so prevalent, or so fatal to infant existence; and many were the
mournful processions which little Oliver headed, in a hat-band reaching dow=
n to
his knees, to the indescribable admiration and emotion of all the mothers in
the town. As Oliver accompanied his master in most of his adult expeditions
too, in order that he might acquire that equanimity of demeanour and full
command of nerve which was essential to a finished undertaker, he had many
opportunities of observing the beautiful resignation and fortitude with whi=
ch
some strong-minded people bear their trials and losses.
For
instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich old lady=
or
gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number of nephews and nieces, who =
had
been perfectly inconsolable during the previous illness, and whose grief had
been wholly irrepressible even on the most public occasions, they would be =
as
happy among themselves as need be - quite cheerful and contented - conversi=
ng
together with as much freedom and gaiety, as if nothing whatever had happen=
ed
to disturb them. Husbands, too, bore the loss of their wives with the most
heroic calmness. Wives, again, put on weeds for their husbands, as if, so f=
ar
from grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds to render=
it
as becoming and attractive as possible. It was observable, too, that ladies=
and
gentlemen who were in passions of anguish during the ceremony of interment,=
recovered
almost as soon as they reached home, and became quite composed before the
tea-drinking was over. All this was very pleasant and improving to see; and
Oliver beheld it with great admiration.
That
Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good people, I
cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm with any degree of
confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for many months he continued
meekly to submit to the domination and ill-treatment of Noah Claypole: who =
used
him far worse than before, now that his jealousy was roused by seeing the n=
ew
boy promoted to the black stick and hatband, while he, the old one, remained
stationary in the muffin-cap and leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, becau=
se
Noah did; and Mrs Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr Sowerberry w=
as
disposed to be his friend; so, between these three on one side, and a glut =
of
funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as comfortable as the hung=
ry
pig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain department of a brew=
ery.
And
now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver's history; for I have to
record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance, but which
indirectly produced a material change in all his future prospects and
proceedings.
One
day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual dinner-hou=
r,
to banquet upon a small joint of mutton - a pound and a half of the worst e=
nd
of the neck - when Charlotte being called out of the way, there ensued a br=
ief
interval of time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious, considered=
he
could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than aggravating and
tantalising young Oliver Twist.
Intent
upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the table-cloth; and pul=
led
Oliver's hair; and twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion that he was=
a
'sneak'; and furthermore announced his intention of coming to see him hange=
d,
whenever that desirable event should take place; and entered upon various
topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy=
as
he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; =
and
in his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this day, when they want to be
funny. He got rather personal.
'Work'us,'
said Noah, 'how's your mother?'
'She's
dead,' replied Oliver; 'don't you say anything about her to me!'
Oliver's
colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a curious
working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr Claypole thought must be the
immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he
returned to the charge.
'What
did she die of, Work'us?' said Noah.
'Of
a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me,' replied Oliver: more as if=
he
were talking to himself, than answering Noah. 'I think I know what it must =
be
to die of that!'
'Tol
de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work'us,' said Noah, as a tear rolled down
Oliver's cheek. 'What's set you a snivelling now?'
'Not
you,' replied Oliver, sharply.
'There; that's enough. Don't say anything more to me about her; you'd better
not!'
'Better
not!' exclaimed Noah. 'Well! Better not! Work'us, don't be impudent. Your mother, too! She was a nice '=
un she
was. Oh, Lor!' And here, Noah nodded his head expressively; and curled up as
much of his small red nose as muscular action could collect together, for t=
he
occasion.
'Yer
know, Work'us,' continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver's silence, and speakin=
g in
a jeering tone of affected pity: of all tones the most annoying: 'Yer know,
Work'us, it can't be helped now; and of course yer couldn't help it then; a=
nd I
am very sorry for it; and I'm sure we all are, and pity yer very much. But =
yer
must know, Work'us, yer mother was a regular right-down bad 'un.'
'What
did you say?' inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly.
'A
regular right-down bad 'un, Work'us,' replied Noah, coolly. 'And it's a gre=
at
deal better, Work'us, that she died when she did, or else she'd have been h=
ard
labouring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung; which is more likely than
either, isn't it?'
Crimson
with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the chair and table; seized Noah by=
the
throat; shook him, in the violence of his rage, till his teeth chattered in=
his
head; and collecting his whole force into one heavy blow, felled him to the
ground.
A
minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet child, mild, dejected creature that
harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused at last; the cruel
insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire. His breast heaved; his
attitude was erect; his eye bright and vivid; his whole person changed, as =
he
stood glaring over the cowardly tormentor who now lay crouching at his feet;
and defied him with an energy he had never known before.
'He'll
murder me!' blubbered Noah. 'Charlotte! missis! Here's the new boy a murder=
ing
of me! Help! help! Oliver's gone mad! Char - lotte!'
Noah's
shouts were responded to, by a loud scream from Charlotte, and a louder fro=
m Mrs
Sowerberry; the former of whom rushed into the kitchen by a side-door, while
the latter paused on the staircase till she was quite certain that it was
consistent with the preservation of human life, to come further down.
'Oh,
you little wretch!' screamed Charlotte: seizing Oliver with her utmost forc=
e,
which was about equal to that of a moderately strong man in particularly go=
od
training. 'Oh, you little un-grate-ful, mur-de-rous, hor-rid villain!' And
between every syllable, Charlotte gave Oliver a blow with all her might:
accompanying it with a scream, for the benefit of society.
Charlotte's
fist was by no means a light one; but, lest it should not be effectual in
calming Oliver's wrath, Mrs Sowerberry plunged into the kitchen, and assist=
ed
to hold him with one hand, while she scratched his face with the other. In =
this
favourable position of affairs, Noah rose from the ground, and pommelled him
behind.
This
was rather too violent exercise to last long. When they were all wearied ou=
t,
and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged Oliver, struggling and shou=
ting,
but nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and there locked him up. This be=
ing
done, Mrs Sowerberry sunk into a chair, and burst into tears.
'Bless
her, she's going off!' said Charlotte. 'A glass of water, Noah, dear. Make
haste!'
'Oh!
Charlotte,' said Mrs Sowerberry: speaking as well as she could, through a
deficiency of breath, and a sufficiency of cold water, which Noah had poured
over her head and shoulders. 'Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy we have not all b=
een
murdered in our beds!'
'Ah!
mercy indeed, ma'am,' was the reply. I only hope this'll teach master not to
have any more of these dreadful creatures, that are born to be murderers and
robbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah! He was all but killed, ma'am, wh=
en I
come in.'
'Poor
fellow!' said Mrs Sowerberry: looking piteously on the charity-boy.
Noah,
whose top waistcoat-button might have been somewhere on a level with the cr=
own
of Oliver's head, rubbed his eyes with the inside of his wrists while this
commiseration was bestowed upon him, and performed some affecting tears and
sniffs.
'What's
to be done!' exclaimed Mrs Sowerberry. 'Your master's not at home; there's =
not
a man in the house, and he'll kick that door down in ten minutes.' Oliver's
vigorous plunges against the bit of timber in question, rendered this occur=
ance
highly probable.
'Dear,
dear! I don't know, ma'am,' said Charlotte, 'unless we send for the
police-officers.'
'Or
the millingtary,' suggested Mr Claypole.
'No,
no,' said Mrs Sowerberry: bethinking herself of Oliver's old friend. 'Run t=
o Mr
Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly, and not to lose a minute;
never mind your cap! Make haste! You can hold a knife to that black eye, as=
you
run along. It'll keep the swelling down.'
Noah
stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed; and very mu=
ch
it astonished the people who were out walking, to see a charity-boy tearing
through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his head, and a clasp-knife at
his eye.
Chapter VII - Oliver Continues Refractory
Noah
Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused not once for
breath, until he reached the workhouse-gate. Having rested here, for a minu=
te
or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an imposing show of tears and
terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and presented such a rueful face to
the aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who saw nothing but rueful fac=
es
about him at the best of times, started back in astonishment.
'Why,
what's the matter with the boy!' said the old pauper.
'Mr
Bumble! Mr Bumble!' cried Noah, with well-affected dismay: and in tones so =
loud
and agitated, that they not only caught the ear of Mr Bumble himself, who
happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard
without his cocked hat, - which is a very curious and remarkable circumstan=
ce:
as showing that even a beadle, acted upon a sudden and powerful impulse, ma=
y be
afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss of self-possession, and
forgetfulness of personal dignity.
'Oh,
Mr Bumble, sir!' said Noah: 'Oliver, sir, - Oliver has - '
'What?
What?' interposed Mr Bumble: with a gleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes.
'Not run away; he hasn't run away, has he, Noah?'
'No,
sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he's turned wicious,' replied Noah. 'He tri=
ed
to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte; and then missis. =
Oh!
what dreadful pain it is!
Such
agony, please, sir!' And here, Noah writhed and twisted his body into an
extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr Bumble to unders=
tand
that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustain=
ed
severe internal injury and damage, from which he was at that moment sufferi=
ng
the acutest torture.
When
Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr Bumbl=
e,
he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his dreadful wounds t=
en
times louder than before; and when he observed a gentleman in a white waist=
coat
crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations than ever: rightl=
y conceiving
it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the
gentleman aforesaid.
The
gentleman's notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three pac=
es,
when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young cur was howling =
for,
and why Mr Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the
series of vocular exclamations so designated, an involuntary process?
'It's
a poor boy from the free-school, sir,' replied Mr Bumble, 'who has been nea=
rly
murdered - all but murdered, sir, - by young Twist.'
'By
Jove!' exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short. 'I k=
new
it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious
young savage would come to be hung!'
'He
has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant,' said Mr Bumble,
with a face of ashy paleness.
'And
his missis,' interposed Mr Claypole.
'And
his master, too, I think you said, Noah?' added Mr Bumble.
'No!
he's out, or he would have murdered him,' replied Noah. 'He said he wanted =
to.'
'Ah!
Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?' inquired the gentleman in the white
waistcoat.
'Yes,
sir,' replied Noah. 'And please, sir, missis wants to know whether Mr Bumble
can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him - 'cause master's o=
ut.'
'Certainly,
my boy; certainly,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat: smiling
benignly, and patting Noah's head, which was about three inches higher than=
his
own. 'You're a good boy - a very good boy. Here's a penny for you. Bumble, =
just
step up to Sowerberry's with your cane, and see what's best to be done. Don=
't
spare him, Bumble.'
'No,
I will not, sir,' replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane having be=
en,
by this time, adjusted to their owner's satisfaction, Mr Bumble and Noah
Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker's shop.
Here
the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had not yet
returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished vigour, at the
cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity as related by Mrs Sowerberry and
Charlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr Bumble judged it prudent =
to
parley, before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick at the outsi=
de,
by way of prelude; and, then, applying his mouth to the keyhole, said, in a
deep and impressive tone:
'Oliver!'
'Come;
you let me out!' replied Oliver, from the inside.
'Do
you know this here voice, Oliver?' said Mr Bumble.
'Yes,'
replied Oliver.
'Ain't
you afraid of it, sir? Ain't you a-trembling while I speak, sir?' said Mr
Bumble.
'No!'
replied Oliver, boldly.
An
answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was in the
habit of receiving, staggered Mr Bumble not a little. He stepped back from =
the
keyhole; drew himself up to his full height; and looked from one to another=
of
the three bystanders, in mute astonishment.
'Oh,
you know, Mr Bumble, he must be mad,' said Mrs Sowerberry.
'No
boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you.'
'It's
not Madness, ma'am,' replied Mr Bumble, after a few moments of deep meditat=
ion.
'It's Meat.'
'What?'
exclaimed Mrs Sowerberry.
'Meat,
ma'am, meat,' replied Bumble, with stern emphasis. 'You've over-fed him, ma=
'am.
You've raised a artificial soul and spirit in him, ma'am unbecoming a perso=
n of
his condition: as the board, Mrs Sowerberry, who are practical philosophers,
will tell you. What have paupers to do with soul or spirit? It's quite enou=
gh
that we let 'em have live bodies. If you had kept the boy on gruel, ma'am, =
this
would never have happened.'
'Dear,
dear!' ejaculated Mrs Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to the kitchen
ceiling: 'this comes of being liberal!'
The
liberality of Mrs Sowerberry to Oliver, had consisted of a profuse bestowal
upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would eat; so the=
re
was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in her voluntarily remaining
under Mr Bumble's heavy accusation. Of which, to do her justice, she was wh=
olly
innocent, in thought, word, or deed.
'Ah!'
said Mr Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth again; 'the on=
ly
thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to leave him in the cellar f=
or a
day or so, till he's a little starved down; and then to take him out, and k=
eep
him on gruel all through the apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family.
Excitable natures, Mrs Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor said, that that
mother of his made her way here, against difficulties and pain that would h=
ave
killed any well-disposed woman, weeks before.'
At
this point of Mr Bumble's discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to know th=
at
some allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced kicking, with a
violence that rendered every other sound inaudible. Sowerberry returned at =
this
juncture. Oliver's offence having been explained to him, with such
exaggerations as the ladies thought best calculated to rouse his ire, he
unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprent=
ice
out, by the collar.
Oliver's
clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face was bruised =
and
scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead. The angry flush had not
disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of his prison, he scowled
boldly on Noah, and looked quite undismayed.
'Now,
you are a nice young fellow, ain't you?' said Sowerberry; giving Oliver a
shake, and a box on the ear.
'He
called my mother names,' replied Oliver.
'Well,
and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?' said Mrs Sowerberry. 'She
deserved what he said, and worse.'
'She
didn't' said Oliver.
'She
did,' said Mrs Sowerberry.
'It's
a lie!' said Oliver.
Mrs
Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears.
This
flood of tears left Mr Sowerberry no alternative. If he had hesitated for o=
ne
instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite clear to every
experienced reader that he would have been, according to all precedents in
disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural husband, an insult=
ing
creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters=
too
numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, =
he
was, as far as his power went - it was not very extensive - kindly disposed
towards the boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps,
because his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no
resource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs
Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr Bumble's subsequent application of the
parochial cane, rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day, he was shut up=
in
the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of bread; and at night=
, Mrs
Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means
complimentary to the memory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amids=
t the
jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dism=
al
bed.
It
was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomy
workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the
day's treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere child. He=
had
listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he had borne the lash wit=
hout
a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which would have kept d=
own
a shriek to the last, though they had roasted him alive. But now, when there
were none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hid=
ing
his face in his hands, wept such tears as, God send for the credit of our
nature, few so young may ever have cause to pour out before him!
For
a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle was
burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having gazed cautiously
round him, and listened intently, he gently undid the fastenings of the doo=
r,
and looked abroad.
It
was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy's eyes, farther from t=
he
earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind; and the sombre
shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground, looked sepulchral and death-li=
ke,
from being so still. He softly reclosed the door. Having availed himself of=
the
expiring light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of
wearing apparel he had, sat himself down upon a bench, to wait for morning.=
With
the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the shutters,
Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look around - one mome=
nt's
pause of hesitation - he had closed it behind him, and was in the open stre=
et.
He
looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly.
He
remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up the hill.=
He
took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across the fields: which he
knew, after some distance, led out again into the road; struck into it, and
walked quickly on.
Along
this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted beside Mr Bumble,
when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His way lay direc=
tly
in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of
this; and he half resolved to turn back. He had come a long way though, and
should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so early that
there was very little fear of his being seen; so he walked on.
He
reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring at that
early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child was weeding=
one
of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale face and disclosed the
features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him, befo=
re
he went; for, though younger than himself, he had been his little friend and
playmate. They had been beaten, and starved, and shut up together, many and
many a time.
'Hush,
Dick!' said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his thin arm bet=
ween
the rails to greet him. 'Is any one up?'
'Nobody
but me,' replied the child.
'You
musn't say you saw me, Dick,' said Oliver. 'I am running away. They beat and
ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune, some long way off. I d=
on't
know where. How pale you are!'
'I
heard the doctor tell them I was dying,' replied the child with a faint smi=
le.
'I am very glad to see you, dear; but don't stop, don't stop!'
'Yes,
yes, I will, to say good-b'ye to you,' replied Oliver. 'I shall see you aga=
in,
Dick. I know I shall! You will be well and happy!'
'I
hope so,' replied the child. 'After I am dead, but not before. I know the
doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of Heaven, and Angels,
and kind faces that I never see when I am awake. Kiss me,' said the child,
climbing up the low gate, and flinging his little arms round Oliver's neck.
'Good-b'ye, dear! God bless you!'
The
blessing was from a young child's lips, but it was the first that Oliver had
ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the struggles and sufferings,=
and
troubles and changes, of his after life, he never once forgot it.
Chapter VIII - Oliver Walks To London. He Encounters O=
n The
Road A Strange Sort Of Young Gentleman
Oliver
reached the stile at which the by-path terminated; and once more gained the
high-road. It was eight o'clock now. Though he was nearly five miles away f=
rom
the town, he ran, and hid behind the hedges, by turns, till noon: fearing t=
hat
he might be pursued and overtaken. Then he sat down to rest by the side of =
the
milestone, and began to think, for the first time, where he had better go a=
nd
try to live.
The
stone by which he was seated, bore, in large characters, an intimation that=
it
was just seventy miles from that spot to London. The name awakened a new tr=
ain
of ideas in the boy's mind.
London!
- that great place! - nobody - not even Mr Bumble - could ever find him the=
re!
He had often heard the old men in the workhouse, too, say that no lad of sp=
irit
need want in London; and that there were ways of living in that vast city,
which those who had been bred up in country parts had no idea of. It was the
very place for a homeless boy, who must die in the streets unless some one
helped him. As these things passed through his thoughts, he jumped upon his=
feet,
and again walked forward.
He
had diminished the distance between himself and London by full four miles m=
ore,
before he recollected how much he must undergo ere he could hope to reach h=
is
place of destination. As this consideration forced itself upon him, he
slackened his pace a little, and meditated upon his means of getting there.=
He
had a crust of bread, a coarse shirt, and two pairs of stockings, in his
bundle. He had a penny too - a gift of Sowerberry's after some funeral in w=
hich
he had acquitted himself more than ordinarily well - in his pocket. 'A clean
shirt,' thought Oliver, 'is a very comfortable thing; and so are two pairs =
of
darned stockings; and so is a penny; but they are small helps to a sixty-fi=
ve
miles' walk in winter time.' But Oliver's thoughts, like those of most other
people, although they were extremely ready and active to point out his
difficulties, were wholly at a loss to suggest any feasible mode of surmoun=
ting
them; so, after a good deal of thinking to no particular purpose, he changed
his little bundle over to the other shoulder, and trudged on.
Oliver walked twenty miles that day; and all that time tasted nothing but the crus= t of dry bread, and a few draughts of water, which he begged at the cottage-door= s by the road-side. When the night came, he turned into a meadow; and, creeping close under a hay-rick, determined to lie there, till morning. He felt frightened at first, for the wind moaned dismally over the empty fields: an= d he was cold and hungry, and more alone than he had ever felt before. Being very tired with his walk, however, he soon fell asleep and forgot his troubles.<= o:p>
He
felt cold and stiff, when he got up next morning, and so hungry that he was
obliged to exchange the penny for a small loaf, in the very first village
through which he passed. He had walked no more than twelve miles, when night
closed in again. His feet were sore, and his legs so weak that they trembled
beneath him. Another night passed in the bleak damp air, made him worse; wh=
en
he set forward on his journey next morning he could hardly crawl along.
He
waited at the bottom of a steep hill till a stage-coach came up, and then
begged of the outside passengers; but there were very few who took any noti=
ce
of him: and even those told him to wait till they got to the top of the hil=
l,
and then let them see how far he could run for a halfpenny. Poor Oliver tri=
ed
to keep up with the coach a little way, but was unable to do it, by reason =
of
his fatigue and sore feet. When the outsides saw this, they put their halfp=
ence
back into their pockets again, declaring that he was an idle young dog, and
didn't deserve anything; and the coach rattled away and left only a cloud of
dust behind.
In
some villages, large painted boards were fixed up: warning all persons who =
begged
within the district, that they would be sent to jail. This frightened Oliver
very much, and made him glad to get out of those villages with all possible
expedition. In others, he would stand about the inn-yards, and look mournfu=
lly
at every one who passed: a proceeding which generally terminated in the
landlady's ordering one of the post-boys who were lounging about, to drive =
that
strange boy out of the place, for she was sure he had come to steal somethi=
ng.
If he begged at a farmer's house, ten to one but they threatened to set the=
dog
on him; and when he showed his nose in a shop, they talked about the beadle=
- which
brought Oliver's heart into his mouth, - very often the only thing he had
there, for many hours together.
In
fact, if it had not been for a good-hearted turnpike-man, and a benevolent =
old
lady, Oliver's troubles would have been shortened by the very same process
which had put an end to his mother's; in other words, he would most assured=
ly
have fallen dead upon the king's highway. But the turnpike-man gave him a m=
eal
of bread and cheese; and the old lady, who had a shipwrecked grandson wande=
ring
barefoot in some distant part of the earth, took pity upon the poor orphan,=
and
gave him what little she could afford - and more - with such kind and gentle
words, and such tears of sympathy and compassion, that they sank deeper into
Oliver's soul, than all the sufferings he had ever undergone.
Early
on the seventh morning after he had left his native place, Oliver limped sl=
owly
into the little town of Barnet. The window-shutters were closed; the street=
was
empty; not a soul had awakened to the business of the day. The sun was risi=
ng
in all its splendid beauty; but the light only served to show the boy his o=
wn
lonesomeness and desolation, as he sat, with bleeding feet and covered with
dust, upon a door-step.
By
degrees, the shutters were opened; the window-blinds were drawn up; and peo=
ple
began passing to and fro. Some few stopped to gaze at Oliver for a moment or
two, or turned round to stare at him as they hurried by; but none relieved =
him,
or troubled themselves to inquire how he came there. He had no heart to beg.
And there he sat.
He
had been crouching on the step for some time: wondering at the great number=
of
public-houses (every other house in Barnet was a tavern, large or small),
gazing listlessly at the coaches as they passed through, and thinking how
strange it seemed that they could do, with ease, in a few hours, what it had
taken him a whole week of courage and determination beyond his years to
accomplish: when he was roused by observing that a boy, who had passed him
carelessly some minutes before, had returned, and was now surveying him most
earnestly from the opposite side of the way. He took little heed of this at
first; but the boy remained in the same attitude of close observation so lo=
ng,
that Oliver raised his head, and returned his steady look. Upon this, the b=
oy
crossed over; and walking close up to Oliver, said,
'Hullo,
my covey! What's the row?'
The
boy who addressed this inquiry to the young wayfarer, was about his own age:
but one of the queerest looking boys that Oliver had even seen. He was a
snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and as dirty a juvenile as
one would wish to see; but he had about him all the airs and manners of a m=
an.
He was short of his age: with rather bow-legs, and little, sharp, ugly eyes.
His hat was stuck on the top of his head so lightly, that it threatened to =
fall
off every moment - and would have done so, very often, if the wearer had not
had a knack of every now and then giving his head a sudden twitch, which
brought it back to its old place again. He wore a man's coat, which reached
nearly to his heels. He had turned the cuffs back, half-way up his arm, to =
get
his hands out of the sleeves: apparently with the ultimate view of thrusting
them into the pockets of his corduroy trousers; for there he kept them. He =
was,
altogether, as roystering and swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood fo=
ur
feet six, or something less, in the bluchers.
'Hullo,
my covey! What's the row?' said this strange young gentleman to Oliver.
'I
am very hungry and tired,' replied Oliver: the tears standing in his eyes a=
s he
spoke. 'I have walked a long way. I have been walking these seven days.'
'Walking
for sivin days!' said the young gentleman. 'Oh, I see. Beak's order, eh? Bu=
t,'
he added, noticing Oliver's look of surprise, 'I suppose you don't know wha=
t a
beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on.'
Oliver
mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird's mouth described by the te=
rm
in question.
'My
eyes, how green!' exclaimed the young gentleman. 'Why, a beak's a madgst'ra=
te;
and when you walk by a beak's order, it's not straight forerd, but always
agoing up, and niver a coming down agin. Was you never on the mill?'
'What
mill?' inquired Oliver.
'What
mill! Why, the mill - the mill =
as
takes up so little room that it'll work inside a Stone Jug; and always goes
better when the wind's low with people, than when it's high; acos then they
can't get workmen. But come,' said the young gentleman; 'you want grub, and=
you
shall have it. I'm at low-water-mark myself - only one bob and a magpie; bu=
t,
as far as it goes, I'll fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There!
Now then! 'Morrice!'
Assisting
Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent chandler's shop,
where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham and a half-quartern l=
oaf,
or, as he himself expressed it, 'a fourpenny bran!' the ham being kept clean
and preserved from dust, by the ingenious expedient of making a hole in the
loaf by pulling out a portion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking=
the
bread under his arm, the young gentlman turned into a small public-house, a=
nd
led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer =
was
brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at
his new friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress =
of
which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention.
'Going
to London?' said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.
'Yes.'
'Got
any lodgings?'
'No.'
'Money?'
'No.'
The
strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as the big
coat-sleeves would let them go.
'Do
you live in London?' inquired Oliver.
'Yes.
I do, when I'm at home,' replied the boy. 'I suppose you want some place to
sleep in to-night, don't you?'
'I
do, indeed,' answered Oliver. 'I have not slept under a roof since I left t=
he
country.'
'Don't
fret your eyelids on that score,' said the young gentleman. 'I've got to be=
in
London to-night; and I know a 'spectable old gentleman as lives there, wot'=
ll
give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change - that is, if a=
ny
genelman he knows interduces you. And don't he know me? Oh, no! Not in the
least! By no means. Certainly not!'
The
young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments of
discourse were playfully ironical; and finished the beer as he did so.
This
unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted; especially as =
it
was immediately followed up, by the assurance that the old gentleman referr=
ed
to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a comfortable place, without loss of
time. This led to a more friendly and confidential dialogue; from which Oli=
ver
discovered that his friend's name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a pecul=
iar
pet and protege of the elderly gentleman before mentioned.
Mr
Dawkin's appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the comforts which=
his
patron's interest obtained for those whom he took under his protection; but=
, as
he had a rather flightly and dissolute mode of conversing, and furthermore
avowed that among his intimate friends he was better known by the sobriquet=
of
'The Artful Dodger,' Oliver concluded that, being of a dissipated and carel=
ess
turn, the moral precepts of his benefactor had hitherto been thrown away up=
on
him. Under this impression, he secretly resolved to cultivate the good opin=
ion
of the old gentleman as quickly as possible; and, if he found the Dodger
incorrigible, as he more than half suspected he should, to decline the hono=
ur
of his farther acquaintance.
As
John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it was nea=
rly
eleven o'clock when they reached the turnpike at Islington. They crossed fr=
om
the Angel into St. John's Road; struck down the small street which terminat=
es
at Sadler's Wells Theatre; through Exmouth Street and Coppice Row; down the
little court by the side of the workhouse; across the classic ground which =
once
bore the name of Hockley-in-the-Hole; thence into Little Saffron Hill; and =
so
into Saffron Hill the Great: along which the Dodger scudded at a rapid pace,
directing Oliver to follow close at his heels.
Although
Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping sight of his leader, he
could not help bestowing a few hasty glances on either side of the way, as =
he
passed along. A dirtier or more wretched place he had never seen. The street
was very narrow and muddy, and the air was impregnated with filthy odours.
There were a good many small shops; but the only stock in trade appeared to=
be
heaps of children, who, even at that time of night, were crawling in and ou=
t at
the doors, or screaming from the inside. The sole places that seemed to pro=
sper
amid the general blight of the place, were the public-houses; and in them, =
the
lowest orders of Irish were wrangling with might and main. Covered ways and
yards, which here and there diverged from the main street, disclosed little
knots of houses, where drunken men and women were positively wallowing in
filth; and from several of the door-ways, great ill-looking fellows were
cautiously emerging, bound, to all appearance, on no very well-disposed or
harmless errands.
Oliver
was just considering whether he hadn't better run away, when they reached t=
he
bottom of the hill. His conductor, catching him by the arm, pushed open the
door of a house near Field Lane; and drawing him into the passage, closed it
behind them.
'Now,
then!' cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle from the Dodger.
'Plummy
and slam!' was the reply.
This
seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right; for the light of a
feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the remote end of the passage; and a m=
an's
face peeped out, from where a balustrade of the old kitchen staircase had b=
een
broken away.
'There's
two on you,' said the man, thrusting the candle farther out, and shielding =
his
eyes with his hand. 'Who's the t'other one?'
'A
new pal,' replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward.
'Where
did he come from?'
'Greenland.
Is Fagin upstairs?'
'Yes,
he's a sortin' the wipes. Up with you!' The candle was drawn back, and the =
face
disappeared.
Oliver,
groping his way with one hand, and having the other firmly grasped by his
companion, ascended with much difficulty the dark and broken stairs: which =
his
conductor mounted with an ease and expedition that showed he was well
acquainted with them.
He
threw open the door of a back-room, and drew Oliver in after him.
The
walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black with age and dirt. There=
was
a deal table before the fire: upon which were a candle, stuck in a ginger-b=
eer
bottle, two or three pewter pots, a loaf and butter, and a plate. In a
frying-pan, which was on the fire, and which was secured to the mantelshelf=
by
a string, some sausages were cooking; and standing over them, with a
toasting-fork in his hand, was a very old shrivelled Jew, whose
villainous-looking and repulsive face was obscured by a quantity of matted =
red
hair. He was dressed in a greasy flannel gown, with his throat bare; and se=
emed
to be dividing his attention between the frying-pan and the clothes-horse, =
over
which a great number of silk handkerchiefs were hanging. Several rough beds
made of old sacks, were huddled side by side on the floor. Seated round the
table were four or five boys, none older than the Dodger, smoking long clay
pipes, and drinking spirits with the air of middle-aged men. These all crow=
ded
about their associate as he whispered a few words to the Jew; and then turn=
ed
round and grinned at Oliver. So did the Jew himself, toasting-fork in hand.=
'This
is him, Fagin,' said Jack Dawkins;'my friend Oliver Twist.'
The
Jew grinned; and, making a low obeisance to Oliver, took him by the hand, a=
nd
hoped he should have the honour of his intimate acquaintance. Upon this, the
young gentleman with the pipes came round him, and shook both his hands very
hard - especially the one in which he held his little bundle. One young
gentleman was very anxious to hang up his cap for him; and another was so
obliging as to put his hands in his pockets, in order that, as he was very
tired, he might not have the trouble of emptying them, himself, when he wen=
t to
bed. These civilities would probably be extended much farther, but for a
liberal exercise of the Jew's toasting-fork on the heads and shoulders of t=
he
affectionate youths who offered them.
'We
are very glad to see you, Oliver, very,' said the Jew. 'Dodger, take off the
sausages; and draw a tub near the fire for Oliver. Ah, you're a-staring at =
the
pocket-handkerchiefs! eh, my dear. There are a good many of 'em, ain't ther=
e?
We've just looked 'em out, ready for the wash; that's all, Oliver; that's a=
ll.
Ha! ha! ha!'
The
latter part of this speech, was hailed by a boisterous shout from all the
hopeful pupils of the merry old gentleman. In the midst of which they went =
to
supper.
Oliver
ate his share, and the Jew then mixed him a glass of hot gin-and-water: tel=
ling
him he must drink it off directly, because another gentleman wanted the
tumbler. Oliver did as he was desired. Immediately afterwards he felt himse=
lf
gently lifted on to one of the sacks; and then he sunk into a deep sleep.
It
was late next morning when Oliver awoke, from a sound, long sleep. There wa=
s no
other person in the room but the old Jew, who was boiling some coffee in a
saucepan for breakfast, and whistling softly to himself as he stirred it ro=
und
and round, with an iron spoon. He would stop every now and then to listen w=
hen
there was the least noise below: and when he had satisfied himself, he woul=
d go
on whistling and stirring again, as before.
Although
Oliver had roused himself from sleep, he was not thoroughly awake. There is=
a
drowsy state, between sleeping and waking, when you dream more in five minu=
tes
with your eyes half open, and yourself half conscious of everything that is
passing around you, than you would in five nights with your eyes fast close=
d,
and your senses wrapt in perfect unconsciousness. At such time, a mortal kn=
ows
just enough of what his mind is doing, to form some glimmering conception of
its mighty powers, its bounding from earth and spurning time and space, when
freed from the restraint of its corporeal associate.
Oliver
was precisely in this condition. He saw the Jew with his half-closed eyes;
heard his low whistling; and recognised the sound of the spoon grating agai=
nst
the saucepan's sides: and yet the self-same senses were mentally engaged, at
the same time, in busy action with almost everybody he had ever known.
When
the coffee was done, the Jew drew the saucepan to the hob. Standing, then i=
n an
irresolute attitude for a few minutes, as if he did not well know how to em=
ploy
himself, he turned round and looked at Oliver, and called him by his name. =
He
did not answer, and was to all appearances asleep.
After
satisfying himself upon this head, the Jew stepped gently to the door: whic=
h he
fastened. He then drew forth: as it seemed to Oliver, from some trap in the
floor: a small box, which he placed carefully on the table. His eyes gliste=
ned
as he raised the lid, and looked in. Dragging an old chair to the table, he=
sat
down; and took from it a magnificent gold watch, sparkling with jewels.
'Aha!'
said the Jew, shrugging up his shoulders, and distorting every feature with=
a
hideous grin. 'Clever dogs! Clever dogs! Staunch to the last! Never told the
old parson where they were. Never poached upon old Fagin! And why should th=
ey?
It wouldn't have loosened the knot, or kept the drop up, a minute longer. N=
o,
no, no! Fine fellows! Fine fellows!'
With
these, and other muttered reflections of the like nature, the Jew once more
deposited the watch in its place of safety. At least half a dozen more were
severally drawn forth from the same box, and surveyed with equal pleasure;
besides rings, brooches, bracelets, and other articles of jewellery, of such
magnificent materials, and costly workmanship, that Oliver had no idea, eve=
n of
their names.
Having
replaced these trinkets, the Jew took out another: so small that it lay in =
the
palm of his hand. There seemed to be some very minute inscription on it; for
the Jew laid it flat upon the table, and shading it with his hand, pored ov=
er
it, long and earnestly. At length he put it down, as if despairing of succe=
ss;
and, leaning back in his chair, muttered:
'What
a fine thing capital punishment is! Dead men never repent; dead men never b=
ring
awkward stories to light. Ah, it's a fine thing for the trade! Five of 'em
strung up in a row, and none left to play booty, or turn white-livered!'
As
the Jew uttered these words, his bright dark eyes, which had been staring
vacantly before him, fell on Oliver's face; the boy's eyes were fixed on hi=
s in
mute curiousity; and although the recognition was only for an instant - for=
the
briefest space of time that can possibly be conceived - it was enough to sh=
ow
the old man that he had been observed.
He
closed the lid of the box with a loud crash; and, laying his hand on a bread
knife which was on the table, started furiously up. He trembled very much
though; for, even in his terror, Oliver could see that the knife quivered in
the air.
'What's
that?' said the Jew. 'What do you watch me for? Why are you awake? What have
you seen? Speak out, boy! Quick - quick! for your life. 'I wasn't able to s=
leep
any longer, sir,' replied Oliver, meekly. 'I am very sorry if I have distur=
bed
you, sir.'
'You
were not awake an hour ago?' said the Jew, scowling fiercely on the boy.
'No!
No, indeed!' replied Oliver.
'Are
you sure?' cried the Jew: with a still fiercer look than before: and a
threatening attitude.
'Upon
my word I was not, sir,' replied Oliver, earnestly. 'I was not, indeed, sir=
.'
'Tush,
tush, my dear!' said the Jew, abruptly resuming his old manner, and playing
with the knife a little, before he laid it down; as if to induce the belief
that he had caught it up, in mere sport. 'Of course I know that, my dear. I
only tried to frighten you. You're a brave boy. Ha! ha! you're a brave boy,
Oliver.' The Jew rubbed his hands with a chuckle, but glanced uneasily at t=
he
box, notwithstanding.
'Did
you see any of these pretty things, my dear?' said the Jew, laying his hand
upon it after a short pause.
'Yes,
sir,' replied Oliver.
'Ah!'
said the Jew, turning rather pale. 'They - they're mine, Oliver; my little
property. All I have to live upon, in my old age. The folks call me a miser=
, my
dear. Only a miser; that's all.'
Oliver
thought the old gentleman must be a decided miser to live in such a dirty
place, with so many watches; but, thinking that perhaps his fondness for the
Dodger and the other boys, cost him a good deal of money, he only cast a
deferential look at the Jew, and asked if he might get up.
'Certainly,
my dear, certainly,' replied the old gentleman. 'Stay. There's a pitcher of
water in the corner by the door. Bring it here; and I'll give you a basin to
wash in, my dear.'
Oliver
got up; walked across the room; and stooped for an instant to raise the
pitcher. When he turned his head, the box was gone.
He
had scarcely washed himself, and made everything tidy, by emptying the basin
out of the window, agreeably to the Jew's directions, when the Dodger retur=
ned:
accompanied by a very sprightly young friend, whom Oliver had seen smoking =
on
the previous night, and who was now formally introduced to him as Charley
Bates. The four sat down, to breakfast, on the coffee, and some hot rolls a=
nd
ham which the Dodger had brought home in the crown of his hat.
'Well,'
said the Jew, glancing slyly at Oliver, and addressing himself to the Dodge=
r,
'I hope you've been at work this morning, my dears?'
'Hard,'
replied the Dodger.
'As
nails,' added Charley Bates.
'Good
boys, good boys!' said the Jew. 'What have you got, Dodger?'
'A
couple of pocket-books,' replied that young gentlman.
'Lined?'
inquired the Jew, with eagerness.
'Pretty
well,' replied the Dodger, producing two pocket-books; one green, and the o=
ther
red.
'Not
so heavy as they might be,' said the Jew, after looking at the insides
carefully; 'but very neat and nicely made. Ingenious workman, ain't he,
Oliver?'
'Very
indeed, sir,' said Oliver. At which Mr Charles Bates laughed uproariously; =
very
much to the amazement of Oliver, who saw nothing to laugh at, in anything t=
hat
had passed.
'And
what have you got, my dear?' said Fagin to Charley Bates.
'Wipes,'
replied Master Bates; at the same time producing four pocket-handkerchiefs.=
'Well,'
said the Jew, inspecting them closely; 'they're very good ones, very. You
haven't marked them well, though, Charley; so the marks shall be picked out
with a needle, and we'll teach Oliver how to do it. Shall us, Oliver, eh? H=
a!
ha! ha!'
'If
you please, sir,' said Oliver.
'You'd
like to be able to make pocket-handkerchiefs as easy as Charley Bates, woul=
dn't
you, my dear?' said the Jew.
'Very
much, indeed, if you'll teach me, sir,' replied Oliver.
Master
Bates saw something so exquisitely ludicrous in this reply, that he burst i=
nto
another laugh; which laugh, meeting the coffee he was drinking, and carryin=
g it
down some wrong channel, very nearly terminated in his premature suffocatio=
n.
'He
is so jolly green!' said Charley when he recovered, as an apology to the
company for his unpolite behaviour.
The
Dodger said nothing, but he smoothed Oliver's hair over his eyes, and said =
he'd
know better, by and by; upon which the old gentleman, observing Oliver's co=
lour
mounting, changed the subject by asking whether there had been much of a cr=
owd
at the execution that morning? This made him wonder more and more; for it w=
as
plain from the replies of the two boys that they had both been there; and
Oliver naturally wondered how they could possibly have found time to be so =
very
industrious.
When
the breakfast was cleared away; the merry old gentlman and the two boys pla=
yed
at a very curious and uncommon game, which was performed in this way. The m=
erry
old gentleman, placing a snuff-box in one pocket of his trousers, a note-ca=
se
in the other, and a watch in his waistcoat pocket, with a guard-chain round=
his
neck, and sticking a mock diamond pin in his shirt: buttoned his coat tight
round him, and putting his spectacle-case and handkerchief in his pockets,
trotted up and down the room with a stick, in imitation of the manner in wh=
ich
old gentlemen walk about the streets any hour in the day. Sometimes he stop=
ped
at the fire-place, and sometimes at the door, making believe that he was
staring with all his might into shop-windows. At such times, he would look
constantly round him, for fear of thieves, and would keep slapping all his
pockets in turn, to see that he hadn't lost anything, in such a very funny =
and
natural manner, that Oliver laughed till the tears ran down his face. All t=
his
time, the two boys followed him closely about: getting out of his sight, so=
nimbly,
every time he turned round, that it was impossible to follow their motions.=
At
last, the Dodger trod upon his toes, or ran upon his boot accidently, while
Charley Bates stumbled up against him behind; and in that one moment they t=
ook
from him, with the most extraordinary rapidity, snuff-box, note-case,
watch-guard, chain, shirt-pin, pocket-handkerchief, even the spectacle-case=
. If
the old gentlman felt a hand in any one of his pockets, he cried out where =
it
was; and then the game began all over again.
When
this game had been played a great many times, a couple of young ladies call=
ed
to see the young gentleman; one of whom was named Bet, and the other Nancy.
They wore a good deal of hair, not very neatly turned up behind, and were
rather untidy about the shoes and stockings. They were not exactly pretty,
perhaps; but they had a great deal of colour in their faces, and looked qui=
te
stout and hearty. Being remarkably free and agreeable in their manners, Oli=
ver
thought them very nice girls indeed. As there is no doubt they were.
The
visitors stopped a long time. Spirits were produced, in consequence of one =
of
the young ladies complaining of a coldness in her inside; and the conversat=
ion
took a very convivial and improving turn. At length, Charley Bates expressed
his opinion that it was time to pad the hoof. This, it occurred to Oliver, =
must
be French for going out; for directly afterwards, the Dodger, and Charley, =
and
the two young ladies, went away together, having been kindly furnished by t=
he
amiable old Jew with money to spend.
'There,
my dear,' said Fagin. 'That's a pleasant life, isn't it? They have gone out=
for
the day.'
'Have
they done work, sir?' inquired Oliver.
'Yes,'
said the Jew; 'that is, unless they should unexpectedly come across any, wh=
en they
are out; and they won't neglect it, if they do, my dear, depend upon it. Ma=
ke
'em your models, my dear. Make 'em your models,' tapping the fire-shovel on=
the
hearth to add force to his words; 'do everything they bid you, and take the=
ir
advice in all matters - especially the Dodger's, my dear. He'll be a great =
man
himself, and will make you one too, if you take pattern by him. - Is my
handkerchief hanging out of my pocket, my dear?' said the Jew, stopping sho=
rt.
'Yes,
sir,' said Oliver.
'See
if you can take it out, without my feeling it; as you saw them do, when we =
were
at play this morning.'
Oliver
held up the bottom of the pocket with one hand, as he had seen the Dodger h=
old
it, and drew the handkerchief lightly out of it with the other.
'Is
it gone?' cried the Jew.
'Here
it is, sir,' said Oliver, showing it in his hand.
'You're
a clever boy, my dear,' said the playful old gentleman, patting Oliver on t=
he
head approvingly. 'I never saw a sharper lad. Here's a shilling for you. If=
you
go on, in this way, you'll be the greatest man of the time. And now come he=
re,
and I'll show you how to take the marks out of the handkerchiefs.'
Oliver
wondered what picking the old gentleman's pocket in play, had to do with his
chances of being a great man. But, thinking that the Jew, being so much his
senior, must know best, he followed him quietly to the table, and was soon
deeply involved in his new study.
For
many days, Oliver remained in the Jew's room, picking the marks out of the
pocket-handkerchief, (of which a great number were brought home,) and somet=
imes
taking part in the game already described: which the two boys and the Jew
played, regularly, every morning. At length, he began to languish for fresh
air, and took many occasions of earnestly entreating the old gentleman to a=
llow
him to go out to work with his two companions.
Oliver
was rendered the more anxious to be actively employed, by what he had seen =
of
the stern morality of the old gentleman's character. Whenever the Dodger or
Charley Bates came home at night, empty-handed, he would expatiate with gre=
at
vehemence on the misery of idle and lazy habits; and would enforce upon them
the necessity of an active life, by sending them supperless to bed. On one
occasion, indeed, he even went so far as to knock them both down a flight of
stairs; but this was carrying out his virtuous precepts to an unusual exten=
t.
At
length, one morning, Oliver obtained the permission he had so eagerly sough=
t.
There had been no handkerchiefs to work upon, for two or three days, and the
dinners had been rather meagre. Perhaps these were reasons for the old
gentleman's giving his assent; but, whether they were or no, he told Oliver=
he
might go, and placed him under the joint guardianship of Charley Bates, and=
his
friend the Dodger.
The
three boys sallied out; the Dodger with his coat-sleeves tucked up, and his=
hat
cocked, as usual; Master Bates sauntering along with his hands in his pocke=
ts;
and Oliver between them, wondering where they were going, and what branch of
manufacture he would be instructed in, first.
The
pace at which they went, was such a very lazy, ill-looking saunter, that Ol=
iver
soon began to think his companions were going to deceive the old gentleman,=
by
not going to work at all. The Dodger had a vicious propensity, too, of pull=
ing
the caps from the heads of small boys and tossing them down areas; while
Charley Bates exhibited some very loose notions concerning the rights of
property, by pilfering divers apples and onions from the stalls at the kenn=
el
sides, and thrusting them into pockets which were so surprisingly capacious,
that they seemed to undermine his whole suit of clothes in every direction.
These things looked so bad, that Oliver was on the point of declaring his
intention of seeking his way back, in the best way he could; when his thoug=
hts
were suddenly directed into another channel, by a very mysterious change of
behaviour on the part of the Dodger.
They
were just emerging from a narrow court not far from the open square in
Clerkenwell, which is yet called, by some strange perversion of terms, 'The
Green': when the Dodger made a sudden stop; and, laying his finger on his l=
ip,
drew his companions back again, with the greatest caution and circumspectio=
n.
'What's
the matter?' demanded Oliver.
'Hush!'
replied the Dodger. 'Do you see that old cove at the book-stall?'
'The
old gentleman over the way?' said Oliver. 'Yes, I see him.'
'He'll
do,' said the Doger.
'A
prime plant,' observed Master Charley Bates.
Oliver
looked from one to the other, with the greatest surprise; but he was not
permitted to make any inquiries; for the two boys walked stealthily across =
the
road, and slunk close behind the old gentleman towards whom his attention h=
ad
been directed. Oliver walked a few paces after them; and, not knowing wheth=
er
to advance or retire, stood looking on in silent amazement.
The
old gentleman was a very respectable-looking personage, with a powdered head
and gold spectacles. He was dressed in a bottle-green coat with a black vel=
vet
collar; wore white trousers; and carried a smart bamboo cane under his arm.=
He
had taken up a book from the stall, and there he stood, reading away, as ha=
rd
as if he were in his elbow-chair, in his own study. It is very possible tha=
t he
fancied himself there, indeed; for it was plain, from his abstraction, that=
he
saw not the book-stall, nor the street, nor the boys, nor, in short, anythi=
ng
but the book itself: which he was reading straight through: turning over the
leaf when he got to the bottom of a page, beginning at the top line of the =
next
one, and going regularly on, with the greatest interest and eagerness.
What
was Oliver's horror and alarm as he stood a few paces off, looking on with =
his
eyelids as wide open as they would possibly go, to see the Dodger plunge his
hand into the old gentleman's pocket, and draw from thence a handkerchief! =
To
see him hand the same to Charley Bates; and finally to behold them, both
running away round the corner at full speed!
In
an instant the whole mystery of the hankerchiefs, and the watches, and the
jewels, and the Jew, rushed upon the boy's mind.
He
stood, for a moment, with the blood so tingling through all his veins from
terror, that he felt as if he were in a burning fire; then, confused and
frightened, he took to his heels; and, not knowing what he did, made off as
fast as he could lay his feet to the ground.
This
was all done in a minute's space. In the very instant when Oliver began to =
run,
the old gentleman, putting his hand to his pocket, and missing his
handkerchief, turned sharp round. Seeing the boy scudding away at such a ra=
pid
pace, he very naturally concluded him to be the depredator; and shouting 'S=
top
thief!' with all his might, made off after him, book in hand.
But
the old gentleman was not the only person who raised the hue-and-cry. The
Dodger and Master Bates, unwilling to attract public attention by running d=
own
the open street, had merely retired into the very first doorway round the
corner. They no sooner heard the cry, and saw Oliver running, than, guessing
exactly how the matter stood, they issued forth with great promptitude; and,
shouting 'Stop thief!' too, joined in the pursuit like good citizens.
Although
Oliver had been brought up by philosophers, he was not theoretically acquai=
nted
with the beautiful axiom that self-preservation is the first law of nature.=
If
he had been, perhaps he would have been prepared for this. Not being prepar=
ed,
however, it alarmed him the more; so away he went like the wind, with the o=
ld
gentleman and the two boys roaring and shouting behind him.
'Stop
thief! Stop thief!' There is a magic in the sound. The tradesman leaves his
counter, and the car-man his waggon; the butcher throws down his tray; the
baker his basket; the milkman his pail; the errand-boy his parcels; the
school-boy his marbles; the paviour his pickaxe; the child his battledore. =
Away
they run, pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash: tearing, yelling, screaming,
knocking down the passengers as they turn the corners, rousing up the dogs,=
and
astonishing the fowls: and streets, squares, and courts, re-echo with the
sound.
'Stop
thief! Stop thief!' The cry is taken up by a hundred voices, and the crowd
accumulate at every turning. Away they fly, splashing through the mud, and
rattling along the pavements: up go the windows, out run the people, onward
bear the mob, a whole audience desert Punch in the very thickest of the plo=
t,
and, joining the rushing throng, swell the shout, and lend fresh vigour to =
the
cry, 'Stop thief! Stop thief!'
'Stop
thief! Stop thief!' There is a passion FOR hunting
something deeply implanted in t=
he
human breast. One wretched breathless child, panting with exhaustion; terro=
r in
his looks; agony in his eyes; large drops of perspiration streaming down his
face; strains every nerve to make head upon his pursuers; and as they follo=
w on
his track, and gain upon him every instant, they hail his decreasing streng=
th
with joy. 'Stop thief!' Ay, stop him for God's sake, were it only in mercy!=
Stopped
at last! A clever blow. He is down upon the pavement; and the crowd eagerly
gather round him: each new comer, jostling and struggling with the others to
catch a glimpse. 'Stand aside!' 'Give him a little air!' 'Nonsense! he don't
deserve it.' 'Where's the gentleman?' 'Here his is, coming down the street.'
'Make room there for the gentleman!' 'Is this the boy, sir!' 'Yes.'
Oliver
lay, covered with mud and dust, and bleeding from the mouth, looking wildly
round upon the heap of faces that surrounded him, when the old gentleman was
officiously dragged and pushed into the circle by the foremost of the pursu=
ers.
'Yes,'
said the gentleman, 'I am afraid it is the boy.'
'Afraid!'
murmured the crowd. 'That's a good 'un!'
'Poor
fellow!' said the gentleman, 'he has hurt himself.'
'I did that, sir,' said a great lub=
berly
fellow, stepping forward; 'and preciously I cut my knuckle agin' his mouth.=
I
stopped him, sir.'
The
follow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for his pains; but,=
the
old gentleman, eyeing him with an expression of dislike, look anxiously rou=
nd,
as if he contemplated running away himself: which it is very possible he mi=
ght
have attempted to do, and thus have afforded another chase, had not a police
officer (who is generally the last person to arrive in such cases) at that
moment made his way through the crowd, and seized Oliver by the collar.
'Come,
get up,' said the man, roughly.
'It
wasn't me indeed, sir. Indeed, indeed, it was two other boys,' said Oliver,
clasping his hands passionately, and looking round. 'They are here somewher=
e.'
'Oh
no, they ain't,' said the officer. He meant this to be ironical, but it was
true besides; for the Dodger and Charley Bates had filed off down the first
convenient court they came to.
'Come,
get up!'
'Don't
hurt him,' said the old gentleman, compassionately.
'Oh
no, I won't hurt him,' replied the officer, tearing his jacket half off his
back, in proof thereof. 'Come, I know you; it won't do. Will you stand upon
your legs, you young devil?'
Oliver,
who could hardly stand, made a shift to raise himself on his feet, and was =
at
once lugged along the streets by the jacket-collar, at a rapid pace. The
gentleman walked on with them by the officer's side; and as many of the cro=
wd
as could achieve the feat, got a little ahead, and stared back at Oliver fr=
om
time to time. The boys shouted in triumph; and on they went.
The offence had been committed within the district, and indeed in the immediate neighborhood of, a very notorious metropolitan police office. The crowd had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two or three streets, = and down a place called Mutton Hill, when he was led beneath a low archway, and= up a dirty court, into this dispensary of summary justice, by the back way. It= was a small paved yard into which they turned; and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of whiskers on his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand.<= o:p>
'What's
the matter now?' said the man carelessly.
'A
young fogle-hunter,' replied the man who had Oliver in charge.
'Are
you the party that's been robbed, sir?' inquired the man with the keys.
'Yes,
I am,' replied the old gentleman; 'but I am not sure that this boy actually
took the handkerchief. I - I would rather not press the case.'
'Must
go before the magistrate now, sir,' replied the man. 'His worship will be
disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows!'
This
was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he unlocked as he
spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was searched; and nothing b=
eing
found upon him, locked up.
This
cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar, only not so light=
. It
was most intolerably dirty; for it was Monday morning; and it had been tena=
nted
by six drunken people, who had been locked up, elsewhere, since Saturday ni=
ght.
But this is little. In our station-houses, men and women are every night
confined on the most trivial charges - the word is worth noting - in dungeo=
ns,
compared with which, those in Newgate, occupied by the most atrocious felon=
s,
tried, found guilty, and under sentence of death, are palaces. Let any one =
who
doubts this, compare the two.
The
old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key grated in the
lock. He turned with a sigh to the book, which had been the innocent cause =
of
all this disturbance.
'There
is something in that boy's face,' said the old gentleman to himself as he
walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the cover of the book, in a
thoughtful manner; 'something that touches and interests me. Can he be innocent? He looked like=
- Bye
the bye,' exclaimed the old gentleman, halting very abruptly, and staring up
into the sky, 'Bless my soul! - where have I seen something like that look
before?'
After
musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked, with the same meditative
face, into a back anteroom opening from the yard; and there, retiring into a
corner, called up before his mind's eye a vast amphitheatre of faces over w=
hich
a dusky curtain had hung for many years. 'No,' said the old gentleman, shak=
ing
his head; 'it must be imagination.
He
wandered over them again. He had called them into view, and it was not easy=
to
replace the shroud that had so long concealed them. There were the faces of
friends, and foes, and of many that had been almost strangers peering
intrusively from the crowd; there were the faces of young and blooming girls
that were now old women; there were faces that the grave had changed and cl=
osed
upon, but which the mind, superior to its power, still dressed in their old
freshness and beauty, calling back the lustre of the eyes, the brightness of
the smile, the beaming of the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering=
of
beauty beyond the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from earth =
only
to be set up as a light, to shed a soft and gentle glow upon the path to
Heaven.
But
the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver's features
bore a trace. So, he heaved a sigh over the recollections he awakened; and
being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman, buried them again in t=
he
pages of the musty book.
He
was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the man with the =
keys
to follow him into the office. He closed his book hastily; and was at once
ushered into the imposing presence of the renowned Mr Fang.
The
office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr Fang sat behind a bar,=
at
the upper end; and on one side the door was a sort of wooden pen in which p=
oor
little Oliver was already deposited; trembling very much at the awfulness of
the scene.
Mr
Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with no great
quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and sides of his hea=
d.
His face was stern, and much flushed. If he were really not in the habit of
drinking rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought
action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy damages.=
The
old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the magistrate's desk, s=
aid,
suiting the action to the word, 'That is my name and address, sir.' He then
withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite and gentlemanly inclinatio=
n of
the head, waited to be questioned.
Now,
it so happened that Mr Fang was at that moment perusing a leading article i=
n a
newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent decision of his, and
commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special and
particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was=
out
of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl.
'Who
are you?' said Mr Fang.
The
old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.
'Officer!'
said Mr Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper. 'Who=
is
this fellow?'
'My
name, sir,' said the old gentleman, speaking like a gentleman, 'my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inqu=
ire
the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to=
a
respectable person, under the protection of the bench.' Saying this, Mr
Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would
afford him the required information.
'Officer!'
said Mr Fang, throwing the paper on one side, 'what's this fellow charged
with?'
'He's
not charged at all, your worship,' replied the officer. 'He appears against
this boy, your worship.'
His
worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe o=
ne.
'Appears
against the boy, does he?' said Mr Fang, surveying Mr Brownlow contemptuous=
ly
from head to foot. 'Swear him!'
'Before
I am sworn, I must beg to say one word,' said Mr Brownlow; 'and that is, th=
at I
really never, without actual experience, could have believed - '
'Hold
your tongue, sir!' said Mr Fang, peremptorily.
'I
will not, sir!' replied the old gentleman.
'Hold
your tongue this instant, or I'll have you turned out of the office!' said =
Mr
Fang. 'You're an insolent impertinent fellow. How dare you bully a magistra=
te!'
'What!'
exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.
'Swear
this person!' said Fang to the clerk. 'I'll not hear another word. Swear hi=
m.'
Mr
Brownlow's indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting perhaps, that he
might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed his feelings =
and
submitted to be sworn at once.
'Now,'
said Fang, 'what's the charge against this boy? What have you got to say, s=
ir?'
'I
was standing at a bookstall - ' Mr Brownlow began.
'Hold
your tongue, sir,' said Mr Fang. 'Policeman! Where's the policeman? Here, s=
wear
this policeman. Now, policeman, what is this?'
The
policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had taken the charge; how=
he
had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his person; and how that was all =
he
knew about it.
'Are
there any witnesses?' inquired Mr Fang.
'None,
your worship,' replied the policeman.
Mr
Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the prosecutor,
said in a towering passion.
'Do
you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, man, or do you n=
ot?
You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing to give evidence, I'=
ll
punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will, by - '
By
what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailor coughed very loud,
just at the right moment; and the former dropped a heavy book upon the floo=
r,
thus preventing the word from being heard - accidently, of course.
With
many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr Brownlow contrived to state his
case; observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he had run after the b=
oy
because he had saw him running away; and expressing his hope that, if the m=
agistrate
should believe him, although not actually the thief, to be connected with t=
he
thieves, he would deal as leniently with him as justice would allow.
'He
has been hurt already,' said the old gentleman in conclusion. 'And I fear,'=
he
added, with great energy, looking towards the bar, 'I really fear that he is
ill.'
'Oh!
yes, I dare say!' said Mr Fang, with a sneer. 'Come, none of your tricks he=
re,
you young vagabond; they won't do. What's your name?'
Oliver
tried to reply but his tongue failed him. He was deadly pale; and the whole
place seemed turning round and round.
'What's
your name, you hardened scoundrel?' demanded Mr Fang. 'Officer, what's his
name?'
This
was addressed to a bluff old fellow, in a striped waistcoat, who was standi=
ng
by the bar. He bent over Oliver, and repeated the inquiry; but finding him
really incapable of understanding the question; and knowing that his not
replying would only infuriate the magistrate the more, and add to the sever=
ity
of his sentence; he hazarded a guess.
'He
says his name's Tom White, your worship,' said the kind-hearted thief-taker=
.
'Oh,
he won't speak out, won't he?' said Fang. 'Very well, very well. Where does=
he
live?'
'Where
he can, your worship,' replied the officer; again pretending to receive Oli=
ver's
answer.
'Has
he any parents?' inquired Mr Fang.
'He
says they died in his infancy, your worship,' replied the officer: hazarding
the usual reply.
At
this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head; and, looking round with
imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of water.
'Stuff
and nonsense!' said Mr Fang: 'don't try to make a fool of me.'
'I
think he really is ill, your worship,' remonstrated the officer.
'I
know better,' said Mr Fang.
'Take
care of him, officer,' said the old gentleman, raising his hands instinctiv=
ely;
'he'll fall down.'
'Stand
away, officer,' cried Fang; 'let him, if he likes.'
Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell to the floor in a fainting fit. The men in the office looked at each other, but no one dared to stir.<= o:p>
'I
knew he was shamming,' said Fang, as if this were incontestable proof of the
fact. 'Let him lie there; he'll soon be tired of that.'
'How
do you propose to deal with the case, sir?' inquired the clerk in a low voi=
ce.
'Summarily,'
replied Mr Fang. 'He stands committed for three months - hard labour of cou=
rse.
Clear the office.'
The
door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were preparing to car=
ry
the insensible boy to his cell; when an elderly man of decent but poor
appearance, clad in an old suit of black, rushed hastily into the office, a=
nd
advanced towards the bench.
'Stop,
stop! don't take him away! For Heaven's sake stop a moment!' cried the new
comer, breathless with haste.
Although
the presiding Genii in such an office as this, exercise a summary and arbit=
rary
power over the liberties, the good name, the character, almost the lives, of
Her Majesty's subjects, expecially of the poorer class; and although, within
such walls, enough fantastic tricks are daily played to make the angels bli=
nd
with weeping; they are closed to the public, save through the medium of the
daily press.[Footnote: Or were virtually, then.] Mr Fang was consequently n=
ot a
little indignant to see an unbidden guest enter in such irreverent disorder=
.
'What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the office!' cried Mr Fang.<= o:p>
'I
will speak,' cried the man; 'I =
will
not be turned out. I saw it all. I keep the book-stall. I demand to be swor=
n. I
will not be put down. Mr Fang, you must hear me. You must not refuse, sir.'=
The
man was right. His manner was determined; and the matter was growing rather=
too
serious to be hushed up.
'Swear
the man,' growled Mr Fang, with a very ill grace. 'Now, man, what have you =
got
to say?'
'This,'
said the man: 'I saw three boys: two others and the prisoner here: loiterin=
g on
the opposite side of the way, when this gentleman was reading. The robbery =
was
committed by another boy. I saw it done; and I saw that this boy was perfec=
tly
amazed and stupified by it.' Having by this time recovered a little breath,=
the
worthy book-stall keeper proceeded to relate, in a more coherent manner the
exact circumstances of the robbery.
'Why
didn't you come here before?' said Fang, after a pause.
'I
hadn't a soul to mind the shop,' replied the man. 'Everybody who could have
helped me, had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobody till five minutes =
ago;
and I've run here all the way.'
'The
prosecutor was reading, was he?' inquired Fang, after another pause.
'Yes,'
replied the man. 'The very book he has in his hand.'
'Oh,
that book, eh?' said Fang. 'Is it paid for?'
'No,
it is not,' replied the man, with a smile.
'Dear
me, I forgot all about it!' exclaimed the absent old gentleman, innocently.=
'A
nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!' said Fang, with a comic=
al
effort to look humane. 'I consider, sir, that you have obtained possession =
of
that book, under very suspicious and disreputable circumstances; and you may
think yourself very fortunate that the owner of the property declines to
prosecute. Let this be a lesson to you, my man, or the law will overtake you
yet. The boy is discharged. Clear the office!'
'D
- n me!' cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had kept do=
wn
so long, 'd - n me! I'll - '
'Clear
the office!' said the magistrate. 'Officers, do you hear? Clear the office!=
'
The
mandate was obeyed; and the indignant Mr Brownlow was conveyed out, with the
book in one hand, and the bamboo cane in the other: in a perfect phrenzy of
rage and defiance. He reached the yard; and his passion vanished in a momen=
t.
Little Oliver Twist lay on his back on the pavement, with his shirt unbutto=
ned,
and his temples bathed with water; his face a deadly white; and a cold trem=
ble
convulsing his whole frame.
'Poor
boy, poor boy!' said Mr Brownlow, bending over him. 'Call a coach, somebody,
pray. Directly!'
A
coach was obtained, and Oliver having been carefully laid on the seat, the =
old
gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.
'May
I accompany you?' said the book-stall keeper, looking in.
'Bless
me, yes, my dear sir,' said Mr Brownlow quickly. 'I forgot you. Dear, dear!=
I
have this unhappy book still! Jump in. Poor fellow! There's no time to lose=
.'
The
book-stall keeper got into the coach; and away they drove.
The
coach rattled away, over nearly the same ground as that which Oliver had
traversed when he first entered London in company with the Dodger; and, tur=
ning
a different way when it reached the Angel at Islington, stopped at length
before a neat house, in a quiet shady street near Pentonville. Here, a bed =
was
prepared, without loss of time, in which Mr Brownlow saw his young charge
carefully and comfortably deposited; and here, he was tended with a kindness
and solicitude that knew no bounds.
But,
for many days, Oliver remained insensible to all the goodness of his new
friends. The sun rose and sank, and rose and sank again, and many times aft=
er
that; and still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy bed, dwindling away ben=
eath
the dry and wasting heat of fever. The worm does not work more surely on the
dead body, than does this slow creeping fire upon the living frame.
Weak,
and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to have been a long=
and
troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in the bed, with his head resting on=
his
trembling arm, he looked anxiously around.
'What
room is this? Where have I been brought to?' said Oliver. 'This is not the
place I went to sleep in.'
He
uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and weak; but they =
were
overheard at once. The curtain at the bed's head was hastily drawn back, an=
d a
motherly old lady, very neatly and precisely dressed, rose as she undrew it,
from an arm-chair close by, in which she had been sitting at needle-work.
'Hush,
my dear,' said the old lady softly. 'You must be very quiet, or you will be=
ill
again; and you have been very bad, - as bad as bad could be, pretty nigh. L=
ie
down again; there's a dear!' With those words, the old lady very gently pla=
ced
Oliver's head upon the pillow; and, smoothing back his hair from his forehe=
ad,
looked so kindly and loving in his face, that he could not help placing his
little withered hand in hers, and drawing it round his neck.
'Save
us!' said the old lady, with tears in her eyes. 'What a grateful little dea=
r it
is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel if she had sat by him as I h=
ave,
and could see him now!'
'Perhaps
she does see me,' whispered Oliver, folding his hands together; 'perhaps she
has sat by me. I almost feel as if she had.'
'That
was the fever, my dear,' said the old lady mildly.
'I
suppose it was,' replied Oliver, 'because heaven is a long way off; and they
are too happy there, to come down to the bedside of a poor boy. But if she =
knew
I was ill, she must have pitied me, even there; for she was very ill herself
before she died. She can't know anything about me though,' added Oliver aft=
er a
moment's silence. 'If she had seen me hurt, it would have made her sorrowfu=
l;
and her face has always looked sweet and happy, when I have dreamed of her.=
'
The
old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first, and her spectacl=
es,
which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were part and parcel of
those features, brought some cool stuff for Oliver to drink; and then, patt=
ing
him on the cheek, told him he must lie very quiet, or he would be ill again=
.
So,
Oliver kept very still; partly because he was anxious to obey the kind old =
lady
in all things; and partly, to tell the truth, because he was completely
exhausted with what he had already said. He soon fell into a gentle doze, f=
rom
which he was awakened by the light of a candle: which, being brought near t=
he
bed, showed him a gentleman with a very large and loud-ticking gold watch in
his hand, who felt his pulse, and said he was a great deal better.
'You
are a great deal better, are yo=
u not,
my dear?' said the gentleman.
'Yes,
thank you, sir,' replied Oliver.
'Yes,
I know you are,' said the gentleman: 'You're hungry too, an't you?'
'No,
sir,' answered Oliver.
'Hem!'
said the gentleman. 'No, I know you're not. He is not hungry, Mrs Bedwin,' =
said
the gentleman: looking very wise.
The
old lady made a respectful inclination of the head, which seemed to say that
she thought the doctor was a very clever man. The doctor appeared much of t=
he
same opinion himself.
'You
feel sleepy, don't you, my dear?' said the doctor.
'No,
sir,' replied Oliver.
'No,'
said the doctor, with a very shrewd and satisfied look. 'You're not sleepy.=
Nor
thirsty. Are you?'
'Yes,
sir, rather thirsty,' answered Oliver.
'Just
as I expected, Mrs Bedwin,' said the doctor. 'It's very natural that he sho=
uld
be thirsty. You may give him a little tea, ma'am, and some dry toast without
any butter. Don't keep him too warm, ma'am; but be careful that you don't l=
et
him be too cold; will you have the goodness?'
The
old lady dropped a curtsey. The doctor, after tasting the cool stuff, and
expressing a qualified approval of it, hurried away: his boots creaking in a
very important and wealthy manner as he went downstairs.
Oliver
dozed off again, soon after this; when he awoke, it was nearly twelve o'clo=
ck.
The old lady tenderly bade him good-night shortly afterwards, and left him =
in
charge of a fat old woman who had just come: bringing with her, in a little
bundle, a small Prayer Book and a large nightcap. Putting the latter on her
head and the former on the table, the old woman, after telling Oliver that =
she
had come to sit up with him, drew her chair close to the fire and went off =
into
a series of short naps, chequered at frequent intervals with sundry tumblin=
gs
forward, and divers moans and chokings. These, however, had no worse effect
than causing her to rub her nose very hard, and then fall asleep again.
And
thus the night crept slowly on. Oliver lay awake for some time, counting the
little circles of light which the reflection of the rushlight-shade threw u=
pon
the ceiling; or tracing with his languid eyes the intricate pattern of the
paper on the wall. The darkness and the deep stillness of the room were very
solemn; as they brought into the boy's mind the thought that death had been
hovering there, for many days and nights, and might yet fill it with the gl=
oom
and dread of his awful presence, he turned his face upon the pillow, and
fervently prayed to Heaven.
Gradually,
he fell into that deep tranquil sleep which ease from recent suffering alone
imparts; that calm and peaceful rest which it is pain to wake from. Who, if
this were death, would be roused again to all the struggles and turmoils of
life; to all its cares for the present; its anxieties for the future; more =
than
all, its weary recollections of the past!
It
had been bright day, for hours, when Oliver opened his eyes; he felt cheerf=
ul
and happy. The crisis of the disease was safely past. He belonged to the wo=
rld
again.
In
three days' time he was able to sit in an easy-chair, well propped up with
pillows; and, as he was still too weak to walk, Mrs Bedwin had him carried
downstairs into the little housekeeper's room, which belonged to her. Having
him set, here, by the fire-side, the good old lady sat herself down too; an=
d,
being in a state of considerable delight at seeing him so much better,
forthwith began to cry most violently.
'Never
mind me, my dear,' said the old lady; 'I'm only having a regular good cry.
There; it's all over now; and I'm quite comfortable.'
'You're
very, very kind to me, ma'am,' said Oliver.
'Well,
never you mind that, my dear,' said the old lady; 'that's got nothing to do
with your broth; and it's full time you had it; for the doctor says Mr Brow=
nlow
may come in to see you this morning; and we must get up our best looks, bec=
ause
the better we look, the more he'll be pleased.' And with this, the old lady
applied herself to warming up, in a little saucepan, a basin full of broth:
strong enough, Oliver thought, to furnish an ample dinner, when reduced to =
the
regulation strength, for three hundred and fifty paupers, at the lowest
computation.
'Are
you fond of pictures, dear?' inquired the old lady, seeing that Oliver had
fixed his eyes, most intently, on a portrait which hung against the wall; j=
ust
opposite his chair.
'I
don't quite know, ma'am,' said Oliver, without taking his eyes from the can=
vas;
'I have seen so few that I hardly know. What a beautiful, mild face that la=
dy's
is!'
'Ah!'
said the old lady, 'painters always make ladies out prettier than they are,=
or they
wouldn't get any custom, child. The man that invented the machine for taking
likenesses might have known that would never succeed; it's a deal too hones=
t. A
deal,' said the old lady, laughing very heartily at her own acuteness.
'Is
- is that a likeness, ma'am?' said Oliver.
'Yes,'
said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the broth; 'that's a portra=
it.'
'Whose,
ma'am?' asked Oliver.
'Why,
really, my dear, I don't know,' answered the old lady in a good-humoured
manner. 'It's not a likeness of anybody that you or I know, I expect. It se=
ems
to strike your fancy, dear.'
'It
is so pretty,' replied Oliver.
'Why,
sure you're not afraid of it?' said the old lady: observing in great surpri=
se,
the look of awe with which the child regarded the painting.
'Oh
no, no,' returned Oliver quickly; 'but the eyes look so sorrowful; and wher=
e I
sit, they seem fixed upon me. It makes my heart beat,' added Oliver in a low
voice, 'as if it was alive, and wanted to speak to me, but couldn't.'
'Lord
save us!' exclaimed the old lady, starting; 'don't talk in that way, child.
You're weak and nervous after your illness. Let me wheel your chair round to
the other side; and then you won't see it. There!' said the old lady, suiti=
ng
the action to the word; 'you don't see it now, at all events.'
Oliver
did see it in his mind's eye as
distinctly as if he had not altered his position; but he thought it better =
not
to worry the kind old lady; so he smiled gently when she looked at him; and=
Mrs
Bedwin, satisfied that he felt more comfortable, salted and broke bits of
toasted bread into the broth, with all the bustle befitting so solemn a
preparation. Oliver got through it with extraordinary expedition. He had
scarcely swallowed the last spoonful, when there came a soft rap at the doo=
r.
'Come in,' said the old lady; and in walked Mr Brownlow.
Now,
the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but, he had no sooner raised=
his
spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his hands behind the skirts of his
dressing-gown to take a good long look at Oliver, than his countenance
underwent a very great variety of odd contortions. Oliver looked very worn =
and
shadowy from sickness, and made an ineffectual attempt to stand up, out of
respect to his benefactor, which terminated in his sinking back into the ch=
air
again; and the fact is, if the truth must be told, that Mr Brownlow's heart,
being large enough for any six ordinary old gentlemen of humane disposition,
forced a supply of tears into his eyes, by some hydraulic process which we =
are
not sufficiently philosophical to be in a condition to explain.
'Poor
boy, poor boy!' said Mr Brownlow, clearing his throat. 'I'm rather hoarse t=
his
morning, Mrs Bedwin. I'm afraid I have caught cold.'
'I
hope not, sir,' said Mrs Bedwin. 'Everything you have had, has been well ai=
red,
sir.'
'I
don't know, Bedwin. I don't know,' said Mr Brownlow; 'I rather think I had a
damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday; but never mind that. How do you feel,=
my
dear?'
'Very
happy, sir,' replied Oliver. 'And very grateful indeed, sir, for your goodn=
ess
to me.'
'Good
by,' said Mr Brownlow, stoutly. 'Have you given him any nourishment, Bedwin?
Any slops, eh?'
'He
has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir,' replied Mrs Bedwin:
drawing herself up slightly, and laying strong emphasis on the last word: to
intimate that between slops, and broth will compounded, there existed no
affinity or connection whatsoever.
'Ugh!' said Mr Brownlow, with a slight shudder; 'a couple of glasses of port wine would have done him a great deal more good. Wouldn't they, Tom White, eh?'<= o:p>
'My
name is Oliver, sir,' replied the little invalid: with a look of great
astonishment.
'Oliver,'
said Mr Brownlow; 'Oliver what? Oliver White, eh?'
'No,
sir, Twist, Oliver Twist.'
'Queer
name!' said the old gentleman. 'What made you tell the magistrate your name=
was
White?'
'I
never told him so, sir,' returned Oliver in amazement.
This
sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked somewhat sternly=
in
Oliver's face. It was impossible to doubt him; there was truth in every one=
of
its thin and sharpened lineaments.
'Some
mistake,' said Mr Brownlow. But, although his motive for looking steadily at
Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the resemblance between his featu=
res
and some familiar face came upon him so strongly, that he could not withdraw
his gaze.
'I
hope you are not angry with me, sir?' said Oliver, raising his eyes
beseechingly.
'No,
no,' replied the old gentleman. 'Why! what's this? Bedwin, look there!'
As
he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture over Oliver's head, and then to=
the
boy's face. There was its living copy. The eyes, the head, the mouth; every
feature was the same. The expression was, for the instant, so precisely ali=
ke,
that the minutest line seemed copied with startling accuracy!
Oliver
knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation; for, not being strong enough=
to
bear the start it gave him, he fainted away. A weakness on his part, which
affords the narrative an opportunity of relieving the reader from suspense,=
in
behalf of the two young pupils of the Merry Old Gentleman; and of recording=
-
That
when the Dodger, and his accomplished friend Master Bates, joined in the
hue-and-cry which was raised at Oliver's heels, in consequence of their
executing an illegal conveyance of Mr Brownlow's personal property, as has =
been
already described, they were actuated by a very laudable and becoming regard
for themselves; and forasmuch as the freedom of the subject and the liberty=
of
the individual are among the first and proudest boasts of a true-hearted
Englishman, so, I need hardly beg the reader to observe, that this action
should tend to exalt them in the opinion of all public and patriotic men, in
almost as great a degree as this strong proof of their anxiety for their own
preservation and safety goes to corroborate and confirm the little code of =
laws
which certain profound and sound-judging philosophers have laid down as the
main-springs of all Nature's deeds and actions: the said philosophers very
wisely reducing the good lady's proceedings to matters of maxim and theory:
and, by a very neat and pretty compliment to her exalted wisdom and
understanding, putting entirely out of sight any considerations of heart, or
generous impulse and feeling. For, these are matters totally beneath a fema=
le
who is acknowledged by universal admission to be far above the numerous lit=
tle
foibles and weaknesses of her sex.
If
I wanted any further proof of the strictly philosophical nature of the cond=
uct
of these young gentlemen in their very delicate predicament, I should at on=
ce
find it in the fact (also recorded in a foregoing part of this narrative), =
of
their quitting the pursuit, when the general attention was fixed upon Olive=
r;
and making immediately for their home by the shortest possible cut. Althoug=
h I
do not mean to assert that it is usually the practice of renowned and learn=
ed
sages, to shorten the road to any great conclusion (their course indeed bei=
ng
rather to lengthen the distance, by various circumlocutions and discursive
staggerings, like unto those in which drunken men under the pressure of a t=
oo
mighty flow of ideas, are prone to indulge); still, I do mean to say, and do
say distinctly, that it is the invariable practice of many mighty philosoph=
ers,
in carrying out their theories, to evince great wisdom and foresight in
providing against every possible contingency which can be supposed at all
likely to affect themselves. Thus, to do a great right, you may do a little
wrong; and you may take any means which the end to be attained, will justif=
y;
the amount of the right, or the amount of the wrong, or indeed the distinct=
ion
between the two, being left entirely to the philosopher concerned, to be
settled and determined by his clear, comprehensive, and impartial view of h=
is
own particular case.
It
was not until the two boys had scoured, with great rapidity, through a most
intricate maze of narrow streets and courts, that they ventured to halt ben=
eath
a low and dark archway. Having remained silent here, just long enough to
recover breath to speak, Master Bates uttered an exclamation of amusement a=
nd
delight; and, bursting into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, flung himself
upon a doorstep, and rolled thereon in a transport of mirth.
'What's
the matter?' inquired the Dodger.
'Ha!
ha! ha!' roared Charley Bates.
'Hold
your noise,' remonstrated the Dodger, looking cautiously round. 'Do you wan=
t to
be grabbed, stupid?'
'I
can't help it,' said Charley, 'I can't help it! To see him splitting away at
that pace, and cutting round the corners, and knocking up again' the posts,=
and
starting on again as if he was made of iron as well as them, and me with the
wipe in my pocket, singing out arter him - oh, my eye!' The vivid imaginati=
on
of Master Bates presented the scene before him in too strong colours. As he
arrived at this apostrophe, he again rolled upon the door-step, and laughed
louder than before.
'What'll
Fagin say?' inquired the Dodger; taking advantage of the next interval of
breathlessness on the part of his friend to propound the question.
'What?'
repeated Charley Bates.
'Ah,
what?' said the Dodger.
'Why,
what should he say?' inquired Charley: stopping rather suddenly in his
merriment; for the Dodger's manner was impressive. 'What should he say?'
Mr
Dawkins whistled for a couple of minutes; then, taking off his hat, scratch=
ed
his head, and nodded thrice.
'What
do you mean?' said Charley.
'Toor
rul lol loo, gammon and spinnage, the frog he wouldn't, and high cockolorum=
,'
said the Dodger: with a slight sneer on his intellectual countenance.
This
was explanatory, but not satisfactory. Master Bates felt it so; and again s=
aid,
'What do you mean?'
The
Dodger made no reply; but putting his hat on again, and gathering the skirt=
s of
his long-tailed coat under his arm, thrust his tongue into his cheek, slapp=
ed
the bridge of his nose some half-dozen times in a familiar but expressive
manner, and turning on his heel, slunk down the court. Master Bates followe=
d,
with a thoughtful countenance.
The
noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs, a few minutes after the occurren=
ce
of this conversation, roused the merry old gentleman as he sat over the fire
with a saveloy and a small loaf in his hand; a pocket-knife in his right; a=
nd a
pewter pot on the trivet. There was a rascally smile on his white face as he
turned round, and looking sharply out from under his thick red eyebrows, be=
nt
his ear towards the door, and listened.
'Why,
how's this?' muttered the Jew: changing countenance; 'only two of 'em? Wher=
e's
the third? They can't have got into trouble. Hark!'
The
footsteps approached nearer; they reached the landing. The door was slowly
opened; and the Dodger and Charley Bates entered, closing it behind them.
'Where's
Oliver?' said the Jew, rising with a menacing look. 'Where's the boy?'
The
young thieves eyed their preceptor as if they were alarmed at his violence;=
and
looked uneasily at each other. But they made no reply.
'What's
become of the boy?' said the Jew, seizing the Dodger tightly by the collar,=
and
threatening him with horrid imprecations. 'Speak out, or I'll throttle you!=
'
Mr
Fagin looked so very much in earnest, that Charley Bates, who deemed it pru=
dent
in all cases to be on the safe side, and who conceived it by no means
improbable that it might be his turn to be throttled second, dropped upon h=
is
knees, and raised a loud, well-sustained, and continuous roar - something
between a mad bull and a speaking trumpet.
'Will
you speak?' thundered the Jew: shaking the Dodger so much that his keeping =
in
the big coat at all, seemed perfectly miraculous.
'Why,
the traps have got him, and that's all about it,' said the Dodger, sullenly.
'Come, let go o' me, will you!' And, swinging himself, at one jerk, clean o=
ut
of the big coat, which he left in the Jew's hands, the Dodger snatched up t=
he
toasting fork, and made a pass at the merry old gentleman's waistcoat; whic=
h,
if it had taken effect, would have let a little more merriment out than cou=
ld
have been easily replaced.
The
Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more agility than could have been
anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the pot,
prepared to hurl it at his assailant's head. But Charley Bates, at this mom=
ent,
calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl, he suddenly altered its
destination, and flung it full at that young gentleman.
'Why,
what the blazes is in the wind now!' growled a deep voice. 'Who pitched that
'ere at me? It's well it's the beer, and not the pot, as hit me, or I'd have
settled somebody. I might have know'd, as nobody but an infernal, rich,
plundering, thundering old Jew could afford to throw away any drink but wat=
er -
and not that, unless he done the River Company every quarter. Wot's it all
about, Fagin? D - me, if my neck-handkercher an't lined with beer! Come in,=
you
sneaking warmint; wot are you stopping outside for, as if you was ashamed of
your master! Come in!'
The man who growled out these words, was a stoutly-built fellow of about five-and-thirty, in a black velveteen coat, very soiled drab breeches, lace= -up half boots, and grey cotton stockings which inclosed a bulky pair of legs, = with large swelling calves; - the kind of legs, which in such costume, always lo= ok in an unfinished and incomplete state without a set of fetters to garnish t= hem. He had a brown hat on his head, and a dirty belcher handkerchief round his neck: with the long frayed ends of which he smeared the beer from his face = as he spoke. He disclosed, when he had done so, a broad heavy countenance with= a beard of three days' growth, and two scowling eyes; one of which displayed various parti-coloured symptoms of having been recently damaged by a blow.<= o:p>
'Come
in, d'ye hear?' growled this engaging ruffian.
A
white shaggy dog, with his face scratched and torn in twenty different plac=
es,
skulked into the room.
'Why
didn't you come in afore?' said the man. 'You're getting too proud to own me
afore company, are you? Lie down!'
This
command was accompanied with a kick, which sent the animal to the other end=
of
the room. He appeared well used to it, however; for he coiled himself up in=
a
corner very quietly, without uttering a sound, and winking his very ill-loo=
king
eyes twenty times in a minute, appeared to occupy himself in taking a surve=
y of
the apartment.
'What
are you up to? Ill-treating the boys, you covetous, avaricious, in-sa-ti-a-=
ble
old fence?' said the man, seating himself deliberately. 'I wonder they don't
murder you! I would if I was them. If I'd been your 'prentice, I'd have don=
e it
long ago, and - no, I couldn't have sold you afterwards, for you're fit for
nothing but keeping as a curiousity of ugliness in a glass bottle, and I
suppose they don't blow glass bottles large enough.'
'Hush!
hush! Mr Sikes,' said the Jew, trembling; 'don't speak so loud!'
'None
of your mistering,' replied the ruffian; 'you always mean mischief when you
come that. You know my name: out with it! I shan't disgrace it when the time
comes.'
'Well,
well, then - Bill Sikes,' said the Jew, with abject humility. 'You seem out=
of
humour, Bill.'
'Perhaps
I am,' replied Sikes; 'I should think you was rather out of sorts too, unle=
ss
you mean as little harm when you throw pewter pots about, as you do when you
blab and - '
'Are
you mad?' said the Jew, catching the man by the sleeve, and pointing towards
the boys.
Mr
Sikes contented himself with tying an imaginary knot under his left ear, and
jerking his head over on the right shoulder; a piece of dumb show which the=
Jew
appeared to understand perfectly. He then, in cant terms, with which his wh=
ole
conversation was plentifully besprinkled, but which would be quite
unintelligible if they were recorded here, demanded a glass of liquor.
'And
mind you don't poison it,' said Mr Sikes, laying his hat upon the table.
This
was said in jest; but if the speaker could have seen the evil leer with whi=
ch
the Jew bit his pale lip as he turned round to the cupboard, he might have
thought the caution not wholly unnecessary, or the wish (at all events) to
improve upon the distiller's ingenuity not very far from the old gentleman's
merry heart.
After
swallowing two of three glasses of spirits, Mr Sikes condescended to take s=
ome
notice of the young gentlemen; which gracious act led to a conversation, in
which the cause and manner of Oliver's capture were circumstantially detail=
ed,
with such alterations and improvements on the truth, as to the Dodger appea=
red
most advisable under the circumstances.
'I'm
afraid,' said the Jew, 'that he may say something which will get us into
trouble.'
'That's
very likely,' returned Sikes with a malicious grin. 'You're blowed upon,
Fagin.'
'And
I'm afraid, you see,' added the Jew, speaking as if he had not noticed the
interruption; and regarding the other closely as he did so, - 'I'm afraid t=
hat,
if the game was up with us, it might be up with a good many more, and that =
it
would come out rather worse for you than it would for me, my dear.'
The
man started, and turned round upon the Jew. But the old gentleman's shoulde=
rs
were shrugged up to his ears; and his eyes were vacantly staring on the
opposite wall.
There
was a long pause. Every member of the respectable coterie appeared plunged =
in
his own reflections; not excepting the dog, who by a certain malicious lick=
ing
of his lips seemed to be meditating an attack upon the legs of the first
gentleman or lady he might encounter in the streets when he went out.
'Somebody
must find out wot's been done at the office,' said Mr Sikes in a much lower
tone than he had taken since he came in.
The
Jew nodded assent.
'If
he hasn't peached, and is committed, there's no fear till he comes out agai=
n,'
said Mr Sikes, 'and then he must be taken care on. You must get hold of him
somehow.'
Again
the Jew nodded.
The
prudence of this line of action, indeed, was obvious; but, unfortunately, t=
here
was one very strong objection to its being adopted. This was, that the Dodg=
er,
and Charley Bates, and Fagin, and Mr William Sikes, happened, one and all, =
to
entertain a violent and deeply-rooted antipathy to going near a police-offi=
ce
on any ground or pretext whatever.
How
long they might have sat and looked at each other, in a state of uncertainty
not the most pleasant of its kind, it is difficult to guess. It is not
necessary to make any guesses on the subject, however; for the sudden entra=
nce
of the two young ladies whom Oliver had seen on a former occasion, caused t=
he
conversation to flow afresh.
'The
very thing!' said the Jew. 'Bet will go; won't you, my dear?'
'Wheres?'
inquired the young lady.
'Only
just up to the office, my dear,' said the Jew coaxingly.
It
is due to the young lady to say that she did not positively affirm that she
would not, but that she merely expressed an emphatic and earnest desire to =
be
'blessed' if she would; a polite and delicate evasion of the request, which
shows the young lady to have been possessed of that natural good breeding w=
hich
cannot bear to inflict upon a fellow-creature, the pain of a direct and poi=
nted
refusal.
The
Jew's countenance fell. He turned from this young lady, who was gaily, not =
to
say gorgeously attired, in a red gown, green boots, and yellow curl-papers,=
to
the other female.
'Nancy,
my dear,' said the Jew in a soothing manner, 'what do YOU say?'
'That
it won't do; so it's no use a-trying it on, Fagin,' replied Nancy.
'What
do you mean by that?' said Mr Sikes, looking up in a surly manner.
'What
I say, Bill,' replied the lady collectedly.
'Why,
you're just the very person for it,' reasoned Mr Sikes: 'nobody about here
knows anything of you.'
'And
as I don't want 'em to, neither,' replied Nancy in the same composed manner,
'it's rather more no than yes with me, Bill.'
'She'll
go, Fagin,' said Sikes.
'No,
she won't, Fagin,' said Nancy.
'Yes,
she will, Fagin,' said Sikes.
And
Mr Sikes was right. By dint of alternate threats, promises, and bribes, the
lady in question was ultimately prevailed upon to undertake the commission.=
She
was not, indeed, withheld by the same considerations as her agreeable frien=
d;
for, having recently removed into the neighborhood of Field Lane from the
remote but genteel suburb of Ratcliffe, she was not under the same apprehen=
sion
of being recognised by any of her numerous acquaintances.
Accordingly,
with a clean white apron tied over her gown, and her curl-papers tucked up
under a straw bonnet, - both articles of dress being provided from the Jew's
inexhaustible stock, - Miss Nancy prepared to issue forth on her errand.
'Stop
a minute, my dear,' said the Jew, producing, a little covered basket. 'Carry
that in one hand. It looks more respectable, my dear.'
'Give
her a door-key to carry in her t'other one, Fagin,' said Sikes; 'it looks r=
eal
and genivine like.'
'Yes,
yes, my dear, so it does,' said the Jew, hanging a large street-door key on=
the
forefinger of the young lady's right hand.
'There;
very good! Very good indeed, my dear!' said the Jew, rubbing his hands.
'Oh,
my brother! My poor, dear, sweet, innocent little brother!' exclaimed Nancy,
bursting into tears, and wringing the little basket and the street-door key=
in
an agony of distress. 'What has become of him! Where have they taken him to!
Oh, do have pity, and tell me what's been done with the dear boy, gentlemen;
do, gentlemen, if you please, gentlemen!'
Having
uttered those words in a most lamentable and heart-broken tone: to the
immeasurable delight of her hearers: Miss Nancy paused, winked to the compa=
ny,
nodded smilingly round, and disappeared.
'Ah,
she's a clever girl, my dears,' said the Jew, turning round to his young
friends, and shaking his head gravely, as if in mute admonition to them to
follow the bright example they had just beheld.
'She's
a honour to her sex,' said Mr Sikes, filling his glass, and smiting the tab=
le
with his enormous fist. 'Here's her health, and wishing they was all like h=
er!'
While
these, and many other encomiums, were being passed on the accomplished Nanc=
y,
that young lady made the best of her way to the police-office; whither,
notwithstanding a little natural timidity consequent upon walking through t=
he
streets alone and unprotected, she arrived in perfect safety shortly
afterwards.
Entering
by the back way, she tapped softly with the key at one of the cell-doors, a=
nd
listened. There was no sound within: so she coughed and listened again. Sti=
ll
there was no reply: so she spoke.
'Nolly,
dear?' murmured Nancy in a gentle voice; 'Nolly?'
There
was nobody inside but a miserable shoeless criminal, who had been taken up =
for
playing the flute, and who, the offence against society having been clearly
proved, had been very properly committed by Mr Fang to the House of Correct=
ion
for one month; with the appropriate and amusing remark that since he had so
much breath to spare, it would be more wholesomely expended on the treadmill
than in a musical instrument. He made no answer: being occupied mentally
bewailing the loss of the flute, which had been confiscated for the use of =
the
county: so Nancy passed on to the next cell, and knocked there.
'Well!'
cried a faint and feeble voice.
'Is
there a little boy here?' inquired Nancy, with a preliminary sob.
'No,'
replied the voice; 'God forbid.'
This
was a vagrant of sixty-five, who was going to prison for not playing the flute; or, in other words, for begging in the
streets, and doing nothing for his livelihood. In the next cell was another
man, who was going to the same prison for hawking tin saucepans without
license; thereby doing something for his living, in defiance of the
Stamp-office.
But,
as neither of these criminals answered to the name of Oliver, or knew anyth=
ing
about him, Nancy made straight up to the bluff officer in the striped
waistcoat; and with the most piteous wailings and lamentations, rendered mo=
re
piteous by a prompt and efficient use of the street-door key and the little
basket, demanded her own dear brother.
'I
haven't got him, my dear,' said the old man.
'Where
is he?' screamed Nancy, in a distracted manner.
'Why,
the gentleman's got him,' replied the officer.
'What
gentleman! Oh, gracious heavens! What gentleman?' exclaimed Nancy.
In
reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the deeply affec=
ted
sister that Oliver had been taken ill in the office, and discharged in
consequence of a witness having proved the robbery to have been committed by
another boy, not in custody; and that the prosecutor had carried him away, =
in
an insensible condition, to his own residence: of and concerning which, all=
the
informant knew was, that it was somewhere in Pentonville, he having heard t=
hat
word mentioned in the directions to the coachman.
In
a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young woman stagger=
ed
to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a swift run, retur=
ned
by the most devious and complicated route she could think of, to the domici=
le
of the Jew.
Mr
Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered, than he
very hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat, expeditiously
departed: without devoting any time to the formality of wishing the company
good-morning.
'We
must know where he is, my dears; he must be found,' said the Jew greatly
excited. 'Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some new=
s of
him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, - to y=
ou
and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay,' added the Jew, unlocking a draw=
er
with a shaking hand; 'there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop
to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an
instant, my dears!'
With
these words, he pushed them from the room: and carefully double-locking and
barring the door behind them, drew from its place of concealment the box wh=
ich
he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver. Then, he hastily proceeded to
dispose the watches and jewellery beneath his clothing.
A
rap at the door startled him in this occupation. 'Who's there?' he cried in=
a
shrill tone.
'Me!'
replied the voice of the Dodger, through the key-hole. 'What now?' cried the
Jew impatiently.
'Is
he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?' inquired the Dodger.
'Yes,'
replied the Jew, 'wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find him out,
that's all. I shall know what to do next; never fear.'
The
boy murmured a reply of intelligence: and hurried downstairs after his
companions.
'He
has not peached so far,' said the Jew as he pursued his occupation. 'If he
means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth yet.'
Oliver
soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr Brownlow's abrupt
exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoide=
d,
both by the old gentleman and Mrs Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued:
which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was
confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still t=
oo
weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper's =
room
next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hop=
e of
again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were
disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed.
'Ah!'
said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. 'It is gone,=
you
see.'
'I
see it is ma'am,' replied Oliver. 'Why have they taken it away?'
'It
has been taken down, child, because Mr Brownlow said, that as it seemed to
worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know,' rejoined =
the
old lady.
'Oh,
no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,' said Oliver. 'I liked to see it. I
quite loved it.'
'Well,
well!' said the old lady, good-humouredly; 'you get well as fast as ever you
can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, l=
et
us talk about something else.'
This
was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time.=
As
the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to thin=
k no
more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many
stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who w=
as
married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and about=
a
son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, suc=
h a
good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a-year, that=
it
brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had
expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits=
of
her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! =
just
six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea. After tea she began to teach
Oliver cribbage: which he learnt as quickly as she could teach: and at which
game they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for the
invalid to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and th=
en
to go cosily to bed.
They
were happy days, those of Oliver's recovery. Everything was so quiet, and n=
eat,
and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that after the noise and turbule=
nce
in the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like Heaven itself. He=
was
no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on, properly, than Mr Brownlow
caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be
provided for him. As Oliver was told that he might do what he liked with the
old clothes, he gave them to a servant who had been very kind to him, and a=
sked
her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very
readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the J=
ew
roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to think that
they were safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger of his ever
being able to wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell the truth; and
Oliver had never had a new suit before.
One
evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he was sitting
talking to Mrs Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr Brownlow, that if
Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like to see him in his study, and =
talk
to him a little while.
'Bless
us, and save us! Wash your hands, and let me part your hair nicely for you,
child,' said Mrs Bedwin. 'Dear heart alive! If we had known he would have a=
sked
for you, we would have put you a clean collar on, and made you as smart as
sixpence!'
Oliver
did as the old lady bade him; and, although she lamented grievously, meanwh=
ile,
that there was not even time to crimp the little frill that bordered his
shirt-collar; he looked so delicate and handsome, despite that important
personal advantage, that she went so far as to say: looking at him with gre=
at
complacency from head to foot, that she really didn't think it would have b=
een
possible, on the longest notice, to have made much difference in him for the
better.
Thus
encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door. On Mr Brownlow calling to him =
to
come in, he found himself in a little back room, quite full of books, with a
window, looking into some pleasant little gardens. There was a table drawn =
up
before the window, at which Mr Brownlow was seated reading. When he saw Oli=
ver,
he pushed the book away from him, and told him to come near the table, and =
sit
down. Oliver complied; marvelling where the people could be found to read s=
uch
a great number of books as seemed to be written to make the world wiser. Wh=
ich
is still a marvel to more experienced people than Oliver Twist, every day of
their lives.
'There
are a good many books, are there not, my boy?' said Mr Brownlow, observing =
the
curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the shelves that reached from the floo=
r to
the ceiling.
'A
great number, sir,' replied Oliver. 'I never saw so many.'
'You
shall read them, if you behave well,' said the old gentleman kindly; 'and y=
ou
will like that, better than looking at the outsides, - that is, some cases;
because there are books of which the backs and covers are by far the best
parts.'
'I
suppose they are those heavy ones, sir,' said Oliver, pointing to some large
quartos, with a good deal of gilding about the binding.
'Not
always those,' said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head, and smil=
ing
as he did so; 'there are other equally heavy ones, though of a much smaller=
size.
How should you like to grow up a clever man, and write books, eh?'
'I
think I would rather read them, sir,' replied Oliver.
'What!
wouldn't you like to be a book-writer?' said the old gentleman.
Oliver
considered a little while; and at last said, he should think it would be a =
much
better thing to be a book-seller; upon which the old gentleman laughed
heartily, and declared he had said a very good thing. Which Oliver felt gla=
d to
have done, though he by no means knew what it was.
'Well,
well,' said the old gentleman, composing his features. 'Don't be afraid! We
won't make an author of you, while there's an honest trade to be learnt, or
brick-making to turn to.'
'Thank
you, sir,' said Oliver. At the earnest manner of his reply, the old gentlem=
an
laughed again; and said something about a curious instinct, which Oliver, n=
ot
understanding, paid no very great attention to.
'Now,'
said Mr Brownlow, speaking if possible in a kinder, but at the same time in=
a
much more serious manner, than Oliver had ever known him assume yet, 'I want
you to pay great attention, my boy, to what I am going to say. I shall talk=
to
you without any reserve; because I am sure you are well able to understand =
me,
as many older persons would be.'
'Oh,
don't tell you are going to send me away, sir, pray!' exclaimed Oliver, ala=
rmed
at the serious tone of the old gentleman's commencement! 'Don't turn me out=
of
doors to wander in the streets again. Let me stay here, and be a servant. D=
on't
send me back to the wretched place I came from. Have mercy upon a poor boy,
sir!'
'My
dear child,' said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of Oliver's sudden
appeal; 'you need not be afraid of my deserting you, unless you give me cau=
se.'
'I
never, never will, sir,' interposed Oliver.
'I
hope not,' rejoined the old gentleman. 'I do not think you ever will. I have
been deceived, before, in the objects whom I have endeavoured to benefit; b=
ut I
feel strongly disposed to trust you, nevertheless; and I am more interested=
in
your behalf than I can well account for, even to myself. The persons on who=
m I
have bestowed my dearest love, lie deep in their graves; but, although the
happiness and delight of my life lie buried there too, I have not made a co=
ffin
of my heart, and sealed it up, forever, on my best affections. Deep afflict=
ion
has but strengthened and refined them.'
As
the old gentleman said this in a low voice: more to himself than to his
companion: and as he remained silent for a short time afterwards: Oliver sat
quite still.
'Well, well!' said the old gentleman at length, in a more cheerful tone, 'I only s= ay this, because you have a young heart; and knowing that I have suffered great pain and sorrow, you will be more careful, perhaps, not to wound me again. = You say you are an orphan, without a friend in the world; all the inquiries I h= ave been able to make, confirm the statement. Let me hear your story; where you come from; who brought you up; and how you got into the company in which I found you. Speak the truth, and you shall not be friendless while I live.'<= o:p>
Oliver's
sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; when he was on the point of
beginning to relate how he had been brought up at the farm, and carried to =
the
workhouse by Mr Bumble, a peculiarly impatient little double-knock was hear=
d at
the street-door: and the servant, running upstairs, announced Mr Grimwig.
'Is
he coming up?' inquired Mr Brownlow.
'Yes,
sir,' replied the servant. 'He asked if there were any muffins in the house;
and, when I told him yes, he said he had come to tea.'
Mr
Brownlow smiled; and, turning to Oliver, said that Mr Grimwig was an old fr=
iend
of his, and he must not mind his being a little rough in his manners; for he
was a worthy creature at bottom, as he had reason to know.
'Shall
I go downstairs, sir?' inquired Oliver.
'No,'
replied Mr Brownlow, 'I would rather you remained here.'
At
this moment, there walked into the room: supporting himself by a thick stic=
k: a
stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, who was dressed in a blue coat,
striped waistcoat, nankeen breeches and gaiters, and a broad-brimmed white =
hat,
with the sides turned up with green. A very small-plaited shirt frill stuck=
out
from his waistcoat; and a very long steel watch-chain, with nothing but a k=
ey
at the end, dangled loosely below it. The ends of his white neckerchief were
twisted into a ball about the size of an orange; the variety of shapes into
which his countenance was twisted, defy description. He had a manner of
screwing his head on one side when he spoke; and of looking out of the corn=
ers
of his eyes at the same time: which irresistibly reminded the beholder of a
parrot. In this attitude, he fixed himself, the moment he made his appearan=
ce;
and, holding out a small piece of orange-peel at arm's length, exclaimed, i=
n a
growling, discontented voice.
'Look
here! do you see this! Isn't it a most wonderful and extraordinary thing th=
at I
can't call at a man's house but I find a piece of this poor surgeon's frien=
d on
the staircase? I've been lamed with orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel
will be my death, or I'll be content to eat my own head, sir!'
This
was the handsome offer with which Mr Grimwig backed and confirmed nearly ev=
ery
assertion he made; and it was the more singular in his case, because, even
admitting for the sake of argument, the possibility of scientific improveme=
nts
being brought to that pass which will enable a gentleman to eat his own hea=
d in
the event of his being so disposed, Mr Grimwig's head was such a particular=
ly
large one, that the most sanguine man alive could hardly entertain a hope of
being able to get through it at a sitting - to put entirely out of the
question, a very thick coating of powder.
'I'll
eat my head, sir,' repeated Mr Grimwig, striking his stick upon the ground.
'Hallo! what's that!' looking at Oliver, and retreating a pace or two.
'This
is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about,' said Mr Brownlow.
Oliver
bowed.
'You
don't mean to say that's the boy who had the fever, I hope?' said Mr Grimwi=
g,
recoiling a little more. 'Wait a minute! Don't speak! Stop - ' continued Mr
Grimwig, abruptly, losing all dread of the fever in his triumph at the
discovery; 'that's the boy who had the orange! If that's not the boy, sir, =
who
had the orange, and threw this bit of peel upon the staircase, I'll eat my
head, and his too.'
'No,
no, he has not had one,' said Mr Brownlow, laughing. 'Come! Put down your h=
at;
and speak to my young friend.'
'I
feel strongly on this subject, sir,' said the irritable old gentleman, draw=
ing
off his gloves. 'There's always more or less orange-peel on the pavement in=
our
street; and I know it's put the=
re by
the surgeon's boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit last nig=
ht,
and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got up I saw her look tow=
ards
his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light. ‘Don't go to him,R=
17;
I called out of the window, ‘he's an assassin! A man-trap!’ So =
he
is. If he is not - ' Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on=
the
ground with his stick; which was always understood, by his friends, to imply
the customary offer, whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still
keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass,
which he wore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver: who,
seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again.
'That's
the boy, is it?' said Mr Grimwig, at length.
'That's
the boy,' replied Mr Brownlow.
'How
are you, boy?' said Mr Grimwig.
'A
great deal better, thank you, sir,' replied Oliver.
Mr
Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to say
something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs Bedwin
they were ready for tea; which, as he did not half like the visitor's manne=
r,
he was very happy to do.
'He
is a nice-looking boy, is he not?' inquired Mr Brownlow.
'I
don't know,' replied Mr Grimwig, pettishly.
'Don't
know?'
'No.
I don't know. I never see any difference in boys. I only knew two sort of b=
oys.
Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys.'
'And
which is Oliver?'
'Mealy.
I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy, they call him; with a
round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid boy; with a body and
limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes; with=
the
voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I know him! The wretch!'
'Come,'
said Mr Brownlow, 'these are not the characteristics of young Oliver Twist;=
so
he needn't excite your wrath.'
'They
are not,' replied Mr Grimwig. 'He may have worse.'
Here,
Mr Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to afford Mr Grimwig the mo=
st
exquisite delight.
'He
may have worse, I say,' repeated Mr Grimwig. 'Where does he come from! Who =
is
he? What is he? He has had a fever. What of that? Fevers are not peculiar to
good people; are they? Bad people have fevers sometimes; haven't they, eh? I
knew a man who was hung in Jamaica for murdering his master. He had had a f=
ever
six times; he wasn't recommended to mercy on that account. Pooh! nonsense!'=
Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver's appearance and manner were unusual= ly prepossessing; but he had a strong appetite for contradiction, sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the orange-peel; and, inwardly determining = that no man should dictate to him whether a boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved, from the first, to oppose his friend. When Mr Brownlow admitted t= hat on no one point of inquiry could he yet return a satisfactory answer; and t= hat he had postponed any investigation into Oliver's previous history until he thought the boy was strong enough to hear it; Mr Grimwig chuckled malicious= ly. And he demanded, with a sneer, whether the housekeeper was in the habit of counting the plate at night; because if she didn't find a table-spoon or two missing some sunshiny morning, why, he would be content to - and so forth.<= o:p>
All
this, Mr Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous gentleman: kno=
wing
his friend's peculiarities, bore with great good humour; as Mr Grimwig, at =
tea,
was graciously pleased to express his entire approval of the muffins, matte=
rs
went on very smoothly; and Oliver, who made one of the party, began to feel
more at his ease than he had yet done in the fierce old gentleman's presenc=
e.
'And
when are you going to hear a full, true, and particular account of the life=
and
adventures of Oliver Twist?' asked Grimwig of Mr Brownlow, at the conclusio=
n of
the meal; looking sideways at Oliver, as he resumed his subject.
'To-morrow
morning,' replied Mr Brownlow. 'I would rather he was alone with me at the
time. Come up to me to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, my dear.'
'Yes,
sir,' replied Oliver. He answered with some hesitation, because he was conf=
used
by Mr Grimwig's looking so hard at him.
'I'll
tell you what,' whispered that gentleman to Mr Brownlow; 'he won't come up =
to
you to-morrow morning. I saw him hesitate. He is deceiving you, my good
friend.'
'I'll
swear he is not,' replied Mr Brownlow, warmly.
'If
he is not,' said Mr Grimwig, 'I'll - ' and down went the stick.
'I'll
answer for that boy's truth with my life!' said Mr Brownlow, knocking the
table.
'And
I for his falsehood with my head!' rejoined Mr Grimwig, knocking the table
also.
'We
shall see,' said Mr Brownlow, checking his rising anger.
'We
will,' replied Mr Grimwig, with a provoking smile; 'we will.'
As
fate would have it, Mrs Bedwin chanced to bring in, at this moment, a small
parcel of books, which Mr Brownlow had that morning purchased of the identi=
cal
bookstall-keeper, who has already figured in this history; having laid them=
on
the table, she prepared to leave the room.
'Stop
the boy, Mrs Bedwin!' said Mr Brownlow; 'there is something to go back.'
'He
has gone, sir,' replied Mrs Bedwin.
'Call
after him,' said Mr Brownlow; 'it's particular. He is a poor man, and they =
are
not paid for. There are some books to be taken back, too.'
The
street-door was opened. Oliver ran one way; and the girl ran another; and M=
rs
Bedwin stood on the step and screamed for the boy; but there was no boy in
sight. Oliver and the girl returned, in a breathless state, to report that
there were no tidings of him.
'Dear
me, I am very sorry for that,' exclaimed Mr Brownlow; 'I particularly wished
those books to be returned to-night.'
'Send
Oliver with them,' said Mr Grimwig, with an ironical smile; 'he will be sur=
e to
deliver them safely, you know.'
'Yes;
do let me take them, if you please, sir,' said Oliver. 'I'll run all the wa=
y,
sir.'
The
old gentleman was just going to say that Oliver should not go out on any
account; when a most malicious cough from Mr Grimwig determined him that he
should; and that, by his prompt discharge of the commission, he should prov=
e to
him the injustice of his suspicions: on this head at least: at once.
'You
shall go, my dear,' said the old
gentleman. 'The books are on a chair by my table. Fetch them down.'
Oliver,
delighted to be of use, brought down the books under his arm in a great bus=
tle;
and waited, cap in hand, to hear what message he was to take.
'You
are to say,' said Mr Brownlow, glancing steadily at Grimwig; 'you are to say
that you have brought those books back; and that you have come to pay the f=
our
pound ten I owe him. This is a five-pound note, so you will have to bring me
back, ten shillings change.'
'I
won't be ten minutes, sir,' said Oliver, eagerly. Having buttoned up the
bank-note in his jacket pocket, and placed the books carefully under his ar=
m,
he made a respectful bow, and left the room. Mrs Bedwin followed him to the
street-door, giving him many directions about the nearest way, and the name=
of
the bookseller, and the name of the street: all of which Oliver said he cle=
arly
understood. Having superadded many injunctions to be sure and not take cold,
the old lady at length permitted him to depart.
'Bless
his sweet face!' said the old lady, looking after him. 'I can't bear, someh=
ow,
to let him go out of my sight.'
At
this moment, Oliver looked gaily round, and nodded before he turned the cor=
ner.
The old lady smilingly returned his salutation, and, closing the door, went
back to her own room.
'Let
me see; he'll be back in twenty minutes, at the longest,' said Mr Brownlow,
pulling out his watch, and placing it on the table. 'It will be dark by that
time.'
'Oh!
you really expect him to come back, do you?' inquired Mr Grimwig.
'Don't
you?' asked Mr Brownlow, smiling.
The
spirit of contradiction was strong in Mr Grimwig's breast, at the moment; a=
nd
it was rendered stronger by his friend's confident smile.
'No,'
he said, smiting the table with his fist, 'I do not. The boy has a new suit=
of
clothes on his back, a set of valuable books under his arm, and a five-pound
note in his pocket. He'll join his old friends the thieves, and laugh at yo=
u.
If ever that boy returns to this house, sir, I'll eat my head.'
With
these words he drew his chair closer to the table; and there the two friends
sat, in silent expectation, with the watch between them.
It
is worthy of remark, as illustrating the importance we attach to our own
judgments, and the pride with which we put forth our most rash and hasty
conclusions, that, although Mr Grimwig was not by any means a bad-hearted m=
an,
and though he would have been unfeignedly sorry to see his respected friend
duped and deceived, he really did most earnestly and strongly hope at that
moment, that Oliver Twist might not come back.
It
grew so dark, that the figures on the dial-plate were scarcely discernible;=
but
there the two old gentlemen continued to sit, in silence, with the watch
between them.
Chapter XV - Showing How Very Fond Of Oliver Twist, The
Merry Old Jew And Miss Nancy Were
In
the obscure parlour of a low public-house, in the filthiest part of Little
Saffron Hill; a dark and gloomy den, where a flaring gas-light burnt all da=
y in
the winter-time; and where no ray of sun ever shone in the summer: there sa=
t,
brooding over a little pewter measure and a small glass, strongly impregnat=
ed
with the smell of liquor, a man in a velveteen coat, drab shorts, half-boots
and stockings, whom even by that dim light no experienced agent of the poli=
ce
would have hesitated to recognise as Mr William Sikes. At his feet, sat a
white-coated, red-eyed dog; who occupied himself, alternately, in winking at
his master with both eyes at the same time; and in licking a large, fresh c=
ut
on one side of his mouth, which appeared to be the result of some recent
conflict.
'Keep
quiet, you warmint! Keep quiet!' said Mr Sikes, suddenly breaking silence.
Whether his meditations were so intense as to be disturbed by the dog's win=
king,
or whether his feelings were so wrought upon by his reflections that they
required all the relief derivable from kicking an unoffending animal to all=
ay
them, is matter for argument and consideration. Whatever was the cause, the
effect was a kick and a curse, bestowed upon the dog simultaneously.
Dogs
are not generally apt to revenge injuries inflicted upon them by their mast=
ers;
but Mr Sikes's dog, having faults of temper in common with his owner, and
labouring, perhaps, at this moment, under a powerful sense of injury, made =
no
more ado but at once fixed his teeth in one of the half-boots. Having given=
in
a hearty shake, he retired, growling, under a form; just escaping the pewter
measure which Mr Sikes levelled at his head.
'You
would, would you?' said Sikes, seizing the poker in one hand, and deliberat=
ely
opening with the other a large clasp-knife, which he drew from his pocket.
'Come here, you born devil! Come here! D'ye hear?'
The
dog no doubt heard; because Mr Sikes spoke in the very harshest key of a ve=
ry
harsh voice; but, appearing to entertain some unaccountable objection to ha=
ving
his throat cut, he remained where he was, and growled more fiercely than
before: at the same time grasping the end of the poker between his teeth, a=
nd
biting at it like a wild beast.
This
resistance only infuriated Mr Sikes the more; who, dropping on his knees, b=
egan
to assail the animal most furiously. The dog jumped from right to left, and
from left to right; snapping, growling, and barking; the man thrust and swo=
re,
and struck and blasphemed; and the struggle was reaching a most critical po=
int
for one or other; when, the door suddenly opening, the dog darted out: leav=
ing
Bill Sikes with the poker and the clasp-knife in his hands.
There
must always be two parties to a quarrel, says the old adage. Mr Sikes, being
disappointed of the dog's participation, at once transferred his share in t=
he
quarrel to the new comer.
'What
the devil do you come in between me and my dog for?' said Sikes, with a fie=
rce
gesture.
'I
didn't know, my dear, I didn't know,' replied Fagin, humbly; for the Jew was
the new comer.
'Didn't
know, you white-livered thief!' growled Sikes. 'Couldn't you hear the noise=
?'
'Not
a sound of it, as I'm a living man, Bill,' replied the Jew.
'Oh
no! You hear nothing, you don't,' retorted Sikes with a fierce sneer. 'Snea=
king
in and out, so as nobody hears how you come or go! I wish you had been the =
dog,
Fagin, half a minute ago.'
'Why?'
inquired the Jew with a forced smile.
'Cause
the government, as cares for the lives of such men as you, as haven't half =
the
pluck of curs, lets a man kill a dog how he likes,' replied Sikes, shutting=
up
the knife with a very expressive look; 'that's why.'
The
Jew rubbed his hands; and, sitting down at the table, affected to laugh at =
the
pleasantry of his friend. He was obviously very ill at ease, however.
'Grin
away,' said Sikes, replacing the poker, and surveying him with savage conte=
mpt;
'grin away. You'll never have the laugh at me, though, unless it's behind a
nightcap. I've got the upper hand over you, Fagin; and, d - me, I'll keep i=
t.
There! If I go, you go; so take care of me.'
'Well,
well, my dear,' said the Jew, 'I know all that; we - we - have a mutual
interest, Bill, - a mutual interest.'
'Humph,'
said Sikes, as if he thought the interest lay rather more on the Jew's side
than on his. 'Well, what have you got to say to me?'
'It's
all passed safe through the melting-pot,' replied Fagin, 'and this is your
share. It's rather more than it ought to be, my dear; but as I know you'll =
do
me a good turn another time, and - '
'Stow
that gammon,' interposed the robber, impatiently. 'Where is it? Hand over!'=
'Yes,
yes, Bill; give me time, give me time,' replied the Jew, soothingly. 'Here =
it
is! All safe!' As he spoke, he drew forth an old cotton handkerchief from h=
is
breast; and untying a large knot in one corner, produced a small brown-paper
packet. Sikes, snatching it from him, hastily opened it; and proceeded to c=
ount
the sovereigns it contained.
'This
is all, is it?' inquired Sikes.
'All,'
replied the Jew.
'You
haven't opened the parcel and swallowed one or two as you come along, have
you?' inquired Sikes, suspiciously. 'Don't put on an injured look at the
question; you've done it many a time. Jerk the tinkler.'
These
words, in plain English, conveyed an injunction to ring the bell. It was
answered by another Jew: younger than Fagin, but nearly as vile and repulsi=
ve
in appearance.
Bill
Sikes merely pointed to the empty measure. The Jew, perfectly understanding=
the
hint, retired to fill it: previously exchanging a remarkable look with Fagi=
n,
who raised his eyes for an instant, as if in expectation of it, and shook h=
is
head in reply; so slightly that the action would have been almost impercept=
ible
to an observant third person. It was lost upon Sikes, who was stooping at t=
he
moment to tie the boot-lace which the dog had torn. Possibly, if he had
observed the brief interchange of signals, he might have thought that it bo=
ded
no good to him.
'Is
anybody here, Barney?' inquired Fagin; speaking, now that that Sikes was
looking on, without raising his eyes from the ground.
'Dot
a shoul,' replied Barney; whose words: whether they came from the heart or =
not:
made their way through the nose.
'Nobody?'
inquired Fagin, in a tone of surprise: which perhaps might mean that Barney=
was
at liberty to tell the truth.
'Dobody
but Biss Dadsy,' replied Barney.
'Nancy!'
exclaimed Sikes. 'Where? Strike me blind, if I don't honour that 'ere girl,=
for
her native talents.'
'She's
bid havid a plate of boiled beef id the bar,' replied Barney.
'Send
her here,' said Sikes, pouring out a glass of liquor. 'Send her here.'
Barney
looked timidly at Fagin, as if for permission; the Jew remaining silent, and
not lifting his eyes from the ground, he retired; and presently returned,
ushering in Nancy; who was decorated with the bonnet, apron, basket, and
street-door key, complete.
'You
are on the scent, are you, Nancy?' inquired Sikes, proffering the glass.
'Yes,
I am, Bill,' replied the young lady, disposing of its contents; 'and tired
enough of it I am, too. The young brat's been ill and confined to the crib;=
and
- '
'Ah,
Nancy, dear!' said Fagin, looking up.
Now,
whether a peculiar contraction of the Jew's red eye-brows, and a half closi=
ng
of his deeply-set eyes, warned Miss Nancy that she was disposed to be too
communicative, is not a matter of much importance. The fact is all we need =
care
for here; and the fact is, that she suddenly checked herself, and with seve=
ral
gracious smiles upon Mr Sikes, turned the conversation to other matters. In
about ten minutes' time, Mr Fagin was seized with a fit of coughing; upon w=
hich
Nancy pulled her shawl over her shoulders, and declared it was time to go. =
Mr
Sikes, finding that he was walking a short part of her way himself, express=
ed
his intention of accompanying her; they went away together, followed, at a
little distant, by the dog, who slunk out of a back-yard as soon as his mas=
ter
was out of sight.
The
Jew thrust his head out of the room door when Sikes had left it; looked aft=
er
him as we walked up the dark passage; shook his clenched fist; muttered a d=
eep
curse; and then, with a horrible grin, reseated himself at the table; where=
he
was soon deeply absorbed in the interesting pages of the Hue-and-Cry.
Meanwhile,
Oliver Twist, little dreaming that he was within so very short a distance of
the merry old gentleman, was on his way to the book-stall. When he got into
Clerkenwell, he accidently turned down a by-street which was not exactly in=
his
way; but not discovering his mistake until he had got half-way down it, and
knowing it must lead in the right direction, he did not think it worth whil=
e to
turn back; and so marched on, as quickly as he could, with the books under =
his
arm.
He
was walking along, thinking how happy and contented he ought to feel; and h=
ow
much he would give for only one look at poor little Dick, who, starved and
beaten, might be weeping bitterly at that very moment; when he was startled=
by
a young woman screaming out very loud. 'Oh, my dear brother!' And he had ha=
rdly
looked up, to see what the matter was, when he was stopped by having a pair=
of
arms thrown tight round his neck.
'Don't,'
cried Oliver, struggling. 'Let go of me. Who is it? What are you stopping me
for?'
The
only reply to this, was a great number of loud lamentations from the young
woman who had embraced him; and who had a little basket and a street-door k=
ey
in her hand.
'Oh
my gracious!' said the young woman, 'I have found him! Oh! Oliver! Oliver! =
Oh
you naughty boy, to make me suffer such distress on your account! Come home,
dear, come. Oh, I've found him. Thank gracious goodness heavins, I've found
him!' With these incoherent exclamations, the young woman burst into another
fit of crying, and got so dreadfully hysterical, that a couple of women who
came up at the moment asked a butcher's boy with a shiny head of hair anoin=
ted
with suet, who was also looking on, whether he didn't think he had better r=
un
for the doctor. To which, the butcher's boy: who appeared of a lounging, no=
t to
say indolent disposition: replied, that he thought not.
'Oh,
no, no, never mind,' said the young woman, grasping Oliver's hand; 'I'm bet=
ter
now. Come home directly, you cruel boy! Come!'
'Oh,
ma'am,' replied the young woman, 'he ran away, near a month ago, from his
parents, who are hard-working and respectable people; and went and joined a=
set
of thieves and bad characters; and almost broke his mother's heart.'
'Young
wretch!' said one woman.
'Go
home, do, you little brute,' said the other.
'I
am not,' replied Oliver, greatly alarmed. 'I don't know her. I haven't any
sister, or father and mother either. I'm an orphan; I live at Pentonville.'=
'Only
hear him, how he braves it out!' cried the young woman.
'Why,
it's Nancy!' exclaimed Oliver; who now saw her face for the first time; and
started back, in irrepressible astonishment.
'You
see he knows me!' cried Nancy, appealing to the bystanders. 'He can't help
himself. Make him come home, there's good people, or he'll kill his dear mo=
ther
and father, and break my heart!'
'What
the devil's this?' said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with a white do=
g at
his heels; 'young Oliver! Come home to your poor mother, you young dog! Come
home directly.'
'I
don't belong to them. I don't know them. Help! help!' cried Oliver, struggl=
ing
in the man's powerful grasp.
'Help!'
repeated the man. 'Yes; I'll help you, you young rascal!
What
books are these? You've been a stealing 'em, have you? Give 'em here.' With
these words, the man tore the volumes from his grasp, and struck him on the
head.
'That's
right!' cried a looker-on, from a garret-window. 'That's the only way of
bringing him to his senses!'
'To
be sure!' cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an approving look at the
garret-window.
'It'll
do him good!' said the two women.
'And
he shall have it, too!' rejoined the man, administering another blow, and
seizing Oliver by the collar. 'Come on, you young villain! Here, Bull's-eye,
mind him, boy! Mind him!'
Weak
with recent illness; stupified by the blows and the suddenness of the attac=
k;
terrified by the fierce growling of the dog, and the brutality of the man;
overpowered by the conviction of the bystanders that he really was the hard=
ened
little wretch he was described to be; what could one poor child do! Darkness
had set in; it was a low neighborhood; no help was near; resistance was
useless. In another moment he was dragged into a labyrinth of dark narrow
courts, and was forced along them at a pace which rendered the few cries he
dared to give utterance to, unintelligible. It was of little moment, indeed,
whether they were intelligible or no; for there was nobody to care for them,
had they been ever so plain.
*********
The
gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the open door; =
the
servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were any traces =
of
Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat, perseveringly, in the dark
parlour, with the watch between them.
Chapter XVI - Relates What Became Of Oliver Twist, Aft=
er He Had
Been Claimed By Nancy=
The
narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open space;
scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other indications of a
cattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they reached this spot: the gi=
rl
being quite unable to support any longer, the rapid rate at which they had
hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he roughly commanded him to take hold of
Nancy's hand.
'Do
you hear?' growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round.
They
were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers.
Oliver
saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his
hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers.
'Give
me the other,' said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand. 'Here,
Bull's-Eye!'
The
dog looked up, and growled.
'See
here, boy!' said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat; 'if he
speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind!'
The
dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious =
to
attach himself to his windpipe without delay.
'He's
as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!' said Sikes, regard=
ing
the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. 'Now, you know what
you've got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog wi=
ll
soon stop that game. Get on, young'un!'
Bull's-eye
wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing form of speec=
h;
and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the benefit of Oliver, led=
the
way onward.
It
was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been Grosven=
or
Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was dark and fo=
ggy.
The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle through the heavy mist, wh=
ich
thickened every moment and shrouded the streets and houses in gloom; render=
ing
the strange place still stranger in Oliver's eyes; and making his uncertain=
ty
the more dismal and depressing.
They
had hurried on a few paces, when a deep church-bell struck the hour. With i=
ts
first stroke, his two conductors stopped, and turned their heads in the
direction whence the sound proceeded.
'Eight
o' clock, Bill,' said Nancy, when the bell ceased.
'What's
the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can't I!' replied Sikes.
'I
wonder whether THEY can hear it,' said Nancy.
'Of
course they can,' replied Sikes. 'It was Bartlemy time when I was shopped; =
and
there warn't a penny trumpet in the fair, as I couldn't hear the squeaking =
on.
Arter I was locked up for the night, the row and din outside made the
thundering old jail so silent, that I could almost have beat my brains out
against the iron plates of the door.'
'Poor
fellow!' said Nancy, who still had her face turned towards the quarter in w=
hich
the bell had sounded. 'Oh, Bill, such fine young chaps as them!'
'Yes;
that's all you women think of,' answered Sikes. 'Fine young chaps! Well,
they're as good as dead, so it don't much matter.'
With
this consolation, Mr Sikes appeared to repress a rising tendency to jealous=
y,
and, clasping Oliver's wrist more firmly, told him to step out again.
'Wait
a minute!' said the girl: 'I wouldn't hurry by, if it was you that was comi=
ng
out to be hung, the next time eight o'clock struck, Bill. I'd walk round and
round the place till I dropped, if the snow was on the ground, and I hadn't=
a
shawl to cover me.'
'And
what good would that do?' inquired the unsentimental Mr Sikes. 'Unless you
could pitch over a file and twenty yards of good stout rope, you might as w=
ell
be walking fifty mile off, or not walking at all, for all the good it would=
do
me. Come on, and don't stand preaching there.'
The
girl burst into a laugh; drew her shawl more closely round her; and they wa=
lked
away. But Oliver felt her hand tremble, and, looking up in her face as they
passed a gas-lamp, saw that it had turned a deadly white.
They
walked on, by little-frequented and dirty ways, for a full half-hour: meeti=
ng
very few people, and those appearing from their looks to hold much the same
position in society as Mr Sikes himself. At length they turned into a very
filthy narrow street, nearly full of old-clothes shops; the dog running
forward, as if conscious that there was no further occasion for his keeping=
on
guard, stopped before the door of a shop that was closed and apparently
untenanted; the house was in a ruinous condition, and on the door was naile=
d a
board, intimating that it was to let: which looked as if it had hung there =
for
many years.
'All
right,' cried Sikes, glancing cautiously about.
Nancy
stooped below the shutters, and Oliver heard the sound of a bell. They cros=
sed
to the opposite side of the street, and stood for a few moments under a lam=
p. A
noise, as if a sash window were gently raised, was heard; and soon afterwar=
ds
the door softly opened. Mr Sikes then seized the terrified boy by the collar
with very little ceremony; and all three were quickly inside the house.
The
passage was perfectly dark. They waited, while the person who had let them =
in,
chained and barred the door.
'Anybody
here?' inquired Sikes.
'No,'
replied a voice, which Oliver thought he had heard before.
'Is
the old 'un here?' asked the robber.
'Yes,'
replied the voice, 'and precious down in the mouth he has been. Won't he be
glad to see you? Oh, no!'
The
style of this reply, as well as the voice which delivered it, seemed famili=
ar
to Oliver's ears: but it was impossible to distinguish even the form of the
speaker in the darkness.
'Let's
have a glim,' said Sikes, 'or we shall go breaking our necks, or treading on
the dog. Look after your legs if you do!'
'Stand
still a moment, and I'll get you one,' replied the voice. The receding
footsteps of the speaker were heard; and, in another minute, the form of Mr
John Dawkins, otherwise the Artful Dodger, appeared. He bore in his right h=
and
a tallow candle stuck in the end of a cleft stick.
The
young gentleman did not stop to bestow any other mark of recognition upon
Oliver than a humourous grin; but, turning away, beckoned the visitors to
follow him down a flight of stairs. They crossed an empty kitchen; and, ope=
ning
the door of a low earthy-smelling room, which seemed to have been built in a
small back-yard, were received with a shout of laughter.
'Oh,
my wig, my wig!' cried Master Charles Bates, from whose lungs the laughter =
had
proceeded: 'here he is! oh, cry, here he is! Oh, Fagin, look at him! Fagin,=
do
look at him! I can't bear it; it is such a jolly game, I cant' bear it. Hold
me, somebody, while I laugh it out.'
With
this irrepressible ebullition of mirth, Master Bates laid himself flat on t=
he
floor: and kicked convulsively for five minutes, in an ectasy of facetious =
joy.
Then jumping to his feet, he snatched the cleft stick from the Dodger; and,
advancing to Oliver, viewed him round and round; while the Jew, taking off =
his
nightcap, made a great number of low bows to the bewildered boy. The Artful,
meantime, who was of a rather saturnine disposition, and seldom gave way to
merriment when it interfered with business, rifled Oliver's pockets with st=
eady
assiduity.
'Look
at his togs, Fagin!' said Charley, putting the light so close to his new ja=
cket
as nearly to set him on fire. 'Look at his togs! Superfine cloth, and the h=
eavy
swell cut! Oh, my eye, what a game! And his books, too! Nothing but a
gentleman, Fagin!'
'Delighted
to see you looking so well, my dear,' said the Jew, bowing with mock humili=
ty.
'The Artful shall give you another suit, my dear, for fear you should spoil
that Sunday one. Why didn't you write, my dear, and say you were coming? We=
'd
have got something warm for supper.'
At
his, Master Bates roared again: so loud, that Fagin himself relaxed, and ev=
en
the Dodger smiled; but as the Artful drew forth the five-pound note at that
instant, it is doubtful whether the sally of the discovery awakened his
merriment.
'Hallo,
what's that?' inquired Sikes, stepping forward as the Jew seized the note.
'That's mine, Fagin.'
'No,
no, my dear,' said the Jew. 'Mine, Bill, mine. You shall have the books.'
'If
that ain't mine!' said Bill Sikes, putting on his hat with a determined air;
'mine and Nancy's that is; I'll take the boy back again.'
The
Jew started. Oliver started too, though from a very different cause; for he
hoped that the dispute might really end in his being taken back.
'Come!
Hand over, will you?' said Sikes.
'This
is hardly fair, Bill; hardly fair, is it, Nancy?' inquired the Jew.
'Fair,
or not fair,' retorted Sikes, 'hand over, I tell you! Do you think Nancy an=
d me
has got nothing else to do with our precious time but to spend it in scouti=
ng
arter, and kidnapping, every young boy as gets grabbed through you? Give it
here, you avaricious old skeleton, give it here!'
With
this gentle remonstrance, Mr Sikes plucked the note from between the Jew's
finger and thumb; and looking the old man coolly in the face, folded it up
small, and tied it in his neckerchief.
'That's
for our share of the trouble,' said Sikes; 'and not half enough, neither. Y=
ou
may keep the books, if you're fond of reading. If you ain't, sell 'em.'
'They're
very pretty,' said Charley Bates: who, with sundry grimaces, had been affec=
ting
to read one of the volumes in question; 'beautiful writing, isn't is, Olive=
r?'
At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Ma=
ster
Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into anot=
her
ectasy, more boisterous than the first.
'They
belong to the old gentleman,' said Oliver, wringing his hands; 'to the good,
kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had me nursed, when I w=
as
near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him back the books a=
nd
money. Keep me here all my life long; but pray, pray send them back. He'll
think I stole them; the old lady: all of them who were so kind to me: will
think I stole them. Oh, do have mercy upon me, and send them back!'
With
these words, which were uttered with all the energy of passionate grief, Ol=
iver
fell upon his knees at the Jew's feet; and beat his hands together, in perf=
ect
desperation.
'The
boy's right,' remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting his shag=
gy
eyebrows into a hard knot. 'You're right, Oliver, you're right; they WILL t=
hink
you have stolen 'em. Ha! ha!' chuckled the Jew, rubbing his hands, 'it coul=
dn't
have happened better, if we had chosen our time!'
'Of
course it couldn't,' replied Sikes; 'I know'd that, directly I see him comi=
ng
through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It's all right enough.
They're soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn't have taken him in at a=
ll;
and they'll ask no questions after him, fear they should be obliged to pros=
ecute,
and so get him lagged. He's safe enough.'
Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being spoken, as i= f he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and tore wildly from the r= oom: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare old house echo to the roof.<= o:p>
'Keep
back the dog, Bill!' cried Nancy, springing before the door, and closing it=
, as
the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. 'Keep back the dog; he'll
tear the boy to pieces.'
'Serve
him right!' cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl's gr=
asp.
'Stand off from me, or I'll split your head against the wall.'
'I
don't care for that, Bill, I don't care for that,' screamed the girl,
struggling violently with the man, 'the child shan't be torn down by the do=
g,
unless you kill me first.'
'Shan't
he!' said Sikes, setting his teeth. 'I'll soon do that, if you don't keep o=
ff.'
The
housebreaker flung the girl from him to the further end of the room, just as
the Jew and the two boys returned, dragging Oliver among them.
'What's
the matter here!' said Fagin, looking round.
'The
girl's gone mad, I think,' replied Sikes, savagely.
'No,
she hasn't,' said Nancy, pale and breathless from the scuffle; 'no, she has=
n't,
Fagin; don't think it.'
'Then
keep quiet, will you?' said the Jew, with a threatening look.
'No,
I won't do that, neither,' replied Nancy, speaking very loud. 'Come! What do
you think of that?'
Mr
Fagin was sufficiently well acquainted with the manners and customs of that
particular species of humanity to which Nancy belonged, to feel tolerably
certain that it would be rather unsafe to prolong any conversation with her=
, at
present. With the view of diverting the attention of the company, he turned=
to
Oliver.
'So
you wanted to get away, my dear, did you?' said the Jew, taking up a jagged=
and
knotted club which law in a corner of the fireplace; 'eh?'
Oliver
made no reply. But he watched the Jew's motions, and breathed quickly.
'Wanted
to get assistance; called for the police; did you?' sneered the Jew, catchi=
ng
the boy by the arm. 'We'll cure you of that, my young master.'
The
Jew inflicted a smart blow on Oliver's shoulders with the club; and was rai=
sing
it for a second, when the girl, rushing forward, wrested it from his hand. =
She
flung it into the fire, with a force that brought some of the glowing coals
whirling out into the room.
'I
won't stand by and see it done, Fagin,' cried the girl. 'You've got the boy,
and what more would you have? - Let him be - let him be - or I shall put th=
at
mark on some of you, that will bring me to the gallows before my time.'
The
girl stamped her foot violently on the floor as she vented this threat; and
with her lips compressed, and her hands clenched, looked alternately at the=
Jew
and the other robber: her face quite colourless from the passion of rage in=
to
which she had gradually worked herself.
'Why,
Nancy!' said the Jew, in a soothing tone; after a pause, during which he an=
d Mr
Sikes had stared at one another in a disconcerted manner; 'you, - you're mo=
re
clever than ever to-night. Ha! ha! my dear, you are acting beautifully.'
'Am
I!' said the girl. 'Take care I don't overdo it. You will be the worse for =
it,
Fagin, if I do; and so I tell you in good time to keep clear of me.'
There
is something about a roused woman: especially if she add to all her other
strong passions, the fierce impulses of recklessness and despair; which few=
men
like to provoke. The Jew saw that it would be hopeless to affect any further
mistake regarding the reality of Miss Nancy's rage; and, shrinking
involuntarily back a few paces, cast a glance, half imploring and half
cowardly, at Sikes: as if to hint that he was the fittest person to pursue =
the
dialogue.
Mr
Sikes, thus mutely appealed to; and possibly feeling his personal pride and
influence interested in the immediate reduction of Miss Nancy to reason; ga=
ve
utterance to about a couple of score of curses and threats, the rapid
production of which reflected great credit on the fertility of his inventio=
n.
As they produced no visible effect on the object against whom they were
discharged, however, he resorted to more tangible arguments.
'What
do you mean by this?' said Sikes; backing the inquiry with a very common
imprecation concerning the most beautiful of human features: which, if it w=
ere
heard above, only once out of every fifty thousand times that it is uttered
below, would render blindness as common a disorder as measles: 'what do you
mean by it? Burn my body! Do you know who you are, and what you are?'
'Oh,
yes, I know all about it,' replied the girl, laughing hysterically; and sha=
king
her head from side to side, with a poor assumption of indifference.
'Well,
then, keep quiet,' rejoined Sikes, with a growl like that he was accustomed=
to
use when addressing his dog, 'or I'll quiet you for a good long time to com=
e.'
The
girl laughed again: even less composedly than before; and, darting a hasty =
look
at Sikes, turned her face aside, and bit her lip till the blood came.
'You're
a nice one,' added Sikes, as he surveyed her with a contemptuous air, 'to t=
ake
up the humane and gen - teel side! A pretty subject for the child, as you c=
all
him, to make a friend of!'
'God
Almighty help me, I am!' cried the girl passionately; 'and I wish I had been
struck dead in the street, or had changed places with them we passed so near
to-night, before I had lent a hand in bringing him here. He's a thief, a li=
ar,
a devil, all that's bad, from this night forth. Isn't that enough for the o=
ld
wretch, without blows?'
'Come,
come, Sikes,' said the Jew appealing to him in a remonstratory tone, and
motioning towards the boys, who were eagerly attentive to all that passed; =
'we
must have civil words; civil words, Bill.'
'Civil
words!' cried the girl, whose passion was frightful to see. 'Civil words, y=
ou
villain! Yes, you deserve 'em from me. I thieved for you when I was a child=
not
half as old as this!' pointing to Oliver. 'I have been in the same trade, a=
nd
in the same service, for twelve years since. Don't you know it? Speak out!
Don't you know it?'
'Well,
well,' replied the Jew, with an attempt at pacification; 'and, if you have,
it's your living!'
'Aye,
it is!' returned the girl; not speaking, but pouring out the words in one
continuous and vehement scream. 'It is my living; and the cold, wet, dirty
streets are my home; and you're the wretch that drove me to them long ago, =
and
that'll keep me there, day and night, day and night, till I die!'
'I
shall do you a mischief!' interposed the Jew, goaded by these reproaches; 'a
mischief worse than that, if you say much more!'
The
girl said nothing more; but, tearing her hair and dress in a transport of
passion, made such a rush at the Jew as would probably have left signal mar=
ks
of her revenge upon him, had not her wrists been seized by Sikes at the rig=
ht
moment; upon which, she made a few ineffectual struggles, and fainted.
'She's
all right now,' said Sikes, laying her down in a corner. 'She's uncommon st=
rong
in the arms, when she's up in this way.'
The
Jew wiped his forehead: and smiled, as if it were a relief to have the
disturbance over; but neither he, nor Sikes, nor the dog, nor the boys, see=
med
to consider it in any other light than a common occurance incidental to
business.
'It's
the worst of having to do with women,' said the Jew, replacing his club; 'b=
ut
they're clever, and we can't get on, in our line, without 'em. Charley, show
Oliver to bed.'
'I
suppose he'd better not wear his best clothes tomorrow, Fagin, had he?'
inquired Charley Bates.
'Certainly
not,' replied the Jew, reciprocating the grin with which Charley put the
question.
Master
Bates, apparently much delighted with his commission, took the cleft stick:=
and
led Oliver into an adjacent kitchen, where there were two or three of the b=
eds
on which he had slept before; and here, with many uncontrollable bursts of
laughter, he produced the identical old suit of clothes which Oliver had so
much congratulated himself upon leaving off at Mr Brownlow's; and the
accidental display of which, to Fagin, by the Jew who purchased them, had b=
een
the very first clue received, of his whereabout.
'Put
off the smart ones,' said Charley, 'and I'll give 'em to Fagin to take care=
of.
What fun it is!'
Poor
Oliver unwillingly complied. Master Bates rolling up the new clothes under =
his
arm, departed from the room, leaving Oliver in the dark, and locking the do=
or
behind him.
The
noise of Charley's laughter, and the voice of Miss Betsy, who opportunely
arrived to throw water over her friend, and perform other feminine offices =
for
the promotion of her recovery, might have kept many people awake under more
happy circumstances than those in which Oliver was placed. But he was sick =
and
weary; and he soon fell sound asleep.
It
is the custom on the stage, in all good murderous melodramas, to present the
tragic and the comic scenes, in as regular alternation, as the layers of red
and white in a side of streaky bacon. The hero sinks upon his straw bed,
weighed down by fetters and misfortunes; in the next scene, his faithful but
unconscious squire regales the audience with a comic song. We behold, with
throbbing bosoms, the heroine in the grasp of a proud and ruthless baron: h=
er
virtue and her life alike in danger, drawing forth her dagger to preserve t=
he
one at the cost of the other; and just as our expectations are wrought up to
the highest pitch, a whistle is heard, and we are straightway transported to
the great hall of the castle; where a grey-headed seneschal sings a funny
chorus with a funnier body of vassals, who are free of all sorts of places,
from church vaults to palaces, and roam about in company, carolling
perpetually.
Such
changes appear absurd; but they are not so unnatural as they would seem at
first sight. The transitions in real life from well-spread boards to
death-beds, and from mourning-weeds to holiday garments, are not a whit less
startling; only, there, we are busy actors, instead of passive lookers-on,
which makes a vast difference. The actors in the mimic life of the theatre,=
are
blind to violent transitions and abrupt impulses of passion or feeling, whi=
ch,
presented before the eyes of mere spectators, are at once condemned as
outrageous and preposterous.
As
sudden shiftings of the scene, and rapid changes of time and place, are not
only sanctioned in books by long usage, but are by many considered as the g=
reat
art of authorship: an author's skill in his craft being, by such critics,
chiefly estimated with relation to the dilemmas in which he leaves his
characters at the end of every chapter: this brief introduction to the pres=
ent
one may perhaps be deemed unnecessary. If so, let it be considered a delica=
te
intimation on the part of the historian that he is going back to the town in
which Oliver Twist was born; the reader taking it for granted that there are
good and substantial reasons for making the journey, or he would not be inv=
ited
to proceed upon such an expedition.
Mr
Bumble emerged at early morning from the workhouse-gate, and walked with po=
rtly
carriage and commanding steps, up the High Street. He was in the full bloom=
and
pride of beadlehood; his cocked hat and coat were dazzling in the morning s=
un;
he clutched his cane with the vigorous tenacity of health and power. Mr Bum=
ble
always carried his head high; but this morning it was higher than usual. Th=
ere
was an abstraction in his eye, an elevation in his air, which might have wa=
rned
an observant stranger that thoughts were passing in the beadle's mind, too
great for utterance.
Mr
Bumble stopped not to converse with the small shopkeepers and others who sp=
oke
to him, deferentially, as he passed along. He merely returned their salutat=
ions
with a wave of his hand, and relaxed not in his dignified pace, until he
reached the farm where Mrs Mann tended the infant paupers with parochial ca=
re.
'Drat
that beadle!' said Mrs Mann, hearing the well-known shaking at the garden-g=
ate.
'If it isn't him at this time in the morning! Lauk, Mr Bumble, only think of
its being you! Well, dear me, it IS a pleasure, this is! Come into the parl=
our,
sir, please.'
The
first sentence was addressed to Susan; and the exclamations of delight were
uttered to Mr Bumble: as the good lady unlocked the garden-gate: and showed
him, with great attention and respect, into the house.
'Mrs
Mann,' said Mr Bumble; not sitting upon, or dropping himself into a seat, as
any common jackanapes would: but letting himself gradually and slowly down =
into
a chair; 'Mrs Mann, ma'am, good morning.'
'Well,
and good morning to you, sir,'
replied Mrs Mann, with many smiles; 'and hoping you find yourself well, sir=
!'
'So-so,
Mrs Mann,' replied the beadle. 'A porochial life is not a bed of roses, Mrs
Mann.'
'Ah,
that it isn't indeed, Mr Bumble,' rejoined the lady. And all the infant pau=
pers
might have chorussed the rejoinder with great propriety, if they had heard =
it.
'A
porochial life, ma'am,' continued Mr Bumble, striking the table with his ca=
ne,
'is a life of worrit, and vexation, and hardihood; but all public character=
s,
as I may say, must suffer prosecution.'
Mrs
Mann, not very well knowing what the beadle meant, raised her hands with a =
look
of sympathy, and sighed.
'Ah!
You may well sigh, Mrs Mann!' said the beadle.
Finding
she had done right, Mrs Mann sighed again: evidently to the satisfaction of=
the
public character: who, repressing a complacent smile by looking sternly at =
his
cocked hat, said,
'Mrs
Mann, I am going to London.'
'Lauk,
Mr Bumble!' cried Mrs Mann, starting back.
'To
London, ma'am,' resumed the inflexible beadle, 'by coach. I and two paupers=
, Mrs
Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has
appointed me - me, Mrs Mann - to dispose to the matter before the quarter-s=
essions
at Clerkinwell.
And
I very much question,' added Mr Bumble, drawing himself up, 'whether the
Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they =
have
done with me.'
'Oh!
you mustn't be too hard upon them, sir,' said Mrs Mann, coaxingly.
'The
Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma'am,' replied Mr
Bumble; 'and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they come off rather wor=
se
than they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have only themselves to thank.=
'
There
was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing manner in
which Mr Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs Mann appeared qu=
ite
awed by them. At length she said,
'You're
going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them paupers in
carts.'
'That's
when they're ill, Mrs Mann,' said the beadle. 'We put the sick paupers into
open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold.'
'Oh!'
said Mrs Mann.
'The
opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap,' said Mr
Bumble. 'They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come two p=
ound
cheaper to move 'em than to bury 'em - that is, if we can throw 'em upon
another parish, which I think we shall be able to do, if they don't die upon
the road to spite us. Ha! ha! ha!'
When
Mr Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered the cocked
hat; and he became grave.
'We
are forgetting business, ma'am,' said the beadle; 'here is your porochial
stipend for the month.'
Mr
Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his pocket-book;=
and
requested a receipt: which Mrs Mann wrote.
'It's
very much blotted, sir,' said the farmer of infants; 'but it's formal enoug=
h, I
dare say. Thank you, Mr Bumble, sir, I am very much obliged to you, I'm sur=
e.'
Mr
Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs Mann's curtsey; and inquir=
ed
how the children were.
'Bless
their dear little hearts!' said Mrs Mann with emotion, 'they're as well as =
can
be, the dears! Of course, except the two that died last week. And little Di=
ck.'
'Isn't
that boy no better?' inquired Mr Bumble.
Mrs
Mann shook her head.
'He's
a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child that,' said Mr Bum=
ble
angrily. 'Where is he?'
'I'll
bring him to you in one minute, sir,' replied Mrs Mann. 'Here, you Dick!'
After
some calling, Dick was discovered. Having had his face put under the pump, =
and
dried upon Mrs Mann's gown, he was led into the awful presence of Mr Bumble,
the beadle.
The
child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken; and his eyes large and bri=
ght.
The scanty parish dress, the livery of his misery, hung loosely on his feeb=
le
body; and his young limbs had wasted away, like those of an old man.
Such
was the little being who stood trembling beneath Mr Bumble's glance; not da=
ring
to lift his eyes from the floor; and dreading even to hear the beadle's voi=
ce.
'Can't
you look at the gentleman, you obstinate boy?' said Mrs Mann.
The
child meekly raised his eyes, and encountered those of Mr Bumble.
'What's
the matter with you, porochial Dick?' inquired Mr Bumble, with well-timed
jocularity.
'Nothing,
sir,' replied the child faintly.
'I
should think not,' said Mrs Mann, who had of course laughed very much at Mr
Bumble's humour.
'You
want for nothing, I'm sure.'
'I
should like - ' faltered the child.
'Hey-day!'
interposed Mr Mann, 'I suppose you're going to say that you DO want for
something, now? Why, you little wretch - '
'Stop,
Mrs Mann, stop!' said the beadle, raising his hand with a show of authority.
'Like what, sir, eh?'
'I
should like,' faltered the child, 'if somebody that can write, would put a =
few
words down for me on a piece of paper, and fold it up and seal it, and keep=
it
for me, after I am laid in the ground.'
'Why,
what does the boy mean?' exclaimed Mr Bumble, on whom the earnest manner and
wan aspect of the child had made some impression: accustomed as he was to s=
uch
things. 'What do you mean, sir?'
'I
should like,' said the child, 'to leave my dear love to poor Oliver Twist; =
and
to let him know how often I have sat by myself and cried to think of his
wandering about in the dark nights with nobody to help him. And I should li=
ke
to tell him,' said the child pressing his small hands together, and speaking
with great fervour, 'that I was glad to die when I was very young; for,
perhaps, if I had lived to be a man, and had grown old, my little sister wh=
o is
in Heaven, might forget me, or be unlike me; and it would be so much happie=
r if
we were both children there together.'
Mr
Bumble surveyed the little speaker, from head to foot, with indescribable
astonishment; and, turning to his companion, said, 'They're all in one stor=
y, Mrs
Mann. That out-dacious Oliver had demogalized them all!'
'I
couldn't have believed it, sir' said Mrs Mann, holding up her hands, and
looking malignantly at Dick. 'I never see such a hardened little wretch!'
'Take
him away, ma'am!' said Mr Bumble imperiously. 'This must be stated to the
board, Mrs Mann.
'I
hope the gentleman will understand that it isn't my fault, sir?' said Mrs M=
ann,
whimpering pathetically.
'They
shall understand that, ma'am; they shall be acquainted with the true state =
of
the case,' said Mr Bumble. 'There; take him away, I can't bear the sight on
him.'
Dick
was immediately taken away, and locked up in the coal-cellar. Mr Bumble sho=
rtly
afterwards took himself off, to prepare for his journey.
At
six o'clock next morning, Mr Bumble: having exchanged his cocked hat for a
round one, and encased his person in a blue great-coat with a cape to it: t=
ook
his place on the outside of the coach, accompanied by the criminals whose
settlement was disputed; with whom, in due course of time, he arrived in
London.
He
experienced no other crosses on the way, than those which originated in the
perverse behaviour of the two paupers, who persisted in shivering, and
complaining of the cold, in a manner which, Mr Bumble declared, caused his
teeth to chatter in his head, and made him feel quite uncomfortable; althou=
gh
he had a great-coat on.
Having
disposed of these evil-minded persons for the night, Mr Bumble sat himself =
down
in the house at which the coach stopped; and took a temperate dinner of ste=
aks,
oyster sauce, and porter. Putting a glass of hot gin-and-water on the
chimney-piece, he drew his chair to the fire; and, with sundry moral
reflections on the too-prevalent sin of discontent and complaining, composed
himself to read the paper.
The
very first paragraph upon which Mr Bumble's eye rested, was the following
advertisement.
'FIVE
GUINEAS REWARD
'Whereas
a young boy, named Oliver Twist, absconded, or was enticed, on Thursday eve=
ning
last, from his home, at Pentonville; and has not since been heard of. The a=
bove
reward will be paid to any person who will give such information as will le=
ad
to the discovery of the said Oliver Twist, or tend to throw any light upon =
his
previous history, in which the advertiser is, for many reasons, warmly
interested.'
And
then followed a full description of Oliver's dress, person, appearance, and
disappearance: with the name and address of Mr Brownlow at full length.
Mr
Bumble opened his eyes; read the advertisement, slowly and carefully, three
several times; and in something more than five minutes was on his way to
Pentonville: having actually, in his excitement, left the glass of hot gin-=
and-water,
untasted.
'Is
Mr Brownlow at home?' inquired Mr Bumble of the girl who opened the door.
To
this inquiry the girl returned the not uncommon, but rather evasive reply o=
f 'I
don't know; where do you come from?'
Mr
Bumble no sooner uttered Oliver's name, in explanation of his errand, than =
Mrs
Bedwin, who had been listening at the parlour door, hastened into the passa=
ge
in a breathless state.
'Come
in, come in,' said the old lady: 'I knew we should hear of him. Poor dear! I
knew we should! I was certain of it. Bless his heart! I said so all along.'=
Having
heard this, the worthy old lady hurried back into the parlour again; and
seating herself on a sofa, burst into tears. The girl, who was not quite so
susceptible, had run upstairs meanwhile; and now returned with a request th=
at Mr
Bumble would follow her immediately: which he did.
He
was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr Brownlow and his friend =
Mr
Grimwig, with decanters and glasses before them. The latter gentleman at on=
ce
burst into the exclamation:
'A
beadle. A parish beadle, or I'll eat my head.'
'Pray
don't interrupt just now,' said Mr Brownlow. 'Take a seat, will you?'
Mr
Bumble sat himself down; quite confounded by the oddity of Mr Grimwig's man=
ner.
Mr Brownlow moved the lamp, so as to obtain an uninterrupted view of the
beadle's countenance; and said, with a little impatience,
'Now,
sir, you come in consequence of having seen the advertisement?'
'Yes,
sir,' said Mr Bumble.
'And
you
'I
am a porochial beadle, gentlemen,' rejoined Mr Bumble proudly.
'Of
course,' observed Mr Grimwig aside to his friend, 'I knew he was. A beadle =
all
over!'
Mr
Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence on his friend, and resumed=
:
'Do
you know where this poor boy is now?'
'No
more than nobody,' replied Mr Bumble.
'Well,
what DO you know of him?' inquired the old gentleman. 'Speak out, my friend=
, if
you have anything to say. What DO you know of him?'
'You
don't happen to know any good of him, do you?' said Mr Grimwig, caustically;
after an attentive perusal of Mr Bumble's features.
Mr
Bumble, catching at the inquiry very quickly, shook his head with portentous
solemnity.
'You
see?' said Mr Grimwig, looking triumphantly at Mr Brownlow.
Mr
Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr Bumble's pursed-up countenance; and
requested him to communicate what he knew regarding Oliver, in as few words=
as
possible.
Mr
Bumble put down his hat; unbuttoned his coat; folded his arms; inclined his
head in a retrospective manner; and, after a few moments' reflection, comme=
nced
his story.
It
would be tedious if given in the beadle's words: occupying, as it did, some
twenty minutes in the telling; but the sum and substance of it was, that Ol=
iver
was a foundling, born of low and vicious parents. That he had, from his bir=
th,
displayed no better qualities than treachery, ingratitude, and malice. That=
he
had terminated his brief career in the place of his birth, by making a
sanguinary and cowardly attack on an unoffending lad, and running away in t=
he
night-time from his master's house. In proof of his really being the person=
he
represented himself, Mr Bumble laid upon the table the papers he had brough=
t to
town. Folding his arms again, he then awaited Mr Brownlow's observations.
'I
fear it is all too true,' said the old gentleman sorrowfully, after looking
over the papers. 'This is not much for your intelligence; but I would gladly
have given you treble the money, if it had been favourable to the boy.'
It
is not improbable that if Mr Bumble had been possessed of this information =
at
an earlier period of the interview, he might have imparted a very different
colouring to his little history. It was too late to do it now, however; so =
he
shook his head gravely, and, pocketing the five guineas, withdrew.
Mr
Brownlow paced the room to and fro for some minutes; evidently so much
disturbed by the beadle's tale, that even Mr Grimwig forbore to vex him
further.
At
length he stopped, and rang the bell violently. 'Mrs Bedwin,' said Mr Brown=
low,
when the housekeeper appeared; 'that boy, Oliver, is an imposter.'
'It
can't be, sir. It cannot be,' said the old lady energetically.
'I
tell you he is,' retorted the old gentleman. 'What do you mean by can't be?=
We
have just heard a full account of him from his birth; and he has been a
thorough-paced little villain, all his life.'
'I
never will believe it, sir,' replied the old lady, firmly. 'Never!'
'You
old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying story-books,'=
growled
Mr Grimwig. 'I knew it all along. Why didn't you take my advise in the
beginning; you would if he hadn't had a fever, I suppose, eh? He was
interesting, wasn't he? Interesting! Bah!' And Mr Grimwig poked the fire wi=
th a
flourish.
'He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir,' retorted Mrs Bedwin, indignantly.= 'I know what children are, sir; and have done these forty years; and people who can't say the same, shouldn't say anything about them. That's my opinion!'<= o:p>
This
was a hard hit at Mr Grimwig, who was a bachelor. As it extorted nothing fr=
om
that gentleman but a smile, the old lady tossed her head, and smoothed down=
her
apron preparatory to another speech, when she was stopped by Mr Brownlow.
'Silence!'
said the old gentleman, feigning an anger he was far from feeling. 'Never l=
et
me hear the boy's name again. I rang to tell you that. Never. Never, on any
pretence, mind! You may leave the room, Mrs Bedwin. Remember! I am in earne=
st.'
There
were sad hearts at Mr Brownlow's that night.
Oliver's
heart sank within him, when he thought of his good friends; it was well for=
him
that he could not know what they had heard, or it might have broken outrigh=
t.
Chapter XVIII - How Oliver Passed His Time In The Impr=
oving
Society Of His Reputable Friends
About
Little
Oliver's blood ran cold, as he listened to the Jew's words, and imperfectly
comprehended the dark threats conveyed in them. That it was possible even f=
or
justice itself to confound the innocent with the guilty when they were in
accidental companionship, he knew already; and that deeply-laid plans for t=
he
destruction of inconveniently knowing or over-communicative persons, had be=
en
really devised and carried out by the Jew on more occasions than one, he th=
ought
by no means unlikely, when he recollected the general nature of the
altercations between that gentleman and Mr Sikes: which seemed to bear
reference to some foregone conspiracy of the kind. As he glanced timidly up,
and met the Jew's searching look, he felt that his pale face and trembling
limbs were neither unnoticed nor unrelished by that wary old gentleman.
The
Jew, smiling hideously, patted Oliver on the head, and said, that if he kept
himself quiet, and applied himself to business, he saw they would be very g=
ood
friends yet. Then, taking his hat, and covering himself with an old patched
great-coat, he went out, and locked the room-door behind him.
And
so Oliver remained all that day, and for the greater part of many subsequent
days, seeing nobody, between early morning and midnight, and left during the
long hours to commune with his own thoughts. Which, never failing to revert=
to
his kind friends, and the opinion they must long ago have formed of him, we=
re
sad indeed.
After
the lapse of a week or so, the Jew left the room-door unlocked; and he was =
at
liberty to wander about the house.
It
was a very dirty place. The rooms upstairs had great high wooden chimney-pi=
eces
and large doors, with panelled walls and cornices to the ceiling; which,
although they were black with neglect and dust, were ornamented in various
ways. From all of these tokens Oliver concluded that a long time ago, before
the old Jew was born, it had belonged to better people, and had perhaps been
quite gay and handsome: dismal and dreary as it looked now.
Spiders
had built their webs in the angles of the walls and ceilings; and sometimes,
when Oliver walked softly into a room, the mice would scamper across the fl=
oor,
and run back terrified to their holes. With these exceptions, there was nei=
ther
sight nor sound of any living thing; and often, when it grew dark, and he w=
as
tired of wandering from room to room, he would crouch in the corner of the
passage by the street-door, to be as near living people as he could; and wo=
uld
remain there, listening and counting the hours, until the Jew or the boys
returned. In all the rooms, the mouldering shutters were fast closed: the b=
ars
which held them were screwed tight into the wood; the only light which was
admitted, stealing its way through round holes at the top: which made the r=
ooms
more gloomy, and filled them with strange shadows. There was a back-garret
window with rusty bars outside, which had no shutter; and out of this, Oliv=
er
often gazed with a melancholy face for hours together; but nothing was to be
descried from it but a confused and crowded mass of housetops, blackened
chimneys, and gable-ends. Sometimes, indeed, a grizzly head might be seen,
peering over the parapet-wall of a distant house; but it was quickly withdr=
awn
again; and as the window of Oliver's observatory was nailed down, and dimmed
with the rain and smoke of years, it was as much as he could do to make out=
the
forms of the different objects beyond, without making any attempt to be see=
n or
heard, - which he had as much chance of being, as if he had lived inside the
ball of St. Paul's Cathedral.
One
afternoon, the Dodger and Master Bates being engaged out that evening, the
first-named young gentleman took it into his head to evince some anxiety
regarding the decoration of his person (to do him justice, this was by no m=
eans
an habitual weakness with him); and, with this end and aim, he condescendin=
gly
commanded Oliver to assist him in his toilet, straightway.
Oliver
was but too glad to make himself useful; too happy to have some faces, howe=
ver
bad, to look upon; too desirous to conciliate those about him when he could
honestly do so; to throw any objection in the way of this proposal. So he at
once expressed his readiness; and, kneeling on the floor, while the Dodger =
sat
upon the table so that he could take his foot in his laps, he applied himse=
lf
to a process which Mr Dawkins designated as 'japanning his trotter-cases.' =
The
phrase, rendered into plain English, signifieth, cleaning his boots.
Whether
it was the sense of freedom and independence which a rational animal may be
supposed to feel when he sits on a table in an easy attitude smoking a pipe,
swinging one leg carelessly to and fro, and having his boots cleaned all the
time, without even the past trouble of having taken them off, or the
prospective misery of putting them on, to disturb his reflections; or wheth=
er
it was the goodness of the tobacco that soothed the feelings of the Dodger,=
or
the mildness of the beer that mollified his thoughts; he was evidently
tinctured, for the nonce, with a spice of romance and enthusiasm, foreign to
his general nature. He looked down on Oliver, with a thoughtful countenance,
for a brief space; and then, raising his head, and heaving a gentle sign, s=
aid,
half in abstraction, and half to Master Bates:
'What
a pity it is he isn't a prig!'
'Ah!'
said Master Charles Bates; 'he don't know what's good for him.'
The
Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe: as did Charley Bates. They both
smoked, for some seconds, in silence.
'I
suppose you don't even know what a prig is?' said the Dodger mournfully.
'I
think I know that,' replied Oliver, looking up. 'It's a the - ; you're one,=
are
you not?' inquired Oliver, checking himself.
'I
am,' replied the Doger. 'I'd scorn to be anything else.' Mr Dawkins gave his
hat a ferocious cock, after delivering this sentiment, and looked at Master
Bates, as if to denote that he would feel obliged by his saying anything to=
the
contrary.
'I
am,' repeated the Dodger. 'So's Charley. So's Fagin. So's Sikes. So's Nancy.
So's Bet. So we all are, down to the dog. And he's the downiest one of the
lot!'
'And
the least given to peaching,' added Charley Bates.
'He
wouldn't so much as bark in a witness-box, for fear of committing himself; =
no,
not if you tied him up in one, and left him there without wittles for a
fortnight,' said the Dodger.
'Not
a bit of it,' observed Charley.
'He's
a rum dog. Don't he look fierce at any strange cove that laughs or sings wh=
en
he's in company!' pursued the Dodger. 'Won't he growl at all, when he hears=
a
fiddle playing! And don't he hate other dogs as ain't of his breed! Oh, no!=
'
'He's
an out-and-out Christian,' said Charley.
This
was merely intended as a tribute to the animal's abilities, but it was an
appropriate remark in another sense, if Master Bates had only known it; for
there are a good many ladies and gentlemen, claiming to be out-and-out
Christians, between whom, and Mr Sikes' dog, there exist strong and singular
points of resemblance.
'Well,
well,' said the Dodger, recurring to the point from which they had strayed:
with that mindfulness of his profession which influenced all his proceeding=
s.
'This hasn't go anything to do with young Green here.'
'No
more it has,' said Charley. 'Why don't you put yourself under Fagin, Oliver=
?'
'And
make your fortun' out of hand?' added the Dodger, with a grin.
'And
so be able to retire on your property, and do the gen-teel: as I mean to, in
the very next leap-year but four that ever comes, and the forty-second Tues=
day
in Trinity-week,' said Charley Bates.
'I
don't like it,' rejoined Oliver, timidly; 'I wish they would let me go. I -=
I -
would rather go.'
'And
Fagin would RATHER not!' rejoined Charley.
Oliver
knew this too well; but thinking it might be dangerous to express his feeli=
ngs
more openly, he only sighed, and went on with his boot-cleaning.
'Go!'
exclaimed the Dodger. 'Why, where's your spirit?' Don't you take any pride =
out
of yourself? Would you go and be dependent on your friends?'
'Oh,
blow that!' said Master Bates: drawing two or three silk handkerchiefs from=
his
pocket, and tossing them into a cupboard, 'that's too mean; that is.'
'I couldn't do it,' said the Dodger=
, with
an air of haughty disgust.
'You
can leave your friends, though,' said Oliver with a half smile; 'and let th=
em
be punished for what you did.'
'That,'
rejoined the Dodger, with a wave of his pipe, 'That was all out of
consideration for Fagin, 'cause the traps know that we work together, and he
might have got into trouble if we hadn't made our lucky; that was the move,
wasn't it, Charley?'
Master
Bates nodded assent, and would have spoken, but the recollection of Oliver's
flight came so suddenly upon him, that the smoke he was inhaling got entang=
led
with a laugh, and went up into his head, and down into his throat: and brou=
ght
on a fit of coughing and stamping, about five minutes long.
'Look
here!' said the Dodger, drawing forth a handful of shillings and halfpence.
'Here's a jolly life! What's the odds where it comes from? Here, catch hold;
there's plenty more where they were took from. You won't, won't you? Oh, you
precious flat!'
'It's
naughty, ain't it, Oliver?' inquired Charley Bates. 'He'll come to be scrag=
ged,
won't he?'
'I
don't know what that means,' replied Oliver.
'Something
in this way, old feller,' said Charly. As he said it, Master Bates caught u=
p an
end of his neckerchief; and, holding it erect in the air, dropped his head =
on
his shoulder, and jerked a curious sound through his teeth; thereby indicat=
ing,
by a lively pantomimic representation, that scragging and hanging were one =
and
the same thing.
'That's
what it means,' said Charley. 'Look how he stares, Jack!
I
never did see such prime company as that 'ere boy; he'll be the death of me=
, I
know he will.' Master Charley Bates, having laughed heartily again, resumed=
his
pipe with tears in his eyes.
'You've
been brought up bad,' said the Dodger, surveying his boots with much
satisfaction when Oliver had polished them. 'Fagin will make something of y=
ou,
though, or you'll be the first he ever had that turned out unprofitable. Yo=
u'd
better begin at once; for you'll come to the trade long before you think of=
it;
and you're only losing time, Oliver.'
Master
Bates backed this advice with sundry moral admonitions of his own: which, b=
eing
exhausted, he and his friend Mr Dawkins launched into a glowing description=
of
the numerous pleasures incidental to the life they led, interspersed with a
variety of hints to Oliver that the best thing he could do, would be to sec=
ure
Fagin's favour without more delay, by the means which they themselves had
employed to gain it.
'And
always put this in your pipe, Nolly,' said the Dodger, as the Jew was heard
unlocking the door above, 'if you don't take fogels and tickers - '
'What's
the good of talking in that way?' interposed Master Bates; 'he don't know w=
hat
you mean.'
'If
you don't take pocket-handkechers and watches,' said the Dodger, reducing h=
is
conversation to the level of Oliver's capacity, 'some other cove will; so t=
hat
the coves that lose 'em will be all the worse, and you'll be all the worse,
too, and nobody half a ha'p'orth the better, except the chaps wot gets them=
- and
you've just as good a right to them as they have.'
'To
be sure, to be sure!' said the Jew, who had entered unseen by Oliver. 'It a=
ll
lies in a nutshell my dear; in a nutshell, take the Dodger's word for it. H=
a!
ha! ha! He understands the catechism of his trade.'
The
old man rubbed his hands gleefully together, as he corroborated the Dodger's
reasoning in these terms; and chuckled with delight at his pupil's proficie=
ncy.
The
conversation proceeded no farther at this time, for the Jew had returned ho=
me
accompanied by Miss Betsy, and a gentleman whom Oliver had never seen befor=
e,
but who was accosted by the Dodger as Tom Chitling; and who, having lingere=
d on
the stairs to exchange a few gallantries with the lady, now made his
appearance.
Mr
Chitling was older in years than the Dodger: having perhaps numbered eighte=
en
winters; but there was a degree of deference in his deportment towards that=
young
gentleman which seemed to indicate that he felt himself conscious of a slig=
ht
inferiority in point of genius and professional aquirements. He had small
twinkling eyes, and a pock-marked face; wore a fur cap, a dark corduroy jac=
ket,
greasy fustian trousers, and an apron. His wardrobe was, in truth, rather o=
ut
of repair; but he excused himself to the company by stating that his 'time'=
was
only out an hour before; and that, in consequence of having worn the
regimentals for six weeks past, he had not been able to bestow any attentio=
n on
his private clothes. Mr Chitling added, with strong marks of irritation, th=
at
the new way of fumigating clothes up yonder was infernal unconstitutional, =
for
it burnt holes in them, and there was no remedy against the County. The same
remark he considered to apply to the regulation mode of cutting the hair: w=
hich
he held to be decidedly unlawful. Mr Chitling wound up his observations by
stating that he had not touched a drop of anything for forty-two moral long
hard-working days; and that he 'wished he might be busted if he warn't as d=
ry
as a lime-basket.'
'Where
do you think the gentleman has come from, Oliver?' inquired the Jew, with a
grin, as the other boys put a bottle of spirits on the table.
'I
- I - don't know, sir,' replied Oliver.
'Who's
that?' inquired Tom Chitling, casting a contemptuous look at Oliver.
'A
young friend of mine, my dear,' replied the Jew.
'He's
in luck, then,' said the young man, with a meaning look at Fagin. 'Never mi=
nd
where I came from, young 'un; you'll find your way there, soon enough, I'll=
bet
a crown!'
At
this sally, the boys laughed. After some more jokes on the same subject, th=
ey
exchanged a few short whispers with Fagin; and withdrew.
After
some words apart between the last comer and Fagin, they drew their chairs
towards the fire; and the Jew, telling Oliver to come and sit by him, led t=
he
conversation to the topics most calculated to interest his hearers. These w=
ere,
the great advantages of the trade, the proficiency of the Dodger, the
amiability of Charley Bates, and the liberality of the Jew himself. At leng=
th
these subjects displayed signs of being thoroughly exhausted; and Mr Chitli=
ng
did the same: for the house of correction becomes fatiguing after a week or
two. Miss Betsy accordingly withdrew; and left the party to their repose.
From
this day, Oliver was seldom left alone; but was placed in almost constant
communication with the two boys, who played the old game with the Jew every
day: whether for their own improvement or Oliver's, Mr Fagin best knew. At
other times the old man would tell them stories of robberies he had committ=
ed
in his younger days: mixed up with so much that was droll and curious, that
Oliver could not help laughing heartily, and showing that he was amused in =
spite
of all his better feelings.
In
short, the wily old Jew had the boy in his toils. Having prepared his mind,=
by
solitude and gloom, to prefer any society to the companionship of his own s=
ad
thoughts in such a dreary place, he was now slowly instilling into his soul=
the
poison which he hoped would blacken it, and change its hue for ever.
Chapter XIX - In Which A Notable Plan Is Discussed And
Determined On<=
span
lang=3DEN style=3D'font-family:"Bookman Old Style","serif";mso-ansi-languag=
e:EN'>
It
was a chill, damp, windy night, when the Jew: buttoning his great-coat tight
round his shrivelled body, and pulling the collar up over his ears so as
completely to obscure the lower part of his face: emerged from his den. He
paused on the step as the door was locked and chained behind him; and having
listened while the boys made all secure, and until their retreating footste=
ps
were no longer audible, slunk down the street as quickly as he could.
The
house to which Oliver had been conveyed, was in the neighborhood of
Whitechapel. The Jew stopped for an instant at the corner of the street; an=
d,
glancing suspiciously round, crossed the road, and struck off in the direct=
ion
of the Spitalfields.
The
mud lay thick upon the stones, and a black mist hung over the streets; the =
rain
fell sluggishly down, and everything felt cold and clammy to the touch. It
seemed just the night when it befitted such a being as the Jew to be abroad=
. As
he glided stealthily along, creeping beneath the shelter of the walls and
doorways, the hideous old man seemed like some loathsome reptile, engendere=
d in
the slime and darkness through which he moved: crawling forth, by night, in
search of some rich offal for a meal.
He
kept on his course, through many winding and narrow ways, until he reached
Bethnal Green; then, turning suddenly off to the left, he soon became invol=
ved
in a maze of the mean and dirty streets which abound in that close and
densely-populated quarter.
The
Jew was evidently too familiar with the ground he traversed to be at all
bewildered, either by the darkness of the night, or the intricacies of the =
way.
He hurried through several alleys and streets, and at length turned into on=
e,
lighted only by a single lamp at the farther end. At the door of a house in
this street, he knocked; having exchanged a few muttered words with the per=
son
who opened it, he walked upstairs.
A
dog growled as he touched the handle of a room-door; and a man's voice dema=
nded
who was there.
'Only
me, Bill; only me, my dear,' said the Jew looking in.
'Bring
in your body then,' said Sikes. 'Lie down, you stupid brute! Don't you know=
the
devil when he's got a great-coat on?'
Apparently,
the dog had been somewhat deceived by Mr Fagin's outer garment; for as the =
Jew
unbuttoned it, and threw it over the back of a chair, he retired to the cor=
ner
from which he had risen: wagging his tail as he went, to show that he was as
well satisfied as it was in his nature to be.
'Well!'
said Sikes.
'Well,
my dear,' replied the Jew. - 'Ah! Nancy.'
The
latter recognition was uttered with just enough of embarrassment to imply a
doubt of its reception; for Mr Fagin and his young friend had not met, since
she had interfered in behalf of Oliver. All doubts upon the subject, if he =
had
any, were speedily removed by the young lady's behaviour. She took her feet=
off
the fender, pushed back her chair, and bade Fagin draw up his, without sayi=
ng
more about it: for it was a cold night, and no mistake.
'It
is cold, Nancy dear,' said the Jew, as he warmed his skinny hands over the
fire. 'It seems to go right through one,' added the old man, touching his s=
ide.
'It
must be a piercer, if it finds its way through your heart,' said Mr Sikes.
'Give him something to drink, Nancy. Burn my body, make haste! It's enough =
to
turn a man ill, to see his lean old carcase shivering in that way, like a u=
gly
ghost just rose from the grave.'
Nancy
quickly brought a bottle from a cupboard, in which there were many: which, =
to
judge from the diversity of their appearance, were filled with several kind=
s of
liquids. Sikes pouring out a glass of brandy, bade the Jew drink it off.
'Quite
enough, quite, thankye, Bill,' replied the Jew, putting down the glass after
just setting his lips to it.
'What!
You're afraid of our getting the better of you, are you?' inquired Sikes,
fixing his eyes on the Jew. 'Ugh!'
With
a hoarse grunt of contempt, Mr Sikes seized the glass, and threw the remain=
der
of its contents into the ashes: as a preparatory ceremony to filling it aga=
in
for himself: which he did at once.
The
Jew glanced round the room, as his companion tossed down the second glassfu=
l;
not in curiousity, for he had seen it often before; but in a restless and
suspicious manner habitual to him. It was a meanly furnished apartment, with
nothing but the contents of the closet to induce the belief that its occupi=
er
was anything but a working man; and with no more suspicious articles displa=
yed
to view than two or three heavy bludgeons which stood in a corner, and a
'life-preserver' that hung over the chimney-piece.
'There,'
said Sikes, smacking his lips. 'Now I'm ready.'
'For
business?' inquired the Jew.
'For
business,' replied Sikes; 'so say what you've got to say.'
'About
the crib at Chertsey, Bill?' said the Jew, drawing his chair forward, and
speaking in a very low voice.
'Yes.
Wot about it?' inquired Sikes.
'Ah!
you know what I mean, my dear,' said the Jew. 'He knows what I mean, Nancy;
don't he?'
'No,
he don't,' sneered Mr Sikes. 'Or he won't, and that's the same thing. Speak
out, and call things by their right names; don't sit there, winking and
blinking, and talking to me in hints, as if you warn't the very first that
thought about the robbery. Wot d'ye mean?'
'Hush,
Bill, hush!' said the Jew, who had in vain attempted to stop this burst of
indignation; 'somebody will hear us, my dear. Somebody will hear us.'
'Let
'em hear!' said Sikes; 'I don't care.' But as Mr Sikes DID care, on reflect=
ion,
he dropped his voice as he said the words, and grew calmer.
'There,
there,' said the Jew, coaxingly. 'It was only my caution, nothing more. Now=
, my
dear, about that crib at Chertsey; when is it to be done, Bill, eh? When is=
it
to be done? Such plate, my dear, such plate!' said the Jew: rubbing his han=
ds,
and elevating his eyebrows in a rapture of anticipation.
'Not
at all,' replied Sikes coldly.
'Not
to be done at all!' echoed the Jew, leaning back in his chair.
'No,
not at all,' rejoined Sikes. 'At least it can't be a put-up job, as we
expected.'
'Then
it hasn't been properly gone about,' said the Jew, turning pale with anger.
'Don't tell me!'
'But
I will tell you,' retorted Sikes. 'Who are you that's not to be told? I tell
you that Toby Crackit has been hanging about the place for a fortnight, and=
he
can't get one of the servants in line.'
'Do
you mean to tell me, Bill,' said the Jew: softening as the other grew heate=
d:
'that neither of the two men in the house can be got over?'
'Yes,
I do mean to tell you so,' replied Sikes. 'The old lady has had 'em these
twenty years; and if you were to give 'em five hundred pound, they wouldn't=
be
in it.'
'But
do you mean to say, my dear,' remonstrated the Jew, 'that the women can't be
got over?'
'Not
a bit of it,' replied Sikes.
'Not
by flash Toby Crackit?' said the Jew incredulously. 'Think what women are,
Bill,'
'No;
not even by flash Toby Crackit,' replied Sikes. 'He says he's worn sham
whiskers, and a canary waistcoat, the whole blessed time he's been loitering
down there, and it's all of no use.'
'He
should have tried mustachios and a pair of military trousers, my dear,' said
the Jew.
'So
he did,' rejoined Sikes, 'and they warn't of no more use than the other pla=
nt.'
The
Jew looked blank at this information. After ruminating for some minutes with
his chin sunk on his breast, he raised his head and said, with a deep sigh,
that if flash Toby Crackit reported aright, he feared the game was up.
'And
yet,' said the old man, dropping his hands on his knees, 'it's a sad thing,=
my
dear, to lose so much when we had set our hearts upon it.'
'So
it is,' said Mr Sikes. 'Worse luck!'
A
long silence ensued; during which the Jew was plunged in deep thought, with=
his
face wrinkled into an expression of villainy perfectly demoniacal. Sikes ey=
ed
him furtively from time to time. Nancy, apparently fearful of irritating the
housebreaker, sat with her eyes fixed upon the fire, as if she had been dea=
f to
all that passed.
'Fagin,'
said Sikes, abruptly breaking the stillness that prevailed; 'is it worth fi=
fty
shiners extra, if it's safely done from the outside?'
'Yes,'
said the Jew, as suddenly rousing himself.
'Is
it a bargain?' inquired Sikes.
'Yes,
my dear, yes,' rejoined the Jew; his eyes glistening, and every muscle in h=
is
face working, with the excitement that the inquiry had awakened.
'Then,'
said Sikes, thrusting aside the Jew's hand, with some disdain, 'let it come=
off
as soon as you like. Toby and me were over the garden-wall the night afore
last, sounding the panels of the door and shutters. The crib's barred up at
night like a jail; but there's one part we can crack, safe and softly.'
'Which
is that, Bill?' asked the Jew eagerly.
'Why,'
whispered Sikes, 'as you cross the lawn - '
'Yes?'
said the Jew, bending his head forward, with his eyes almost starting out of
it.
'Umph!'
cried Sikes, stopping short, as the girl, scarcely moving her head, looked
suddenly round, and pointed for an instant to the Jew's face. 'Never mind w=
hich
part it is. You can't do it without me, I know; but it's best to be on the =
safe
side when one deals with you.'
'As
you like, my dear, as you like' replied the Jew. 'Is there no help wanted, =
but
yours and Toby's?'
'None,'
said Sikes. 'Cept a centre-bit and a boy. The first we've both got; the sec=
ond
you must find us.'
'A
boy!' exclaimed the Jew. 'Oh! then it's a panel, eh?'
'Never
mind wot it is!' replied Sikes. 'I want a boy, and he musn't be a big 'un.
Lord!' said Mr Sikes, reflectively, 'if I'd only got that young boy of Ned,=
the
chimbley-sweeper's! He kept him small on purpose, and let him out by the jo=
b.
But the father gets lagged; and then the Juvenile Delinquent Society comes,=
and
takes the boy away from a trade where he was earning money, teaches him to =
read
and write, and in time makes a 'prentice of him. And so they go on,' said Mr
Sikes, his wrath rising with the recollection of his wrongs, 'so they go on;
and, if they'd got money enough (which it's a Providence they haven't,) we =
shouldn't
have half a dozen boys left in the whole trade, in a year or two.'
'No
more we should,' acquiesced the Jew, who had been considering during this
speech, and had only caught the last sentence. 'Bill!'
'What
now?' inquired Sikes.
The
Jew nodded his head towards Nancy, who was still gazing at the fire; and
intimated, by a sign, that he would have her told to leave the room. Sikes
shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as if he thought the precaution
unnecessary; but complied, nevertheless, by requesting Miss Nancy to fetch =
him
a jug of beer.
'You
don't want any beer,' said Nancy, folding her arms, and retaining her seat =
very
composedly.
'I
tell you I do!' replied Sikes.
'Nonsense,'
rejoined the girl coolly, 'Go on, Fagin. I know what he's going to say, Bil=
l;
he needn't mind me.'
The
Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the other in some surprise.
'Why,
you don't mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?' he asked at length. 'You've kn=
own
her long enough to trust her, or the Devil's in it. She ain't one to blab. =
Are
you Nancy?'
'I should think not!' replied the y=
oung
lady: drawing her chair up to the table, and putting her elbows upon it.
'No,
no, my dear, I know you're not,' said the Jew; 'but - ' and again the old m=
an
paused.
'But
wot?' inquired Sikes.
'I
didn't know whether she mightn't p'r'aps be out of sorts, you know, my dear=
, as
she was the other night,' replied the Jew.
At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a glas= s of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into sundry exclamations of 'Keep the game a-going!' 'Never say die!' and the like. The= se seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded= his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr Sikes likewise.<= o:p>
'Now,
Fagin,' said Nancy with a laugh. 'Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!'
'Ha!
you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!' said the Jew,
patting her on the neck. 'It WAS about Oliver I was going to speak, sure
enough. Ha! ha! ha!'
'What
about him?' demanded Sikes.
'He's
the boy for you, my dear,' replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his
finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully.
'He!'
exclaimed. Sikes.
'Have
him, Bill!' said Nancy. 'I would, if I was in your place. He mayn't be so m=
uch
up, as any of the others; but that's not what you want, if he's only to ope=
n a
door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe one, Bill.'
'I
know he is,' rejoined Fagin. 'He's been in good training these last few wee=
ks,
and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all t=
oo
big.'
'Well,
he is just the size I want,' said Mr Sikes, ruminating.
'And
will do everything you want, Bill, my dear,' interposed the Jew; 'he can't =
help
himself. That is, if you frighten him enough.'
'Frighten
him!' echoed Sikes. 'It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's
anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in=
for
a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you se=
nd
him. Mark my words!' said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn
from under the bedstead.
'I've
thought of it all,' said the Jew with energy. 'I've - I've had my eye upon =
him,
my dears, close - close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill =
his
mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his li=
fe.
Oho! It couldn't have come about better! The old man crossed his arms upon =
his
breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged
himself for joy.
'Ours!'
said Sikes. 'Yours, you mean.'
'Perhaps
I do, my dear,' said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. 'Mine, if you like, Bi=
ll.'
'And
wot,' said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, 'wot makes you
take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty
boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose
from?'
'Because
they're of no use to me, my dear,' replied the Jew, with some confusion, 'n=
ot
worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they get into trouble, and I
lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what I
couldn't with twenty of them. Besides,' said the Jew, recovering his
self-possession, 'he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; an=
d he
must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite
enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. N=
ow,
how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out =
of
the way - which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides.'
'When
is it to be done?' asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the =
part
of Mr Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin's
affectation of humanity.
'Ah,
to be sure,' said the Jew; 'when is it to be done, Bill?'
'I
planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow,' rejoined Sikes in a surly vo=
ice,
'if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy.'
'Good,'
said the Jew; 'there's no moon.'
'No,'
rejoined Sikes.
'It's
all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?' asked the Jew.
Sikes
nodded.
'And
about - '
'Oh,
ah, it's all planned,' rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. 'Never mind
particulars. You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I shall get o=
ff
the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the
melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do.'
After
some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that
Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night had set in, and
bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced a=
ny
disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl =
who
had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also
solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contempl=
ated
expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr William
Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought =
fit;
and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that
might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the
compact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr Sikes on his
return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important
particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit.
These
preliminaries adjusted, Mr Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a furious rat=
e,
and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at the sa=
me
time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. At
length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his=
box
of housebreaking tools: which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened=
for
the purpose of explaining the nature and properties of the various implemen=
ts
it contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fell
over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell.
'Good-night,
Nancy,' said the Jew, muffling himself up as before.
'Good-night.'
Their
eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no flinching abo=
ut
the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as Toby Crackit himself
could be.
The
Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a sly kick upon the prostrate
form of Mr Sikes while her back was turned, groped downstairs.
'Always
the way!' muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homeward. 'The worst of
these women is, that a very little thing serves to call up some long-forgot=
ten
feeling; and, the best of them is, that it never lasts. Ha! ha! The man aga=
inst
the child, for a bag of gold!'
Beguiling
the time with these pleasant reflections, Mr Fagin wended his way, through =
mud
and mire, to his gloomy abode: where the Dodger was sitting up, impatiently
awaiting his return.
'Is
Oliver a-bed? I want to speak to him,' was his first remark as they descend=
ed
the stairs.
'Hours
ago,' replied the Dodger, throwing open a door. 'Here he is!'
The
boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the floor; so pale with anxi=
ety,
and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he looked like death; not
death as it shows in shroud and coffin, but in the guise it wears when life=
has
just departed; when a young and gentle spirit has, but an instant, fled to
Heaven, and the gross air of the world has not had time to breathe upon the
changing dust it hallowed.
'Not
now,' said the Jew, turning softly away. 'To-morrow. To-morrow.'
Chapter XX - Wherein Olver Is Delivered Over To Mr Wil=
liam
Sikes
When
Oliver awoke in the morning, he was a good deal surprised to find that a new
pair of shoes, with strong thick soles, had been placed at his bedside; and
that his old shoes had been removed. At first, he was pleased with the
discovery: hoping that it might be the forerunner of his release; but such
thoughts were quickly dispelled, on his sitting down to breakfast along with
the Jew, who told him, in a tone and manner which increased his alarm, that=
he
was to be taken to the residence of Bill Sikes that night.
'To
- to - stop there, sir?' asked Oliver, anxiously.
'No,
no, my dear. Not to stop there,' replied the Jew. 'We shouldn't like to lose
you. Don't be afraid, Oliver, you shall come back to us again. Ha! ha! ha! =
We
won't be so cruel as to send you away, my dear. Oh no, no!'
The
old man, who was stooping over the fire toasting a piece of bread, looked r=
ound
as he bantered Oliver thus; and chuckled as if to show that he knew he would
still be very glad to get away if he could.
'I
suppose,' said the Jew, fixing his eyes on Oliver, 'you want to know what
you're going to Bill's for - -eh, my dear?'
Oliver
coloured, involuntarily, to find that the old thief had been reading his
thoughts; but boldly said, Yes, he did want to know.
'Why,
do you think?' inquired Fagin, parrying the question.
'Indeed
I don't know, sir,' replied Oliver.
'Bah!'
said the Jew, turning away with a disappointed countenance from a close per=
usal
of the boy's face. 'Wait till Bill tells you, then.'
The
Jew seemed much vexed by Oliver's not expressing any greater curiosity on t=
he
subject; but the truth is, that, although Oliver felt very anxious, he was =
too
much confused by the earnest cunning of Fagin's looks, and his own
speculations, to make any further inquiries just then. He had no other
opportunity: for the Jew remained very surly and silent till night: when he
prepared to go abroad.
'You
may burn a candle,' said the Jew, putting one upon the table. 'And here's a
book for you to read, till they come to fetch you. Good-night!'
'Good-night!'
replied Oliver, softly.
The
Jew walked to the door: looking over his shoulder at the boy as he went.
Suddenly stopping, he called him by his name.
Oliver
looked up; the Jew, pointing to the candle, motioned him to light it. He did
so; and, as he placed the candlestick upon the table, saw that the Jew was
gazing fixedly at him, with lowering and contracted brows, from the dark en=
d of
the room.
'Take
heed, Oliver! take heed!' said the old man, shaking his right hand before h=
im
in a warning manner. 'He's a rough man, and thinks nothing of blood when his
own is up. Whatever falls out, say nothing; and do what he bids you. Mind!'
Placing a strong emphasis on the last word, he suffered his features gradua=
lly
to resolve themselves into a ghastly grin, and, nodding his head, left the =
room.
Oliver
leaned his head upon his hand when the old man disappeared, and pondered, w=
ith
a trembling heart, on the words he had just heard. The more he thought of t=
he
Jew's admonition, the more he was at a loss to divine its real purpose and
meaning.
He
could think of no bad object to be attained by sending him to Sikes, which
would not be equally well answered by his remaining with Fagin; and after
meditating for a long time, concluded that he had been selected to perform =
some
ordinary menial offices for the housebreaker, until another boy, better sui=
ted
for his purpose could be engaged. He was too well accustomed to suffering, =
and
had suffered too much where he was, to bewail the prospect of change very
severely. He remained lost in thought for some minutes; and then, with a he=
avy
sigh, snuffed the candle, and, taking up the book which the Jew had left wi=
th
him, began to read.
He
turned over the leaves. Carelessly at first; but, lighting on a passage whi=
ch
attracted his attention, he soon became intent upon the volume. It was a
history of the lives and trials of great criminals; and the pages were soil=
ed
and thumbed with use. Here, he read of dreadful crimes that made the blood =
run
cold; of secret murders that had been committed by the lonely wayside; of b=
odies
hidden from the eye of man in deep pits and wells: which would not keep them
down, deep as they were, but had yielded them up at last, after many years,=
and
so maddened the murderers with the sight, that in their horror they had
confessed their guilt, and yelled for the gibbet to end their agony. Here, =
too,
he read of men who, lying in their beds at dead of night, had been tempted =
(so
they said) and led on, by their own bad thoughts, to such dreadful bloodshe=
d as
it made the flesh creep, and the limbs quail, to think of. The terrible
descriptions were so real and vivid, that the sallow pages seemed to turn r=
ed
with gore; and the words upon them, to be sounded in his ears, as if they w=
ere
whispered, in hollow murmurs, by the spirits of the dead.
In
a paroxysm of fear, the boy closed the book, and thrust it from him. Then,
falling upon his knees, he prayed Heaven to spare him from such deeds; and
rather to will that he should die at once, than be reserved for crimes, so
fearful and appalling. By degrees, he grew more calm, and besought, in a low
and broken voice, that he might be rescued from his present dangers; and th=
at
if any aid were to be raised up for a poor outcast boy who had never known =
the
love of friends or kindred, it might come to him now, when, desolate and
deserted, he stood alone in the midst of wickedness and guilt.
He
had concluded his prayer, but still remained with his head buried in his ha=
nds,
when a rustling noise aroused him.
'What's
that!' he cried, starting up, and catching sight of a figure standing by the
door. 'Who's there?'
'Me.
Only me,' replied a tremulous voice.
Oliver
raised the candle above his head: and looked towards the door. It was Nancy=
.
'Put down the light,' said the girl, turning away her head. 'It hurts my eyes.'<= o:p>
Oliver
saw that she was very pale, and gently inquired if she were ill. The girl t=
hrew
herself into a chair, with her back towards him: and wrung her hands; but m=
ade
no reply.
'God
forgive me!' she cried after a while, 'I never thought of this.'
'Has
anything happened?' asked Oliver. 'Can I help you? I will if I can. I will,
indeed.'
She
rocked herself to and fro; caught her throat; and, uttering a gurgling soun=
d,
gasped for breath.
'Nancy!'
cried Oliver, 'What is it?'
The
girl beat her hands upon her knees, and her feet upon the ground; and, sudd=
enly
stopping, drew her shawl close round her: and shivered with cold.
Oliver
stirred the fire. Drawing her chair close to it, she sat there, for a little
time, without speaking; but at length she raised her head, and looked round=
.
'I
don't know what comes over me sometimes,' said she, affecting to busy herse=
lf
in arranging her dress; 'it's this damp dirty room, I think. Now, Nolly, de=
ar,
are you ready?'
'Am
I to go with you?' asked Oliver.
'Yes.
I have come from Bill,' replied the girl. 'You are to go with me.'
'What
for?' asked Oliver, recoiling.
'What
for?' echoed the girl, raising her eyes, and averting them again, the moment
they encountered the boy's face. 'Oh! For no harm.'
'I
don't believe it,' said Oliver: who had watched her closely.
'Have
it your own way,' rejoined the girl, affecting to laugh. 'For no good, then=
.'
Oliver
could see that he had some power over the girl's better feelings, and, for =
an
instant, thought of appealing to her compassion for his helpless state. But,
then, the thought darted across his mind that it was barely eleven o'clock;=
and
that many people were still in the streets: of whom surely some might be fo=
und
to give credence to his tale. As the reflection occured to him, he stepped
forward: and said, somewhat hastily, that he was ready.
Neither
his brief consideration, nor its purport, was lost on his companion. She ey=
ed
him narrowly, while he spoke; and cast upon him a look of intelligence which
sufficiently showed that she guessed what had been passing in his thoughts.=
'Hush!'
said the girl, stooping over him, and pointing to the door as she looked
cautiously round. 'You can't help yourself. I have tried hard for you, but =
all
to no purpose. You are hedged round and round. If ever you are to get loose
from here, this is not the time.'
Struck
by the energy of her manner, Oliver looked up in her face with great surpri=
se.
She seemed to speak the truth; her countenance was white and agitated; and =
she
trembled with very earnestness.
'I
have saved you from being ill-used once, and I will again, and I do now,'
continued the girl aloud; 'for those who would have fetched you, if I had n=
ot,
would have been far more rough than me. I have promised for your being quiet
and silent; if you are not, you will only do harm to yourself and me too, a=
nd
perhaps be my death. See here! I have borne all this for you already, as tr=
ue
as God sees me show it.'
She
pointed, hastily, to some livid bruises on her neck and arms; and continued,
with great rapidity:
'Remember
this! And don't let me suffer more for you, just now. If I could help you, I
would; but I have not the power. They don't mean to harm you; whatever they
make you do, is no fault of yours. Hush! Every word from you is a blow for =
me.
Give me your hand. Make haste! Your hand!'
She
caught the hand which Oliver instinctively placed in hers, and, blowing out=
the
light, drew him after her up the stairs. The door was opened, quickly, by s=
ome
one shrouded in the darkness, and was as quickly closed, when they had pass=
ed
out. A hackney-cabriolet was in waiting; with the same vehemence which she =
had
exhibited in addressing Oliver, the girl pulled him in with her, and drew t=
he
curtains close. The driver wanted no directions, but lashed his horse into =
full
speed, without the delay of an instant.
The
girl still held Oliver fast by the hand, and continued to pour into his ear,
the warnings and assurances she had already imparted. All was so quick and
hurried, that he had scarcely time to recollect where he was, or how he came
there, when the carriage stopped at the house to which the Jew's steps had =
been
directed on the previous evening.
For
one brief moment, Oliver cast a hurried glance along the empty street, and a
cry for help hung upon his lips. But the girl's voice was in his ear,
beseeching him in such tones of agony to remember her, that he had not the
heart to utter it. While he hesitated, the opportunity was gone; he was alr=
eady
in the house, and the door was shut.
'This
way,' said the girl, releasing her hold for the first time. 'Bill!'
'Hallo!'
replied Sikes: appearing at the head of the stairs, with a candle. 'Oh! Tha=
t's
the time of day. Come on!'
This
was a very strong expression of approbation, an uncommonly hearty welcome, =
from
a person of Mr Sikes' temperament. Nancy, appearing much gratified thereby,
saluted him cordially.
'Bull's-eye's
gone home with Tom,' observed Sikes, as he lighted them up. 'He'd have been=
in
the way.'
'That's
right,' rejoined Nancy.
'So
you've got the kid,' said Sikes when they had all reached the room: closing=
the
door as he spoke.
'Yes,
here he is,' replied Nancy.
'Did
he come quiet?' inquired Sikes.
'Like
a lamb,' rejoined Nancy.
'I'm
glad to hear it,' said Sikes, looking grimly at Oliver; 'for the sake of his
young carcase: as would otherways have suffered for it. Come here, young 'u=
n;
and let me read you a lectur', which is as well got over at once.'
Thus
addressing his new pupil, Mr Sikes pulled off Oliver's cap and threw it int=
o a
corner; and then, taking him by the shoulder, sat himself down by the table,
and stood the boy in front of him.
'Now,
first: do you know wot this is?' inquired Sikes, taking up a pocket-pistol
which lay on the table.
Oliver
replied in the affirmative.
'Well,
then, look here,' continued Sikes. 'This is powder; that 'ere's a bullet; a=
nd
this is a little bit of a old hat for waddin'.'
Oliver
murmured his comprehension of the different bodies referred to; and Mr Sikes
proceeded to load the pistol, with great nicety and deliberation.
'Now
it's loaded,' said Mr Sikes, when he had finished.
'Yes,
I see it is, sir,' replied Oliver.
'Well,'
said the robber, grasping Oliver's wrist, and putting the barrel so close to
his temple that they touched; at which moment the boy could not repress a
start; 'if you speak a word when you're out o'doors with me, except when I
speak to you, that loading will be in your head without notice. So, if you =
do make up your mind to speak with=
out
leave, say your prayers first.'
Having
bestowed a scowl upon the object of this warning, to increase its effect, Mr
Sikes continued.
'As
near as I know, there isn't anybody as would be asking very partickler arter
you, if you was disposed of; so=
I
needn't take this devil-and-all of trouble to explain matters to you, if it
warn't for your own good. D'ye hear me?'
'The
short and the long of what you mean,' said Nancy: speaking very emphaticall=
y,
and slightly frowning at Oliver as if to bespeak his serious attention to h=
er
words: 'is, that if you're crossed by him in this job you have on hand, you=
'll
prevent his ever telling tales afterwards, by shooting him through the head,
and will take your chance of swinging for it, as you do for a great many ot=
her
things in the way of business, every month of your life.'
'That's
it!' observed Mr Sikes, approvingly; 'women can always put things in fewest
words. - Except when it's blowing up; and then they lengthens it out. And n=
ow
that he's thoroughly up to it, let's have some supper, and get a snooze bef=
ore
starting.'
In
pursuance of this request, Nancy quickly laid the cloth; disappearing for a=
few
minutes, she presently returned with a pot of porter and a dish of sheep's
heads: which gave occasion to several pleasant witticisms on the part of Mr
Sikes, founded upon the singular coincidence of 'jemmies' being a can name,
common to them, and also to an ingenious implement much used in his profess=
ion.
Indeed, the worthy gentleman, stimulated perhaps by the immediate prospect =
of
being on active service, was in great spirits and good humour; in proof
whereof, it may be here remarked, that he humourously drank all the beer at=
a
draught, and did not utter, on a rough calculation, more than four-score oa=
ths
during the whole progress of the meal.
Supper
being ended - it may be easily conceived that Oliver had no great appetite =
for
it - Mr Sikes disposed of a couple of glasses of spirits and water, and thr=
ew
himself on the bed; ordering Nancy, with many imprecations in case of failu=
re,
to call him at five precisely. Oliver stretched himself in his clothes, by
command of the same authority, on a mattress upon the floor; and the girl,
mending the fire, sat before it, in readiness to rouse them at the appointed
time.
For
a long time Oliver lay awake, thinking it not impossible that Nancy might s=
eek
that opportunity of whispering some further advice; but the girl sat broodi=
ng
over the fire, without moving, save now and then to trim the light. Weary w=
ith
watching and anxiety, he at length fell asleep.
When
he awoke, the table was covered with tea-things, and Sikes was thrusting
various articles into the pockets of his great-coat, which hung over the ba=
ck
of a chair. Nancy was busily engaged in preparing breakfast. It was not yet
daylight; for the candle was still burning, and it was quite dark outside. A
sharp rain, too, was beating against the window-panes; and the sky looked b=
lack
and cloudy.
'Now,
then!' growled Sikes, as Oliver started up; 'half-past five! Look sharp, or
you'll get no breakfast; for it's late as it is.'
Oliver
was not long in making his toilet; having taken some breakfast, he replied =
to a
surly inquiry from Sikes, by saying that he was quite ready.
Nancy,
scarcely looking at the boy, threw him a handkerchief to tie round his thro=
at;
Sikes gave him a large rough cape to button over his shoulders. Thus attire=
d,
he gave his hand to the robber, who, merely pausing to show him with a mena=
cing
gesture that he had that same pistol in a side-pocket of his great-coat,
clasped it firmly in his, and, exchanging a farewell with Nancy, led him aw=
ay.
Oliver
turned, for an instant, when they reached the door, in the hope of meeting a
look from the girl. But she had resumed her old seat in front of the fire, =
and
sat, perfectly motionless before it.
It
was a cheerless morning when they got into the street; blowing and raining
hard; and the clouds looking dull and stormy. The night had been very wet:
large pools of water had collected in the road: and the kennels were
overflowing. There was a faint glimmering of the coming day in the sky; but=
it
rather aggravated than relieved the gloom of the scene: the sombre light on=
ly
serving to pale that which the street lamps afforded, without shedding any
warmer or brighter tints upon the wet house-tops, and dreary streets. There
appeared to be nobody stirring in that quarter of the town; the windows of =
the
houses were all closely shut; and the streets through which they passed, we=
re
noiseless and empty.
By
the time they had turned into the Bethnal Green Road, the day had fairly be=
gun
to break. Many of the lamps were already extinguished; a few country waggons
were slowly toiling on, towards London; now and then, a stage-coach, covered
with mud, rattled briskly by: the driver bestowing, as he passed, an admoni=
tory
lash upon the heavy waggoner who, by keeping on the wrong side of the road,=
had
endangered his arriving at the office, a quarter of a minute after his time.
The public-houses, with gas-lights burning inside, were already open. By
degrees, other shops began to be unclosed, and a few scattered people were =
met
with. Then, came straggling groups of labourers going to their work; then, =
men
and women with fish-baskets on their heads; donkey-carts laden with vegetab=
les;
chaise-carts filled with live-stock or whole carcasses of meat; milk-women =
with
pails; an unbroken concourse of people, trudging out with various supplies =
to
the eastern suburbs of the town. As they approached the City, the noise and
traffic gradually increased; when they threaded the streets between Shoredi=
tch
and Smithfield, it had swelled into a roar of sound and bustle. It was as l=
ight
as it was likely to be, till night came on again, and the busy morning of h=
alf
the London population had begun.
Turning
down Sun Street and Crown Street, and crossing Finsbury square, Mr Sikes
struck, by way of Chiswell Street, into Barbican: thence into Long Lane, an=
d so
into Smithfield; from which latter place arose a tumult of discordant sounds
that filled Oliver Twist with amazement.
It
was market-morning. The ground was covered, nearly ankle-deep, with filth a=
nd
mire; a thick steam, perpetually rising from the reeking bodies of the catt=
le,
and mingling with the fog, which seemed to rest upon the chimney-tops, hung
heavily above. All the pens in the centre of the large area, and as many
temporary pens as could be crowded into the vacant space, were filled with
sheep; tied up to posts by the gutter side were long lines of beasts and ox=
en,
three or four deep. Countrymen, butchers, drovers, hawkers, boys, thieves,
idlers, and vagabonds of every low grade, were mingled together in a mass; =
the
whistling of drovers, the barking dogs, the bellowing and plunging of the o=
xen,
the bleating of sheep, the grunting and squeaking of pigs, the cries of
hawkers, the shouts, oaths, and quarrelling on all sides; the ringing of be=
lls
and roar of voices, that issued from every public-house; the crowding, push=
ing,
driving, beating, whooping and yelling; the hideous and discordant dim that
resounded from every corner of the market; and the unwashed, unshaven, squa=
lid,
and dirty figures constantly running to and fro, and bursting in and out of=
the
throng; rendered it a stunning and bewildering scene, which quite confounded
the senses.
Mr
Sikes, dragging Oliver after him, elbowed his way through the thickest of t=
he
crowd, and bestowed very little attention on the numerous sights and sounds,
which so astonished the boy. He nodded, twice or thrice, to a passing frien=
d;
and, resisting as many invitations to take a morning dram, pressed steadily
onward, until they were clear of the turmoil, and had made their way through
Hosier Lane into Holborn.
'Now, young 'un!' said Sikes, looking up at the clock of St. Andrew's Church, 'ha= rd upon seven! you must step out. Come, don't lag behind already, Lazy-legs!'<= o:p>
Mr
Sikes accompanied this speech with a jerk at his little companion's wrist;
Oliver, quickening his pace into a kind of trot between a fast walk and a r=
un,
kept up with the rapid strides of the house-breaker as well as he could.
They
held their course at this rate, until they had passed Hyde Park corner, and
were on their way to Kensington: when Sikes relaxed his pace, until an empty
cart which was at some little distance behind, came up. Seeing 'Hounslow'
written on it, he asked the driver with as much civility as he could assume=
, if
he would give them a lift as far as Isleworth.
'Jump
up,' said the man. 'Is that your boy?'
'Yes;
he's my boy,' replied Sikes, looking hard at Oliver, and putting his hand
abstractedly into the pocket where the pistol was.
'Your
father walks rather too quick for you, don't he, my man?' inquired the driv=
er:
seeing that Oliver was out of breath.
'Not
a bit of it,' replied Sikes, interposing. 'He's used to it.
Here,
take hold of my hand, Ned. In with you!'
Thus
addressing Oliver, he helped him into the cart; and the driver, pointing to=
a
heap of sacks, told him to lie down there, and rest himself.
As
they passed the different mile-stones, Oliver wondered, more and more, where
his companion meant to take him. Kensington, Hammersmith, Chiswick, Kew Bri=
dge,
Brentford, were all passed; and yet they went on as steadily as if they had
only just begun their journey. At length, they came to a public-house called
the Coach and Horses; a little way beyond which, another road appeared to r=
un
off. And here, the cart stopped.
Sikes
dismounted with great precipitation, holding Oliver by the hand all the whi=
le;
and lifting him down directly, bestowed a furious look upon him, and rapped=
the
side-pocket with his fist, in a significant manner.
'Good-bye,
boy,' said the man.
'He's
sulky,' replied Sikes, giving him a shake; 'he's sulky. A young dog! Don't =
mind
him.'
'Not
I!' rejoined the other, getting into his cart. 'It's a fine day, after all.'
And he drove away.
Sikes
waited until he had fairly gone; and then, telling Oliver he might look abo=
ut
him if he wanted, once again led him onward on his journey.
They
turned round to the left, a short way past the public-house; and then, taki=
ng a
right-hand road, walked on for a long time: passing many large gardens and
gentlemen's houses on both sides of the way, and stopping for nothing but a
little beer, until they reached a town. Here against the wall of a house,
Oliver saw written up in pretty large letters, 'Hampton.' They lingered abo=
ut,
in the fields, for some hours. At length they came back into the town; and,
turning into an old public-house with a defaced sign-board, ordered some di=
nner
by the kitchen fire.
The
kitchen was an old, low-roofed room; with a great beam across the middle of=
the
ceiling, and benches, with high backs to them, by the fire; on which were
seated several rough men in smock-frocks, drinking and smoking. They took no
notice of Oliver; and very little of Sikes; and, as Sikes took very little
notice of them, he and his young comrade sat in a corner by themselves, wit=
hout
being much troubled by their company.
They
had some cold meat for dinner, and sat so long after it, while Mr Sikes
indulged himself with three or four pipes, that Oliver began to feel quite =
certain
they were not going any further. Being much tired with the walk, and gettin=
g up
so early, he dozed a little at first; then, quite overpowered by fatigue and
the fumes of the tobacco, fell asleep.
It
was quite dark when he was awakened by a push from Sikes. Rousing himself
sufficiently to sit up and look about him, he found that worthy in close
fellowship and communication with a labouring man, over a pint of ale.
'So,
you're going on to Lower Halliford, are you?' inquired Sikes.
'Yes,
I am,' replied the man, who seemed a little the worse - or better, as the c=
ase
might be - for drinking; 'and not slow about it neither. My horse hasn't go=
t a
load behind him going back, as he had coming up in the mornin'; and he won'=
t be
long a-doing of it. Here's luck to him. Ecod! he's a good 'un!'
'Could
you give my boy and me a lift as far as there?' demanded Sikes, pushing the=
ale
towards his new friend.
'If
you're going directly, I can,' replied the man, looking out of the pot. 'Are
you going to Halliford?'
'Going
on to Shepperton,' replied Sikes.
'I'm
your man, as far as I go,' replied the other. 'Is all paid, Becky?'
'Yes,
the other gentleman's paid,' replied the girl.
'I
say!' said the man, with tipsy gravity; 'that won't do, you know.'
'Why
not?' rejoined Sikes. 'You're a-going to accommodate us, and wot's to preve=
nt
my standing treat for a pint or so, in return?'
The
stranger reflected upon this argument, with a very profound face; having do=
ne
so, he seized Sikes by the hand: and declared he was a real good fellow. To
which Mr Sikes replied, he was joking; as, if he had been sober, there would
have been strong reason to suppose he was.
After
the exchange of a few more compliments, they bade the company good-night, a=
nd
went out; the girl gathering up the pots and glasses as they did so, and
lounging out to the door, with her hands full, to see the party start.
The
horse, whose health had been drunk in his absence, was standing outside: re=
ady
harnessed to the cart. Oliver and Sikes got in without any further ceremony;
and the man to whom he belonged, having lingered for a minute or two 'to be=
ar
him up,' and to defy the hostler and the world to produce his equal, mounted
also. Then, the hostler was told to give the horse his head; and, his head
being given him, he made a very unpleasant use of it: tossing it into the a=
ir
with great disdain, and running into the parlour windows over the way; after
performing those feats, and supporting himself for a short time on his
hind-legs, he started off at great speed, and rattled out of the town right
gallantly.
The
night was very dark. A damp mist rose from the river, and the marshy ground
about; and spread itself over the dreary fields. It was piercing cold, too;=
all
was gloomy and black. Not a word was spoken; for the driver had grown sleep=
y;
and Sikes was in no mood to lead him into conversation. Oliver sat huddled
together, in a corner of the cart; bewildered with alarm and apprehension; =
and
figuring strange objects in the gaunt trees, whose branches waved grimly to=
and
fro, as if in some fantastic joy at the desolation of the scene.
As
they passed Sunbury Church, the clock struck seven. There was a light in the
ferry-house window opposite: which streamed across the road, and threw into
more sombre shadow a dark yew-tree with graves beneath it. There was a dull
sound of falling water not far off; and the leaves of the old tree stirred
gently in the night wind. It seemed like quiet music for the repose of the
dead.
Sunbury
was passed through, and they came again into the lonely road. Two or three
miles more, and the cart stopped. Sikes alighted, took Oliver by the hand, =
and
they once again walked on.
They
turned into no house at Shepperton, as the weary boy had expected; but still
kept walking on, in mud and darkness, through gloomy lanes and over cold op=
en
wastes, until they came within sight of the lights of a town at no great
distance. On looking intently forward, Oliver saw that the water was just b=
elow
them, and that they were coming to the foot of a bridge.
Sikes
kept straight on, until they were close upon the bridge; then turned sudden=
ly
down a bank upon the left.
'The
water!' thought Oliver, turning sick with fear. 'He has brought me to this
lonely place to murder me!'
He
was about to throw himself on the ground, and make one struggle for his you=
ng
life, when he saw that they stood before a solitary house: all ruinous and
decayed. There was a window on each side of the dilapidated entrance; and o=
ne
story above; but no light was visible. The house was dark, dismantled: and =
the
all appearance, uninhabited.
Sikes,
with Oliver's hand still in his, softly approached the low porch, and raised
the latch. The door yielded to the pressure, and they passed in together.
'Hallo!'
cried a loud, hoarse voice, as soon as they set foot in the passage.
'Don't
make such a row,' said Sikes, bolting the door. 'Show a glim, Toby.'
'Aha!
my pal!' cried the same voice. 'A glim, Barney, a glim! Show the gentleman =
in,
Barney; wake up first, if convenient.'
The
speaker appeared to throw a boot-jack, or some such article, at the person =
he
addressed, to rouse him from his slumbers: for the noise of a wooden body,
falling violently, was heard; and then an indistinct muttering, as of a man
between sleep and awake.
'Do
you hear?' cried the same voice. 'There's Bill Sikes in the passage with no=
body
to do the civil to him; and you sleeping there, as if you took laudanum with
your meals, and nothing stronger. Are you any fresher now, or do you want t=
he
iron candlestick to wake you thoroughly?'
A
pair of slipshod feet shuffled, hastily, across the bare floor of the room,=
as
this interrogatory was put; and there issued, from a door on the right hand;
first, a feeble candle: and next, the form of the same individual who has b=
een
heretofore described as labouring under the infirmity of speaking through h=
is
nose, and officiating as waiter at the public-house on Saffron Hill.
'Bister
Sikes!' exclaimed Barney, with real or counterfeit joy; 'cub id, sir; cub i=
d.'
'Here!
you get on first,' said Sikes, putting Oliver in front of him. 'Quicker! or=
I
shall tread upon your heels.'
Muttering
a curse upon his tardiness, Sikes pushed Oliver before him; and they entere=
d a
low dark room with a smoky fire, two or three broken chairs, a table, and a
very old couch: on which, with his legs much higher than his head, a man was
reposing at full length, smoking a long clay pipe. He was dressed in a
smartly-cut snuff-coloured coat, with large brass buttons; an orange
neckerchief; a coarse, staring, shawl-pattern waistcoat; and drab breeches.=
Mr
Crackit (for he it was) had no very great quantity of hair, either upon his
head or face; but what he had, was of a reddish dye, and tortured into long
corkscrew curls, through which he occasionally thrust some very dirty finge=
rs,
ornamented with large common rings. He was a trifle above the middle size, =
and
apparently rather weak in the legs; but this circumstance by no means detra=
cted
from his own admiration of his top-boots, which he contemplated, in their
elevated situation, with lively satisfaction.
'Bill,
my boy!' said this figure, turning his head towards the door, 'I'm glad to =
see
you. I was almost afraid you'd given it up: in which case I should have mad=
e a
personal wentur. Hallo!'
Uttering
this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as his eyes rested on Oliver,=
Mr
Toby Crackit brought himself into a sitting posture, and demanded who that =
was.
'The
boy. Only the boy!' replied Sikes, drawing a chair towards the fire.
'Wud
of Bister Fagid's lads,' exclaimed Barney, with a grin.
'Fagin's,
eh!' exclaimed Toby, looking at Oliver. 'Wot an inwalable boy that'll make,=
for
the old ladies' pockets in chapels! His mug is a fortin' to him.'
'There
- there's enough of that,' interposed Sikes, impatiently; and stooping over=
his
recumbant friend, he whispered a few words in his ear: at which Mr Crackit
laughed immensely, and honoured Oliver with a long stare of astonishment.
'Now,'
said Sikes, as he resumed his seat, 'if you'll give us something to eat and
drink while we're waiting, you'll put some heart in us; or in me, at all
events. Sit down by the fire, younker, and rest yourself; for you'll have t=
o go
out with us again to-night, though not very far off.'
Oliver
looked at Sikes, in mute and timid wonder; and drawing a stool to the fire,=
sat
with his aching head upon his hands, scarecely knowing where he was, or what
was passing around him.
'Here,'
said Toby, as the young Jew placed some fragments of food, and a bottle upon
the table, 'Success to the crack!' He rose to honour the toast; and, carefu=
lly
depositing his empty pipe in a corner, advanced to the table, filled a glass
with spirits, and drank off its contents. Mr Sikes did the same.
'A
drain for the boy,' said Toby, half-filling a wine-glass. 'Down with it,
innocence.'
'Indeed,'
said Oliver, looking piteously up into the man's face; 'indeed, I - '
'Down
with it!' echoed Toby. 'Do you think I don't know what's good for you? Tell=
him
to drink it, Bill.'
'He
had better!' said Sikes clapping his hand upon his pocket. 'Burn my body, i=
f he
isn't more trouble than a whole family of Dodgers. Drink it, you perwerse i=
mp;
drink it!'
Frightened
by the menacing gestures of the two men, Oliver hastily swallowed the conte=
nts
of the glass, and immediately fell into a violent fit of coughing: which
delighted Toby Crackit and Barney, and even drew a smile from the surly Mr
Sikes.
This
done, and Sikes having satisfied his appetite (Oliver could eat nothing but=
a
small crust of bread which they made him swallow), the two men laid themsel=
ves
down on chairs for a short nap. Oliver retained his stool by the fire; Barn=
ey
wrapped in a blanket, stretched himself on the floor: close outside the fen=
der.
They
slept, or appeared to sleep, for some time; nobody stirring but Barney, who
rose once or twice to throw coals on the fire. Oliver fell into a heavy doz=
e:
imagining himself straying along the gloomy lanes, or wandering about the d=
ark
churchyard, or retracing some one or other of the scenes of the past day: w=
hen
he was roused by Toby Crackit jumping up and declaring it was half-past one=
.
In an instant, the other two were on their legs, and all were actively engaged= in busy preparation. Sikes and his companion enveloped their necks and chins in large dark shawls, and drew on their great-coats; Barney, opening a cupboar= d, brought forth several articles, which he hastily crammed into the pockets.<= o:p>
'Barkers
for me, Barney,' said Toby Crackit.
'Here
they are,' replied Barney, producing a pair of pistols. 'You loaded them
yourself.'
'All
right!' replied Toby, stowing them away. 'The persuaders?'
'I've
got 'em,' replied Sikes.
'Crape,
keys, centre-bits, darkies - nothing forgotten?' inquired Toby: fastening a
small crowbar to a loop inside the skirt of his coat.
'All
right,' rejoined his companion. 'Bring them bits of timber, Barney. That's =
the
time of day.'
With
these words, he took a thick stick from Barney's hands, who, having deliver=
ed
another to Toby, busied himself in fastening on Oliver's cape.
'Now
then!' said Sikes, holding out his hand.
Oliver:
who was completely stupified by the unwonted exercise, and the air, and the
drink which had been forced upon him: put his hand mechanically into that w=
hich
Sikes extended for the purpose.
'Take
his other hand, Toby,' said Sikes. 'Look out, Barney.'
The
man went to the door, and returned to announce that all was quiet. The two
robbers issued forth with Oliver between them. Barney, having made all fast,
rolled himself up as before, and was soon asleep again.
It
was now intensely dark. The fog was much heavier than it had been in the ea=
rly
part of the night; and the atmosphere was so damp, that, although no rain f=
ell,
Oliver's hair and eyebrows, within a few minutes after leaving the house, h=
ad
become stiff with the half-frozen moisture that was floating about. They
crossed the bridge, and kept on towards the lights which he had seen before.
They were at no great distance off; and, as they walked pretty briskly, they
soon arrived at Chertsey.
'Slap
through the town,' whispered Sikes; 'there'll be nobody in the way, to-nigh=
t,
to see us.'
Toby
acquiesced; and they hurried through the main street of the little town, wh=
ich
at that late hour was wholly deserted. A dim light shone at intervals from =
some
bed-room window; and the hoarse barking of dogs occasionally broke the sile=
nce
of the night. But there was nobody abroad. They had cleared the town, as the
church-bell struck two.
Quickening
their pace, they turned up a road upon the left hand. After walking about a=
quarter
of a mile, they stopped before a detached house surrounded by a wall: to the
top of which, Toby Crackit, scarcely pausing to take breath, climbed in a
twinkling.
'The
boy next,' said Toby. 'Hoist him up; I'll catch hold of him.'
Before
Oliver had time to look round, Sikes had caught him under the arms; and in
three or four seconds he and Toby were lying on the grass on the other side.
Sikes followed directly. And they stole cautiously towards the house.
And
now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and terror, saw t=
hat
housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the objects of the expeditio=
n.
He clasped his hands together, and involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamat=
ion
of horror. A mist came before his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy
face; his limbs failed him; and he sank upon his knees.
'Get
up!' murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol from his
pocket; 'Get up, or I'll strew your brains upon the grass.'
'Oh!
for God's sake let me go!' cried Oliver; 'let me run away and die in the
fields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray have mercy on=
me,
and do not make me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels that rest in
Heaven, have mercy upon me!'
The
man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had cocked the
pistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his hand upon the boy=
's
mouth, and dragged him to the house.
'Hush!'
cried the man; 'it won't answer here. Say another word, and I'll do your
business myself with a crack on the head. That makes no noise, and is quite=
as
certain, and more genteel. Here, Bill, wrench the shutter open. He's game
enough now, I'll engage. I've seen older hands of his age took the same way,
for a minute or two, on a cold night.'
Sikes,
invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin's head for sending Oliver on such=
an
errand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but with little noise. After some del=
ay,
and some assistance from Toby, the shutter to which he had referred, swung =
open
on its hinges.
It
was a little lattice window, about five feet and a half above the ground, at
the back of the house: which belonged to a scullery, or small brewing-place=
, at
the end of the passage. The aperture was so small, that the inmates had
probably not thought it worth while to defend it more securely; but it was
large enough to admit a boy of Oliver's size, nevertheless. A very brief
exercise of Mr Sike's art, sufficed to overcome the fastening of the lattic=
e;
and it soon stood wide open also.
'Now
listen, you young limb,' whispered Sikes, drawing a dark lantern from his
pocket, and throwing the glare full on Oliver's face; 'I'm a going to put y=
ou
through there. Take this light; go softly up the steps straight afore you, =
and
along the little hall, to the street door; unfasten it, and let us in.'
'There's
a bolt at the top, you won't be able to reach,' interposed Toby. 'Stand upon
one of the hall chairs. There are three there, Bill, with a jolly large blue
unicorn and gold pitchfork on 'em: which is the old lady's arms.'
'Keep
quiet, can't you?' replied Sikes, with a threatening look. 'The room-door is
open, is it?'
'Wide,'
replied Toby, after peeping in to satisfy himself. 'The game of that is, th=
at
they always leave it open with a catch, so that the dog, who's got a bed in
here, may walk up and down the passage when he feels wakeful. Ha! ha! Barney
'ticed him away to-night. So neat!'
Although
Mr Crackit spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, and laughed without noise,
Sikes imperiously commanded him to be silent, and to get to work. Toby
complied, by first producing his lantern, and placing it on the ground; the=
n by
planting himself firmly with his head against the wall beneath the window, =
and
his hands upon his knees, so as to make a step of his back. This was no soo=
ner
done, than Sikes, mounting upon him, put Oiver gently through the window wi=
th
his feet first; and, without leaving hold of his collar, planted him safely=
on
the floor inside.
'Take
this lantern,' said Sikes, looking into the room. 'You see the stairs afore
you?'
Oliver,
more dead than alive, gasped out, 'Yes.' Sikes, pointing to the street-door
with the pistol-barrel, briefly advised him to take notice that he was with=
in
shot all the way; and that if he faltered, he would fall dead that instant.=
'It's
done in a minute,' said Sikes, in the same low whisper. 'Directly I leave g=
o of
you, do your work. Hark!'
'What's
that?' whispered the other man.
They
listened intently.
'Nothing,'
said Sikes, releasing his hold of Oliver. 'Now!'
In
the short time he had had to collect his senses, the boy had firmly resolved
that, whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one effort to da=
rt
upstairs from the hall, and alarm the family. Filled with this idea, he
advanced at once, but stealthily.
'Come
back!' suddenly cried Sikes aloud. 'Back! back!'
Scared
by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and by a loud cry
which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew not whether to adv=
ance
or fly.
The cry was repeated - a light appeared - a vision of two terrified half-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes - a flash - a loud noise = - a smoke - a crash somewhere, but where he knew not, - and he staggered back.<= o:p>
Sikes
had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again, and had him by the col=
lar
before the smoke had cleared away. He fired his own pistol after the men, w=
ho
were already retreating; and dragged the boy up.
'Clasp
your arm tighter,' said Sikes, as he drew him through the window. 'Give me a
shawl here. They've hit him. Quick! How the boy bleeds!'
Then
came the loud ringing of a bell, mingled with the noise of fire-arms, and t=
he
shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried over uneven ground at a r=
apid
pace. And then, the noises grew confused in the distance; and a cold deadly
feeling crept over the boy's heart; and he saw or heard no more.
The
night was bitter cold. The snow lay on the ground, frozen into a hard thick
crust, so that only the heaps that had drifted into byways and corners were
affected by the sharp wind that howled abroad: which, as if expending incre=
ased
fury on such prey as it found, caught it savagely up in clouds, and, whirli=
ng
it into a thousand misty eddies, scattered it in air. Bleak, dark, and pier=
cing
cold, it was a night for the well-housed and fed to draw round the bright f=
ire
and thank God they were at home; and for the homeless, starving wretch to l=
ay
him down and die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare
streets, at such times, who, let their crimes have been what they may, can
hardly open them in a more bitter world.
Such
was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs, when Mrs Corney, the matron of the
workhouse to which our readers have been already introduced as the birthpla=
ce
of Oliver Twist, sat herself down before a cheerful fire in her own little
room, and glanced, with no small degree of complacency, at a small round ta=
ble:
on which stood a tray of corresponding size, furnished with all necessary
materials for the most grateful meal that matrons enjoy. In fact, Mrs Corney
was about to solace herself with a cup of tea. As she glanced from the tabl=
e to
the fireplace, where the smallest of all possible kettles was singing a sma=
ll
song in a small voice, her inward satisfaction evidently increased, - so mu=
ch
so, indeed, that Mrs Corney smiled.
'Well!'
said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and looking reflectively at
the fire; 'I'm sure we have all on us a great deal to be grateful for! A gr=
eat
deal, if we did but know it. Ah!'
Mrs
Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental blindness of t=
hose
paupers who did not know it; and thrusting a silver spoon (private property)
into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin tea-caddy, proceeded to make the
tea.
How
slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds! The black
teapot, being very small and easily filled, ran over while Mrs Corney was
moralising; and the water slightly scalded Mrs Corney's hand.
'Drat
the pot!' said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on the hob; =
'a
little stupid thing, that only holds a couple of cups! What use is it of, to
anybody! Except,' said Mrs Corney, pausing, 'except to a poor desolate crea=
ture
like me. Oh dear!'
With
these words, the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more resting her
elbow on the table, thought of her solitary fate. The small teapot, and the
single cup, had awakened in her mind sad recollections of Mr Corney (who had
not been dead more than five-and-twenty years); and she was overpowered.
'I
shall never get another!' said Mrs Corney, pettishly; 'I shall never get
another - like him.'
Whether
this remark bore reference to the husband, or the teapot, is uncertain. It
might have been the latter; for Mrs Corney looked at it as she spoke; and t=
ook
it up afterwards. She had just tasted her first cup, when she was disturbed=
by
a soft tap at the room-door.
'Oh,
come in with you!' said Mrs Corney, sharply. 'Some of the old women dying, I
suppose. They always die when I'm at meals. Don't stand there, letting the =
cold
air in, don't. What's amiss now, eh?'
'Nothing,
ma'am, nothing,' replied a man's voice.
'Dear
me!' exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, '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,' said the matron.
'Hard,
indeed, ma'am,' replied the beadle. 'Anti-porochial 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?' said the matron, sipping her te=
a.
'When,
indeed, ma'am!' rejoined Mr Bumble. 'Why here's one man that, in considerat=
ion
of his wife and large family, has a quartern loaf and a good pound of chees=
e,
full weight. Is he grateful, ma'am? Is he grateful? Not a copper farthing's
worth of it! What does he do, ma'am, but ask for a few coals; if it's only a
pocket handkerchief full, he says! Coals! What would he do with coals? Toast
his cheese with 'em and then come back for more. 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.'
The
matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible simile; and the
beadle went on.
'I
never,' said Mr Bumble, 'see anything like the pitch it's got to. The day a=
fore
yesterday, a man - you have been a married woman, ma'am, and I may mention =
it
to you - a man, with hardly a rag upon his back (here Mrs Corney looked at =
the
floor), goes to our overseer's door when he has got company coming to dinne=
r;
and says, he must be relieved, Mrs Corney. As he wouldn't go away, and shoc=
ked
the company very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and ha=
lf a
pint of oatmeal. ‘My heart!’ says the ungrateful villain, ̵=
6;what's
the use of this to me? You migh=
t as
well give me a pair of iron spectacles!’ ‘Very good,’ says
our overseer, taking 'em away again, ‘you won't get anything else her=
e.’
‘Then I'll die in the streets!’ says the vagrant. ‘Oh no,=
you
won't,’ says our overseer.'
'Ha!
ha! That was very good! So like Mr Grannett, wasn't it?' interposed the mat=
ron.
'Well, Mr Bumble?'
'Well,
ma'am,' rejoined the beadle, 'he went away; and he did die in the streets. There's a obstinate pauper for you!'
'It
beats anything I could have believed,' observed the matron emphatically. 'B=
ut
don't you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing, any way, Mr Bumble? Yo=
u're
a gentleman of experience, and ought to know. Come.'
'Mrs
Corney,' said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious of superior
information, 'out-of-door relief, properly managed: properly managed, ma'am=
: is
the porochial safeguard. The great principle of out-of-door relief is, to g=
ive
the paupers exactly what they don't want; and then they get tired of coming=
.'
'Dear
me!' exclaimed Mrs Corney. 'Well, that is a good one, too!'
'Yes.
Betwixt you and me, ma'am,' returned Mr Bumble, 'that's the great principle;
and that's the reason why, if you look at any cases that get into them
owdacious newspapers, you'll always observe that sick families have been
relieved with slices of cheese. That's the rule now, Mrs Corney, all over t=
he
country. But, however,' said the beadle, stopping to unpack his bundle, 'th=
ese
are official secrets, ma'am; not to be spoken of; except, as I may say, amo=
ng
the porochial officers, such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma'am, th=
at
the board ordered for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine; only o=
ut
of the cask this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!'
Having
held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to test its
excellence, Mr Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of drawers; folded=
the
handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it carefully in his pocket;
and took up his hat, as if to go.
'You'll
have a very cold walk, Mr Bumble,' said the matron.
'It
blows, ma'am,' replied Mr Bumble, turning up his coat-collar, '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. She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. =
Mr
Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled.
Mrs
Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she sat down,=
her
eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle; she coloured, and
applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again Mr Bumble coughed - lo=
uder
this time than he had coughed yet.
'Sweet?
Mr Bumble?' inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin.
'Very
sweet, indeed, ma'am,' replied Mr Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs Corney a=
s he
said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr Bumble was that beadle at
that moment.
The
tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr Bumble, having spread a handkerchief
over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his sho=
rts,
began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching=
a
deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, =
on
the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toa=
st
department. 'You have a cat, ma'am, I see,' said Mr Bumble, glancing at one
who, in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; 'and kittens
too, I declare!'
'I
am so fond of them, Mr Bumble, you can't think,' replied the matron. 'They'=
re so happy, so frolicsome, and so=
i>
cheerful, that they are quite companions for me.'
'Very
nice animals, ma'am,' replied Mr Bumble, approvingly; 'so very domestic.'
'Oh,
yes!' rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; 'so fond of their home too, that
it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure.'
'Mrs
Corney, ma'am,' said Mr Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teasp=
oon,
'I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with y=
ou,
ma'am, and not be fond of its h=
ome,
must be a ass, ma'am.'
'Oh,
Mr Bumble!' remonstrated Mrs Corney.
'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,' said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand =
for
the beadle's cup; 'and a very hard-hearted man besides.'
'Hard-hearted,
ma'am?' said Mr Bumble. '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; and as Mrs Corney and Mr Bumble had been sitting opposite
each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it wil=
l be
seen that Mr Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keeping at the ta=
ble,
increased the distance between himself and Mrs Corney; which proceeding, so=
me
prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an ac=
t of
great heroism on Mr Bumble's part: he being in some sort tempted by time,
place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings, which
however well they may become the lips of the light and thoughtless, do seem
immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the land, members of parliame=
nt,
ministers of state, lord mayors, and other great public functionaries, but =
more
particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who (as is we=
ll
known) should be the sternest and most inflexible among them all.
Whatever
were Mr Bumble's intentions, however (and no doubt they were of the best): =
it
unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that the table w=
as a
round one; consequently Mr Bumble, moving his chair by little and little, s=
oon
began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron; and, continu=
ing
to travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, c=
lose
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 scorche=
d 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 g=
lance)
she remained where she was, and handed Mr Bumble another cup of tea.
'Hard-hearted,
Mrs Corney?' said Mr Bumble, stirring his tea, and looking up into the matr=
on's
face; 'are you hard-hearted, Mrs
Corney?'
'Dear
me!' exclaimed the matron, '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 t=
he
crumbs off his knees; wiped his lips; and deliberately kissed the matron.
'Mr
Bumble!' cried that discreet lady in a whisper; for the fright was so great,
that she had quite lost her voice, 'Mr Bumble, I shall scream!' Mr Bumble m=
ade
no reply; but in a slow and dignified manner, put his arm round the matron's
waist.
As
the lady had stated her intention of screaming, of course she would have
screamed at this additional boldness, but that the exertion was rendered
unnecessary by a hasty knocking at the door: which was no sooner heard, tha=
n Mr
Bumble darted, with much agility, to the wine bottles, and began dusting th=
em
with great violence: while the matron sharply demanded who was there.
It
is worthy of remark, as a curious physical instance of the efficacy of a su=
dden
surprise in counteracting the effects of extreme fear, that her voice had q=
uite
recovered all its official asperity.
'If
you please, mistress,' said a withered old female pauper, hideously ugly:
putting her head in at the door, 'Old Sally is a-going fast.'
'Well,
what's that to me?' angrily demanded the matron. 'I can't keep her alive, c=
an
I?'
'No,
no, mistress,' replied the old woman, 'nobody can; she's far beyond the rea=
ch
of help. I've seen a many people die; little babes and great strong men; an=
d I
know when death's a-coming, well enough. But she's troubled in her mind: and
when the fits are not on her, - and that's not often, for she is dying very
hard, - she says she has got something to tell, which you must hear. She'll
never die quiet till you come, mistress.'
At
this intelligence, the worthy Mrs Corney muttered a variety of invectives
against old women who couldn't even die without purposely annoying their
betters; and, muffling herself in a thick shawl which she hastily caught up,
briefly requested Mr Bumble to stay till she came back, lest anything
particular should occur. Bidding the messenger walk fast, and not be all ni=
ght
hobbling up the stairs, she followed her from the room with a very ill grac=
e,
scolding all the way.
Mr
Bumble's conduct on being left to himself, was rather inexplicable. He open=
ed
the closet, counted the teaspoons, weighed the sugar-tongs, closely inspect=
ed a
silver milk-pot to ascertain that it was of the genuine metal, and, having
satisfied his curiosity on these points, put on his cocked hat corner-wise,=
and
danced with much gravity four distinct times round the table.
Having
gone through this very extraordinary performance, he took off the cocked hat
again, and, spreading himself before the fire with his back towards it, see=
med
to be mentally engaged in taking an exact inventory of the furniture.
It
was no unfit messenger of death, who had disturbed the quiet of the matron's
room. Her body was bent by age; her limbs trembled with palsy; her face,
distorted into a mumbling leer, resembled more the grotesque shaping of some
wild pencil, than the work of Nature's hand.
Alas!
How few of Nature's faces are left alone to gladden us with their beauty! T=
he
cares, and sorrows, and hungerings, of the world, change them as they change
hearts; and it is only when those passions sleep, and have lost their hold =
for
ever, that the troubled clouds pass off, and leave Heaven's surface clear. =
It
is a common thing for the countenances of the dead, even in that fixed and
rigid state, to subside into the long-forgotten expression of sleeping infa=
ncy,
and settle into the very look of early life; so calm, so peaceful, do they =
grow
again, that those who knew them in their happy childhood, kneel by the coff=
in's
side in awe, and see the Angel even upon earth.
The
old crone tottered along the passages, and up the stairs, muttering some
indistinct answers to the chidings of her companion; being at length compel=
led
to pause for breath, she gave the light into her hand, and remained behind =
to
follow as she might: while the more nimble superior made her way to the room
where the sick woman lay.
It
was a bare garret-room, with a dim light burning at the farther end. There =
was
another old woman watching by the bed; the parish apothecary's apprentice w=
as
standing by the fire, making a toothpick out of a quill.
'Cold
night, Mrs Corney,' said this young gentleman, as the matron entered.
'Very
cold, indeed, sir,' replied the mistress, in her most civil tones, and drop=
ping
a curtsey as she spoke.
'You
should get better coals out of your contractors,' said the apothecary's dep=
uty,
breaking a lump on the top of the fire with the rusty poker; 'these are not=
at
all the sort of thing for a cold night.'
'They're
the board's choosing, sir,' returned the matron. 'The least they could do,
would be to keep us pretty warm: for our places are hard enough.'
The
conversation was here interrupted by a moan from the sick woman.
'Oh!'
said the young mag, turning his face towards the bed, as if he had previous=
ly
quite forgotten the patient, 'it's all U.P. there, Mrs Corney.'
'It
is, is it, sir?' asked the matron.
'If
she lasts a couple of hours, I shall be surprised,' said the apothecary's
apprentice, intent upon the toothpick's point. 'It's a break-up of the syst=
em
altogether. Is she dozing, old lady?'
The
attendant stooped over the bed, to ascertain; and nodded in the affirmative=
.
'Then
perhaps she'll go off in that way, if you don't make a row,' said the young
man. 'Put the light on the floor. She won't see it there.'
The
attendant did as she was told: shaking her head meanwhile, to intimate that=
the
woman would not die so easily; having done so, she resumed her seat by the =
side
of the other nurse, who had by this time returned. The mistress, with an
expression of impatience, wrapped herself in her shawl, and sat at the foot=
of
the bed.
The
apothecary's apprentice, having completed the manufacture of the toothpick,
planted himself in front of the fire and made good use of it for ten minute=
s or
so: when apparently growing rather dull, he wished Mrs Corney joy of her jo=
b,
and took himself off on tiptoe.
When
they had sat in silence for some time, the two old women rose from the bed,=
and
crouching over the fire, held out their withered hands to catch the heat. T=
he
flame threw a ghastly light on their shrivelled faces, and made their uglin=
ess
appear terrible, as, in this position, they began to converse in a low voic=
e.
'Did
she say any more, Anny dear, while I was gone?' inquired the messenger.
'Not
a word,' replied the other. 'She plucked and tore at her arms for a little
time; but I held her hands, and she soon dropped off. She hasn't much stren=
gth
in her, so I easily kept her quiet. I ain't so weak for an old woman, altho=
ugh
I am on parish allowance; no, no!'
'Did
she drink the hot wine the doctor said she was to have?' demanded the first=
.
'I
tried to get it down,' rejoined the other. 'But her teeth were tight set, a=
nd
she clenched the mug so hard that it was as much as I could do to get it ba=
ck
again. So I drank it; and it did me good!'
Looking
cautiously round, to ascertain that they were not overheard, the two hags
cowered nearer to the fire, and chuckled heartily.
'I
mind the time,' said the first speaker, 'when she would have done the same,=
and
made rare fun of it afterwards.'
'Ay,
that she would,' rejoined the other; 'she had a merry heart. 'A many, many,
beautiful corpses she laid out, as nice and neat as waxwork. My old eyes ha=
ve
seen them - ay, and those old hands touched them too; for I have helped her,
scores of times.'
Stretching
forth her trembling fingers as she spoke, the old creature shook them
exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket, brought out an old
time-discoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook a few grains into the
outstretched palm of her companion, and a few more into her own. While they
were thus employed, the matron, who had been impatiently watching until the
dying woman should awaken from her stupor, joined them by the fire, and sha=
rply
asked how long she was to wait?
'Not
long, mistress,' replied the second woman, looking up into her face. 'We ha=
ve
none of us long to wait for Death. Patience, patience! He'll be here soon
enough for us all.'
'Hold
your tongue, you doting idiot!' said the matron sternly. 'You, Martha, tell=
me;
has she been in this way before?'
'Often,'
answered the first woman.
'But
will never be again,' added the second one; 'that is, she'll never wake aga=
in
but once - and mind, mistress, that won't be for long!'
'Long
or short,' said the matron, snappishly, 'she won't find me here when she do=
es
wake; take care, both of you, how you worry me again for nothing. It's no p=
art
of my duty to see all the old women in the house die, and I won't - that's
more. Mind that, you impudent old harridans. If you make a fool of me again,
I'll soon cure you, I warrant you!'
She
was bouncing away, when a cry from the two women, who had turned towards the
bed, caused her to look round. The patient had raised herself upright, and =
was
stretching her arms towards them.
'Who's
that?' she cried, in a hollow voice.
'Hush,
hush!' said one of the women, stooping over her. 'Lie down, lie down!'
'I'll
never lie down again alive!' said the woman, struggling. 'I will tell her! Come here! Nearer! =
Let me
whisper in your ear.'
She
clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her into a chair by the bedside,
was about to speak, when looking round, she caught sight of the two old wom=
en
bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners.
'Turn
them away,' said the woman, drowsily; 'make haste! make haste!'
The
two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous
lamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best friends; =
and
were uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her, when the
superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to the
bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and cried
through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlike=
ly; since,
in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she w=
as
labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been
privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy old la=
dies
themselves.
'Now
listen to me,' said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort to
revive one latent spark of energy. 'In this very room - in this very bed - I
once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought into the house with h=
er
feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She =
gave
birth to a boy, and died. Let me think - what was the year again!'
'Never
mind the year,' said the impatient auditor; 'what about her?'
'Ay,'
murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, 'what about
her? - what about - I know!' she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flush=
ed,
and her eyes starting from her head - 'I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't c=
old
- I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!'
'Stole
what, for God's sake?' cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call
for help.
'It!' replied the woman, laying her=
hand
over the other's mouth. 'The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep=
her
warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It
was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!'
'Gold!'
echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. 'Go on,=
go
on - yes - what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?'
'She
charge me to keep it safe,' replied the woman with a groan, 'and trusted me=
as
the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me
hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! T=
hey
would have treated him better, if they had known it all!'
'Known
what?' asked the other. 'Speak!'
'The
boy grew so like his mother,' said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding =
the
question, 'that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor
girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell=
. I
have not told you all, have I?'
'No,
no,' replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came
more faintly from the dying woman. 'Be quick, or it may be too late!'
'The
mother,' said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; 'the mot=
her,
when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her
baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel=
so
much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named. ‘And oh, kind Hea=
ven!’
she said, folding her thin hands together, ‘whether it be boy or girl,
raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a
lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!’'
'The
boy's name?' demanded the matron.
'They
called him Oliver,' replied the
woman, feebly. 'The gold I stole was - '
'Yes,
yes - what?' cried the other.
She
was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back,
instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting
posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indist=
inct
sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed.
*******
'Stone
dead!' said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opene=
d.
'And nothing to tell, after all,' rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away.<= o:p>
The
two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for
their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the
body.
Chapter XXV - Wherein This History Reverts To Mr Fagin=
And
Company
While
these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr Fagin sat in the old=
den
- the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl - brooding over a
dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had
apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he =
had
fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chin
resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars.
At
a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and Mr
Chitling: all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy against
Master Bates and Mr Chitling. The countenance of the first-named gentleman,
peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired great additional interest from
his close observance of the game, and his attentive perusal of Mr Chitling's
hand; upon which, from time to time, as occasion served, he bestowed a vari=
ety
of earnest glances: wisely regulating his own play by the result of his
observations upon his neighbour's cards. It being a cold night, the Dodger =
wore
his hat, as, indeed, was often his custom within doors. He also sustained a
clay pipe between his teeth, which he only removed for a brief space when he
deemed it necessary to apply for refreshment to a quart pot upon the table,
which stood ready filled with gin-and-water for the accommodation of the
company.
Master
Bates was also attentive to the play; but being of a more excitable nature =
than
his accomplished friend, it was observable that he more frequently applied
himself to the gin-and-water, and moreover indulged in many jests and
irrelevant remarks, all highly unbecoming a scientific rubber. Indeed, the
Artful, presuming upon their close attachment, more than once took occasion=
to
reason gravely with his companion upon these improprieties; all of which
remonstrances, Master Bates received in extremely good part; merely request=
ing
his friend to be 'blowed,' or to insert his head in a sack, or replying with
some other neatly-turned witticism of a similar kind, the happy application=
of
which, excited considerable admiration in the mind of Mr Chitling. It was
remarkable that the latter gentleman and his partner invariably lost; and t=
hat
the circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates, appeared to afford him=
the
highest amusement, inasmuch as he laughed most uproariously at the end of e=
very
deal, and protested that he had never seen such a jolly game in all his born
days.
'That's
two doubles and the rub,' said Mr Chitling, with a very long face, as he dr=
ew
half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket. 'I never see such a feller as you,
Jack; you win everything. Even when we've good cards, Charley and I can't m=
ake
nothing of 'em.'
Either
the master or the manner of this remark, which was made very ruefully,
delighted Charley Bates so much, that his consequent shout of laughter rous=
ed
the Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire what was the matter.
'Matter,
Fagin!' cried Charley. 'I wish you had watched the play. Tommy Chitling has=
n't
won a point; and I went partners with him against the Artfull and dumb.'
'Ay,
ay!' said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated that he was=
at
no loss to understand the reason. 'Try 'em again, Tom; try 'em again.'
'No
more of it for me, thank 'ee, Fagin,' replied Mr Chitling; 'I've had enough.
That 'ere Dodger has such a run of luck that there's no standing again' him=
.'
'Ha!
ha! my dear,' replied the Jew, 'you must get up very early in the morning, =
to
win against the Dodger.'
'Morning!'
said Charley Bates; 'you must put your boots on over-night, and have a
telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass between your shoulders, if you wan=
t to
come over him.'
Mr
Dawkins received these handsome compliments with much philosophy, and offer=
ed
to cut any gentleman in company, for the first picture-card, at a shilling =
at a
time. Nobody accepting the challenge, and his pipe being by this time smoked
out, he proceeded to amuse himself by sketching a ground-plan of Newgate on=
the
table with the piece of chalk which had served him in lieu of counters;
whistling, meantime, with peculiar shrillness.
'How
precious dull you are, Tommy!' said the Dodger, stopping short when there h=
ad
been a long silence; and addressing Mr Chitling. 'What do you think he's
thinking of, Fagin?'
'How
should I know, my dear?' replied the Jew, looking round as he plied the
bellows. 'About his losses, maybe; or the little retirement in the country =
that
he's just left, eh? Ha! ha! Is that it, my dear?'
'Not
a bit of it,' replied the Dodger, stopping the subject of discourse as Mr
Chitling was about to reply. 'What do you
say, Charley?'
'I should say,' replied Master Bate=
s,
with a grin, 'that he was uncommon sweet upon Betsy. See how he's a-blushin=
g!
Oh, my eye! here's a merry-go-rounder! Tommy Chitling's in love! Oh, Fagin,
Fagin! what a spree!'
Thoroughly
overpowered with the notion of Mr Chitling being the victim of the tender
passion, Master Bates threw himself back in his chair with such violence, t=
hat
he lost his balance, and pitched over upon the floor; where (the accident
abating nothing of his merriment) he lay at full length until his laugh was
over, when he resumed his former position, and began another laugh.
'Never
mind him, my dear,' said the Jew, winking at Mr Dawkins, and giving Master
Bates a reproving tap with the nozzle of the bellows. 'Betsy's a fine girl.
Stick up to her, Tom. Stick up to her.'
'What
I mean to say, Fagin,' replied Mr Chitling, very red in the face, 'is, that
that isn't anything to anybody here.'
'No
more it is,' replied the Jew; 'Charley will talk. Don't mind him, my dear;
don't mind him. Betsy's a fine girl. Do as she bids you, Tom, and you will =
make
your fortune.'
'So
I do do as she bids me,' replie=
d Mr
Chitling; 'I shouldn't have been milled, if it hadn't been for her advice. =
But
it turned out a good job for you; didn't it, Fagin! And what's six weeks of=
it?
It must come, some time or another, and why not in the winter time when you
don't want to go out a-walking so much; eh, Fagin?'
'Ah,
to be sure, my dear,' replied the Jew.
'You
wouldn't mind it again, Tom, would you,' asked the Dodger, winking upon Cha=
rley
and the Jew, 'if Bet was all right?'
'I
mean to say that I shouldn't,' replied Tom, angrily. 'There, now. Ah! Who'll
say as much as that, I should like to know; eh, Fagin?'
'Nobody,
my dear,' replied the Jew; 'not a soul, Tom. I don't know one of 'em that w=
ould
do it besides you; not one of 'em, my dear.'
'I
might have got clear off, if I'd split upon her; mightn't I, Fagin?' angrily
pursued the poor half-witted dupe. 'A word from me would have done it; woul=
dn't
it, Fagin?'
'To
be sure it would, my dear,' replied the Jew.
'But
I didn't blab it; did I, Fagin?' demanded Tom, pouring question upon questi=
on
with great volubility.
'No,
no, to be sure,' replied the Jew; 'you were too stout-hearted for that. A d=
eal
too stout, my dear!'
'Perhaps
I was,' rejoined Tom, looking round; 'and if I was, what's to laugh at, in
that; eh, Fagin?'
The
Jew, perceiving that Mr Chitling was considerably roused, hastened to assure
him that nobody was laughing; and to prove the gravity of the company, appe=
aled
to Master Bates, the principal offender. But, unfortunately, Charley, in
opening his mouth to reply that he was never more serious in his life, was
unable to prevent the escape of such a violent roar, that the abused Mr
Chitling, without any preliminary ceremonies, rushed across the room and ai=
med
a blow at the offender; who, being skilful in evading pursuit, ducked to av=
oid
it, and chose his time so well that it lighted on the chest of the merry old
gentleman, and caused him to stagger to the wall, where he stood panting for
breath, while Mr Chitling looked on in intense dismay.
'Hark!'
cried the Dodger at this moment, 'I heard the tinkler.' Catching up the lig=
ht,
he crept softly upstairs.
The
bell was rung again, with some impatience, while the party were in darkness.
After a short pause, the Dodger reappeared, and whispered Fagin mysteriousl=
y.
'What!'
cried the Jew, 'alone?'
The
Dodger nodded in the affirmative, and, shading the flame of the candle with=
his
hand, gave Charley Bates a private intimation, in dumb show, that he had be=
tter
not be funny just then. Having performed this friendly office, he fixed his
eyes on the Jew's face, and awaited his directions.
The
old man bit his yellow fingers, and meditated for some seconds; his face
working with agitation the while, as if he dreaded something, and feared to
know the worst. At length he raised his head.
'Where
is he?' he asked.
The
Dodger pointed to the floor above, and made a gesture, as if to leave the r=
oom.
'Yes,'
said the Jew, answering the mute inquiry; 'bring him down. Hush! Quiet,
Charley! Gently, Tom! Scarce, scarce!'
This
brief direction to Charley Bates, and his recent antagonist, was softly and
immediately obeyed. There was no sound of their whereabout, when the Dodger
descended the stairs, bearing the light in his hand, and followed by a man =
in a
coarse smock-frock; who, after casting a hurried glance round the room, pul=
led
off a large wrapper which had concealed the lower portion of his face, and
disclosed: all haggard, unwashed, and unshorn: the features of flash Toby
Crackit.
'How
are you, Faguey?' said this worthy, nodding to the Jew. 'Pop that shawl awa=
y in
my castor, Dodger, so that I may know where to find it when I cut; that's t=
he
time of day! You'll be a fine young cracksman afore the old file now.'
With
these words he pulled up the smock-frock; and, winding it round his middle,
drew a chair to the fire, and placed his feet upon the hob.
'See
there, Faguey,' he said, pointing disconsolately to his top boots; 'not a d=
rop
of Day and Martin since you know when; not a bubble of blacking, by Jove! B=
ut
don't look at me in that way, man. All in good time. I can't talk about
business till I've eat and drank; so produce the sustainance, and let's hav=
e a
quiet fill-out for the first time these three days!'
The
Jew motioned to the Dodger to place what eatables there were, upon the tabl=
e;
and, seating himself opposite the housebreaker, waited his leisure.
To
judge from appearances, Toby was by no means in a hurry to open the
conversation. At first, the Jew contented himself with patiently watching h=
is
countenance, as if to gain from its expression some clue to the intelligenc=
e he
brought; but in vain.
He
looked tired and worn, but there was the same complacent repose upon his
features that they always wore: and through dirt, and beard, and whisker, t=
here
still shone, unimpaired, the self-satisfied smirk of flash Toby Crackit. Th=
en
the Jew, in an agony of impatience, watched every morsel he put into his mo=
uth;
pacing up and down the room, meanwhile, in irrepressible excitement. It was=
all
of no use. Toby continued to eat with the utmost outward indifference, unti=
l he
could eat no more; then, ordering the Dodger out, he closed the door, mixed=
a
glass of spirits and water, and composed himself for talking.
'First
and foremost, Faguey,' said Toby.
'Yes,
yes!' interposed the Jew, drawing up his chair.
Mr
Crackit stopped to take a draught of spirits and water, and to declare that=
the
gin was excellent; then placing his feet against the low mantelpiece, so as=
to
bring his boots to about the level of his eye, he quietly resumed.
'First
and foremost, Faguey,' said the housebreaker, 'how's Bill?'
'What!'
screamed the Jew, starting from his seat.
'Why,
you don't mean to say - ' began Toby, turning pale.
'Mean!'
cried the Jew, stamping furiously on the ground. 'Where are they? Sikes and=
the
boy! Where are they? Where have they been? Where are they hiding? Why have =
they
not been here?'
'The
crack failed,' said Toby faintly.
'I
know it,' replied the Jew, tearing a newspaper from his pocket and pointing=
to
it. 'What more?'
'They
fired and hit the boy. We cut over the fields at the back, with him between=
us
- straight as the crow flies - through hedge and ditch. They gave chase. Da=
mme!
the whole country was awake, and the dogs upon us.'
'The
boy!'
'Bill
had him on his back, and scudded like the wind. We stopped to take him betw=
een
us; his head hung down, and he was cold. They were close upon our heels; ev=
ery
man for himself, and each from the gallows! We parted company, and left the
youngster lying in a ditch. Alive or dead, that's all I know about him.'
The
Jew stopped to hear no more; but uttering a loud yell, and twining his hand=
s in
his hair, rushed from the room, and from the house.
The
old man had gained the street corner, before he began to recover the effect=
of
Toby Crackit's intelligence. He had relaxed nothing of his unusual speed; b=
ut
was still pressing onward, in the same wild and disordered manner, when the
sudden dashing past of a carriage: and a boisterous cry from the foot
passengers, who saw his danger: drove him back upon the pavement. Avoiding,=
as
much as was possible, all the main streets, and skulking only through the
by-ways and alleys, he at length emerged on Snow Hill. Here he walked even
faster than before; nor did he linger until he had again turned into a cour=
t;
when, as if conscious that he was now in his proper element, he fell into h=
is
usual shuffling pace, and seemed to breathe more freely.
Near
to the spot on which Snow Hill and Holborn Hill meet, opens, upon the right
hand as you come out of the City, a narrow and dismal alley, leading to Saf=
fron
Hill. In its filthy shops are exposed for sale huge bunches of second-hand =
silk
handkerchiefs, of all sizes and patterns; for here reside the traders who
purchase them from pick-pockets. Hundreds of these handkerchiefs hang dangl=
ing
from pegs outside the windows or flaunting from the door-posts; and the
shelves, within, are piled with them. Confined as the limits of Field Lane =
are,
it has its barber, its coffee-shop, its beer-shop, and its fried-fish
warehouse. It is a commercial colony of itself: the emporium of petty larce=
ny:
visited at early morning, and setting-in of dusk, by silent merchants, who
traffic in dark back-parlours, and who go as strangely as they come. Here, =
the
clothesman, the shoe-vamper, and the rag-merchant, display their goods, as
sign-boards to the petty thief; here, stores of old iron and bones, and hea=
ps
of mildewy fragments of woollen-stuff and linen, rust and rot in the grimy
cellars.
It
was into this place that the Jew turned. He was well known to the sallow
denizens of the lane; for such of them as were on the look-out to buy or se=
ll,
nodded, familiarly, as he passed along. He replied to their salutations in =
the
same way; but bestowed no closer recognition until he reached the further e=
nd
of the alley; when he stopped, to address a salesman of small stature, who =
had
squeezed as much of his person into a child's chair as the chair would hold,
and was smoking a pipe at his warehouse door.
'Why,
the sight of you, Mr Fagin, would cure the hoptalmy!' said this respectable
trader, in acknowledgment of the Jew's inquiry after his health.
'The
neighbourhood was a little too hot, Lively,' said Fagin, elevating his
eyebrows, and crossing his hands upon his shoulders.
'Well,
I've heerd that complaint of it, once or twice before,' replied the trader;
'but it soon cools down again; don't you find it so?'
Fagin
nodded in the affirmative. Pointing in the direction of Saffron Hill, he
inquired whether any one was up yonder to-night.
'At
the Cripples?' inquired the man.
The
Jew nodded.
'Let
me see,' pursued the merchant, reflecting.
'Yes,
there's some half-dozen of 'em gone in, that I knows. I don't think your
friend's there.'
'Sikes
is not, I suppose?' inquired the Jew, with a disappointed countenance.
'Non istwentus, as the lawyers say,'
replied the little man, shaking his head, and looking amazingly sly. 'Have =
you
got anything in my line to-night?'
'Nothing
to-night,' said the Jew, turning away.
'Are
you going up to the Cripples, Fagin?' cried the little man, calling after h=
im.
'Stop! I don't mind if I have a drop there with you!'
But
as the Jew, looking back, waved his hand to intimate that he preferred being
alone; and, moreover, as the little man could not very easily disengage him=
self
from the chair; the sign of the Cripples was, for a time, bereft of the
advantage of Mr Lively's presence. By the time he had got upon his legs, the
Jew had disappeared; so Mr Lively, after ineffectually standing on tiptoe, =
in
the hope of catching sight of him, again forced himself into the little cha=
ir,
and, exchanging a shake of the head with a lady in the opposite shop, in wh=
ich
doubt and mistrust were plainly mingled, resumed his pipe with a grave
demeanour.
The
Three Cripples, or rather the Cripples; which was the sign by which the
establishment was familiarly known to its patrons: was the public-house in
which Mr Sikes and his dog have already figured. Merely making a sign to a =
man
at the bar, Fagin walked straight upstairs, and opening the door of a room,=
and
softly insinuating himself into the chamber, looked anxiously about: shading
his eyes with his hand, as if in search of some particular person.
The
room was illuminated by two gas-lights; the glare of which was prevented by=
the
barred shutters, and closely-drawn curtains of faded red, from being visible
outside. The ceiling was blackened, to prevent its colour from being injure=
d by
the flaring of the lamps; and the place was so full of dense tobacco smoke,
that at first it was scarcely possible to discern anything more. By degrees,
however, as some of it cleared away through the open door, an assemblage of
heads, as confused as the noises that greeted the ear, might be made out; a=
nd
as the eye grew more accustomed to the scene, the spectator gradually became
aware of the presence of a numerous company, male and female, crowded round=
a
long table: at the upper end of which, sat a chairman with a hammer of offi=
ce
in his hand; while a professional gentleman with a bluish nose, and his face
tied up for the benefit of a toothache, presided at a jingling piano in a
remote corner.
As
Fagin stepped softly in, the professional gentleman, running over the keys =
by
way of prelude, occasioned a general cry of order for a song; which having
subsided, a young lady proceeded to entertain the company with a ballad in =
four
verses, between each of which the accompanyist played the melody all throug=
h,
as loud as he could. When this was over, the chairman gave a sentiment, aft=
er
which, the professional gentleman on the chairman's right and left voluntee=
red
a duet, and sang it, with great applause.
It
was curious to observe some faces which stood out prominently from among the
group. There was the chairman himself, (the landlord of the house,) a coars=
e,
rough, heavy built fellow, who, while the songs were proceeding, rolled his
eyes hither and thither, and, seeming to give himself up to joviality, had =
an
eye for everything that was done, and an ear for everything that was said -=
and
sharp ones, too. Near him were the singers: receiving, with professional
indifference, the compliments of the company, and applying themselves, in t=
urn,
to a dozen proffered glasses of spirits and water, tendered by their more
boisterous admirers; whose countenances, expressive of almost every vice in
almost every grade, irresistibly attracted the attention, by their very
repulsiveness. Cunning, ferocity, and drunkeness in all its stages, were th=
ere,
in their strongest aspect; and women: some with the last lingering tinge of
their early freshness almost fading as you looked: others with every mark a=
nd
stamp of their sex utterly beaten out, and presenting but one loathsome bla=
nk
of profligacy and crime; some mere girls, others but young women, and none =
past
the prime of life; formed the darkest and saddest portion of this dreary
picture.
Fagin,
troubled by no grave emotions, looked eagerly from face to face while these
proceedings were in progress; but apparently without meeting that of which =
he
was in search. Succeeding, at length, in catching the eye of the man who
occupied the chair, he beckoned to him slightly, and left the room, as quie=
tly
as he had entered it.
'What
can I do for you, Mr Fagin?' inquired the man, as he followed him out to the
landing. 'Won't you join us? They'll be delighted, every one of 'em.'
The
Jew shook his head impatiently, and said in a whisper, 'Is he here?'
'No,'
replied the man.
'And
no news of Barney?' inquired Fagin.
'None,'
replied the landlord of the Cripples; for it was he. 'He won't stir till it=
's
all safe. Depend on it, they're on the scent down there; and that if he mov=
ed,
he'd blow upon the thing at once. He's all right enough, Barney is, else I
should have heard of him. I'll pound it, that Barney's managing properly. L=
et
him alone for that.'
'Will
he be here to-night?' asked the=
Jew,
laying the same emphasis on the pronoun as before.
'Monks,
do you mean?' inquired the landlord, hesitating.
'Hush!'
said the Jew. 'Yes.'
'Certain,'
replied the man, drawing a gold watch from his fob; 'I expected him here be=
fore
now. If you'll wait ten minutes, he'll be - '
'No,
no,' said the Jew, hastily; as though, however desirous he might be to see =
the
person in question, he was nevertheless relieved by his absence. 'Tell him I
came here to see him; and that he must come to me to-night. No, say to-morr=
ow.
As he is not here, to-morrow will be time enough.'
'Good!'
said the man. 'Nothing more?'
'Not
a word now,' said the Jew, descending the stairs.
'I
say,' said the other, looking over the rails, and speaking in a hoarse whis=
per;
'what a time this would be for a sell! I've got Phil Barker here: so drunk,
that a boy might take him!'
'Ah!
But it's not Phil Barker's time,' said the Jew, looking up.
'Phil
has something more to do, before we can afford to part with him; so go back=
to
the company, my dear, and tell them to lead merry lives - while they last. Ha! ha! ha!'
The
landlord reciprocated the old man's laugh; and returned to his guests. The =
Jew
was no sooner alone, than his countenance resumed its former expression of
anxiety and thought. After a brief reflection, he called a hack-cabriolet, =
and
bade the man drive towards Bethnal Green. He dismissed him within some quar=
ter
of a mile of Mr Sikes's residence, and performed the short remainder of the
distance, on foot.
'Now,'
muttered the Jew, as he knocked at the door, 'if there is any deep play her=
e, I
shall have it out of you, my girl, cunning as you are.'
She
was in her room, the woman said. Fagin crept softly upstairs, and entered it
without any previous ceremony. The girl was alone; lying with her head upon=
the
table, and her hair straggling over it.
'She
has been drinking,' thought the Jew, cooly, 'or perhaps she is only miserab=
le.'
The
old man turned to close the door, as he made this reflection; the noise thus
occasioned, roused the girl. She eyed his crafty face narrowly, as she inqu=
ired
to his recital of Toby Crackit's story. When it was concluded, she sank into
her former attitude, but spoke not a word. She pushed the candle impatiently
away; and once or twice as she feverishly changed her position, shuffled her
feet upon the ground; but this was all.
During
the silence, the Jew looked restlessly about the room, as if to assure hims=
elf
that there were no appearances of Sikes having covertly returned. Apparently
satisfied with his inspection, he coughed twice or thrice, and made as many
efforts to open a conversation; but the girl heeded him no more than if he =
had
been made of stone. At length he made another attempt; and rubbing his hands
together, said, in his most conciliatory tone,
'And
where should you think Bill was now, my dear?'
The
girl moaned out some half intelligible reply, that she could not tell; and
seemed, from the smothered noise that escaped her, to be crying.
'And
the boy, too,' said the Jew, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of her f=
ace.
'Poor leetle child! Left in a ditch, Nance; only think!'
'The
child,' said the girl, suddenly looking up, 'is better where he is, than am=
ong
us; and if no harm comes to Bill from it, I hope he lies dead in the ditch =
and
that his young bones may rot there.'
'What!'
cried the Jew, in amazement.
'Ay,
I do,' returned the girl, meeting his gaze. 'I shall be glad to have him aw=
ay
from my eyes, and to know that the worst is over. I can't bear to have him
about me. The sight of him turns me against myself, and all of you.'
'Pooh!'
said the Jew, scornfully. 'You're drunk.'
'Am
I?' cried the girl bitterly. 'It's no fault of yours, if I am not! You'd ne=
ver
have me anything else, if you had your will, except now; - the humour doesn=
't
suit you, doesn't it?'
'No!'
rejoined the Jew, furiously. 'It does not.'
'Change
it, then!' responded the girl, with a laugh.
'Change
it!' exclaimed the Jew, exasperated beyond all bounds by his companion's
unexpected obstinacy, and the vexation of the night, 'I will change it! Listen to me, you drab. Listen to me, who with =
six
words, can strangle Sikes as surely as if I had his bull's throat between my
fingers now. If he comes back, and leaves the boy behind him; if he gets off
free, and dead or alive, fails to restore him to me; murder him yourself if=
you
would have him escape Jack Ketch. And do it the moment he sets foot in this=
room,
or mind me, it will be too late!'
'What
is all this?' cried the girl involuntarily.
'What
is it?' pursued Fagin, mad with rage. 'When the boy's worth hundreds of pou=
nds
to me, am I to lose what chance threw me in the way of getting safely, thro=
ugh
the whims of a drunken gang that I could whistle away the lives of! And me
bound, too, to a born devil that only wants the will, and has the power to,=
to
- '
Panting
for breath, the old man stammered for a word; and in that instant checked t=
he
torrent of his wrath, and changed his whole demeanour. A moment before, his
clenched hands had grasped the air; his eyes had dilated; and his face grown
livid with passion; but now, he shrunk into a chair, and, cowering together,
trembled with the apprehension of having himself disclosed some hidden
villainy. After a short silence, he ventured to look round at his companion=
. He
appeared somewhat reassured, on beholding her in the same listless attitude
from which he had first roused her.
'Nancy,
dear!' croaked the Jew, in his usual voice. 'Did you mind me, dear?'
'Don't
worry me now, Fagin!' replied the girl, raising her head languidly. 'If Bill
has not done it this time, he will another. He has done many a good job for
you, and will do many more when he can; and when he can't he won't; so no m=
ore
about that.'
'Regarding
this boy, my dear?' said the Jew, rubbing the palms of his hands nervously
together.
'The
boy must take his chance with the rest,' interrupted Nancy, hastily; 'and I=
say
again, I hope he is dead, and out of harm's way, and out of yours, - that i=
s,
if Bill comes to no harm. And if Toby got clear off, Bill's pretty sure to =
be
safe; for Bill's worth two of Toby any time.'
'And
about what I was saying, my dear?' observed the Jew, keeping his glistening=
eye
steadily upon her.
'Your
must say it all over again, if it's anything you want me to do,' rejoined
Nancy; 'and if it is, you had better wait till to-morrow. You put me up for=
a
minute; but now I'm stupid again.'
Fagin
put several other questions: all with the same drift of ascertaining whether
the girl had profited by his unguarded hints; but, she answered them so
readily, and was withal so utterly unmoved by his searching looks, that his
original impression of her being more than a trifle in liquor, was confirme=
d.
Nancy, indeed, was not exempt from a failing which was very common among the
Jew's female pupils; and in which, in their tenderer years, they were rather
encouraged than checked. Her disordered appearance, and a wholesale perfume=
of
Geneva which pervaded the apartment, afforded strong confirmatory evidence =
of
the justice of the Jew's supposition; and when, after indulging in the
temporary display of violence above described, she subsided, first into
dullness, and afterwards into a compound of feelings: under the influence of
which she shed tears one minute, and in the next gave utterance to various
exclamations of 'Never say die!' and divers calculations as to what might be
the amount of the odds so long as a lady or gentleman was happy, Mr Fagin, =
who
had had considerable experience of such matters in his time, saw, with great
satisfaction, that she was very far gone indeed.
Having
eased his mind by this discovery; and having accomplished his twofold objec=
t of
imparting to the girl what he had, that night, heard, and of ascertaining, =
with
his own eyes, that Sikes had not returned, Mr Fagin again turned his face
homeward: leaving his young friend asleep, with her head upon the table.
It was within an hour of midnight. The weather being dark, and piercing cold, = he had no great temptation to loiter. The sharp wind that scoured the streets, seemed to have cleared them of passengers, as of dust and mud, for few peop= le were abroad, and they were to all appearance hastening fast home. It blew f= rom the right quarter for the Jew, however, and straight before it he went: trembling, and shivering, as every fresh gust drove him rudely on his way.<= o:p>
He
had reached the corner of his own street, and was already fumbling in his
pocket for the door-key, when a dark figure emerged from a projecting entra=
nce
which lay in deep shadow, and, crossing the road, glided up to him unpercei=
ved.
'Fagin!'
whispered a voice close to his ear.
'Ah!'
said the Jew, turning quickly round, 'is that - '
'Yes!'
interrupted the stranger. 'I have been lingering here these two hours. Where
the devil have you been?'
'On
your business, my dear,' replied the Jew, glancing uneasily at his companio=
n,
and slackening his pace as he spoke. 'On your business all night.'
'Oh,
of course!' said the stranger, with a sneer. 'Well; and what's come of it?'=
'Nothing
good,' said the Jew.
'Nothing
bad, I hope?' said the stranger, stopping short, and turning a startled loo=
k on
his companion.
The
Jew shook his head, and was about to reply, when the stranger, interrupting
him, motioned to the house, before which they had by this time arrived:
remarking, that he had better say what he had got to say, under cover: for =
his
blood was chilled with standing about so long, and the wind blew through hi=
m.
Fagin
looked as if he could have willingly excused himself from taking home a vis=
itor
at that unseasonable hour; and, indeed, muttered something about having no
fire; but his companion repeating his request in a peremptory manner, he
unlocked the door, and requested him to close it softly, while he got a lig=
ht.
'It's
as dark as the grave,' said the man, groping forward a few steps. 'Make has=
te!'
'Shut
the door,' whispered Fagin from the end of the passage. As he spoke, it clo=
sed
with a loud noise.
'That
wasn't my doing,' said the other man, feeling his way. 'The wind blew it to=
, or
it shut of its own accord: one or the other. Look sharp with the light, or I
shall knock my brains out against something in this confounded hole.'
Fagin
stealthily descended the kitchen stairs. After a short absence, he returned
with a lighted candle, and the intelligence that Toby Crackit was asleep in=
the
back room below, and that the boys were in the front one. Beckoning the man=
to
follow him, he led the way upstairs.
'We
can say the few words we've got to say in here, my dear,' said the Jew,
throwing open a door on the first floor; 'and as there are holes in the
shutters, and we never show lights to our neighbours, we'll set the candle =
on
the stairs. There!'
With
those words, the Jew, stooping down, placed the candle on an upper flight of
stairs, exactly opposite to the room door. This done, he led the way into t=
he
apartment; which was destitute of all movables save a broken arm-chair, and=
an
old couch or sofa without covering, which stood behind the door. Upon this
piece of furniture, the stranger sat himself with the air of a weary man; a=
nd
the Jew, drawing up the arm-chair opposite, they sat face to face. It was n=
ot
quite dark; the door was partially open; and the candle outside, threw a fe=
eble
reflection on the opposite wall.
They
conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the conversation was
distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and there, a listener mi=
ght
easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending himself against s=
ome
remarks of the stranger; and that the latter was in a state of considerable
irritation. They might have been talking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or
more, when Monks - by which name the Jew had designated the strange man sev=
eral
times in the course of their colloquy - said, raising his voice a little,
'I
tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the
rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?'
'Only
hear him!' exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders.
'Why,
do you mean to say you couldn't have done it, if you had chosen?' demanded
Monks, sternly. 'Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If =
you
had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have got him
convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?'
'Whose
turn would that have served, my dear?' inquired the Jew humbly.
'Mine,'
replied Monks.
'But
not mine,' said the Jew, submissively. 'He might have become of use to me. =
When
there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interest=
s of
both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?'
'What
then?' demanded Monks.
'I
saw it was not easy to train him to the business,' replied the Jew; 'he was=
not
like other boys in the same circumstances.'
'Curse
him, no!' muttered the man, 'or he would have been a thief, long ago.'
'I
had no hold upon him to make him worse,' pursued the Jew, anxiously watching
the countenance of his companion. 'His hand was not in. I had nothing to
frighten him with; which we always must have in the beginning, or we labour=
in
vain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had eno=
ugh
of that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all.'
'That was not my doing,' observed M=
onks.
'No,
no, my dear!' renewed the Jew. 'And I don't quarrel with it now; because, i=
f it
had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on the boy to notice =
him,
and so led to the discovery that it was him you were looking for. Well! I g=
ot
him back for you by means of the girl; and then she begins to favour him.'
'Throttle
the girl!' said Monks, impatiently.
'Why,
we can't afford to do that just now, my dear,' replied the Jew, smiling; 'a=
nd,
besides, that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one of these days, I mig=
ht
be glad to have it done. I know what these girls are, Monks, well. As soon =
as
the boy begins to harden, she'll care no more for him, than for a block of
wood. You want him made a thief. If he is alive, I can make him one from th=
is
time; and, if - if - ' said the Jew, drawing nearer to the other, - 'it's n=
ot
likely, mind, - but if the worst comes to the worst, and he is dead - '
'It's no fault of mine if he is!' interposed the other man, with a look of terror, and clasping the Jew's arm with trembling hands. 'Mind that. Fagin! I had no hand in it. Anything but his death, I told you from the first. I won't shed blood; it's always found out, and haunts a man besides. If they shot him de= ad, I was not the cause; do you hear me? Fire this infernal den! What's that?'<= o:p>
'What!'
cried the Jew, grasping the coward round the body, with both arms, as he sp=
rung
to his feet. 'Where?'
'Yonder!
replied the man, glaring at the opposite wall. 'The shadow! I saw the shado=
w of
a woman, in a cloak and bonnet, pass along the wainscot like a breath!'
The
Jew released his hold, and they rushed tumultuously from the room. The cand=
le,
wasted by the draught, was standing where it had been placed. It showed them
only the empty staircase, and their own white faces. They listened intently=
: a
profound silence reigned throughout the house.
'It's
your fancy,' said the Jew, taking up the light and turning to his companion=
.
'I'll
swear I saw it!' replied Monks, trembling. 'It was bending forward when I s=
aw
it first; and when I spoke, it darted away.'
The
Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate, and, telling =
him
he could follow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs. They looked into all t=
he
rooms; they were cold, bare, and empty. They descended into the passage, and
thence into the cellars below. The green damp hung upon the low walls; the
tracks of the snail and slug glistened in the light of the candle; but all =
was
still as death.
'What
do you think now?' said the Jew, when they had regained the passage. 'Besid=
es
ourselves, there's not a creature in the house except Toby and the boys; and
they're safe enough. See here!'
As
a proof of the fact, the Jew drew forth two keys from his pocket; and
explained, that when he first went downstairs, he had locked them in, to
prevent any intrusion on the conference.
This
accumulated testimony effectually staggered Mr Monks. His protestations had
gradually become less and less vehement as they proceeded in their search
without making any discovery; and, now, he gave vent to several very grim
laughs, and confessed it could only have been his excited imagination. He
declined any renewal of the conversation, however, for that night: suddenly
remembering that it was past one o'clock. And so the amiable couple parted.=
As
it would be, by no means, seemly in a humble author to keep so mighty a
personage as a beadle waiting, with his back to the fire, and the skirts of=
his
coat gathered up under his arms, until such time as it might suit his pleas=
ure
to relieve him; and as it would still less become his station, or his galla=
ntry
to involve in the same neglect a lady on whom that beadle had looked with an
eye of tenderness and affection, and in whose ear he had whispered sweet wo=
rds,
which, coming from such a quarter, might well thrill the bosom of maid or
matron of whatsoever degree; the historian whose pen traces these words - t=
rusting
that he knows his place, and that he entertains a becoming reverence for th=
ose
upon earth to whom high and important authority is delegated - hastens to p=
ay
them that respect which their position demands, and to treat them with all =
that
duteous ceremony which their exalted rank, and (by consequence) great virtu=
es,
imperatively claim at his hands. Towards this end, indeed, he had purposed =
to
introduce, in this place, a dissertation touching the divine right of beadl=
es,
and elucidative of the position, that a beadle can do no wrong: which could=
not
fail to have been both pleasurable and profitable to the right-minded reader
but which he is unfortunately compelled, by want of time and space, to post=
pone
to some more convenient and fitting opportunity; on the arrival of which, he
will be prepared to show, that a beadle properly constituted: that is to sa=
y, a
parochial beadle, attached to a parochail workhouse, and attending in his
official capacity the parochial church: is, in right and virtue of his offi=
ce,
possessed of all the excellences and best qualities of humanity; and that to
none of those excellences, can mere companies' beadles, or court-of-law
beadles, or even chapel-of-ease beadles (save the last, and they in a very
lowly and inferior degree), lay the remotest sustainable claim.
Mr
Bumble had re-counted the teaspoons, re-weighed the sugar-tongs, made a clo=
ser
inspection of the milk-pot, and ascertained to a nicety the exact condition=
of
the furniture, down to the very horse-hair seats of the chairs; and had
repeated each process full half a dozen times; before he began to think tha=
t it
was time for Mrs Corney to return. Thinking begets thinking; as there were =
no
sounds of Mrs Corney's approach, it occured to Mr Bumble that it would be an
innocent and virtuous way of spending the time, if he were further to allay=
his
curiousity by a cursory glance at the interior of Mrs Corney's chest of
drawers.
Having
listened at the keyhole, to assure himself that nobody was approaching the
chamber, Mr Bumble, beginning at the bottom, proceeded to make himself
acquainted with the contents of the three long drawers: which, being filled
with various garments of good fashion and texture, carefully preserved betw=
een
two layers of old newspapers, speckled with dried lavender: seemed to yield=
him
exceeding satisfaction. Arriving, in course of time, at the right-hand corn=
er
drawer (in which was the key), and beholding therein a small padlocked box,
which, being shaken, gave forth a pleasant sound, as of the chinking of coi=
n, Mr
Bumble returned with a stately walk to the fireplace; and, resuming his old
attitude, said, with a grave and determined air, 'I'll do it!' He followed =
up
this remarkable declaration, by shaking his head in a waggish manner for ten
minutes, as though he were remonstrating with himself for being such a plea=
sant
dog; and then, he took a view of his legs in profile, with much seeming
pleasure and interest.
He
was still placidly engaged in this latter survey, when Mrs Corney, hurrying
into the room, threw herself, in a breathless state, on a chair by the
fireside, and covering her eyes with one hand, placed the other over her he=
art,
and gasped for breath.
'Mrs
Corney,' said Mr Bumble, stooping over the matron, 'what is this, ma'am? Has
anything happened, ma'am? Pray answer me: I'm on - on - ' Mr Bumble, in his
alarm, could not immediately think of the word 'tenterhooks,' so he said
'broken bottles.'
'Oh,
Mr Bumble!' cried the lady, 'I have been so dreadfully put out!'
'Put
out, ma'am!' exclaimed Mr Bumble; 'who has dared to - ? I know!' said Mr
Bumble, checking himself, with native majesty, 'this is them wicious pauper=
s!'
'It's
dreadful to think of!' said the lady, shuddering.
'Then
don't think of it, ma'am,' rejo=
ined Mr
Bumble.
'I
can't help it,' whimpered the lady.
'Then take something, ma'am,' said Mr Bumble soothingly. 'A little of the wine?'<= o:p>
'Not
for the world!' replied Mrs Corney. 'I couldn't, - oh! The top shelf in the
right-hand corner - oh!' Uttering these words, the good lady pointed,
distractedly, to the cupboard, and underwent a convulsion from internal spa=
sms.
Mr Bumble rushed to the closet; and, snatching a pint green-glass bottle fr=
om
the shelf thus incoherently indicated, filled a tea-cup with its contents, =
and
held it to the lady's lips.
'I'm
better now,' said Mrs Corney, falling back, after drinking half of it.
Mr
Bumble raised his eyes piously to the ceiling in thankfulness; and, bringing
them down again to the brim of the cup, lifted it to his nose.
'Peppermint,'
exclaimed Mrs Corney, in a faint voice, smiling gently on the beadle as she
spoke. 'Try it! There's a little - a little something else in it.'
Mr
Bumble tasted the medicine with a doubtful look; smacked his lips; took ano=
ther
taste; and put the cup down empty.
'It's
very comforting,' said Mrs Corney.
'Very
much so indeed, ma'am,' said the beadle. As he spoke, he drew a chair beside
the matron, and tenderly inquired what had happened to distress her.
'Nothing,'
replied Mrs Corney. 'I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur.'
'Not
weak, ma'am,' retorted Mr Bumble, drawing his chair a little closer. 'Are y=
ou a
weak creetur, Mrs Corney?'
'We
are all weak creeturs,' said Mrs Corney, laying down a general principle.
'So
we are,' said the beadle.
Nothing
was said on either side, for a minute or two afterwards. By the expiration =
of
that time, Mr Bumble had illustrated the position by removing his left arm =
from
the back of Mrs Corney's chair, where it had previously rested, to Mrs Corn=
ey's
apron-string, round which it gradually became entwined.
'We
are all weak creeturs,' said Mr Bumble.
Mrs
Corney sighed.
'Don't
sigh, Mrs Corney,' said Mr Bumble.
'I
can't help it,' said Mrs Corney. And she sighed again.
'This
is a very comfortable room, ma'am,' said Mr Bumble looking round. 'Another
room, and this, ma'am, would be a complete thing.'
'It
would be too much for one,' murmured the lady.
'But
not for two, ma'am,' rejoined Mr Bumble, in soft accents. 'Eh, Mrs Corney?'=
Mrs
Corney drooped her head, when the beadle said this; the beadle drooped his,=
to
get a view of Mrs Corney's face. Mrs Corney, with great propriety, turned h=
er
head away, and released her hand to get at her pocket-handkerchief; but
insensibly replaced it in that of Mr Bumble.
'The
board allows you coals, don't they, Mrs Corney?' inquired the beadle,
affectionately pressing her hand.
'And
candles,' replied Mrs Corney, slightly returning the pressure.
'Coals,
candles, and house-rent free,' said Mr Bumble. 'Oh, Mrs Corney, what an Ang=
el
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
porochial perfection!' exclaimed Mr Bumble, rapturously. 'You know that Mr
Slout is worse to-night, my fascinator?'
'Yes,'
replied Mrs Corney, bashfully.
'He
can't live a week, the doctor says,' pursued Mr Bumble. 'He is the master of
this establishment; his death will cause a wacancy; that wacancy must be fi=
lled
up. Oh, Mrs Corney, what a prospect this opens! What a opportunity for a ji=
ning
of hearts and housekeepings!'
Mrs
Corney sobbed.
'The
little word?' said Mr Bumble, bending over the bashful beauty. 'The one lit=
tle,
little, little word, my blessed Corney?'
'Ye
- ye - yes!' sighed out the matron.
'One
more,' pursued the beadle; 'compose your darling feelings for only one more.
When is it to come off?'
Mrs
Corney twice essayed to speak: and twice failed. At length summoning up
courage, she threw her arms around Mr Bumble's neck, and said, it might be =
as
soon as ever he pleased, and that he was 'a irresistible duck.'
Matters
being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged, the contract was solemnly
ratified in another teacupful of the peppermint mixture; which was rendered=
the
more necessary, by the flutter and agitation of the lady's spirits. While it
was being disposed of, she acquainted Mr Bumble with the old woman's deceas=
e.
'Very
good,' said that gentleman, sipping his peppermint; 'I'll call at Sowerberr=
y's
as I go home, and tell him to send to-morrow morning. Was it that as fright=
ened
you, love?'
'It
wasn't anything particular, dear,' said the lady evasively.
'It
must have been something, love,' urged Mr Bumble. 'Won't you tell your own =
B.?'
'Not
now,' rejoined the lady; 'one of these days. After we're married, dear.'
'After
we're married!' exclaimed Mr Bumble. 'It wasn't any impudence from any of t=
hem
male paupers as - '
'No,
no, love!' interposed the lady, hastily.
'If
I thought it was,' continued Mr Bumble; 'if I thought as any one of 'em had
dared to lift his wulgar eyes to that lovely countenance - '
'They
wouldn't have dared to do it, love,' responded the lady.
'They
had better not!' said Mr Bumble, clenching his fist. 'Let me see any man,
porochial or extra-porochial, as would presume to do it; and I can tell him
that he wouldn't do it a second time!'
Unembellished
by any violence of gesticulation, this might have seemed no very high
compliment to the lady's charms; but, as Mr Bumble accompanied the threat w=
ith
many warlike gestures, she was much touched with this proof of his devotion,
and protested, with great admiration, that he was indeed a dove.
The
dove then turned up his coat-collar, and put on his cocked hat; and, having
exchanged a long and affectionate embrace with his future partner, once aga=
in
braved the cold wind of the night: merely pausing, for a few minutes, in the
male paupers' ward, to abuse them a little, with the view of satisfying him=
self
that he could fill the office of workhouse-master with needful acerbity.
Assured of his qualifications, Mr Bumble left the building with a light hea=
rt,
and bright visions of his future promotion: which served to occupy his mind
until he reached the shop of the undertaker.
Now,
Mr and Mrs Sowerberry having gone out to tea and supper: and Noah Claypole =
not
being at any time disposed to take upon himself a greater amount of physical
exertion than is necessary to a convenient performance of the two functions=
of
eating and drinking, the shop was not closed, although it was past the usual
hour of shutting-up. Mr Bumble tapped with his cane on the counter several
times; but, attracting no attention, and beholding a light shining through =
the
glass-window of the little parlour at the back of the shop, he made bold to
peep in and see what was going forward; and when he saw what was going forw=
ard,
he was not a little surprised.
The cloth was laid for supper; the table was covered with bread and butter, pla= tes and glasses; a porter-pot and a wine-bottle. At the upper end of the table,= Mr Noah Claypole lolled negligently in an easy-chair, with his legs thrown over one of the arms: an open clasp-knife in one hand, and a mass of buttered br= ead in the other. Close beside him stood Charlotte, opening oysters from a barr= el: which Mr Claypole condescended to swallow, with remarkable avidity. A more = than ordinary redness in the region of the young gentleman's nose, and a kind of fixed wink in his right eye, denoted that he was in a slight degree intoxicated; these symptoms were confirmed by the intense relish with which= he took his oysters, for which nothing but a strong appreciation of their cool= ing properties, in cases of internal fever, could have sufficiently accounted.<= o:p>
'Here's
a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!' said Charlotte; 'try him, do; only this o=
ne.'
'What
a delicious thing is a oyster!' remarked Mr Claypole, after he had swallowed
it. 'What a pity it is, a number of 'em should ever make you feel
uncomfortable; isn't it, Charlotte?'
'It's
quite a cruelty,' said Charlotte.
'So
it is,' acquiesced Mr Claypole. 'An't yer fond of oysters?'
'Not
overmuch,' replied Charlotte. 'I like to see you eat 'em, Noah dear, better
than eating 'em myself.'
'Lor!'
said Noah, reflectively; 'how queer!'
'Have
another,' said Charlotte. 'Here's one with such a beautiful, delicate beard=
!'
'I
can't manage any more,' said Noah. 'I'm very sorry. Come here, Charlotte, a=
nd
I'll kiss yer.'
'What!'
said Mr Bumble, bursting into the room. 'Say that again, sir.'
Charlotte
uttered a scream, and hid her face in her apron. Mr Claypole, without making
any further change in his position than suffering his legs to reach the gro=
und,
gazed at the beadle in drunken terror.
'Say
it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!' said Mr Bumble. 'How dare you mention
such a thing, sir? And how dare you encourage him, you insolent minx? Kiss
her!' exclaimed Mr Bumble, in strong indignation. 'Faugh!'
'I
didn't mean to do it!' said Noah, blubbering. 'She's always a-kissing of me,
whether I like it, or not.'
'Oh,
Noah,' cried Charlotte, reproachfully.
'Yer
are; yer know yer are!' retorted Noah. 'She's always a-doin' of it, Mr Bumb=
le,
sir; she chucks me under the chin, please, sir; and makes all manner of lov=
e!'
'Silence!'
cried Mr Bumble, sternly. 'Take yourself downstairs, ma'am. Noah, you shut =
up
the shop; say another word till your master comes home, at your peril; and,
when he does come home, tell him that Mr Bumble said he was to send a old
woman's shell after breakfast to-morrow morning. Do you hear sir? Kissing!'
cried Mr Bumble, holding up his hands. 'The sin and wickedness of the lower
orders in this porochial district is frightful! If Parliament don't take th=
eir
abominable courses under consideration, this country's ruined, and the
character of the peasantry gone for ever!' With these words, the beadle str=
ode,
with a lofty and gloomy air, from the undertaker's premises.
And
now that we have accompanied him so far on his road home, and have made all
necessary preparations for the old woman's funeral, let us set on foot a few
inquires after young Oliver Twist, and ascertain whether he be still lying =
in
the ditch where Toby Crackit left him.
Chapter XXVIII - Looks After Oliver, And Proceeds With=
His
Adventures
'Wolves
tear your throats!' muttered Sikes, grinding his teeth. 'I wish I was among
some of you; you'd howl the hoarser for it.'
As
Sikes growled forth this imprecation, with the most desperate ferocity that=
his
desperate nature was capable of, he rested the body of the wounded boy acro=
ss
his bended knee; and turned his head, for an instant, to look back at his
pursuers.
There
was little to be made out, in the mist and darkness; but the loud shouting =
of
men vibrated through the air, and the barking of the neighbouring dogs, rou=
sed
by the sound of the alarm bell, resounded in every direction.
'Stop,
you white-livered hound!' cried the robber, shouting after Toby Crackit, wh=
o,
making the best use of his long legs, was already ahead. 'Stop!'
The
repetition of the word, brought Toby to a dead stand-still. For he was not
quite satisfied that he was beyond the range of pistol-shot; and Sikes was =
in
no mood to be played with.
'Bear
a hand with the boy,' cried Sikes, beckoning furiously to his confederate.
'Come back!'
Toby
made a show of returning; but ventured, in a low voice, broken for want of =
breath,
to intimate considerable reluctance as he came slowly along.
'Quicker!'
cried Sikes, laying the boy in a dry ditch at his feet, and drawing a pistol
from his pocket. 'Don't play booty with me.'
At
this moment the noise grew louder. Sikes, again looking round, could discern
that the men who had given chase were already climbing the gate of the fiel=
d in
which he stood; and that a couple of dogs were some paces in advance of the=
m.
'It's
all up, Bill!' cried Toby; 'drop the kid, and show 'em your heels.' With th=
is
parting advice, Mr Crackit, preferring the chance of being shot by his frie=
nd,
to the certainty of being taken by his enemies, fairly turned tail, and dar=
ted
off at full speed. Sikes clenched his teeth; took one look around; threw ov=
er
the prostrate form of Oliver, the cape in which he had been hurriedly muffl=
ed;
ran along the front of the hedge, as if to distract the attention of those
behind, from the spot where the boy lay; paused, for a second, before anoth=
er
hedge which met it at right angles; and whirling his pistol high into the a=
ir,
cleared it at a bound, and was gone.
'Ho,
ho, there!' cried a tremulous voice in the rear. 'Pincher! Neptune! Come he=
re,
come here!'
The
dogs, who, in common with their masters, seemed to have no particular relish
for the sport in which they were engaged, readily answered to the command.
Three men, who had by this time advanced some distance into the field, stop=
ped
to take counsel together.
'My
advice, or, leastways, I should say, my orders,
is,' said the fattest man of the party, 'that we 'mediately go home again.'=
'I
am agreeable to anything which is agreeable to Mr Giles,' said a shorter ma=
n;
who was by no means of a slim figure, and who was very pale in the face, and
very polite: as frightened men frequently are.
'I
shouldn't wish to appear ill-mannered, gentlemen,' said the third, who had
called the dogs back, 'Mr Giles ought to know.'
'Certainly,'
replied the shorter man; 'and whatever Mr Giles says, it isn't our place to
contradict him. No, no, I know my sitiwation! Thank my stars, I know my
sitiwation.' To tell the truth, the little man did seem to know his situation, and to know perfectly well that=
it
was by no means a desirable one; for his teeth chattered in his head as he
spoke.
'You
are afraid, Brittles,' said Mr Giles.
'I
an't,' said Brittles.
'You
are,' said Giles.
'You're
a falsehood, Mr Giles,' said Brittles.
'You're
a lie, Brittles,' said Mr Giles.
Now,
these four retorts arose from Mr Giles's taunt; and Mr Giles's taunt had ar=
isen
from his indignation at having the responsibility of going home again, impo=
sed
upon himself under cover of a compliment. The third man brought the dispute=
to
a close, most philosophically.
'I'll
tell you what it is, gentlemen,' said he, 'we're all afraid.'
'Speak
for yourself, sir,' said Mr Giles, who was the palest of the party.
'So
I do,' replied the man. 'It's natural and proper to be afraid, under such
circumstances. I am.'
'So
am I,' said Brittles; 'only there's no call to tell a man he is, so bouncea=
bly.'
These
frank admissions softened Mr Giles, who at once owned that he was afraid; upon which, they all three faced about, and ran =
back
again with the completest unanimity, until Mr Giles (who had the shortest w=
ind
of the party, as was encumbered with a pitchfork) most handsomely insisted =
on
stopping, to make an apology for his hastiness of speech.
'But
it's wonderful,' said Mr Giles, when he had explained, 'what a man will do,
when his blood is up. I should have committed murder - I know I should - if
we'd caught one of them rascals.'
As
the other two were impressed with a similar presentiment; and as their bloo=
d,
like his, had all gone down again; some speculation ensued upon the cause of
this sudden change in their temperament.
'I
know what it was,' said Mr Giles; 'it was the gate.'
'I
shouldn't wonder if it was,' exclaimed Brittles, catching at the idea.
'You
may depend upon it,' said Giles, 'that that gate stopped the flow of the
excitement. I felt all mine suddenly going away, as I was climbing over it.=
'
By
a remarkable coincidence, the other two had been visited with the same
unpleasant sensation at that precise moment. It was quite obvious, therefor=
e,
that it was the gate; especially as there was no doubt regarding the time at
which the change had taken place, because all three remembered that they had
come in sight of the robbers at the instant of its occurance.
This
dialogue was held between the two men who had surprised the burglars, and a
travelling tinker who had been sleeping in an outhouse, and who had been
roused, together with his two mongrel curs, to join in the pursuit. Mr Giles
acted in the double capacity of butler and steward to the old lady of the
mansion; Brittles was a lad of all-work: who, having entered her service a =
mere
child, was treated as a promising young boy still, though he was something =
past
thirty.
Encouraging
each other with such converse as this; but, keeping very close together,
notwithstanding, and looking apprehensively round, whenever a fresh gust
rattled through the boughs; the three men hurried back to a tree, behind wh=
ich
they had left their lantern, lest its light should inform the thieves in wh=
at
direction to fire. Catching up the light, they made the best of their way h=
ome,
at a good round trot; and long after their dusky forms had ceased to be
discernible, the light might have been seen twinkling and dancing in the
distance, like some exhalation of the damp and gloomy atmosphere through wh=
ich
it was swiftly borne.
The
air grew colder, as day came slowly on; and the mist rolled along the ground
like a dense cloud of smoke. The grass was wet; the pathways, and low place=
s,
were all mire and water; the damp breath of an unwholesome wind went langui=
dly
by, with a hollow moaning. Still, Oliver lay motionless and insensible on t=
he
spot where Sikes had left him.
Morning
drew on apace. The air become more sharp and piercing, as its first dull hu=
e - the
death of night, rather than the birth of day - glimmered faintly in the sky.
The objects which had looked dim and terrible in the darkness, grew more and
more defined, and gradually resolved into their familiar shapes. The rain c=
ame
down, thick and fast, and pattered noisily among the leafless bushes. But,
Oliver felt it not, as it beat against him; for he still lay stretched,
helpless and unconscious, on his bed of clay.
At
length, a low cry of pain broke the stillness that prevailed; and uttering =
it,
the boy awoke. His left arm, rudely bandaged in a shawl, hung heavy and use=
less
at his side; the bandage was saturated with blood. He was so weak, that he
could scarcely raise himself into a sitting posture; when he had done so, he
looked feebly round for help, and groaned with pain. Trembling in every joi=
nt,
from cold and exhaustion, he made an effort to stand upright; but, shudderi=
ng
from head to foot, fell prostrate on the ground.
After
a short return of the stupor in which he had been so long plunged, Oliver:
urged by a creeping sickness at his heart, which seemed to warn him that if=
he
lay there, he must surely die: got upon his feet, and essayed to walk. His =
head
was dizzy, and he staggered to and fro like a drunken man. But he kept up,
nevertheless, and, with his head drooping languidly on his breast, went
stumbling onward, he knew not whither.
And
now, hosts of bewildering and confused ideas came crowding on his mind. He
seemed to be still walking between Sikes and Crackit, who were angrily
disputing - for the very words they said, sounded in his ears; and when he
caught his own attention, as it were, by making some violent effort to save
himself from falling, he found that he was talking to them. Then, he was al=
one
with Sikes, plodding on as on the previous day; and as shadowy people passed
them, he felt the robber's grasp upon his wrist. Suddenly, he started back =
at
the report of firearms; there rose into the air, loud cries and shouts; lig=
hts
gleamed before his eyes; all was noise and tumult, as some unseen hand bore=
him
hurriedly away. Through all these rapid visions, there ran an undefined, un=
easy
consciousness of pain, which wearied and tormented him incessantly.
Thus
he staggered on, creeping, almost mechanically, between the bars of gates, =
or
through hedge-gaps as they came in his way, until he reached a road. Here t=
he
rain began to fall so heavily, that it roused him.
He
looked about, and saw that at no great distance there was a house, which
perhaps he could reach. Pitying his condition, they might have compassion on
him; and if they did not, it would be better, he thought, to die near human
beings, than in the lonely open fields. He summoned up all his strength for=
one
last trial, and bent his faltering steps towards it.
As
he drew nearer to this house, a feeling come over him that he had seen it
before. He remembered nothing of its details; but the shape and aspect of t=
he
building seemed familiar to him.
That
garden wall! On the grass inside, he had fallen on his knees last night, and
prayed the two men's mercy. It was the very house they had attempted to rob=
.
Oliver
felt such fear come over him when he recognised the place, that, for the
instant, he forgot the agony of his wound, and thought only of flight. Flig=
ht!
He could scarcely stand: and if he were in full possession of all the best
powers of his slight and youthful frame, whither could he fly? He pushed
against the garden-gate; it was unlocked, and swung open on its hinges. He
tottered across the lawn; climbed the steps; knocked faintly at the door; a=
nd,
his whole strength failing him, sunk down against one of the pillars of the
little portico.
It
happened that about this time, Mr Giles, Brittles, and the tinker, were
recruiting themselves, after the fatigues and terrors of the night, with tea
and sundries, in the kitchen. Not that it was Mr Giles's habit to admit to =
too
great familiarity the humbler servants: towards whom it was rather his wont=
to
deport himself with a lofty affability, which, while it gratified, could not
fail to remind them of his superior position in society. But, death, fires,=
and
burglary, make all men equals; so Mr Giles sat with his legs stretched out
before the kitchen fender, leaning his left arm on the table, while, with h=
is
right, he illustrated a circumstantial and minute account of the robbery, to
which his bearers (but especially the cook and housemaid, who were of the
party) listened with breathless interest.
'It
was about half-past two,' said Mr Giles, 'or I wouldn't swear that it might=
n't
have been a little nearer three, when I woke up, and, turning round in my b=
ed,
as it might be so, (here Mr Giles turned round in his chair, and pulled the
corner of the table-cloth over him to imitate bed-clothes,) I fancied I hee=
rd a
noise.'
At
this point of the narrative the cook turned pale, and asked the housemaid to
shut the door: who asked Brittles, who asked the tinker, who pretended not =
to
hear.
'
- Heerd a noise,' continued Mr Giles. 'I says, at first, ‘This is
illusion’; and was composing myself off to sleep, when I heerd the no=
ise
again, distinct.'
'What
sort of a noise?' asked the cook.
'A
kind of a busting noise,' replied Mr Giles, looking round him.
'More
like the noise of powdering a iron bar on a nutmeg-grater,' suggested Britt=
les.
'It
was, when you heerd it, sir,'
rejoined Mr Giles; 'but, at this time, it had a busting sound. I turned down
the clothes'; continued Giles, rolling back the table-cloth, 'sat up in bed;
and listened.'
The
cook and housemaid simultaneously ejaculated 'Lor!' and drew their chairs
closer together.
'I
heerd it now, quite apparent,' resumed Mr Giles. '‘Somebody,’ I
says, ‘is forcing of a door, or window; what's to be done? I'll call =
up
that poor lad, Brittles, and save him from being murdered in his bed; or his
throat,’ I says, ‘may be cut from his right ear to his left,
without his ever knowing it.’'
Here,
all eyes were turned upon Brittles, who fixed his upon the speaker, and sta=
red
at him, with his mouth wide open, and his face expressive of the most
unmitigated horror.
'I
tossed off the clothes,' said Giles, throwing away the table-cloth, and loo=
king
very hard at the cook and housemaid, 'got softly out of bed; drew on a pair=
of
- '
'Ladies
present, Mr Giles,' murmured the tinker.
'
- Of shoes, sir,' said Giles, t=
urning
upon him, and laying great emphasis on the word; 'seized the loaded pistol =
that
always goes upstairs with the plate-basket; and walked on tiptoes to his ro=
om. ‘Brittles,’
I says, when I had woke him, ‘don't be frightened!’'
'So
you did,' observed Brittles, in a low voice.
'‘We're
dead men, I think, Brittles,’ I says,' continued Giles; '‘but d=
on't
be frightened.’'
'Was he frightened?' asked the cook=
.
'Not
a bit of it,' replied Mr Giles. 'He was as firm - ah! pretty near as firm a=
s I
was.'
'I
should have died at once, I'm sure, if it had been me,' observed the housem=
aid.
'You're
a woman,' retorted Brittles, plucking up a little.
'Brittles
is right,' said Mr Giles, nodding his head, approvingly; 'from a woman, not=
hing
else was to be expected. We, being men, took a dark lantern that was standi=
ng
on Brittle's hob, and groped our way downstairs in the pitch dark, - as it
might be so.'
Mr
Giles had risen from his seat, and taken two steps with his eyes shut, to
accompany his description with appropriate action, when he started violentl=
y,
in common with the rest of the company, and hurried back to his chair. The =
cook
and housemaid screamed.
'It
was a knock,' said Mr Giles, assuming perfect serenity. 'Open the door,
somebody.'
Nobody
moved.
'It
seems a strange sort of a thing, a knock coming at such a time in the morni=
ng,'
said Mr Giles, surveying the pale faces which surrounded him, and looking v=
ery
blank himself; 'but the door must be opened. Do you hear, somebody?'
Mr
Giles, as he spoke, looked at Brittles; but that young man, being naturally
modest, probably considered himself nobody, and so held that the inquiry co=
uld
not have any application to him; at all events, he tendered no reply. Mr Gi=
les
directed an appealing glance at the tinker; but he had suddenly fallen asle=
ep.
The women were out of the question.
'If
Brittles would rather open the door, in the presence of witnesses,' said Mr
Giles, after a short silence, 'I am ready to make one.'
'So
am I,' said the tinker, waking up, as suddenly as he had fallen asleep.
Brittles
capitulated on these terms; and the party being somewhat re-assured by the
discovery (made on throwing open the shutters) that it was now broad day, t=
ook
their way upstairs; with the dogs in front. The two women, who were afraid =
to
stay below, brought up the rear. By the advice of Mr Giles, they all talked
very loud, to warn any evil-disposed person outside, that they were strong =
in
numbers; and by a master-stoke of policy, originating in the brain of the s=
ame
ingenious gentleman, the dogs' tails were well pinched, in the hall, to make
them bark savagely.
These
precautions having been taken, Mr Giles held on fast by the tinker's arm (to
prevent his running away, as he pleasantly said), and gave the word of comm=
and
to open the door. Brittles obeyed; the group, peeping timorously over each
other's shoulders, beheld no more formidable object than poor little Oliver
Twist, speechless and exhausted, who raised his heavy eyes, and mutely
solicited their compassion.
'A
boy!' exclaimed Mr Giles, valiantly, pushing the tinker into the background.
'What's the matter with the - eh? - Why - Brittles - look here - don't you
know?'
Brittles,
who had got behind the door to open it, no sooner saw Oliver, than he utter=
ed a
loud cry. Mr Giles, seizing the boy by one leg and one arm (fortunately not=
the
broken limb) lugged him straight into the hall, and deposited him at full
length on the floor thereof.
'Here
he is!' bawled Giles, calling in a state of great excitement, up the stairc=
ase;
'here's one of the thieves, ma'am! Here's a thief, miss! Wounded, miss! I s=
hot
him, miss; and Brittles held the light.'
'
- In a lantern, miss,' cried Brittles, applying one hand to the side of his
mouth, so that his voice might travel the better.
The
two women-servants ran upstairs to carry the intelligence that Mr Giles had
captured a robber; and the tinker busied himself in endeavouring to restore
Oliver, lest he should die before he could be hanged. In the midst of all t=
his
noise and commotion, there was heard a sweet female voice, which quelled it=
in
an instant.
'Giles!'
whispered the voice from the stair-head.
'I'm
here, miss,' replied Mr Giles. 'Don't be frightened, miss; I ain't much
injured. He didn't make a very desperate resistance, miss! I was soon too m=
any
for him.'
'Hush!'
replied the young lady; 'you frighten my aunt as much as the thieves did. Is
the poor creature much hurt?'
'Wounded
desperate, miss,' replied Giles, with indescribable complacency.
'He
looks as if he was a-going, miss,' bawled Brittles, in the same manner as
before. 'Wouldn't you like to come and look at him, miss, in case he should=
?'
'Hush,
pray; there's a good man!' rejoined the lady. 'Wait quietly only one instan=
t,
while I speak to aunt.'
With
a footstep as soft and gentle as the voice, the speaker tripped away. She s=
oon
returned, with the direction that the wounded person was to be carried,
carefully, upstairs to Mr Giles's room; and that Brittles was to saddle the
pony and betake himself instantly to Chertsey: from which place, he was to
despatch, with all speed, a constable and doctor.
'But
won't you take one look at him, first, miss?' asked Mr Giles, with as much
pride as if Oliver were some bird of rare plumage, that he had skilfully
brought down. 'Not one little peep, miss?'
'Not
now, for the world,' replied the young lady. 'Poor fellow! Oh! treat him
kindly, Giles for my sake!'
The
old servant looked up at the speaker, as she turned away, with a glance as
proud and admiring as if she had been his own child. Then, bending over Oli=
ver,
he helped to carry him upstairs, with the care and solicitude of a woman.
Chapter XXIX - Has An Introductory Account Of The Inma=
tes Of
The House, To Which Oliver Resorted
In
a handsome room: though its furniture had rather the air of old-fashioned
comfort, than of modern elegance: there sat two ladies at a well-spread
breakfast-table. Mr Giles, dressed with scrupulous care in a full suit of
black, was in attendance upon them. He had taken his station some half-way
between the side-board and the breakfast-table; and, with his body drawn up=
to
its full height, his head thrown back, and inclined the merest trifle on one
side, his left leg advanced, and his right hand thrust into his waist-coat,
while his left hung down by his side, grasping a waiter, looked like one who
laboured under a very agreeable sense of his own merits and importance.
Of
the two ladies, one was well advanced in years; but the high-backed oaken c=
hair
in which she sat, was not more upright than she. Dressed with the utmost ni=
cety
and precision, in a quaint mixture of by-gone costume, with some slight
concessions to the prevailing taste, which rather served to point the old s=
tyle
pleasantly than to impair its effect, she sat, in a stately manner, with her
hands folded on the table before her. Her eyes (and age had dimmed but litt=
le
of their brightness) were attentively upon her young companion.
The
younger lady was in the lovely bloom and spring-time of womanhood; at that =
age,
when, if ever angels be for God's good purposes enthroned in mortal forms, =
they
may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in such as hers.
She
was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould; so mild and
gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, nor its r=
ough
creatures her fit companions. The very intelligence that shone in her deep =
blue
eye, and was stamped upon her noble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of=
the
world; and yet the changing expression of sweetness and good humour, the
thousand lights that played about the face, and left no shadow there; above
all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside
peace and happiness.
She
was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to raise her
eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair,
which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, =
such
an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits mig=
ht
have smiled to look upon her.
'And
Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?' asked the old lady, aft=
er a
pause.
'An
hour and twelve minutes, ma'am,' replied Mr Giles, referring to a silver wa=
tch,
which he drew forth by a black ribbon.
'He
is always slow,' remarked the old lady.
'Brittles
always was a slow boy, ma'am,' replied the attendant. And seeing, by the by=
e,
that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appear=
ed
no great probability of his ever being a fast one.
'He
gets worse instead of better, I think,' said the elder lady.
'It
is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys,' said t=
he
young lady, smiling.
Mr
Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a respectful
smile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate: out of which there
jumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door: and who, getting
quickly into the house by some mysterious process, burst into the room, and
nearly overturned Mr Giles and the breakfast-table together.
'I
never heard of such a thing!' exclaimed the fat gentleman. 'My dear Mrs May=
lie
- bless my soul - in the silence of the night, too - I never heard of such a thing!'
With
these expressions of condolence, the fat gentleman shook hands with both
ladies, and drawing up a chair, inquired how they found themselves.
'You
ought to be dead; positively dead with the fright,' said the fat gentleman.=
'Why
didn't you send? Bless me, my man should have come in a minute; and so woul=
d I;
and my assistant would have been delighted; or anybody, I'm sure, under such
circumstances. Dear, dear! So unexpected! In the silence of the night, too!=
'
The
doctor seemed expecially troubled by the fact of the robbery having been
unexpected, and attempted in the night-time; as if it were the established
custom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact business at noon, =
and
to make an appointment, by post, a day or two previous.
'And
you, Miss Rose,' said the doctor, turning to the young lady, 'I - '
'Oh!
very much so, indeed,' said Rose, interrupting him; 'but there is a poor
creature upstairs, whom aunt wishes you to see.'
'Ah!
to be sure,' replied the doctor, 'so there is. That was your handiwork, Gil=
es,
I understand.'
Mr
Giles, who had been feverishly putting the tea-cups to rights, blushed very
red, and said that he had had that honour.
'Honour,
eh?' said the doctor; 'well, I don't know; perhaps it's as honourable to hi=
t a
thief in a back kitchen, as to hit your man at twelve paces. Fancy that he
fired in the air, and you've fought a duel, Giles.'
Mr
Giles, who thought this light treatment of the matter an unjust attempt at
diminishing his glory, answered respectfully, that it was not for the like =
of
him to judge about that; but he rather thought it was no joke to the opposi=
te
party.
'Gad,
that's true!' said the doctor. 'Where is he? Show me the way. I'll look in
again, as I come down, Mrs Maylie. That's the little window that he got in =
at,
eh? Well, I couldn't have believed it!'
Talking
all the way, he followed Mr Giles upstairs; and while he is going upstairs,=
the
reader may be informed, that Mr Losberne, a surgeon in the neighbourhood, k=
nown
through a circuit of ten miles round as 'the doctor,' had grown fat, more f=
rom
good-humour than from good living: and was as kind and hearty, and withal as
eccentric an old bachelor, as will be found in five times that space, by any
explorer alive.
The
doctor was absent, much longer than either he or the ladies had anticipated=
. A
large flat box was fetched out of the gig; and a bedroom bell was rung very
often; and the servants ran up and down stairs perpetually; from which toke=
ns
it was justly concluded that something important was going on above. At len=
gth
he returned; and in reply to an anxious inquiry after his patient; looked v=
ery
mysterious, and closed the door, carefully.
'This
is a very extraordinary thing, Mrs Maylie,' said the doctor, standing with =
his
back to the door, as if to keep it shut.
'He
is not in danger, I hope?' said the old lady.
'Why,
that would not be an extraordin=
ary
thing, under the circumstances,' replied the doctor; 'though I don't think =
he
is. Have you seen the thief?'
'No,'
rejoined the old lady.
'Nor
heard anything about him?'
'No.'
'I
beg your pardon, ma'am, interposed Mr Giles; 'but I was going to tell you a=
bout
him when Doctor Losberne came in.'
The
fact was, that Mr Giles had not, at first, been able to bring his mind to t=
he
avowal, that he had only shot a boy. Such commendations had been bestowed u=
pon
his bravery, that he could not, for the life of him, help postponing the
explanation for a few delicious minutes; during which he had flourished, in=
the
very zenith of a brief reputation for undaunted courage.
'Rose
wished to see the man,' said Mrs Maylie, 'but I wouldn't hear of it.'
'Humph!'
rejoined the doctor. 'There is nothing very alarming in his appearance. Have
you any objection to see him in my presence?'
'If
it be necessary,' replied the old lady, 'certainly not.'
'Then
I think it is necessary,' said the doctor; 'at all events, I am quite sure =
that
you would deeply regret not having done so, if you postponed it. He is
perfectly quiet and comfortable now. Allow me - Miss Rose, will you permit =
me?
Not the slightest fear, I pledge you my honour!'
Chapter XXX - Relates What Oliver's New Visitors Thoug=
ht Of
Him
With
many loquacious assurances that they would be agreeably surprised in the as=
pect
of the criminal, the doctor drew the young lady's arm through one of his; a=
nd
offering his disengaged hand to Mrs Maylie, led them, with much ceremony and
stateliness, upstairs.
'Now,'
said the doctor, in a whisper, as he softly turned the handle of a
bedroom-door, 'let us hear what you think of him. He has not been shaved ve=
ry
recently, but he don't look at all ferocious notwithstanding. Stop, though!=
Let
me first see that he is in visiting order.'
Stepping
before them, he looked into the room. Motioning them to advance, he closed =
the
door when they had entered; and gently drew back the curtains of the bed. U=
pon
it, in lieu of the dogged, black-visaged ruffian they had expected to behol=
d,
there lay a mere child: worn with pain and exhaustion, and sunk into a deep
sleep. His wounded arm, bound and splintered up, was crossed upon his breas=
t;
his head reclined upon the other arm, which was half hidden by his long hai=
r,
as it streamed over the pillow.
The
honest gentleman held the curtain in his hand, and looked on, for a minute =
or
so, in silence. Whilst he was watching the patient thus, the younger lady
glided softly past, and seating herself in a chair by the bedside, gathered
Oliver's hair from his face. As she stooped over him, her tears fell upon h=
is
forehead.
The
boy stirred, and smiled in his sleep, as though these marks of pity and
compassion had awakened some pleasant dream of a love and affection he had
never known. Thus, a strain of gentle music, or the rippling of water in a
silent place, or the odour of a flower, or the mention of a familiar word, =
will
sometimes call up sudden dim remembrances of scenes that never were, in this
life; which vanish like a breath; which some brief memory of a happier
existence, long gone by, would seem to have awakened; which no voluntary ex=
ertion
of the mind can ever recall.
'What
can this mean?' exclaimed the elder lady. 'This poor child can never have b=
een
the pupil of robbers!'
'Vice,'
said the surgeon, replacing the curtain, 'takes up her abode in many temple=
s;
and who can say that a fair outside shell not enshrine her?'
'But
at so early an age!' urged Rose.
'My
dear young lady,' rejoined the surgeon, mournfully shaking his head; 'crime,
like death, is not confined to the old and withered alone. The youngest and
fairest are too often its chosen victims.'
'But,
can you - oh! can you really believe that this delicate boy has been the
voluntary associate of the worst outcasts of society?' said Rose.
The
surgeon shook his head, in a manner which intimated that he feared it was v=
ery
possible; and observing that they might disturb the patient, led the way in=
to
an adjoining apartment.
'But
even if he has been wicked,' pursued Rose, 'think how young he is; think th=
at
he may never have known a mother's love, or the comfort of a home; that ill=
-usage
and blows, or the want of bread, may have driven him to herd with men who h=
ave
forced him to guilt. Aunt, dear aunt, for mercy's sake, think of this, befo=
re
you let them drag this sick child to a prison, which in any case must be the
grave of all his chances of amendment. Oh! as you love me, and know that I =
have
never felt the want of parents in your goodness and affection, but that I m=
ight
have done so, and might have been equally helpless and unprotected with this
poor child, have pity upon him before it is too late!'
'My
dear love,' said the elder lady, as she folded the weeping girl to her boso=
m,
'do you think I would harm a hair of his head?'
'Oh,
no!' replied Rose, eagerly.
'No,
surely,' said the old lady; 'my days are drawing to their close: and may me=
rcy
be shown to me as I show it to others! What can I do to save him, sir?'
'Let
me think, ma'am,' said the doctor; 'let me think.'
Mr
Losberne thrust his hands into his pockets, and took several turns up and d=
own
the room; often stopping, and balancing himself on his toes, and frowning
frightfully. After various exclamations of 'I've got it now' and 'no, I
haven't,' and as many renewals of the walking and frowning, he at length ma=
de a
dead halt, and spoke as follows:
'I
think if you give me a full and unlimited commission to bully Giles, and th=
at
little boy, Brittles, I can manage it. Giles is a faithful fellow and an old
servant, I know; but you can make it up to him in a thousand ways, and rewa=
rd
him for being such a good shot besides. You don't object to that?'
'Unless
there is some other way of preserving the child,' replied Mrs Maylie.
'There
is no other,' said the doctor. 'No other, take my word for it.'
'Then
my aunt invests you with full power,' said Rose, smiling through her tears;=
'but
pray don't be harder upon the poor fellows than is indispensably necessary.=
'
'You
seem to think,' retorted the doctor, 'that everybody is disposed to be
hard-hearted to-day, except yourself, Miss Rose. I only hope, for the sake =
of
the rising male sex generally, that you may be found in as vulnerable and
soft-hearted a mood by the first eligible young fellow who appeals to your
compassion; and I wish I were a young fellow, that I might avail myself, on=
the
spot, of such a favourable opportunity for doing so, as the present.'
'You
are as great a boy as poor Brittles himself,' returned Rose, blushing.
'Well,'
said the doctor, laughing heartily, 'that is no very difficult matter. But =
to
return to this boy. The great point of our agreement is yet to come. He will
wake in an hour or so, I dare say; and although I have told that thick-head=
ed
constable-fellow downstairs that he musn't be moved or spoken to, on peril =
of
his life, I think we may converse with him without danger. Now I make this
stipulation - that I shall examine him in your presence, and that, if, from
what he says, we judge, and I can show to the satisfaction of your cool rea=
son,
that he is a real and thorough bad one (which is more than possible), he sh=
all
be left to his fate, without any farther interference on my part, at all
events.'
'Oh
no, aunt!' entreated Rose.
'Oh
yes, aunt!' said the doctor. 'Is is a bargain?'
'He
cannot be hardened in vice,' said Rose; 'It is impossible.'
'Very
good,' retorted the doctor; 'then so much the more reason for acceding to my
proposition.'
Finally
the treaty was entered into; and the parties thereunto sat down to wait, wi=
th
some impatience, until Oliver should awake.
The
patience of the two ladies was destined to undergo a longer trial than Mr
Losberne had led them to expect; for hour after hour passed on, and still
Oliver slumbered heavily. It was evening, indeed, before the kind-hearted
doctor brought them the intelligence, that he was at length sufficiently
restored to be spoken to. The boy was very ill, he said, and weak from the =
loss
of blood; but his mind was so troubled with anxiety to disclose something, =
that
he deemed it better to give him the opportunity, than to insist upon his
remaining quiet until next morning: which he should otherwise have done.
The
conference was a long one. Oliver told them all his simple history, and was
often compelled to stop, by pain and want of strength. It was a solemn thin=
g,
to hear, in the darkened room, the feeble voice of the sick child recountin=
g a
weary catalogue of evils and calamities which hard men had brought upon him.
Oh! if when we oppress and grind our fellow-creatures, we bestowed but one
thought on the dark evidences of human error, which, like dense and heavy
clouds, are rising, slowly it is true, but not less surely, to Heaven, to p=
our
their after-vengeance on our heads; if we heard but one instant, in
imagination, the deep testimony of dead men's voices, which no power can
stifle, and no pride shut out; where would be the injury and injustice, the=
suffering,
misery, cruelty, and wrong, that each day's life brings with it!
Oliver's
pillow was smoothed by gentle hands that night; and loveliness and virtue
watched him as he slept. He felt calm and happy, and could have died withou=
t a
murmur.
The
momentous interview was no sooner concluded, and Oliver composed to rest ag=
ain,
than the doctor, after wiping his eyes, and condemning them for being weak =
all
at once, betook himself downstairs to open upon Mr Giles. And finding nobody
about the parlours, it occurred to him, that he could perhaps originate the
proceedings with better effect in the kitchen; so into the kitchen he went.=
There
were assembled, in that lower house of the domestic parliament, the
women-servants, Mr Brittles, Mr Giles, the tinker (who had received a speci=
al
invitation to regale himself for the remainder of the day, in consideration=
of
his services), and the constable. The latter gentleman had a large staff, a
large head, large features, and large half-boots; and he looked as if he ha=
d been
taking a proportionate allowance of ale - as indeed he had.
The
adventures of the previous night were still under discussion; for Mr Giles =
was
expatiating upon his presence of mind, when the doctor entered; Mr Brittles,
with a mug of ale in his hand, was corroborating everything, before his
superior said it.
'Sit
still!' said the doctor, waving his hand.
'Thank
you, sir, said Mr Giles. 'Misses wished some ale to be given out, sir; and =
as I
felt no ways inclined for my own little room, sir, and was disposed for
company, I am taking mine among 'em here.'
Brittles
headed a low murmur, by which the ladies and gentlemen generally were
understood to express the gratification they derived from Mr Giles's
condescension. Mr Giles looked round with a patronising air, as much as to =
say
that so long as they behaved properly, he would never desert them.
'How
is the patient to-night, sir?' asked Giles.
'So-so';
returned the doctor. 'I am afraid you have got yourself into a scrape there=
, Mr
Giles.'
'I
hope you don't mean to say, sir,' said Mr Giles, trembling, 'that he's goin=
g to
die. If I thought it, I should never be happy again. I wouldn't cut a boy o=
ff:
no, not even Brittles here; not for all the plate in the county, sir.'
'That's
not the point,' said the doctor, mysteriously. 'Mr Giles, are you a
Protestant?'
'Yes,
sir, I hope so,' faltered Mr Giles, who had turned very pale.
'And
what are you, boy?' said the do=
ctor,
turning sharply upon Brittles.
'Lord
bless me, sir!' replied Brittles, starting violently; 'I'm the same as Mr
Giles, sir.'
'Then
tell me this,' said the doctor, 'both of you, both of you! Are you going to
take upon yourselves to swear, that that boy upstairs is the boy that was p=
ut
through the little window last night? Out with it! Come! We are prepared for
you!'
The
doctor, who was universally considered one of the best-tempered creatures on
earth, made this demand in such a dreadful tone of anger, that Giles and
Brittles, who were considerably muddled by ale and excitement, stared at ea=
ch
other in a state of stupefaction.
'Pay
attention to the reply, constable, will you?' said the doctor, shaking his
forefinger with great solemnity of manner, and tapping the bridge of his no=
se
with it, to bespeak the exercise of that worthy's utmost acuteness. 'Someth=
ing
may come of this before long.'
The
constable looked as wise as he could, and took up his staff of office: which
had been reclining indolently in the chimney-corner.
'It's
a simple question of identity, you will observe,' said the doctor.
'That's
what it is, sir,' replied the constable, coughing with great violence; for =
he
had finished his ale in a hurry, and some of it had gone the wrong way.
'Here's
the house broken into,' said the doctor, 'and a couple of men catch one
moment's glimpse of a boy, in the midst of gunpowder smoke, and in all the
distraction of alarm and darkness. Here's a boy comes to that very same hou=
se,
next morning, and because he happens to have his arm tied up, these men lay
violent hands upon him - by doing which, they place his life in great dange=
r - and
swear he is the thief. Now, the question is, whether these men are justifie=
d by
the fact; if not, in what situation do they place themselves?'
The
constable nodded profoundly. He said, if that wasn't law, he would be glad =
to
know what was.
'I
ask you again,' thundered the doctor, 'are you, on your solemn oaths, able =
to
identify that boy?'
Brittles
looked doubtfully at Mr Giles; Mr Giles looked doubtfully at Brittles; the
constable put his hand behind his ear, to catch the reply; the two women and
the tinker leaned forward to listen; the doctor glanced keenly round; when a
ring was heard at the gate, and at the same moment, the sound of wheels.
'It's
the runners!' cried Brittles, to all appearance much relieved.
'The
what?' exclaimed the doctor, aghast in his turn.
'The
Bow Street officers, sir,' replied Brittles, taking up a candle; 'me and Mr
Giles sent for 'em this morning.'
'What?'
cried the doctor.
'Yes,'
replied Brittles; 'I sent a message up by the coachman, and I only wonder t=
hey
weren't here before, sir.'
'You
did, did you? Then confound your - slow coaches down here; that's all,' said
the doctor, walking away.
Chapter XXXI - Involves A Critical Position=
'Who's
that?' inquired Brittles, opening the door a little way, with the chain up,=
and
peeping out, shading the candle with his hand.
'Open
the door,' replied a man outside; 'it's the officers from Bow Street, as was
sent to to-day.'
Much
comforted by this assurance, Brittles opened the door to its full width, and
confronted a portly man in a great-coat; who walked in, without saying anyt=
hing
more, and wiped his shoes on the mat, as coolly as if he lived there.
'Just
send somebody out to relieve my mate, will you, young man?' said the office=
r;
'he's in the gig, a-minding the prad. Have you got a coach 'us here, that y=
ou
could put it up in, for five or ten minutes?'
Brittles
replying in the affirmative, and pointing out the building, the portly man
stepped back to the garden-gate, and helped his companion to put up the gig:
while Brittles lighted them, in a state of great admiration. This done, they
returned to the house, and, being shown into a parlour, took off their
great-coats and hats, and showed like what they were.
The
man who had knocked at the door, was a stout personage of middle height, ag=
ed
about fifty: with shiny black hair, cropped pretty close; half-whiskers, a
round face, and sharp eyes. The other was a red-headed, bony man, in top-bo=
ots;
with a rather ill-favoured countenance, and a turned-up sinister-looking no=
se.
'Tell
your governor that Blathers and Duff is here, will you?' said the stouter m=
an,
smoothing down his hair, and laying a pair of handcuffs on the table. 'Oh!
Good-evening, master. Can I have a word or two with you in private, if you
please?'
This
was addressed to Mr Losberne, who now made his appearance; that gentleman,
motioning Brittles to retire, brought in the two ladies, and shut the door.=
'This is the lady of the house,' said Mr Losberne, motioning towards Mrs Maylie.<= o:p>
Mr
Blathers made a bow. Being desired to sit down, he put his hat on the floor,
and taking a chair, motioned to Duff to do the same. The latter gentleman, =
who
did not appear quite so much accustomed to good society, or quite so much at
his ease in it - one of the two - seated himself, after undergoing several
muscular affections of the limbs, and the head of his stick into his mouth,
with some embarrassment.
'Now,
with regard to this here robbery, master,' said Blathers. 'What are the
circumstances?'
Mr
Losberne, who appeared desirous of gaining time, recounted them at great
length, and with much circumlocution. Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked very
knowing meanwhile, and occasionally exchanged a nod.
'I
can't say, for certain, till I see the work, of course,' said Blathers; 'bu=
t my
opinion at once is, - I don't mind committing myself to that extent, - that
this wasn't done by a yokel; eh, Duff?'
'Certainly
not,' replied Duff.
'And,
translating the word yokel for the benefit of the ladies, I apprehend your
meaning to be, that this attempt was not made by a countryman?' said Mr
Losberne, with a smile.
'That's
it, master,' replied Blathers. 'This is all about the robbery, is it?'
'All,'
replied the doctor.
'Now,
what is this, about this here boy that the servants are a-talking on?' said
Blathers.
'Nothing
at all,' replied the doctor. 'One of the frightened servants chose to take =
it
into his head, that he had something to do with this attempt to break into =
the
house; but it's nonsense: sheer absurdity.'
'Wery
easy disposed of, if it is,' remarked Duff.
'What
he says is quite correct,' observed Blathers, nodding his head in a
confirmatory way, and playing carelessly with the handcuffs, as if they wer=
e a
pair of castanets. 'Who is the boy? What account does he give of himself? W=
here
did he come from? He didn't drop out of the clouds, did he, master?'
'Of
course not,' replied the doctor, with a nervous glance at the two ladies. 'I
know his whole history: but we can talk about that presently. You would lik=
e,
first, to see the place where the thieves made their attempt, I suppose?'
'Certainly,'
rejoined Mr Blathers. 'We had better inspect the premises first, and examine
the servants afterwards. That's the usual way of doing business.'
Lights
were then procured; and Messrs. Blathers and Duff, attended by the native
constable, Brittles, Giles, and everybody else in short, went into the litt=
le
room at the end of the passage and looked out at the window; and afterwards
went round by way of the lawn, and looked in at the window; and after that,=
had
a candle handed out to inspect the shutter with; and after that, a lantern =
to
trace the footsteps with; and after that, a pitchfork to poke the bushes wi=
th.
This done, amidst the breathless interest of all beholders, they came in ag=
ain;
and Mr Giles and Brittles were put through a melodramatic representation of
their share in the previous night's adventures: which they performed some s=
ix
times over: contradicting each other, in not more than one important respec=
t,
the first time, and in not more than a dozen the last. This consummation be=
ing
arrived at, Blathers and Duff cleared the room, and held a long council
together, compared with which, for secrecy and solemnity, a consultation of
great doctors on the knottiest point in medicine, would be mere child's pla=
y.
Meanwhile,
the doctor walked up and down the next room in a very uneasy state; and Mrs
Maylie and Rose looked on, with anxious faces.
'Upon
my word,' he said, making a halt, after a great number of very rapid turns,=
'I
hardly know what to do.'
'Surely,'
said Rose, 'the poor child's story, faithfully repeated to these men, will =
be
sufficient to exonerate him.'
'I
doubt it, my dear young lady,' said the doctor, shaking his head. 'I don't
think it would exonerate him, either with them, or with legal functionaries=
of
a higher grade. What is he, after all, they would say? A runaway. Judged by
mere worldly considerations and probabilities, his story is a very doubtful
one.'
'You
believe it, surely?' interrupted Rose.
'I believe it, strange as it is; and
perhaps I may be an old fool for doing so,' rejoined the doctor; 'but I don=
't
think it is exactly the tale for a practical police-officer, nevertheless.'=
'Why
not?' demanded Rose.
'Because,
my pretty cross-examiner,' replied the doctor: 'because, viewed with their
eyes, there are many ugly points about it; he can only prove the parts that
look ill, and none of those that look well. Confound the fellows, they will have the why and the wherefor=
e, and
will take nothing for granted. On his own showing, you see, he has been the
companion of thieves for some time past; he has been carried to a
police-officer, on a charge of picking a gentleman's pocket; he has been ta=
ken
away, forcibly, from that gentleman's house, to a place which he cannot
describe or point out, and of the situation of which he has not the remotest
idea. He is brought down to Chertsey, by men who seem to have taken a viole=
nt
fancy to him, whether he will or no; and is put through a window to rob a h=
ouse;
and then, just at the very moment when he is going to alarm the inmates, an=
d so
do the very thing that would set him all to rights, there rushes into the w=
ay,
a blundering dog of a half-bred butler, and shoots him! As if on purpose to
prevent his doing any good for himself! Don't you see all this?'
'I
see it, of course,' replied Rose, smiling at the doctor's impetuosity; 'but
still I do not see anything in it, to criminate the poor child.'
'No,'
replied the doctor; 'of course not! Bless the bright eyes of your sex! They
never see, whether for good or bad, more than one side of any question; and
that is, always, the one which first presents itself to them.'
Having
given vent to this result of experience, the doctor put his hands into his
pockets, and walked up and down the room with even greater rapidity than
before.
'The
more I think of it,' said the doctor, 'the more I see that it will occasion
endless trouble and difficulty if we put these men in possession of the boy=
's
real story. I am certain it will not be believed; and even if they can do
nothing to him in the end, still the dragging it forward, and giving public=
ity
to all the doubts that will be cast upon it, must interfere, materially, wi=
th
your benevolent plan of rescuing him from misery.'
'Oh!
what is to be done?' cried Rose. 'Dear, dear! why did they send for these
people?' 'Why, indeed!' exclaimed Mrs Maylie. 'I would not have had them he=
re,
for the world.'
'All
I know is,' said Mr Losberne, at last: sitting down with a kind of desperate
calmness, 'that we must try and carry it off with a bold face. The object i=
s a
good one, and that must be our excuse. The boy has strong symptoms of fever
upon him, and is in no condition to be talked to any more; that's one comfo=
rt.
We must make the best of it; and if bad be the best, it is no fault of ours.
Come in!'
'Well,
master,' said Blathers, entering the room followed by his colleague, and ma=
king
the door fast, before he said any more. 'This warn't a put-up thing.'
'And
what the devil's a put-up thing?' demanded the doctor, impatiently.
'We
call it a put-up robbery, ladies,' said Blathers, turning to them, as if he
pitied their ignorance, but had a contempt for the doctor's, 'when the serv=
ants
is in it.'
'Nobody
suspected them, in this case,' said Mrs Maylie.
'Wery
likely not, ma'am,' replied Blathers; 'but they might have been in it, for =
all
that.'
'More
likely on that wery account,' said Duff.
'We
find it was a town hand,' said Blathers, continuing his report; 'for the st=
yle
of work is first-rate.'
'Wery
pretty indeed it is,' remarked Duff, in an undertone.
'There
was two of 'em in it,' continued Blathers; 'and they had a boy with 'em; th=
at's
plain from the size of the window. That's all to be said at present. We'll =
see
this lad that you've got upstairs at once, if you please.'
'Perhaps
they will take something to drink first, Mrs Maylie?' said the doctor: his =
face
brightening, as if some new thought had occurred to him.
'Oh!
to be sure!' exclaimed Rose, eagerly. 'You shall have it immediately, if you
will.'
'Why,
thank you, miss!' said Blathers, drawing his coat-sleeve across his mouth;
'it's dry work, this sort of duty. Anythink that's handy, miss; don't put
yourself out of the way, on our accounts.'
'What shall it be?' asked the doctor, following the young lady to the sideboard.<= o:p>
'A
little drop of spirits, master, if it's all the same,' replied Blathers. 'I=
t's
a cold ride from London, ma'am; and I always find that spirits comes home
warmer to the feelings.'
This
interesting communication was addressed to Mrs Maylie, who received it very
graciously. While it was being conveyed to her, the doctor slipped out of t=
he
room.
'Ah!'
said Mr Blathers: not holding his wine-glass by the stem, but grasping the
bottom between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand: and placing it in
front of his chest; 'I have seen a good many pieces of business like this, =
in
my time, ladies.'
'That
crack down in the back lane at Edmonton, Blathers,' said Mr Duff, assisting=
his
colleague's memory.
'That
was something in this way, warn't it?' rejoined Mr Blathers; 'that was done=
by
Conkey Chickweed, that was.'
'You
always gave that to him' replied Duff. 'It was the Family Pet, I tell you.
Conkey hadn't any more to do with it than I had.'
'Get
out!' retorted Mr Blathers; 'I know better. Do you mind that time when Conk=
ey
was robbed of his money, though? What a start that was! Better than any
novel-book I ever see!'
'What
was that?' inquired Rose: anxious to encourage any symptoms of good-humour =
in
the unwelcome visitors.
'It
was a robbery, miss, that hardly anybody would have been down upon,' said
Blathers. 'This here Conkey Chickweed - '
'Conkey
means Nosey, ma'am,' interposed Duff.
'Of
course the lady knows that, don't she?' demanded Mr Blathers. 'Always
interrupting, you are, partner! This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept a
public-house over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar, where a good many
young lords went to see cock-fighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a =
wery
intellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I've seen 'em off'en. =
He
warn't one of the family, at that time; and one night he was robbed of three
hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag, that was stole out of his
bedroom in the dead of night, by a tall man with a black patch over his eye,
who had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the robbery,
jumped slap out of window: which was only a story high. He was wery quick a=
bout
it. But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a blunderbuss arter him, and ro=
used
the neighbourhood. They set up a hue-and-cry, directly, and when they came =
to
look about 'em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there was traces =
of
blood, all the way to some palings a good distance off; and there they lost
'em. However, he had made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name o=
f Mr
Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrup=
ts;
and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don't know what all, was
got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind about his loss,
and went up and down the streets, for three or four days, a pulling his hair
off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be goin=
g to
make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in a hurry, a=
nd
had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rin=
gs
the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells hi=
m to
go and assist Mr Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house. =
216;I
see him, Spyers,’ said Chickweed, ‘pass my house yesterday morn=
ing,’
‘Why didn't you up, and collar him!’ says Spyers. ‘I was =
so
struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpi=
ck,’
says the poor man; ‘but we're sure to have him; for between ten and
eleven o'clock at night he passed again.’ Spyers no sooner heard this,
than he put some clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he should h=
ave
to stop a day or two; and away he goes, and sets himself down at one of the
public-house windows behind the little red curtain, with his hat on, all re=
ady
to bolt out, at a moment's notice. He was smoking his pipe here, late at ni=
ght,
when all of a sudden Chickweed roars out, ‘Here he is! Stop thief!
Murder!’ Jem Spyers dashes out; and there he sees Chickweed, a-tearing
down the street full cry. Away goes Spyers; on goes Chickweed; round turns =
the
people; everybody roars out, ‘Thieves!’ and Chickweed himself k=
eeps
on shouting, all the time, like mad. Spyers loses sight of him a minute as =
he
turns a corner; shoots round; sees a little crowd; dives in; ‘Which is
the man?’ ‘D - me!’ says Chickweed, ‘I've lost him
again!’ It was a remarkable occurrence, but he warn't to be seen nowh=
ere,
so they went back to the public-house. Next morning, Spyers took his old pl=
ace,
and looked out, from behind the curtain, for a tall man with a black patch =
over
his eye, till his own two eyes ached again. At last, he couldn't help shutt=
ing
'em, to ease 'em a minute; and the very moment he did so, he hears Chickweed
a-roaring out, ‘Here he is!’ Off he starts once more, with
Chickweed half-way down the street ahead of him; and after twice as long a =
run
as the yesterday's one, the man's lost again! This was done, once or twice
more, till one-half the neighbours gave out that Mr Chickweed had been robb=
ed
by the devil, who was playing tricks with him arterwards; and the other hal=
f,
that poor Mr Chickweed had gone mad with grief.'
'What
did Jem Spyers say?' inquired the doctor; who had returned to the room shor=
tly
after the commencement of the story.
'Jem
Spyers,' resumed the officer, 'for a long time said nothing at all, and
listened to everything without seeming to, which showed he understood his
business. But, one morning, he walked into the bar, and taking out his
snuffbox, says ‘Chickweed, I've found out who done this here robbery.=
’
‘Have you?’ said Chickweed. ‘Oh, my dear Spyers, only let=
me
have wengeance, and I shall die contented! Oh, my dear Spyers, where is the
villain!’ ‘Come!’ said Spyers, offering him a pinch of sn=
uff,
‘none of that gammon! You did it yourself.’ So he had; and a go=
od
bit of money he had made by it, too; and nobody would never have found it o=
ut,
if he hadn't been so precious anxious to keep up appearances!' said Mr
Blathers, putting down his wine-glass, and clinking the handcuffs together.=
'Very
curious, indeed,' observed the doctor. 'Now, if you please, you can walk
upstairs.'
'If
you please, sir,' returned Mr
Blathers. Closely following Mr Losberne, the two officers ascended to Olive=
r's
bedroom; Mr Giles preceding the party, with a lighted candle.
Oliver
had been dozing; but looked worse, and was more feverish than he had appear=
ed
yet. Being assisted by the doctor, he managed to sit up in bed for a minute=
or
so; and looked at the strangers without at all understanding what was going
forward - in fact, without seeming to recollect where he was, or what had b=
een
passing.
'This,'
said Mr Losberne, speaking softly, but with great vehemence notwithstanding,
'this is the lad, who, being accidently wounded by a spring-gun in some boy=
ish
trespass on Mr What-d' ye-call-him's grounds, at the back here, comes to the
house for assistance this morning, and is immediately laid hold of and
maltreated, by that ingenious gentleman with the candle in his hand: who has
placed his life in considerable danger, as I can professionally certify.'
Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr Giles, as he was thus recommended to their notice. The bewildered butler gazed from them towards Oliver, and from Oliv= er towards Mr Losberne, with a most ludicrous mixture of fear and perplexity.<= o:p>
'You
don't mean to deny that, I suppose?' said the doctor, laying Oliver gently =
down
again.
'It
was all done for the - for the best, sir,' answered Giles. 'I am sure I tho=
ught
it was the boy, or I wouldn't have meddled with him. I am not of an inhuman
disposition, sir.'
'Thought
it was what boy?' inquired the senior officer.
'The
housebreaker's boy, sir!' replied Giles. 'They - they certainly had a boy.'=
'Well?
Do you think so now?' inquired Blathers.
'Think
what, now?' replied Giles, looking vacantly at his questioner.
'Think
it's the same boy, Stupid-head?' rejoined Blathers, impatiently.
'I
don't know; I really don't know,' said Giles, with a rueful countenance. 'I
couldn't swear to him.'
'What
do you think?' asked Mr Blathers.
'I
don't know what to think,' replied poor Giles. 'I don't think it is the boy;
indeed, I'm almost certain that it isn't. You know it can't be.'
'Has
this man been a-drinking, sir?' inquired Blathers, turning to the doctor.
'What
a precious muddle-headed chap you are!' said Duff, addressing Mr Giles, with
supreme contempt.
Mr
Losberne had been feeling the patient's pulse during this short dialogue; b=
ut
he now rose from the chair by the bedside, and remarked, that if the office=
rs
had any doubts upon the subject, they would perhaps like to step into the n=
ext
room, and have Brittles before them.
Acting
upon this suggestion, they adjourned to a neighbouring apartment, where Mr
Brittles, being called in, involved himself and his respected superior in s=
uch
a wonderful maze of fresh contradictions and impossibilities, as tended to
throw no particular light on anything, but the fact of his own strong
mystification; except, indeed, his declarations that he shouldn't know the =
real
boy, if he were put before him that instant; that he had only taken Oliver =
to
be he, because Mr Giles had said he was; and that Mr Giles had, five minutes
previously, admitted in the kitchen, that he began to be very much afraid he
had been a little too hasty.
Among
other ingenious surmises, the question was then raised, whether Mr Giles had
really hit anybody; and upon examination of the fellow pistol to that which=
he
had fired, it turned out to have no more destructive loading than gunpowder=
and
brown paper: a discovery which made a considerable impression on everybody =
but
the doctor, who had drawn the ball about ten minutes before. Upon no one,
however, did it make a greater impression than on Mr Giles himself; who, af=
ter
labouring, for some hours, under the fear of having mortally wounded a
fellow-creature, eagerly caught at this new idea, and favoured it to the
utmost. Finally, the officers, without troubling themselves very much about
Oliver, left the Chertsey constable in the house, and took up their rest for
that night in the town; promising to return the next morning.
With the next morning, there came a rumour, that two men and a boy were in the c= age at Kingston, who had been apprehended over night under suspicious circumstances; and to Kingston Messrs. Blathers and Duff journeyed accordin= gly. The suspicious circumstances, however, resolving themselves, on investigati= on, into the one fact, that they had been discovered sleeping under a haystack; which, although a great crime, is only punishable by imprisonment, and is, = in the merciful eye of the English law, and its comprehensive love of all the King's subjects, held to be no satisfactory proof, in the absence of all ot= her evidence, that the sleeper, or sleepers, have committed burglary accompanied with violence, and have therefore rendered themselves liable to the punishm= ent of death; Messrs. Blathers and Duff came back again, as wise as they went.<= o:p>
In
short, after some more examination, and a great deal more conversation, a
neighbouring magistrate was readily induced to take the joint bail of Mrs
Maylie and Mr Losberne for Oliver's appearance if he should ever be called
upon; and Blathers and Duff, being rewarded with a couple of guineas, retur=
ned
to town with divided opinions on the subject of their expedition: the latter
gentleman on a mature consideration of all the circumstances, inclining to =
the
belief that the burglarious attempt had originated with the Family Pet; and=
the
former being equally disposed to concede the full merit of it to the great =
Mr
Conkey Chickweed.
Meanwhile,
Oliver gradually throve and prospered under the united care of Mrs Maylie,
Rose, and the kind-hearted Mr Losberne. If fervent prayers, gushing from he=
arts
overcharged with gratitude, be heard in heaven - and if they be not, what
prayers are! - the blessings which the orphan child called down upon them, =
sunk
into their souls, diffusing peace and happiness.
Chapter XXXII - Of The Happy Life Oliver Began To Lead=
With
His Kind Friends
Oliver's
ailings were neither slight nor few. In addition to the pain and delay
attendant on a broken limb, his exposure to the wet and cold had brought on
fever and ague: which hung about him for many weeks, and reduced him sadly.
But, at length, he began, by slow degrees, to get better, and to be able to=
say
sometimes, in a few tearful words, how deeply he felt the goodness of the t=
wo
sweet ladies, and how ardently he hoped that when he grew strong and well
again, he could do something to show his gratitude; only something, which w=
ould
let them see the love and duty with which his breast was full; something,
however slight, which would prove to them that their gentle kindness had not
been cast away; but that the poor boy whom their charity had rescued from
misery, or death, was eager to serve them with his whole heart and soul.
'Poor
fellow!' said Rose, when Oliver had been one day feebly endeavouring to utt=
er
the words of thankfulness that rose to his pale lips; 'you shall have many
opportunities of serving us, if you will. We are going into the country, an=
d my
aunt intends that you shall accompany us. The quiet place, the pure air, and
all the pleasure and beauties of spring, will restore you in a few days. We
will employ you in a hundred ways, when you can bear the trouble.'
'The
trouble!' cried Oliver. 'Oh! dear lady, if I could but work for you; if I c=
ould
only give you pleasure by watering your flowers, or watching your birds, or
running up and down the whole day long, to make you happy; what would I giv=
e to
do it!'
'You
shall give nothing at all,' said Miss Maylie, smiling; 'for, as I told you
before, we shall employ you in a hundred ways; and if you only take half the
trouble to please us, that you promise now, you will make me very happy
indeed.'
'Happy,
ma'am!' cried Oliver; 'how kind of you to say so!'
'You
will make me happier than I can tell you,' replied the young lady. 'To think
that my dear good aunt should have been the means of rescuing any one from =
such
sad misery as you have described to us, would be an unspeakable pleasure to=
me;
but to know that the object of her goodness and compassion was sincerely
grateful and attached, in consequence, would delight me, more than you can =
well
imagine. Do you understand me?' she inquired, watching Oliver's thoughtful
face.
'Oh
yes, ma'am, yes!' replied Oliver eagerly; 'but I was thinking that I am
ungrateful now.'
'To
whom?' inquired the young lady.
'To
the kind gentleman, and the dear old nurse, who took so much care of me
before,' rejoined Oliver. 'If they knew how happy I am, they would be pleas=
ed,
I am sure.'
'I
am sure they would,' rejoined Oliver's benefactress; 'and Mr Losberne has
already been kind enough to promise that when you are well enough to bear t=
he
journey, he will carry you to see them.'
'Has
he, ma'am?' cried Oliver, his face brightening with pleasure. 'I don't know
what I shall do for joy when I see their kind faces once again!'
In
a short time Oliver was sufficiently recovered to undergo the fatigue of th=
is
expedition. One morning he and Mr Losberne set out, accordingly, in a little
carriage which belonged to Mrs Maylie. When they came to Chertsey Bridge,
Oliver turned very pale, and uttered a loud exclamation.
'What's
the matter with the boy?' cried the doctor, as usual, all in a bustle. 'Do =
you
see anything - hear anything - feel anything - eh?'
'That,
sir,' cried Oliver, pointing out of the carriage window. 'That house!'
'Yes;
well, what of it? Stop coachman. Pull up here,' cried the doctor. 'What of =
the
house, my man; eh?'
'The
thieves - the house they took me to!' whispered Oliver.
'The
devil it is!' cried the doctor. 'Hallo, there! let me out!'
But,
before the coachman could dismount from his box, he had tumbled out of the
coach, by some means or other; and, running down to the deserted tenement,
began kicking at the door like a madman.
'Halloa?'
said a little ugly hump-backed man: opening the door so suddenly, that the
doctor, from the very impetus of his last kick, nearly fell forward into the
passage. 'What's the matter here?'
'Matter!'
exclaimed the other, collaring him, without a moment's reflection. 'A good
deal. Robbery is the matter.'
'There'll
be Murder the matter, too,' replied the hump-backed man, coolly, 'if you do=
n't
take your hands off. Do you hear me?'
'I
hear you,' said the doctor, giving his captive a hearty shake.
'Where's
- confound the fellow, what's his rascally name - Sikes; that's it. Where's
Sikes, you thief?'
The hump-backed man stared, as if in excess of amazement and indignation; then, twisting himself, dexterously, from the doctor's grasp, growled forth a vol= ley of horrid oaths, and retired into the house. Before he could shut the door, however, the doctor had passed into the parlour, without a word of parley.<= o:p>
He
looked anxiously round; not an article of furniture; not a vestige of anyth=
ing,
animate or inanimate; not even the position of the cupboards; answered Oliv=
er's
description!
'Now!'
said the hump-backed man, who had watched him keenly, 'what do you mean by
coming into my house, in this violent way? Do you want to rob me, or to mur=
der
me? Which is it?'
'Did
you ever know a man come out to do either, in a chariot and pair, you
ridiculous old vampire?' said the irritable doctor.
'What
do you want, then?' demanded the hunchback. 'Will you take yourself off, be=
fore
I do you a mischief? Curse you!'
'As
soon as I think proper,' said Mr Losberne, looking into the other parlour;
which, like the first, bore no resemblance whatever to Oliver's account of =
it.
'I shall find you out, some day, my friend.'
'Will
you?' sneered the ill-favoured cripple. 'If you ever want me, I'm here. I
haven't lived here mad and all alone, for five-and-twenty years, to be scar=
ed
by you. You shall pay for this; you shall pay for this.' And so saying, the
mis-shapen little demon set up a yell, and danced upon the ground, as if wi=
ld
with rage.
'Stupid
enough, this,' muttered the doctor to himself; 'the boy must have made a
mistake. Here! Put that in your pocket, and shut yourself up again.' With t=
hese
words he flung the hunchback a piece of money, and returned to the carriage=
.
The
man followed to the chariot door, uttering the wildest imprecations and cur=
ses
all the way; but as Mr Losberne turned to speak to the driver, he looked in=
to
the carriage, and eyed Oliver for an instant with a glance so sharp and fie=
rce
and at the same time so furious and vindictive, that, waking or sleeping, he
could not forget it for months afterwards. He continued to utter the most
fearful imprecations, until the driver had resumed his seat; and when they =
were
once more on their way, they could see him some distance behind: beating his
feet upon the ground, and tearing his hair, in transports of real or preten=
ded
rage.
'I
am an ass!' said the doctor, after a long silence. 'Did you know that befor=
e,
Oliver?'
'No,
sir.'
'Then
don't forget it another time.'
'An
ass,' said the doctor again, after a further silence of some minutes. 'Even=
if
it had been the right place, and the right fellows had been there, what cou=
ld I
have done, single-handed? And if I had had assistance, I see no good that I
should have done, except leading to my own exposure, and an unavoidable
statement of the manner in which I have hushed up this business. That would
have served me right, though. I am always involving myself in some scrape or
other, by acting on impulse. It might have done me good.'
Now,
the fact was that the excellent doctor had never acted upon anything but
impulse all through his life, and it was no bad compliment to the nature of=
the
impulses which governed him, that so far from being involved in any peculiar
troubles or misfortunes, he had the warmest respect and esteem of all who k=
new
him. If the truth must be told, he was a little out of temper, for a minute=
or
two, at being disappointed in procuring corroborative evidence of Oliver's =
story
on the very first occasion on which he had a chance of obtaining any. He so=
on
came round again, however; and finding that Oliver's replies to his questio=
ns,
were still as straightforward and consistent, and still delivered with as m=
uch
apparent sincerity and truth, as they had ever been, he made up his mind to
attach full credence to them, from that time forth.
As
Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr Brownlow resided, they were
enabled to drive straight thither. When the coach turned into it, his heart
beat so violently, that he could scarcely draw his breath.
'Now,
my boy, which house is it?' inquired Mr Losberne.
'That!
That!' replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. 'The white house.
Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die: it makes me tre=
mble
so.'
'Come,
come!' said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder. 'You will see them
directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well.'
'Oh!
I hope so!' cried Oliver. 'They were so good to me; so very, very good to m=
e.'
The
coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house; the next door. It
went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, wi=
th
tears of happy expectation coursing down his face.
Alas!
the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the window. 'To Let.'
'Knock
at the next door,' cried Mr Losberne, taking Oliver's arm in his. 'What has
become of Mr Brownlow, who used to live in the adjoining house, do you know=
?'
The
servant did not know; but would go and inquire. She presently returned, and
said, that Mr Brownlow had sold off his goods, and gone to the West Indies,=
six
weeks before. Oliver clasped his hands, and sank feebly backward.
'Has
his housekeeper gone too?' inquired Mr Losberne, after a moment's pause.
'Yes,
sir'; replied the servant. 'The old gentleman, the housekeeper, and a gentl=
eman
who was a friend of Mr Brownlow's, all went together.'
'Then
turn towards home again,' said Mr Losberne to the driver; 'and don't stop to
bait the horses, till you get out of this confounded London!'
'The
book-stall keeper, sir?' said Oliver. 'I know the way there. See him, pray,
sir! Do see him!'
'My
poor boy, this is disappointment enough for one day,' said the doctor. 'Qui=
te
enough for both of us. If we go to the book-stall keeper's, we shall certai=
nly
find that he is dead, or has set his house on fire, or run away. No; home a=
gain
straight!' And in obedience to the doctor's impulse, home they went.
This
bitter disappointment caused Oliver much sorrow and grief, even in the mids=
t of
his happiness; for he had pleased himself, many times during his illness, w=
ith
thinking of all that Mr Brownlow and Mrs Bedwin would say to him: and what
delight it would be to tell them how many long days and nights he had passe=
d in
reflecting on what they had done for him, and in bewailing his cruel separa=
tion
from them. The hope of eventually clearing himself with them, too, and
explaining how he had been forced away, had buoyed him up, and sustained hi=
m,
under many of his recent trials; and now, the idea that they should have go=
ne
so far, and carried with them the belief that he was an impostor and a robb=
er -
a belief which might remain uncontradicted to his dying day - was almost mo=
re
than he could bear.
The
circumstance occasioned no alteration, however, in the behaviour of his
benefactors. After another fortnight, when the fine warm weather had fairly
begun, and every tree and flower was putting forth its young leaves and rich
blossoms, they made preparations for quitting the house at Chertsey, for so=
me
months.
Sending
the plate, which had so excited Fagin's cupidity, to the banker's; and leav=
ing
Giles and another servant in care of the house, they departed to a cottage =
at
some distance in the country, and took Oliver with them.
Who
can describe the pleasure and delight, the peace of mind and soft tranquill=
ity,
the sickly boy felt in the balmy air, and among the green hills and rich wo=
ods,
of an inland village! Who can tell how scenes of peace and quietude sink in=
to
the minds of pain-worn dwellers in close and noisy places, and carry their =
own
freshness, deep into their jaded hearts! Men who have lived in crowded, pen=
t-up
streets, through lives of toil, and who have never wished for change; men, =
to
whom custom has indeed been second nature, and who have come almost to love
each brick and stone that formed the narrow boundaries of their daily walks;
even they, with the hand of death upon them, have been known to yearn at la=
st
for one short glimpse of Nature's face; and, carried far from the scenes of
their old pains and pleasures, have seemed to pass at once into a new state=
of
being. Crawling forth, from day to day, to some green sunny spot, they have=
had
such memories wakened up within them by the sight of the sky, and hill and =
plain,
and glistening water, that a foretaste of heaven itself has soothed their q=
uick
decline, and they have sunk into their tombs, as peacefully as the sun whose
setting they watched from their lonely chamber window but a few hours befor=
e,
faded from their dim and feeble sight! The memories which peaceful country
scenes call up, are not of this world, nor of its thoughts and hopes. Their
gentle influence may teach us how to weave fresh garlands for the graves of
those we loved: may purify our thoughts, and bear down before it old enmity=
and
hatred; but beneath all this, there lingers, in the least reflective mind, a
vague and half-formed consciousness of having held such feelings long befor=
e,
in some remote and distant time, which calls up solemn thoughts of distant
times to come, and bends down pride and worldliness beneath it.
It
was a lovely spot to which they repaired. Oliver, whose days had been spent
among squalid crowds, and in the midst of noise and brawling, seemed to ent=
er
on a new existence there. The rose and honeysuckle clung to the cottage wal=
ls;
the ivy crept round the trunks of the trees; and the garden-flowers perfumed
the air with delicious odours. Hard by, was a little churchyard; not crowded
with tall unsightly gravestones, but full of humble mounds, covered with fr=
esh
turf and moss: beneath which, the old people of the village lay at rest. Ol=
iver
often wandered here; and, thinking of the wretched grave in which his mother
lay, would sometimes sit him down and sob unseen; but, when he raised his e=
yes
to the deep sky overhead, he would cease to think of her as lying in the
ground, and would weep for her, sadly, but without pain.
It
was a happy time. The days were peaceful and serene; the nights brought with
them neither fear nor care; no languishing in a wretched prison, or associa=
ting
with wretched men; nothing but pleasant and happy thoughts. Every morning he
went to a white-headed old gentleman, who lived near the little church: who
taught him to read better, and to write: and who spoke so kindly, and took =
such
pains, that Oliver could never try enough to please him. Then, he would walk
with Mrs Maylie and Rose, and hear them talk of books; or perhaps sit near
them, in some shady place, and listen whilst the young lady read: which he
could have done, until it grew too dark to see the letters. Then, he had his
own lesson for the next day to prepare; and at this, he would work hard, in=
a
little room which looked into the garden, till evening came slowly on, when=
the
ladies would walk out again, and he with them: listening with such pleasure=
to
all they said: and so happy if they wanted a flower that he could climb to
reach, or had forgotten anything he could run to fetch: that he could never=
be
quick enough about it. When it became quite dark, and they returned home, t=
he
young lady would sit down to the piano, and play some pleasant air, or sing=
, in
a low and gentle voice, some old song which it pleased her aunt to hear. Th=
ere
would be no candles lighted at such times as these; and Oliver would sit by=
one
of the windows, listening to the sweet music, in a perfect rapture.
And
when Sunday came, how differently the day was spent, from any way in which =
he
had ever spent it yet! and how happily too; like all the other days in that
most happy time! There was the little church, in the morning, with the green
leaves fluttering at the windows: the birds singing without: and the
sweet-smelling air stealing in at the low porch, and filling the homely
building with its fragrance. The poor people were so neat and clean, and kn=
elt
so reverently in prayer, that it seemed a pleasure, not a tedious duty, the=
ir
assembling there together; and though the singing might be rude, it was rea=
l,
and sounded more musical (to Oliver's ears at least) than any he had ever h=
eard
in church before. Then, there were the walks as usual, and many calls at the
clean houses of the labouring men; and at night, Oliver read a chapter or t=
wo
from the Bible, which he had been studying all the week, and in the perform=
ance
of which duty he felt more proud and pleased, than if he had been the clerg=
yman
himself.
In
the morning, Oliver would be a-foot by six o'clock, roaming the fields, and
plundering the hedges, far and wide, for nosegays of wild flowers, with whi=
ch
he would return laden, home; and which it took great care and consideration=
to
arrange, to the best advantage, for the embellishment of the breakfast-tabl=
e.
There was fresh groundsel, too, for Miss Maylie's birds, with which Oliver,=
who
had been studying the subject under the able tuition of the village clerk,
would decorate the cages, in the most approved taste. When the birds were m=
ade
all spruce and smart for the day, there was usually some little commission =
of
charity to execute in the village; or, failing that, there was rare cricket=
-playing,
sometimes, on the green; or, failing that, there was always something to do=
in
the garden, or about the plants, to which Oliver (who had studied this scie=
nce
also, under the same master, who was a gardener by trade,) applied himself =
with
hearty good-will, until Miss Rose made her appearance: when there were a
thousand commendations to be bestowed on all he had done.
So
three months glided away; three months which, in the life of the most bless=
ed
and favoured of mortals, might have been unmingled happiness, and which, in
Oliver's were true felicity. With the purest and most amiable generosity on=
one
side; and the truest, warmest, soul-felt gratitude on the other; it is no
wonder that, by the end of that short time, Oliver Twist had become complet=
ely
domesticated with the old lady and her niece, and that the fervent attachme=
nt
of his young and sensitive heart, was repaid by their pride in, and attachm=
ent
to, himself.
Chapter XXXIII - Wherein The Happiness Of Oliver And H=
is
Friends, Experiences A Sudden Check
Spring
flew swiftly by, and summer came. If the village had been beautiful at firs=
t it
was now in the full glow and luxuriance of its richness. The great trees, w=
hich
had looked shrunken and bare in the earlier months, had now burst into stro=
ng
life and health; and stretching forth their green arms over the thirsty gro=
und,
converted open and naked spots into choice nooks, where was a deep and plea=
sant
shade from which to look upon the wide prospect, steeped in sunshine, which=
lay
stretched beyond. The earth had donned her mantle of brightest green; and s=
hed
her richest perfumes abroad. It was the prime and vigour of the year; all
things were glad and flourishing.
Still,
the same quiet life went on at the little cottage, and the same cheerful
serenity prevailed among its inmates. Oliver had long since grown stout and
healthy; but health or sickness made no difference in his warm feelings of a
great many people. He was still the same gentle, attached, affectionate
creature that he had been when pain and suffering had wasted his strength, =
and
when he was dependent for every slight attention, and comfort on those who
tended him.
One
beautiful night, when they had taken a longer walk than was customary with
them: for the day had been unusually warm, and there was a brilliant moon, =
and
a light wind had sprung up, which was unusually refreshing. Rose had been in
high spirits, too, and they had walked on, in merry conversation, until they
had far exceeded their ordinary bounds. Mrs Maylie being fatigued, they
returned more slowly home. The young lady merely throwing off her simple
bonnet, sat down to the piano as usual. After running abstractedly over the
keys for a few minutes, she fell into a low and very solemn air; and as she
played it, they heard a sound as if she were weeping.
'Rose,
my dear!' said the elder lady.
Rose
made no reply, but played a little quicker, as though the words had roused =
her
from some painful thoughts.
'Rose,
my love!' cried Mrs Maylie, rising hastily, and bending over her. 'What is
this? In tears! My dear child, what distresses you?'
'Nothing,
aunt; nothing,' replied the young lady. 'I don't know what it is; I can't
describe it; but I feel - '
'Not
ill, my love?' interposed Mrs Maylie.
'No,
no! Oh, not ill!' replied Rose: shuddering as though some deadly chillness =
were
passing over her, while she spoke; 'I shall be better presently. Close the
window, pray!'
Oliver
hastened to comply with her request. The young lady, making an effort to
recover her cheerfulness, strove to play some livelier tune; but her fingers
dropped powerless over the keys. Covering her face with her hands, she sank
upon a sofa, and gave vent to the tears which she was now unable to repress=
.
'My
child!' said the elderly lady, folding her arms about her, 'I never saw you=
so
before.'
'I
would not alarm you if I could avoid it,' rejoined Rose; 'but indeed I have
tried very hard, and cannot help this. I fear I am ill, aunt.'
She
was, indeed; for, when candles were brought, they saw that in the very short
time which had elapsed since their return home, the hue of her countenance =
had
changed to a marble whiteness. Its expression had lost nothing of its beaut=
y;
but it was changed; and there was an anxious haggard look about the gentle
face, which it had never worn before. Another minute, and it was suffused w=
ith
a crimson flush: and a heavy wildness came over the soft blue eye. Again th=
is
disappeared, like the shadow thrown by a passing cloud; and she was once mo=
re
deadly pale.
Oliver,
who watched the old lady anxiously, observed that she was alarmed by these
appearances; and so in truth, was he; but seeing that she affected to make
light of them, he endeavoured to do the same, and they so far succeeded, th=
at
when Rose was persuaded by her aunt to retire for the night, she was in bet=
ter
spirits; and appeared even in better health: assuring them that she felt
certain she should rise in the morning, quite well.
'I
hope,' said Oliver, when Mrs Maylie returned, 'that nothing is the matter? =
She
don't look well to-night, but - '
The
old lady motioned to him not to speak; and sitting herself down in a dark
corner of the room, remained silent for some time. At length, she said, in a
trembling voice:
'I
hope not, Oliver. I have been very happy with her for some years: too happy,
perhaps. It may be time that I should meet with some misfortune; but I hope=
it
is not this.'
'What?'
inquired Oliver.
'The
heavy blow,' said the old lady, 'of losing the dear girl who has so long be=
en
my comfort and happiness.'
'Oh!
God forbid!' exclaimed Oliver, hastily.
'Amen
to that, my child!' said the old lady, wringing her hands.
'Surely
there is no danger of anything so dreadful?' said Oliver. 'Two hours ago, s=
he
was quite well.'
'She
is very ill now,' rejoined Mrs Maylies; 'and will be worse, I am sure. My d=
ear,
dear Rose! Oh, what shall I do without her!'
She
gave way to such great grief, that Oliver, suppressing his own emotion,
ventured to remonstrate with her; and to beg, earnestly, that, for the sake=
of
the dear young lady herself, she would be more calm.
'And
consider, ma'am,' said Oliver, as the tears forced themselves into his eyes,
despite of his efforts to the contrary. 'Oh! consider how young and good she
is, and what pleasure and comfort she gives to all about her. I am sure - c=
ertain
- quite certain - that, for your sake, who are so good yourself; and for her
own; and for the sake of all she makes so happy; she will not die. Heaven w=
ill
never let her die so young.'
'Hush!'
said Mrs Maylie, laying her hand on Oliver's head. 'You think like a child,
poor boy. But you teach me my duty, notwithstanding. I had forgotten it for=
a
moment, Oliver, but I hope I may be pardoned, for I am old, and have seen
enough of illness and death to know the agony of separation from the object=
s of
our love. I have seen enough, too, to know that it is not always the younge=
st
and best who are spared to those that love them; but this should give us
comfort in our sorrow; for Heaven is just; and such things teach us,
impressively, that there is a brighter world than this; and that the passag=
e to
it is speedy. God's will be done! I love her; and He knows how well!'
Oliver
was surprised to see that as Mrs Maylie said these words, she checked her
lamentations as though by one effort; and drawing herself up as she spoke,
became composed and firm. He was still more astonished to find that this
firmness lasted; and that, under all the care and watching which ensued, Mrs
Maylie was every ready and collected: performing all the duties which had
devolved upon her, steadily, and, to all external appearances, even cheerfu=
lly.
But he was young, and did not know what strong minds are capable of, under
trying circumstances. How should he, when their possessors so seldom know
themselves?
An
anxious night ensued. When morning came, Mrs Maylie's predictions were but =
too
well verified. Rose was in the first stage of a high and dangerous fever.
'We
must be active, Oliver, and not give way to useless grief,' said Mrs Maylie,
laying her finger on her lip, as she looked steadily into his face; 'this
letter must be sent, with all possible expedition, to Mr Losberne. It must =
be
carried to the market-town: which is not more than four miles off, by the
footpath across the field: and thence dispatched, by an express on horsebac=
k,
straight to Chertsey. The people at the inn will undertake to do this: and I
can trust to you to see it done, I know.'
Oliver
could make no reply, but looked his anxiety to be gone at once.
'Here
is another letter,' said Mrs Maylie, pausing to reflect; 'but whether to se=
nd
it now, or wait until I see how Rose goes on, I scarcely know. I would not
forward it, unless I feared the worst.'
'Is
it for Chertsey, too, ma'am?' inquired Oliver; impatient to execute his
commission, and holding out his trembling hand for the letter.
'No,'
replied the old lady, giving it to him mechanically. Oliver glanced at it, =
and
saw that it was directed to Harry Maylie, Esquire, at some great lord's hou=
se
in the country; where, he could not make out.
'Shall
it go, ma'am?' asked Oliver, looking up, impatiently.
'I
think not,' replied Mrs Maylie, taking it back. 'I will wait until to-morro=
w.'
With
these words, she gave Oliver her purse, and he started off, without more de=
lay,
at the greatest speed he could muster.
Swiftly
he ran across the fields, and down the little lanes which sometimes divided
them: now almost hidden by the high corn on either side, and now emerging o=
n an
open field, where the mowers and haymakers were busy at their work: nor did=
he
stop once, save now and then, for a few seconds, to recover breath, until he
came, in a great heat, and covered with dust, on the little market-place of=
the
market-town.
Here
he paused, and looked about for the inn. There were a white bank, and a red
brewery, and a yellow town-hall; and in one corner there was a large house,
with all the wood about it painted green: before which was the sign of 'The
George.' To this he hastened, as soon as it caught his eye.
He
spoke to a postboy who was dozing under the gateway; and who, after hearing
what he wanted, referred him to the ostler; who after hearing all he had to=
say
again, referred him to the landlord; who was a tall gentleman in a blue
neckcloth, a white hat, drab breeches, and boots with tops to match, leaning
against a pump by the stable-door, picking his teeth with a silver toothpic=
k.
This
gentleman walked with much deliberation into the bar to make out the bill:
which took a long time making out: and after it was ready, and paid, a horse
had to be saddled, and a man to be dressed, which took up ten good minutes
more. Meanwhile Oliver was in such a desperate state of impatience and anxi=
ety,
that he felt as if he could have jumped upon the horse himself, and galloped
away, full tear, to the next stage. At length, all was ready; and the little
parcel having been handed up, with many injunctions and entreaties for its
speedy delivery, the man set spurs to his horse, and rattling over the unev=
en
paving of the market-place, was out of the town, and galloping along the tu=
rnpike-road,
in a couple of minutes.
As it was something to feel certain that assistance was sent for, and that no = time had been lost, Oliver hurried up the inn-yard, with a somewhat lighter hear= t. He was turning out of the gateway when he accidently stumbled against a tall man wrapped in a cloak, who was at that moment coming out of the inn door.<= o:p>
'Hah!'
cried the man, fixing his eyes on Oliver, and suddenly recoiling. 'What the
devil's this?'
'I
beg your pardon, sir,' said Oliver; 'I was in a great hurry to get home, and
didn't see you were coming.'
'Death!'
muttered the man to himself, glaring at the boy with his large dark eyes. '=
Who
would have thought it! Grind him to ashes! He'd start up from a stone coffi=
n,
to come in my way!'
'I
am sorry,' stammered Oliver, confused by the strange man's wild look. 'I ho=
pe I
have not hurt you!'
'Rot
you!' murmured the man, in a horrible passion; between his clenched teeth; =
'if
I had only had the courage to say the word, I might have been free of you i=
n a
night. Curses on your head, and black death on your heart, you imp! What are
you doing here?'
The
man shook his fist, as he uttered these words incoherently. He advanced tow=
ards
Oliver, as if with the intention of aiming a blow at him, but fell violentl=
y on
the ground: writhing and foaming, in a fit.
Oliver
gazed, for a moment, at the struggles of the madman (for such he supposed h=
im
to be); and then darted into the house for help. Having seen him safely car=
ried
into the hotel, he turned his face homewards, running as fast as he could, =
to
make up for lost time: and recalling with a great deal of astonishment and =
some
fear, the extraordinary behaviour of the person from whom he had just parte=
d.
The
circumstance did not dwell in his recollection long, however: for when he
reached the cottage, there was enough to occupy his mind, and to drive all
considerations of self completely from his memory.
Rose
Maylie had rapidly grown worse; before mid-night she was delirious. A medic=
al
practitioner, who resided on the spot, was in constant attendance upon her;=
and
after first seeing the patient, he had taken Mrs Maylie aside, and pronounc=
ed
her disorder to be one of a most alarming nature. 'In fact,' he said, 'it w=
ould
be little short of a miracle, if she recovered.'
How
often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and stealing out, with
noiseless footstep, to the staircase, listen for the slightest sound from t=
he
sick chamber! How often did a tremble shake his frame, and cold drops of te=
rror
start upon his brow, when a sudden trampling of feet caused him to fear that
something too dreadful to think of, had even then occurred! And what had be=
en
the fervency of all the prayers he had ever muttered, compared with those he
poured forth, now, in the agony and passion of his supplication for the life
and health of the gentle creature, who was tottering on the deep grave's ve=
rge!
Oh!
the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while the li=
fe
of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance! Oh! the racking thoughts
that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat violently, and the breath
come thick, by the force of the images they conjure up before it; the despa=
rate
anxiety to be doing something to
relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to alleviate;
the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of our helplessne=
ss
produces; what tortures can equal these; what reflections or endeavours can=
, in
the full tide and fever of the time, allay them!
Morning
came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke in whispers;
anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to time; women and children w=
ent
away in tears. All the livelong day, and for hours after it had grown dark,
Oliver paced softly up and down the garden, raising his eyes every instant =
to
the sick chamber, and shuddering to see the darkened window, looking as if
death lay stretched inside. Late that night, Mr Losberne arrived. 'It is ha=
rd,'
said the good doctor, turning away as he spoke; 'so young; so much beloved;=
but
there is very little hope.'
Another
morning. The sun shone brightly; as brightly as if it looked upon no misery=
or
care; and, with every leaf and flower in full bloom about her; with life, a=
nd
health, and sounds and sights of joy, surrounding her on every side: the fa=
ir
young creature lay, wasting fast. Oliver crept away to the old churchyard, =
and
sitting down on one of the green mounds, wept and prayed for her, in silenc=
e.
There
was such peace and beauty in the scene; so much of brightness and mirth in =
the
sunny landscape; such blithesome music in the songs of the summer birds; su=
ch
freedom in the rapid flight of the rook, careering overhead; so much of life
and joyousness in all; that, when the boy raised his aching eyes, and looked
about, the thought instinctively occurred to him, that this was not a time =
for
death; that Rose could surely never die when humbler things were all so glad
and gay; that graves were for cold and cheerless winter: not for sunlight a=
nd
fragrance. He almost thought that shrouds were for the old and shrunken; and
that they never wrapped the young and graceful form in their ghastly folds.=
A
knell from the church bell broke harshly on these youthful thoughts. Anothe=
r!
Again! It was tolling for the funeral service. A group of humble mourners
entered the gate: wearing white favours; for the corpse was young. They sto=
od
uncovered by a grave; and there was a mother - a mother once - among the
weeping train. But the sun shone brightly, and the birds sang on.
Oliver
turned homeward, thinking on the many kindnesses he had received from the y=
oung
lady, and wishing that the time could come again, that he might never cease
showing her how grateful and attached he was. He had no cause for self-repr=
oach
on the score of neglect, or want of thought, for he had been devoted to her
service; and yet a hundred little occasions rose up before him, on which he
fancied he might have been more zealous, and more earnest, and wished he had
been. We need be careful how we deal with those about us, when every death
carries to some small circle of survivors, thoughts of so much omitted, and=
so
little done - of so many things forgotten, and so many more which might have
been repaired! There is no remorse so deep as that which is unavailing; if =
we
would be spared its tortures, let us remember this, in time.
When
he reached home Mrs Maylie was sitting in the little parlour. Oliver's heart
sank at sight of her; for she had never left the bedside of her niece; and =
he
trembled to think what change could have driven her away. He learnt that she
had fallen into a deep sleep, from which she would waken, either to recovery
and life, or to bid them farewell, and die.
They
sat, listening, and afraid to speak, for hours. The untasted meal was remov=
ed,
with looks which showed that their thoughts were elsewhere, they watched the
sun as he sank lower and lower, and, at length, cast over sky and earth tho=
se
brilliant hues which herald his departure. Their quick ears caught the soun=
d of
an approaching footstep. They both involuntarily darted to the door, as Mr
Losberne entered.
'What
of Rose?' cried the old lady. 'Tell me at once! I can bear it; anything but
suspense! Oh, tell me! in the name of Heaven!'
'You
must compose yourself,' said the doctor supporting her. 'Be calm, my dear
ma'am, pray.'
'Let
me go, in God's name! My dear child! She is dead! She is dying!'
'No!'
cried the doctor, passionately. 'As He is good and merciful, she will live =
to
bless us all, for years to come.'
The
lady fell upon her knees, and tried to fold her hands together; but the ene=
rgy
which had supported her so long, fled up to Heaven with her first thanksgiv=
ing;
and she sank into the friendly arms which were extended to receive her.
It
was almost too much happiness to bear. Oliver felt stunned and stupefied by=
the
unexpected intelligence; he could not weep, or speak, or rest. He had scarc=
ely
the power of understanding anything that had passed, until, after a long ra=
mble
in the quiet evening air, a burst of tears came to his relief, and he seeme=
d to
awaken, all at once, to a full sense of the joyful change that had occurred,
and the almost insupportable load of anguish which had been taken from his
breast.
The
night was fast closing in, when he returned homeward: laden with flowers wh=
ich
he had culled, with peculiar care, for the adornment of the sick chamber. A=
s he
walked briskly along the road, he heard behind him, the noise of some vehic=
le,
approaching at a furious pace. Looking round, he saw that it was a post-cha=
ise,
driven at great speed; and as the horses were galloping, and the road was
narrow, he stood leaning against a gate until it should have passed him.
As
it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white nightcap, whose f=
ace
seemed familiar to him, although his view was so brief that he could not
identify the person. In another second or two, the nightcap was thrust out =
of
the chaise-window, and a stentorian voice bellowed to the driver to stop: w=
hich
he did, as soon as he could pull up his horses. Then, the nightcap once aga=
in
appeared: and the same voice called Oliver by his name.
'Here!'
cried the voice. 'Oliver, what's the news? Miss Rose! Master O-li-ver!'
'Is
is you, Giles?' cried Oliver, running up to the chaise-door.
Giles
popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some reply, when he was
suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the other corner of =
the
chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the news.
'In
a word!' cried the gentleman, 'Better or worse?'
'Better
- much better!' replied Oliver, hastily.
'Thank
Heaven!' exclaimed the gentleman. 'You are sure?'
'Quite,
sir,' replied Oliver. 'The change took place only a few hours ago; and Mr
Losberne says, that all danger is at an end.'
The
gentleman said not another word, but, opening the chaise-door, leaped out, =
and
taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside.
'You
are quite certain? There is no possibility of any mistake on your part, my =
boy,
is there?' demanded the gentleman in a tremulous voice. 'Do not deceive me,=
by
awakening hopes that are not to be fulfilled.'
'I
would not for the world, sir,' replied Oliver. 'Indeed you may believe me. =
Mr
Losberne's words were, that she would live to bless us all for many years to
come. I heard him say so.'
The
tears stood in Oliver's eyes as he recalled the scene which was the beginni=
ng
of so much happiness; and the gentleman turned his face away, and remained
silent, for some minutes. Oliver thought he heard him sob, more than once; =
but
he feared to interrupt him by any fresh remark - for he could well guess wh=
at
his feelings were - and so stood apart, feigning to be occupied with his
nosegay.
All
this time, Mr Giles, with the white nightcap on, had been sitting on the st=
eps
of the chaise, supporting an elbow on each knee, and wiping his eyes with a
blue cotton pocket-handkerchief dotted with white spots. That the honest fe=
llow
had not been feigning emotion, was abundantly demonstrated by the very red =
eyes
with which he regarded the young gentleman, when he turned round and addres=
sed
him.
'I
think you had better go on to my mother's in the chaise, Giles,' said he. 'I
would rather walk slowly on, so as to gain a little time before I see her. =
You
can say I am coming.'
'I
beg your pardon, Mr Harry,' said Giles: giving a final polish to his ruffled
countenance with the handkerchief; 'but if you would leave the postboy to s=
ay
that, I should be very much obliged to you. It wouldn't be proper for the m=
aids
to see me in this state, sir; I should never have any more authority with t=
hem
if they did.'
'Well,'
rejoined Harry Maylie, smiling, 'you can do as you like. Let him go on with=
the
luggage, if you wish it, and do you follow with us. Only first exchange that
nightcap for some more appropriate covering, or we shall be taken for madme=
n.'
Mr
Giles, reminded of his unbecoming costume, snatched off and pocketed his
nightcap; and substituted a hat, of grave and sober shape, which he took ou=
t of
the chaise. This done, the postboy drove off; Giles, Mr Maylie, and Oliver,
followed at their leisure.
As
they walked along, Oliver glanced from time to time with much interest and
curiosity at the new comer. He seemed about five-and-twenty years of age, a=
nd
was of the middle height; his countenance was frank and handsome; and his
demeanor easy and prepossessing. Notwithstanding the difference between you=
th
and age, he bore so strong a likeness to the old lady, that Oliver would ha=
ve
had no great difficulty in imagining their relationship, if he had not alre=
ady
spoken of her as his mother.
Mrs
Maylie was anxiously waiting to receive her son when he reached the cottage.
The meeting did not take place without great emotion on both sides.
'Mother!'
whispered the young man; 'why did you not write before?' 'I did,' replied M=
rs
Maylie; 'but, on reflection, I determined to keep back the letter until I h=
ad
heard Mr Losberne's opinion.'
'But
why,' said the young man, 'why run the chance of that occurring which so ne=
arly
happened? If Rose had - I cannot utter that word now - if this illness had
terminated differently, how could you ever have forgiven yourself! How coul=
d I
ever have know happiness again!'
'If
that had been the case, Harry,'=
said Mrs
Maylie, 'I fear your happiness would have been effectually blighted, and th=
at
your arrival here, a day sooner or a day later, would have been of very, ve=
ry
little import.'
'And
who can wonder if it be so, mother?' rejoined the young man; 'or why should=
I
say, if? - It is - it is - you =
know
it, mother - you must know it!'
'I
know that she deserves the best and purest love the heart of man can offer,'
said Mrs Maylie; 'I know that the devotion and affection of her nature requ=
ire
no ordinary return, but one that shall be deep and lasting. If I did not fe=
el
this, and know, besides, that a changed behaviour in one she loved would br=
eak
her heart, I should not feel my task so difficult of performance, or have to
encounter so many struggles in my own bosom, when I take what seems to me t=
o be
the strict line of duty.'
'This
is unkind, mother,' said Harry. 'Do you still suppose that I am a boy ignor=
ant
of my own mind, and mistaking the impulses of my own soul?'
'I
think, my dear son,' returned Mrs Maylie, laying her hand upon his shoulder,
'that youth has many generous impulses which do not last; and that among th=
em
are some, which, being gratified, become only the more fleeting. Above all,=
I
think' said the lady, fixing her eyes on her son's face, 'that if an
enthusiastic, ardent, and ambitious man marry a wife on whose name there is=
a
stain, which, though it originate in no fault of hers, may be visited by co=
ld
and sordid people upon her, and upon his children also: and, in exact
proportion to his success in the world, be cast in his teeth, and made the
subject of sneers against him: he may, no matter how generous and good his
nature, one day repent of the connection he formed in early life. And she m=
ay
have the pain of knowing that he does so.'
'Mother,'
said the young man, impatiently, 'he would be a selfish brute, unworthy ali=
ke
of the name of man and of the woman you describe, who acted thus.'
'You
think so now, Harry,' replied his mother.
'And
ever will!' said the young man. 'The mental agony I have suffered, during t=
he
last two days, wrings from me the avowal to you of a passion which, as you =
well
know, is not one of yesterday, nor one I have lightly formed. On Rose, swee=
t,
gentle girl! my heart is set, as firmly as ever heart of man was set on wom=
an.
I have no thought, no view, no hope in life, beyond her; and if you oppose =
me
in this great stake, you take my peace and happiness in your hands, and cast
them to the wind. Mother, think better of this, and of me, and do not disre=
gard
the happiness of which you seem to think so little.'
'Harry,'
said Mrs Maylie, 'it is because I think so much of warm and sensitive heart=
s,
that I would spare them from being wounded. But we have said enough, and mo=
re
than enough, on this matter, just now.'
'Let
it rest with Rose, then,' interposed Harry. 'You will not press these
overstrained opinions of yours, so far, as to throw any obstacle in my way?=
'
'I
will not,' rejoined Mrs Maylie; 'but I would have you consider - '
'I
have considered!' was the impat=
ient
reply; 'Mother, I have considered, years and years. I have considered, ever
since I have been capable of serious reflection. My feelings remain unchang=
ed,
as they ever will; and why should I suffer the pain of a delay in giving th=
em vent,
which can be productive of no earthly good? No! Before I leave this place, =
Rose
shall hear me.'
'She
shall,' said Mrs Maylie.
'There
is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she will hear me
coldly, mother,' said the young man.
'Not
coldly,' rejoined the old lady; 'far from it.'
'How
then?' urged the young man. 'She has formed no other attachment?'
'No,
indeed,' replied his mother; 'you have, or I mistake, too strong a hold on =
her
affections already. What I would say,' resumed the old lady, stopping her s=
on
as he was about to speak, 'is this. Before you stake your all on this chanc=
e;
before you suffer yourself to be carried to the highest point of hope; refl=
ect
for a few moments, my dear child, on Rose's history, and consider what effe=
ct
the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision: devoted as sh=
e is
to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfect
sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been=
her
characteristic.'
'What
do you mean?'
'That
I leave you to discover,' replied Mrs Maylie. 'I must go back to her. God b=
less
you!'
'I
shall see you again to-night?' said the young man, eagerly.
'By
and by,' replied the lady; 'when I leave Rose.'
'You
will tell her I am here?' said Harry.
'Of
course,' replied Mrs Maylie.
'And
say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to
see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?'
'No,'
said the old lady; 'I will tell her all.' And pressing her son's hand,
affectionately, she hastened from the room.
Mr
Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while this
hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Ha=
rry
Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then
communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a
precise account of his patient's situation; which was quite as consolatory =
and
full of promise, as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to t=
he
whole of which, Mr Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listen=
ed
with greedy ears.
'Have
you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?' inquired the doctor, when he =
had
concluded.
'Nothing
particular, sir,' replied Mr Giles, colouring up to the eyes.
'Nor
catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?' said the doctor.=
'None
at all, sir,' replied Mr Giles, with much gravity.
'Well,'
said the doctor, 'I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing
admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?'
'The
boy is very well, sir,' said Mr Giles, recovering his usual tone of patrona=
ge;
'and sends his respectful duty, sir.'
'That's
well,' said the doctor. 'Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr Giles, that on the=
day
before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the req=
uest
of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into th=
is
corner a moment, will you?'
Mr
Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and was
honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the termina=
tion
of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of unusual
stateliness. The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the
parlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr Gil=
es
walked straight thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced, wit=
h an
air of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistres=
s,
in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attempted
robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twenty
pounds, for his sole use and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifte=
d up
their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr Giles, pulling out his shirt-fri=
ll,
replied, 'No, no'; and that if they observed that he was at all haughty to =
his
inferiors, he would thank them to tell him so. And then he made a great many
other remarks, no less illustrative of his humility, which were received wi=
th
equal favour and applause, and were, withal, as original and as much to the
purpose, as the remarks of great men commonly are.
Above
stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away; for the doctor=
was
in high spirits; and however fatigued or thoughtful Harry Maylie might have=
been
at first, he was not proof against the worthy gentleman's good humour, which
displayed itself in a great variety of sallies and professional recollectio=
ns,
and an abundance of small jokes, which struck Oliver as being the drollest
things he had ever heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately; to the
evident satisfaction of the doctor, who laughed immoderately at himself, and
made Harry laugh almost as heartily, by the very force of sympathy. So, they
were as pleasant a party as, under the circumstances, they could well have
been; and it was late before they retired, with light and thankful hearts, =
to
take that rest of which, after the doubt and suspense they had recently
undergone, they stood much in need.
Oliver
rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his usual occupations, w=
ith
more hope and pleasure than he had known for many days. The birds were once
more hung out, to sing, in their old places; and the sweetest wild flowers =
that
could be found, were once more gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. =
The
melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for
days past, over every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic.
The dew seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves; the air to rus=
tle among
them with a sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue and bright.
Such is the influence which the condition of our own thoughts, exercise, ev=
en
over the appearance of external objects. Men who look on nature, and their
fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and gloomy, are in the right; but the
sombre colours are reflections from their own jaundiced eyes and hearts. The
real hues are delicate, and need a clearer vision.
It
is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it at the time, that h=
is
morning expeditions were no longer made alone. Harry Maylie, after the very
first morning when he met Oliver coming laden home, was seized with such a
passion for flowers, and displayed such a taste in their arrangement, as le=
ft
his young companion far behind. If Oliver were behindhand in these respects=
, he
knew where the best were to be found; and morning after morning they scoured
the country together, and brought home the fairest that blossomed. The wind=
ow
of the young lady's chamber was opened now; for she loved to feel the rich
summer air stream in, and revive her with its freshness; but there always s=
tood
in water, just inside the lattice, one particular little bunch, which was m=
ade
up with great care, every morning. Oliver could not help noticing that the
withered flowers were never thrown away, although the little vase was regul=
arly
replenished; nor, could he help observing, that whenever the doctor came in=
to
the garden, he invariably cast his eyes up to that particular corner, and
nodded his head most expressively, as he set forth on his morning's walk.
Pending these observations, the days were flying by; and Rose was rapidly
recovering.
Nor
did Oliver's time hang heavy on his hands, although the young lady had not =
yet
left her chamber, and there were no evening walks, save now and then, for a
short distance, with Mrs Maylie. He applied himself, with redoubled assidui=
ty,
to the instructions of the white-headed old gentleman, and laboured so hard
that his quick progress surprised even himself. It was while he was engaged=
in
this pursuit, that he was greatly startled and distressed by a most unexpec=
ted
occurrence.
The
little room in which he was accustomed to sit, when busy at his books, was =
on
the ground-floor, at the back of the house. It was quite a cottage-room, wi=
th a
lattice-window: around which were clusters of jessamine and honeysuckle, th=
at
crept over the casement, and filled the place with their delicious perfume.=
It
looked into a garden, whence a wicket-gate opened into a small paddock; all
beyond, was fine meadow-land and wood. There was no other dwelling near, in
that direction; and the prospect it commanded was very extensive.
One
beautiful evening, when the first shades of twilight were beginning to sett=
le
upon the earth, Oliver sat at this window, intent upon his books. He had be=
en
poring over them for some time; and, as the day had been uncommonly sultry,=
and
he had exerted himself a great deal, it is no disparagement to the authors,
whoever they may have been, to say, that gradually and by slow degrees, he =
fell
asleep.
There
is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it holds the
body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of things about it, and
enable it to ramble at its pleasure. So far as an overpowering heaviness, a
prostration of strength, and an utter inability to control our thoughts or
power of motion, can be called sleep, this is it; and yet, we have a
consciousness of all that is going on about us, and, if we dream at such a
time, words which are really spoken, or sounds which really exist at the
moment, accommodate themselves with surprising readiness to our visions, un=
til
reality and imagination become so strangely blended that it is afterwards
almost matter of impossibility to separate the two. Nor is this, the most
striking phenomenon incidental to such a state. It is an undoubted fact, th=
at
although our senses of touch and sight be for the time dead, yet our sleepi=
ng
thoughts, and the visionary scenes that pass before us, will be influenced =
and
materially influenced, by the mere =
silent
presence of some external object; which may not have been near us when =
we
closed our eyes: and of whose vicinity we have had no waking consciousness.=
Oliver
knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that his books we=
re
lying on the table before him; that the sweet air was stirring among the
creeping plants outside. And yet he was asleep. Suddenly, the scene changed;
the air became close and confined; and he thought, with a glow of terror, t=
hat he
was in the Jew's house again. There sat the hideous old man, in his accusto=
med
corner, pointing at him, and whispering to another man, with his face avert=
ed,
who sat beside him.
'Hush,
my dear!' he thought he heard the Jew say; 'it is he, sure enough. Come awa=
y.'
'He!'
the other man seemed to answer; 'could I mistake him, think you? If a crowd=
of
ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and he stood amongst th=
em,
there is something that would tell me how to point him out. If you buried h=
im
fifty feet deep, and took me across his grave, I fancy I should know, if th=
ere
wasn't a mark above it, that he lay buried there?'
The
man seemed to say this, with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver awoke with t=
he
fear, and started up.
Good
Heaven! what was that, which sent the blood tingling to his heart, and depr=
ived
him of his voice, and of power to move! There - there - at the window - clo=
se
before him - so close, that he could have almost touched him before he star=
ted
back: with his eyes peering into the room, and meeting his: there stood the
Jew! And beside him, white with rage or fear, or both, were the scowling
features of the man who had accosted him in the inn-yard.
It
was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and they were gone.=
But
they had recognised him, and he them; and their look was as firmly impressed
upon his memory, as if it had been deeply carved in stone, and set before h=
im
from his birth. He stood transfixed for a moment; then, leaping from the wi=
ndow
into the garden, called loudly for help.
When
the inmates of the house, attracted by Oliver's cries, hurried to the spot =
from
which they proceeded, they found him, pale and agitated, pointing in the
direction of the meadows behind the house, and scarcely able to articulate =
the
words, 'The Jew! the Jew!'
Mr
Giles was at a loss to comprehend what this outcry meant; but Harry Maylie,=
whose
perceptions were something quicker, and who had heard Oliver's history from=
his
mother, understood it at once.
'What
direction did he take?' he asked, catching up a heavy stick which was stand=
ing
in a corner.
'That,'
replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man had taken; 'I missed them i=
n an
instant.'
'Then,
they are in the ditch!' said Harry. 'Follow! And keep as near me, as you ca=
n.'
So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and darted off with a speed which rend=
ered
it matter of exceeding difficulty for the others to keep near him.
Giles
followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed too; and in the course of=
a
minute or two, Mr Losberne, who had been out walking, and just then returne=
d,
tumbled over the hedge after them, and picking himself up with more agility
than he could have been supposed to possess, struck into the same course at=
no
contemptible speed, shouting all the while, most prodigiously, to know what=
was
the matter.
On
they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the leader, striking=
off
into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver, began to search, narrowly, =
the
ditch and hedge adjoining; which afforded time for the remainder of the par=
ty
to come up; and for Oliver to communicate to Mr Losberne the circumstances =
that
had led to so vigorous a pursuit.
The
search was all in vain. There were not even the traces of recent footsteps,=
to
be seen. They stood now, on the summit of a little hill, commanding the open
fields in every direction for three or four miles. There was the village in=
the
hollow on the left; but, in order to gain that, after pursuing the track Ol=
iver
had pointed out, the men must have made a circuit of open ground, which it =
was
impossible they could have accomplished in so short a time. A thick wood sk=
irted
the meadow-land in another direction; but they could not have gained that
covert for the same reason.
'It
must have been a dream, Oliver,' said Harry Maylie.
'Oh
no, indeed, sir,' replied Oliver, shuddering at the very recollection of the
old wretch's countenance; 'I saw him too plainly for that. I saw them both,=
as
plainly as I see you now.'
'Who
was the other?' inquired Harry and Mr Losberne, together.
'The
very same man I told you of, who came so suddenly upon me at the inn,' said
Oliver. 'We had our eyes fixed full upon each other; and I could swear to h=
im.'
'They
took this way?' demanded Harry: 'are you sure?'
'As
I am that the men were at the window,' replied Oliver, pointing down, as he
spoke, to the hedge which divided the cottage-garden from the meadow. 'The =
tall
man leaped over, just there; and the Jew, running a few paces to the right,
crept through that gap.'
The
two gentlemen watched Oliver's earnest face, as he spoke, and looking from =
him
to each other, seemed to feel satisfied of the accuracy of what he said. St=
ill,
in no direction were there any appearances of the trampling of men in hurri=
ed
flight. The grass was long; but it was trodden down nowhere, save where the=
ir
own feet had crushed it. The sides and brinks of the ditches were of damp c=
lay;
but in no one place could they discern the print of men's shoes, or the
slightest mark which would indicate that any feet had pressed the ground for
hours before.
'This
is strange!' said Harry.
'Strange?'
echoed the doctor. 'Blathers and Duff, themselves, could make nothing of it=
.'
Notwithstanding
the evidently useless nature of their search, they did not desist until the
coming on of night rendered its further prosecution hopeless; and even then,
they gave it up with reluctance. Giles was dispatched to the different
ale-houses in the village, furnished with the best description Oliver could
give of the appearance and dress of the strangers. Of these, the Jew was, at
all events, sufficiently remarkable to be remembered, supposing he had been=
seen
drinking, or loitering about; but Giles returned without any intelligence,
calculated to dispel or lessen the mystery.
On
the next day, fresh search was made, and the inquiries renewed; but with no
better success. On the day following, Oliver and Mr Maylie repaired to the
market-town, in the hope of seeing or hearing something of the men there; b=
ut
this effort was equally fruitless. After a few days, the affair began to be
forgotten, as most affairs are, when wonder, having no fresh food to support
it, dies away of itself.
Meanwhile,
Rose was rapidly recovering. She had left her room: was able to go out; and
mixing once more with the family, carried joy into the hearts of all.
But,
although this happy change had a visible effect on the little circle; and
although cheerful voices and merry laughter were once more heard in the
cottage; there was at times, an unwonted restraint upon some there: even up=
on
Rose herself: which Oliver could not fail to remark. Mrs Maylie and her son
were often closeted together for a long time; and more than once Rose appea=
red
with traces of tears upon her face. After Mr Losberne had fixed a day for h=
is
departure to Chertsey, these symptoms increased; and it became evident that
something was in progress which affected the peace of the young lady, and of
somebody else besides.
At
length, one morning, when Rose was alone in the breakfast-parlour, Harry Ma=
ylie
entered; and, with some hesitation, begged permission to speak with her for=
a
few moments.
'A
few - a very few - will suffice, Rose,' said the young man, drawing his cha=
ir
towards her. 'What I shall have to say, has already presented itself to your
mind; the most cherished hopes of my heart are not unknown to you, though f=
rom
my lips you have not heard them stated.'
Rose
had been very pale from the moment of his entrance; but that might have been
the effect of her recent illness. She merely bowed; and bending over some
plants that stood near, waited in silence for him to proceed.
'I
- I - ought to have left here, before,' said Harry.
'You
should, indeed,' replied Rose. 'Forgive me for saying so, but I wish you ha=
d.'
'I
was brought here, by the most dreadful and agonising of all apprehensions,'
said the young man; 'the fear of losing the one dear being on whom my every
wish and hope are fixed. You had been dying; trembling between earth and
heaven. We know that when the young, the beautiful, and good, are visited w=
ith
sickness, their pure spirits insensibly turn towards their bright home of
lasting rest; we know, Heaven help us! that the best and fairest of our kin=
d,
too often fade in blooming.'
There
were tears in the eyes of the gentle girl, as these words were spoken; and =
when
one fell upon the flower over which she bent, and glistened brightly in its
cup, making it more beautiful, it seemed as though the outpouring of her fr=
esh
young heart, claimed kindred naturally, with the loveliest things in nature=
.
'A
creature,' continued the young man, passionately, 'a creature as fair and
innocent of guile as one of God's own angels, fluttered between life and de=
ath.
Oh! who could hope, when the distant world to which she was akin, half open=
ed
to her view, that she would return to the sorrow and calamity of this! Rose,
Rose, to know that you were passing away like some soft shadow, which a lig=
ht
from above, casts upon the earth; to have no hope that you would be spared =
to
those who linger here; hardly to know a reason why you should be; to feel t=
hat
you belonged to that bright sphere whither so many of the fairest and the b=
est
have winged their early flight; and yet to pray, amid all these consolation=
s,
that you might be restored to those who loved you - these were distractions
almost too great to bear. They were mine, by day and night; and with them, =
came
such a rushing torrent of fears, and apprehensions, and selfish regrets, le=
st
you should die, and never know how devotedly I loved you, as almost bore do=
wn
sense and reason in its course. You recovered. Day by day, and almost hour =
by
hour, some drop of health came back, and mingling with the spent and feeble
stream of life which circulated languidly within you, swelled it again to a
high and rushing tide. I have watched you change almost from death, to life,
with eyes that turned blind with their eagerness and deep affection. Do not=
tell
me that you wish I had lost this; for it has softened my heart to all manki=
nd.'
'I
did not mean that,' said Rose, weeping; 'I only wish you had left here, that
you might have turned to high and noble pursuits again; to pursuits well wo=
rthy
of you.'
'There
is no pursuit more worthy of me: more worthy of the highest nature that exi=
sts:
than the struggle to win such a heart as yours,' said the young man, taking=
her
hand. 'Rose, my own dear Rose! For years - for years - I have loved you; ho=
ping
to win my way to fame, and then come proudly home and tell you it had been
pursued only for you to share; thinking, in my daydreams, how I would remind
you, in that happy moment, of the many silent tokens I had given of a boy's
attachment, and claim your hand, as in redemption of some old mute contract
that had been sealed between us! That time has not arrived; but here, with =
not
fame won, and no young vision realised, I offer you the heart so long your =
own,
and stake my all upon the words with which you greet the offer.'
'Your
behaviour has ever been kind and noble.' said Rose, mastering the emotions =
by
which she was agitated. 'As you believe that I am not insensible or ungrate=
ful,
so hear my answer.'
'It
is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, dear Rose?'
'It
is,' replied Rose, 'that you must endeavour to forget me; not as your old a=
nd
dearly-attached companion, for that would wound me deeply; but, as the obje=
ct
of your love. Look into the world; think how many hearts you would be proud=
to
gain, are there. Confide some other passion to me, if you will; I will be t=
he
truest, warmest, and most faithful friend you have.'
There
was a pause, during which, Rose, who had covered her face with one hand, ga=
ve
free vent to her tears. Harry still retained the other.
'And
your reasons, Rose,' he said, at length, in a low voice; 'your reasons for =
this
decision?'
'You
have a right to know them,' rejoined Rose. 'You can say nothing to alter my
resolution. It is a duty that I must perform. I owe it, alike to others, an=
d to
myself.'
'To
yourself?'
'Yes,
Harry. I owe it to myself, that I, a friendless, portionless, girl, with a
blight upon my name, should not give your friends reason to suspect that I =
had
sordidly yielded to your first passion, and fastened myself, a clog, on all
your hopes and projects. I owe it to you and yours, to prevent you from
opposing, in the warmth of your generous nature, this great obstacle to your
progress in the world.'
'If
your inclinations chime with your sense of duty - ' Harry began.
'They
do not,' replied Rose, colouring deeply.
'Then
you return my love?' said Harry. 'Say but that, dear Rose; say but that; and
soften the bitterness of this hard disappointment!' 'If I could have done s=
o,
without doing heavy wrong to him I loved,' rejoined Rose, 'I could have - '=
'Have
received this declaration very differently?' said Harry. 'Do not conceal th=
at
from me, at least, Rose.'
'I
could,' said Rose. 'Stay!' she added, disengaging her hand, 'why should we
prolong this painful interview? Most painful to me, and yet productive of
lasting happiness, notwithstanding; for it will
be happiness to know that I once held the high place in your regard which I=
now
occupy, and every triumph you achieve in life will animate me with new
fortitude and firmness. Farewell, Harry! As we have met to-day, we meet no
more; but in other relations than those in which this conversation have pla=
ced
us, we may be long and happily entwined; and may every blessing that the
prayers of a true and earnest heart can call down from the source of all tr=
uth
and sincerity, cheer and prosper you!'
'Another
word, Rose,' said Harry. 'Your reason in your own words. From your own lips,
let me hear it!'
'The
prospect before you,' answered Rose, firmly, 'is a brilliant one. All the
honours to which great talents and powerful connections can help men in pub=
lic
life, are in store for you. But those connections are proud; and I will nei=
ther
mingle with such as may hold in scorn the mother who gave me life; nor bring
disgrace or failure on the son of her who has so well supplied that mother's
place. In a word,' said the young lady, turning away, as her temporary firm=
ness
forsook her, 'there is a stain upon my name, which the world visits on inno=
cent
heads. I will carry it into no blood but my own; and the reproach shall rest
alone on me.'
'One
word more, Rose. Dearest Rose! one more!' cried Harry, throwing himself bef=
ore
her. 'If I had been less - less fortunate, the world would call it - if some
obscure and peaceful life had been my destiny - if I had been poor, sick,
helpless - would you have turned from me then? Or has my probable advanceme=
nt
to riches and honour, given this scruple birth?'
'Do
not press me to reply,' answered Rose. 'The question does not arise, and ne=
ver
will. It is unfair, almost unkind, to urge it.'
'If
your answer be what I almost dare to hope it is,' retorted Harry, 'it will =
shed
a gleam of happiness upon my lonely way, and light the path before me. It is
not an idle thing to do so much, by the utterance of a few brief words, for=
one
who loves you beyond all else. Oh, Rose: in the name of my ardent and endur=
ing
attachment; in the name of all I have suffered for you, and all you doom me=
to
undergo; answer me this one question!'
'Then,
if your lot had been differently cast,' rejoined Rose; 'if you had been eve=
n a
little, but not so far, above me; if I could have been a help and comfort to
you in any humble scene of peace and retirement, and not a blot and drawbac=
k in
ambitious and distinguished crowds; I should have been spared this trial. I
have every reason to be happy, very happy, now; but then, Harry, I own I sh=
ould
have been happier.'
Busy
recollections of old hopes, cherished as a girl, long ago, crowded into the
mind of Rose, while making this avowal; but they brought tears with them, as
old hopes will when they come back withered; and they relieved her.
'I
cannot help this weakness, and it makes my purpose stronger,' said Rose,
extending her hand. 'I must leave you now, indeed.'
'I
ask one promise,' said Harry. 'Once, and only once more, - say within a yea=
r,
but it may be much sooner, - I may speak to you again on this subject, for =
the
last time.'
'Not
to press me to alter my right determination,' replied Rose, with a melancho=
ly
smile; 'it will be useless.'
'No,'
said Harry; 'to hear you repeat it, if you will - finally repeat it! I will=
lay
at your feet, whatever of station of fortune I may possess; and if you still
adhere to your present resolution, will not seek, by word or act, to change
it.'
'Then
let it be so,' rejoined Rose; 'it is but one pang the more, and by that tim=
e I
may be enabled to bear it better.'
She
extended her hand again. But the young man caught her to his bosom; and
imprinting one kiss on her beautiful forehead, hurried from the room.
'And
so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning; eh?' said t=
he
doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the breakfast-table. 'Why,=
you
are not in the same mind or intention two half-hours together!'
'You
will tell me a different tale one of these days,' said Harry, colouring wit=
hout
any perceptible reason.
'I
hope I may have good cause to do so,' replied Mr Losberne; 'though I confes=
s I
don't think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up your mind, in a
great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your mother, like a dutiful son=
, to
the sea-side. Before noon, you announce that you are going to do me the hon=
our
of accompanying me as far as I go, on your road to London. And at night, you
urge me, with great mystery, to start before the ladies are stirring; the
consequence of which is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his break=
fast
when he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all ki=
nds.
Too bad, isn't it, Oliver?'
'I
should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr Maylie
went away, sir,' rejoined Oliver.
'That's
a fine fellow,' said the doctor; 'you shall come and see me when you return.
But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication from the great nobs
produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?'
'The
great nobs,' replied Harry, 'under which designation, I presume, you includ=
e my
most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all, since I have been
here; nor, at this time of the year, is it likely that anything would occur=
to
render necessary my immediate attendance among them.'
'Well,'
said the doctor, 'you are a queer fellow. But of course they will get you i=
nto
parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden shiftings and
changes are no bad preparation for political life. There's something in tha=
t.
Good training is always desirable, whether the race be for place, cup, or
sweepstakes.'
Harry
Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by one or=
two
remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but he contented
himself with saying, 'We shall see,' and pursued the subject no farther. The
post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for
the luggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it packed.
'Oliver,'
said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, 'let me speak a word with you.'
Oliver
walked into the window-recess to which Mr Maylie beckoned him; much surpris=
ed
at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour
displayed.
'You
can write well now?' said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm.
'I
hope so, sir,' replied Oliver.
'I
shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write t=
o me
- say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office=
in
London. Will you?'
'Oh!
certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it,' exclaimed Oliver, greatly delig=
hted
with the commission.
'I
should like to know how - how my mother and Miss Maylie are,' said the young
man; 'and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and wh=
at
you talk about, and whether she - they, I mean - seem happy and quite well.=
You
understand me?'
'Oh!
quite, sir, quite,' replied Oliver.
'I
would rather you did not mention it to them,' said Harry, hurrying over his
words; 'because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and=
it
is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me; and m=
ind
you tell me everything! I depend upon you.'
Oliver,
quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised=
to
be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr Maylie took leave of him, =
with
many assurances of his regard and protection.
The
doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should be left
behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants were in the
garden, looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the latticed window, and
jumped into the carriage.
'Drive
on!' he cried, 'hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing short of flying will keep =
pace
with me, to-day.'
'Halloa!'
cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great hurry, and shouti=
ng
to the postillion; 'something very short of flying will keep pace with me. Do you hear?'
Jingling
and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible, and its rapid
progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound its way along the r=
oad,
almost hidden in a cloud of dust: now wholly disappearing, and now becoming
visible again, as intervening objects, or the intricacies of the way,
permitted. It was not until even the dusty cloud was no longer to be seen, =
that
the gazers dispersed.
And
there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes fixed upon the spot where t=
he
carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away; for, behind the
white curtain which had shrouded her from view when Harry raised his eyes
towards the window, sat Rose herself.
'He
seems in high spirits and happy,' she said, at length. 'I feared for a time=
he
might be otherwise. I was mistaken. I am very, very glad.'
Tears
are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which coursed down Rose's
face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in the same directio=
n,
seemed to tell more of sorrow than of joy.
Chapter XXXVII - In Which The Reader May Perceive A
Contrast, Not Uncommon In Matrimonial Cases
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 ceilin=
g,
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 pass=
age
in his own past life.
Nor
was Mr Bumble's gloom the only thing calculated to awaken a pleasing melanc=
holy
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 li=
ke the coat, but, oh how different! T=
he
mighty cocked hat was replaced by a modest round one. Mr Bumble was no long=
er a
beadle.
There
are some promotions in life, which, independent of the more substantial rew=
ards
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 apr=
on;
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 bea=
dle
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 happi=
ness
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 si=
x 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 p=
rice;
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 anyth=
ing.
It is a eye I never knew to fail with paupers. If it fails with her, my pow=
er
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 C=
orney
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 be=
ing
my prerogative.'
'Your prerogative!' sneered Mrs Bum=
ble,
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 reli=
ct
of Mr Corney deceased.
'To
obey, ma'am,' thundered Mr Bumble. 'Your late unfortunate husband should ha=
ve
taught it you; and then, perhaps, he might have been alive now. I wish he w=
as,
poor man!'
Mrs
Bumble, seeing at a glance, that the decisive moment had now arrived, and t=
hat
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, t=
han
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 we=
re
rendered stouter and more vigorous, by showers of tears, which, being token=
s 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 loo=
ked
upon, by the faculty, as strongly conducive to health.
'It
opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises the eyes, and softens do=
wn
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 lat=
ter
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 e=
nd
of the room. This preliminary proceeding laying bare his head, the expert l=
ady,
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. Th=
is
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 w=
ell
situated for the purpose: and defied him to talk about his prerogative agai=
n,
if he dared.
'Get
up!' said Mrs Bumble, in a voice of command. 'And take yourself away from h=
ere,
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, th=
at
really I - '
At
this instant, Mrs Bumble stepped hastily forward to replace the carpet, whi=
ch
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 exerci=
se
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 personag=
es,
who are held in high respect and admiration, are the victims of similar
infirmities. The remark is made, indeed, rather in his favour than otherwis=
e,
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 punishmen=
t 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 employe=
d 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 bac=
k 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 paupe=
rs,
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 h=
im
(for he had reached the portal in his reverie); and walked, distractedly, i=
nto
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 wel=
l 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 h=
ad
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 comp=
any
under such circumstances: that Mr Bumble felt, every now and then, a powerf=
ul
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 t=
hat
the stranger was at that moment stealing a look at him. Mr Bumble's awkward=
ness
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; f=
or 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 strang=
er.
'I
have seen you before, I think?' said he. 'You were differently dressed at t=
hat
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 th=
em
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 m=
ore
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 ext=
ra
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 mist=
aken
his man; then rang the bell.
'Fill
this glass again,' he said, handing Mr Bumble's empty tumbler to the landlo=
rd.
'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 w=
hich
the devil throws in the way of his friends sometimes, you walked into the v=
ery
room I was sitting in, while you were uppermost in my mind. I want some inf=
ormation
from you. I don't ask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is. Put up t=
hat,
to begin with.'
As
he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to his companio=
n,
carefully, as though unwilling that the chinking of money should be heard
without. When Mr Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins, to see that th=
ey
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 pul=
ing
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-ma=
ker
- 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 go=
ne
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 beca=
me
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 ey=
es,
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 occa=
sion
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 harri=
dan
shortly before she died; and that she could, as he had reason to believe, t=
hrow
some light on the subject of his inquiry.
'How
can I find her?' said the stranger, thrown off his guard; and plainly showi=
ng
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 t=
hat
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 liqu=
or
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 contain=
ed
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 n=
ame
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, alr=
eady
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 f=
rom
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, s=
erve
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 footpri=
nts.
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 followin=
g;
then, discovering that she was close at his heels, he mended his rate of wa=
lking,
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 know=
n as
the residence of none but low ruffians, who, under various pretences of liv=
ing
by their labour, subsisted chiefly on plunder and crime. It was a collectio=
n of
mere hovels: some, hastily built with loose bricks: others, of old worm-eat=
en
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 le=
aky
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 inhabit=
ants
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 whic=
h 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 pou=
ring
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 do=
or,
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 ab=
out
to express some doubts relative to the advisability of proceeding any furth=
er
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 hi=
m.
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, interposin=
g,
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 afrai=
d 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 apertu=
re,
and a peal of thunder followed, which shook the crazy building to its centr=
e.
'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 h=
ate
the sound!'
He
remained silent for a few moments; and then, removing his hands suddenly fr=
om
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 thu= nder sometimes brings them on. Don't mind me now; it's all over for this once.'<= o:p>
Thus
speaking, he led the way up the ladder; and hastily closing the window-shut=
ter
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 w=
hich
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 in=
timating
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.<= o:p>
'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 t=
hat
- '
'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 s=
hare
of the secret than he had originally possessed, listened to this dialogue w=
ith
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 le=
t me
know which.'
'Add
five pounds to the sum you have named; give me five-and-twenty pounds in go=
ld,'
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 M=
onks
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 lit=
tle
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 fi=
erce
determination; and plainly showed, by the alarmed expression of every featu=
re,
that he did want a little rousi=
ng,
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.'<= o:p>
'He
had better have cut it out, before he came, if he can't speak in a lower to=
ne,'
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 ha=
ve
less hesitation in dealing with two people, when I find that there's only o=
ne
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 fee=
l 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 o=
ver
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 near=
ly
touched, as the two men leant over the small table in their eagerness to he=
ar,
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 w=
ere
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 in=
to
the world some years before; not merely in the same room, but in the same b=
ed,
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 t=
he
corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother had pr=
ayed
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? W=
hen?
To whom? How long before?'
'As
she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this,' said the matro=
n,
'she fell back and died.'
'Without
saying more?' cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very suppression, see=
med
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 th=
en
had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroke=
r's
interest year by year, and prevent its running out; so that if anything cam=
e 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 o=
pen
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 ov=
er,
and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back again; and no=
w he
took courage to wipe the perspiration which had been trickling over his nos=
e,
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 i=
t'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 facetiousnes=
s.
'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 co=
uld
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 los=
t in
the noise of its plashing and eddying against the green and slimy piles. Th=
ere
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 unavail=
ingly
attempted to stem its headlong course.
'If
you flung a man's body down there, where would it be to-morrow morning?' sa=
id
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; a=
nd
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, you=
ng
man; on my own, you know, Mr Monks.'
'I
am glad, for your sake, to hear it,' remarked Monks. 'Light your lantern! A=
nd
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 th=
at
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 ev=
ery
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 gentlem=
an
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 eme=
rged
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 somewhe=
re
below. Bidding him go first, and bear the light, he returned to the chamber=
he
had just quitted.
On
the evening following that upon which the three worthies mentioned in the l=
ast
chapter, disposed of their little matter of business as therein narrated, Mr
William Sikes, awakening from a nap, drowsily growled forth an inquiry what
time of night it was.
The
room in which Mr Sikes propounded this question, was not one of those he had
tenanted, previous to the Chertsey expedition, although it was in the same
quarter of the town, and was situated at no great distance from his former
lodgings. It was not, in appearance, so desirable a habitation as his old
quarters: being a mean and badly-furnished apartment, of very limited size;
lighted only by one small window in the shelving roof, and abutting on a cl=
ose
and dirty lane. Nor were there wanting other indications of the good
gentleman's having gone down in the world of late: for a great scarcity of =
furniture,
and total absence of comfort, together with the disappearance of all such s=
mall
moveables as spare clothes and linen, bespoke a state of extreme poverty; w=
hile
the meagre and attenuated condition of Mr Sikes himself would have fully
confirmed these symptoms, if they had stood in any need of corroboration.
The
housebreaker was lying on the bed, wrapped in his white great-coat, by way =
of
dressing-gown, and displaying a set of features in no degree improved by the
cadaverous hue of illness, and the addition of a soiled nightcap, and a sti=
ff,
black beard of a week's growth. The dog sat at the bedside: now eyeing his
master with a wistful look, and now pricking his ears, and uttering a low g=
rowl
as some noise in the street, or in the lower part of the house, attracted h=
is
attention. Seated by the window, busily engaged in patching an old waistcoat
which formed a portion of the robber's ordinary dress, was a female: so pale
and reduced with watching and privation, that there would have been
considerable difficulty in recognising her as the same Nancy who has already
figured in this tale, but for the voice in which she replied to Mr Sikes's
question.
'Not
long gone seven,' said the girl. 'How do you feel to-night, Bill?'
'As
weak as water,' replied Mr Sikes, with an imprecation on his eyes and limbs.
'Here; lend us a hand, and let me get off this thundering bed anyhow.'
Illness had not improved Mr Sikes's temper; for, as the girl raised him up and led = him to a chair, he muttered various curses on her awkwardness, and struck her.<= o:p>
'Whining
are you?' said Sikes. 'Come! Don't stand snivelling there. If you can't do
anything better than that, cut off altogether. D'ye hear me?'
'I
hear you,' replied the girl, turning her face aside, and forcing a laugh. '=
What
fancy have you got in your head now?'
'Oh!
you've thought better of it, have you?' growled Sikes, marking the tear whi=
ch
trembled in her eye. 'All the better for you, you have.'
'Why,
you don't mean to say, you'd be hard upon me to-night, Bill,' said the girl,
laying her hand upon his shoulder.
'No!'
cried Mr Sikes. 'Why not?'
'Such
a number of nights,' said the girl, with a touch of woman's tenderness, whi=
ch
communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to her voice: 'such a
number of nights as I've been patient with you, nursing and caring for you,=
as
if you had been a child: and this the first that I've seen you like yoursel=
f;
you wouldn't have served me as you did just now, if you'd thought of that,
would you? Come, come; say you wouldn't.'
'Well,
then,' rejoined Mr Sikes, 'I wouldn't. Why, damme, now, the girls's whining
again!'
'It's
nothing,' said the girl, throwing herself into a chair. 'Don't you seem to =
mind
me. It'll soon be over.'
'What'll
be over?' demanded Mr Sikes in a savage voice. 'What foolery are you up to,
now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don't come over me with your woman=
's
nonsense.'
At
any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered,
would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really weak and
exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and fainted, before=
Mr
Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar
occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very well,
what to do, in this uncommon emergency; for Miss Nancy's hysterics were usu=
ally
of that violent kind which the patient fights and struggles out of, without
much assistance; Mr Sikes tried a little blasphemy: and finding that mode of
treatment wholly ineffectual, called for assistance.
'What's
the matter here, my dear?' said Fagin, looking in.
'Lend
a hand to the girl, can't you?' replied Sikes impatiently. 'Don't stand
chattering and grinning at me!'
With
an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl's assistance, while =
Mr
John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who had followed his venerable
friend into the room, hastily deposited on the floor a bundle with which he=
was
laden; and snatching a bottle from the grasp of Master Charles Bates who ca=
me
close at his heels, uncorked it in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured a
portion of its contents down the patient's throat: previously taking a tast=
e,
himself, to prevent mistakes.
'Give
her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley,' said Mr Dawkins; 'and =
you
slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts.'
These
united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially that depart=
ment
consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share in the
proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in producing t=
he
desired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses; and, staggering to=
a
chair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow: leaving Mr Sikes to
confront the new comers, in some astonishment at their unlooked-for appeara=
nce.
'Why,
what evil wind has blowed you here?' he asked Fagin.
'No
evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and I've
brought something good with me, that you'll be glad to see. Dodger, my dear,
open the bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that we spent all our mon=
ey
on, this morning.'
In
compliance with Mr Fagin's request, the Artful untied this bundle, which wa=
s of
large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed the articles it
contained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed them on the table, with
various encomiums on their rarity and excellence.
'Sitch
a rabbit pie, Bill,' exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to view a h=
uge
pasty; 'sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs, Bill, that the we=
ry
bones melt in your mouth, and there's no occasion to pick 'em; half a pound=
of
seven and six-penny green, so precious strong that if you mix it with biling
water, it'll go nigh to blow the lid of the tea-pot off; a pound and a half=
of
moist sugar that the niggers didn't work at all at, afore they got it up to
sitch a pitch of goodness, - oh no! Two half-quartern brans; pound of best
fresh; piece of double Glo'ster; and, to wind up all, some of the richest s=
ort
you ever lushed!'
Uttering
this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his extensive pocke=
ts,
a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while Mr Dawkins, at the same
instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw spirits from the bottle he carri=
ed:
which the invalid tossed down his throat without a moment's hesitation.
'Ah!'
said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. 'You'll do, Bill; yo=
u'll
do now.'
'Do!'
exclaimed Mr Sikes; 'I might have been done for, twenty times over, afore y=
ou'd
have done anything to help me. What do you mean by leaving a man in this st=
ate,
three weeks and more, you false-hearted wagabond?'
'Only
hear him, boys!' said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. 'And us come to bring=
him
all these beau-ti-ful things.'
'The
things is well enough in their way,' observed Mr Sikes: a little soothed as=
he
glanced over the table; 'but what have you got to say for yourself, why you
should leave me here, down in the mouth, health, blunt, and everything else;
and take no more notice of me, all this mortal time, than if I was that 'ere
dog. - Drive him down, Charley!'
'I
never see such a jolly dog as that,' cried Master Bates, doing as he was
desired. 'Smelling the grub like a old lady a going to market! He'd make his
fortun' on the stage that dog would, and rewive the drayma besides.'
'Hold
your din,' cried Sikes, as the dog retreated under the bed: still growling
angrily. 'What have you got to say for yourself, you withered old fence, eh=
?'
'I
was away from London, a week and more, my dear, on a plant,' replied the Je=
w.
'And
what about the other fortnight?' demanded Sikes. 'What about the other
fortnight that you've left me lying here, like a sick rat in his hole?'
'I
couldn't help it, Bill. I can't go into a long explanation before company; =
but
I couldn't help it, upon my honour.'
'Upon
your what?' growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. 'Here! Cut me off a piec=
e of
that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my mouth, or it=
'll
choke me dead.'
'Don't
be out of temper, my dear,' urged Fagin, submissively. 'I have never forgot
you, Bill; never once.'
'No!
I'll pound it that you han't,' replied Sikes, with a bitter grin. 'You've b=
een
scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid shivering and burni=
ng
here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do that; and Bill was to do =
it
all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and was quite poor enough for your
work. If it hadn't been for the girl, I might have died.'
'There
now, Bill,' remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. 'If it hadn't
been for the girl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the means of your having suc=
h a
handy girl about you?'
'He
says true enough there!' said Nancy, coming hastily forward. 'Let him be; l=
et
him be.'
Nancy's
appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys, receiving a s=
ly
wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor: of which, however,
she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual flow of spirits,
gradually brought Mr Sikes into a better temper, by affecting to regard his
threats as a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, by laughing very hearti=
ly
at one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to the
spirit-bottle, he condescended to make.
'It's
all very well,' said Mr Sikes; 'but I must have some blunt from you to-nigh=
t.'
'I
haven't a piece of coin about me,' replied the Jew.
'Then
you've got lots at home,' retorted Sikes; 'and I must have some from there.=
'
'Lots!'
cried Fagin, holding up is hands. 'I haven't so much as would - '
'I
don't know how much you've got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, as=
it
would take a pretty long time to count it,' said Sikes; 'but I must have so=
me
to-night; and that's flat.'
'Well,
well,' said Fagin, with a sigh, 'I'll send the Artful round presently.'
'You
won't do nothing of the kind,' rejoined Mr Sikes. 'The Artful's a deal too
artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get dodged by traps a=
nd
so be perwented, or anything for an excuse, if you put him up to it. Nancy
shall go to the ken and fetch it, to make all sure; and I'll lie down and h=
ave
a snooze while she's gone.'
After
a great deal of haggling and squabbling, Fagin beat down the amount of the
required advance from five pounds to three pounds four and sixpence: protes=
ting
with many solemn asseverations that that would only leave him eighteen-penc=
e to
keep house with; Mr Sikes sullenly remarking that if he couldn't get any mo=
re
he must accompany him home; with the Dodger and Master Bates put the eatabl=
es
in the cupboard. The Jew then, taking leave of his affectionate friend,
returned homeward, attended by Nancy and the boys: Mr Sikes, meanwhile,
flinging himself on the bed, and composing himself to sleep away the time u=
ntil
the young lady's return.
In
due course, they arrived at Fagin's abode, where they found Toby Crackit an=
d Mr
Chitling intent upon their fifteenth game at cribbage, which it is scarcely
necessary to say the latter gentleman lost, and with it, his fifteenth and =
last
sixpence: much to the amusement of his young friends. Mr Crackit, apparently
somewhat ashamed at being found relaxing himself with a gentleman so much h=
is
inferior in station and mental endowments, yawned, and inquiring after Sike=
s,
took up his hat to go.
'Has
nobody been, Toby?' asked Fagin.
'Not
a living leg,' answered Mr Crackit, pulling up his collar; 'it's been as du=
ll
as swipes. You ought to stand something handsome, Fagin, to recompense me f=
or
keeping house so long. Damme, I'm as flat as a juryman; and should have gon=
e to
sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I hadn't had the good natur' to amuse this
youngster. Horrid dull, I'm blessed if I an't!'
With
these and other ejaculations of the same kind, Mr Toby Crackit swept up his
winnings, and crammed them into his waistcoat pocket with a haughty air, as
though such small pieces of silver were wholly beneath the consideration of=
a
man of his figure; this done, he swaggered out of the room, with so much
elegance and gentility, that Mr Chitling, bestowing numerous admiring glanc=
es
on his legs and boots till they were out of sight, assured the company that=
he
considered his acquaintance cheap at fifteen sixpences an interview, and th=
at
he didn't value his losses the snap of his little finger.
'Wot
a rum chap you are, Tom!' said Master Bates, highly amused by this declarat=
ion.
'Not
a bit of it,' replied Mr Chitling. 'Am I, Fagin?'
'A
very clever fellow, my dear,' said Fagin, patting him on the shoulder, and
winking to his other pupils.
'And
Mr Crackit is a heavy swell; an't he, Fagin?' asked Tom.
'No
doubt at all of that, my dear.'
'And
it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance; an't it, Fagin?' pursued
Tom.
'Very
much so, indeed, my dear. They're only jealous, Tom, because he won't give =
it
to them.'
'Ah!'
cried Tom, triumphantly, 'that's where it is! He has cleaned me out. But I =
can
go and earn some more, when I like; can't I, Fagin?'
'To
be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up your los=
s at
once, and don't lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It's time you were on =
the
lay. Come! It's near ten, and nothing done yet.'
In
obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their hats, and
left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging, as they went,=
in
many witticisms at the expense of Mr Chitling; in whose conduct, it is but =
justice
to say, there was nothing very conspicuous or peculiar: inasmuch as there a=
re a
great number of spirited young bloods upon town, who pay a much higher price
than Mr Chitling for being seen in good society: and a great number of fine
gentlemen (composing the good society aforesaid) who established their
reputation upon very much the same footing as flash Toby Crackit.
'Now,'
said Fagin, when they had left the room, 'I'll go and get you that cash, Na=
ncy.
This is only the key of a little cupboard where I keep a few odd things the
boys get, my dear. I never lock up my money, for I've got none to lock up, =
my
dear - ha! ha! ha! - none to lock up. It's a poor trade, Nancy, and no than=
ks;
but I'm fond of seeing the young people about me; and I bear it all, I bear=
it
all. Hush!' he said, hastily concealing the key in his breast; 'who's that?
Listen!'
The
girl, who was sitting at the table with her arms folded, appeared in no way
interested in the arrival: or to care whether the person, whoever he was, c=
ame
or went: until the murmur of a man's voice reached her ears. The instant she
caught the sound, she tore off her bonnet and shawl, with the rapidity of
lightning, and thrust them under the table. The Jew, turning round immediat=
ely
afterwards, she muttered a complaint of the heat: in a tone of languor that
contrasted, very remarkably, with the extreme haste and violence of this
action: which, however, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towa=
rds
her at the time.
'Bah!'
he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption; 'it's the man I expect=
ed
before; he's coming downstairs. Not a word about the money while he's here,
Nance. He won't stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear.'
Laying
his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the door, a=
s a
man's step was heard upon the stairs without. He reached it, at the same mo=
ment
as the visitor, who, coming hastily into the room, was close upon the girl
before he observed her.
It
was Monks.
'Only
one of my young people,' said Fagin, observing that Monks drew back, on
beholding a stranger. 'Don't move, Nancy.'
The
girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks with an air of careless
levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin, she stole another
look; so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if there had been any
bystander to observe the change, he could hardly have believed the two look=
s to
have proceeded from the same person.
'Any
news?' inquired Fagin.
'Great.'
'And
- and - good?' asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to vex the other=
man
by being too sanguine.
'Not
bad, any way,' replied Monks with a smile. 'I have been prompt enough this
time. Let me have a word with you.'
The
girl drew closer to the table, and made no offer to leave the room, although
she could see that Monks was pointing to her. The Jew: perhaps fearing she
might say something aloud about the money, if he endeavoured to get rid of =
her:
pointed upward, and took Monks out of the room.
'Not
that infernal hole we were in before,' she could hear the man say as they w=
ent
upstairs. Fagin laughed; and making some reply which did not reach her, see=
med,
by the creaking of the boards, to lead his companion to the second story.
Before
the sound of their footsteps had ceased to echo through the house, the girl=
had
slipped off her shoes; and drawing her gown loosely over her head, and muff=
ling
her arms in it, stood at the door, listening with breathless interest. The
moment the noise ceased, she glided from the room; ascended the stairs with
incredible softness and silence; and was lost in the gloom above.
The
room remained deserted for a quarter of an hour or more; the girl glided ba=
ck
with the same unearthly tread; and, immediately afterwards, the two men were
heard descending. Monks went at once into the street; and the Jew crawled
upstairs again for the money. When he returned, the girl was adjusting her
shawl and bonnet, as if preparing to be gone.
'Why,
Nance!' exclaimed the Jew, starting back as he put down the candle, 'how pa=
le
you are!'
'Pale!'
echoed the girl, shading her eyes with her hands, as if to look steadily at
him.
'Quite
horrible. What have you been doing to yourself?'
'Nothing
that I know of, except sitting in this close place for I don't know how long
and all,' replied the girl carelessly. 'Come! Let me get back; that's a dea=
r.'
With
a sigh for every piece of money, Fagin told the amount into her hand. They
parted without more conversation, merely interchanging a 'good-night.'
When
the girl got into the open street, she sat down upon a doorstep; and seemed,
for a few moments, wholly bewildered and unable to pursue her way. Suddenly=
she
arose; and hurrying on, in a direction quite opposite to that in which Sikes
was awaiting her returned, quickened her pace, until it gradually resolved =
into
a violent run. After completely exhausting herself, she stopped to take bre=
ath:
and, as if suddenly recollecting herself, and deploring her inability to do
something she was bent upon, wrung her hands, and burst into tears.
It
might be that her tears relieved her, or that she felt the full hopelessnes=
s of
her condition; but she turned back; and hurrying with nearly as great rapid=
ity
in the contrary direction; partly to recover lost time, and partly to keep =
pace
with the violent current of her own thoughts: soon reached the dwelling whe=
re
she had left the housebreaker.
If
she betrayed any agitation, when she presented herself to Mr Sikes, he did =
not
observe it; for merely inquiring if she had brought the money, and receivin=
g a
reply in the affirmative, he uttered a growl of satisfaction, and replacing=
his
head upon the pillow, resumed the slumbers which her arrival had interrupte=
d.
It
was fortunate for her that the possession of money occasioned him so much
employment next day in the way of eating and drinking; and withal had so
beneficial an effect in smoothing down the asperities of his temper; that he
had neither time nor inclination to be very critical upon her behaviour and
deportment. That she had all the abstracted and nervous manner of one who i=
s on
the eve of some bold and hazardous step, which it has required no common
struggle to resolve upon, would have been obvious to the lynx-eyed Fagin, w=
ho
would most probably have taken the alarm at once; but Mr Sikes lacking the
niceties of discrimination, and being troubled with no more subtle misgivin=
gs
than those which resolve themselves into a dogged roughness of behaviour
towards everybody; and being, furthermore, in an unusually amiable conditio=
n,
as has been already observed; saw nothing unusual in her demeanor, and inde=
ed,
troubled himself so little about her, that, had her agitation been far more
perceptible than it was, it would have been very unlikely to have awakened =
his
suspicions.
As
that day closed in, the girl's excitement increased; and, when night came o=
n,
and she sat by, watching until the housebreaker should drink himself asleep,
there was an unusual paleness in her cheek, and a fire in her eye, that even
Sikes observed with astonishment.
Mr
Sikes being weak from the fever, was lying in bed, taking hot water with his
gin to render it less inflammatory; and had pushed his glass towards Nancy =
to
be replenished for the third or fourth time, when these symptoms first stru=
ck
him.
'Why,
burn my body!' said the man, raising himself on his hands as he stared the =
girl
in the face. 'You look like a corpse come to life again. What's the matter?=
'
'Matter!'
replied the girl. 'Nothing. What do you look at me so hard for?'
'What
foolery is this?' demanded Sikes, grasping her by the arm, and shaking her
roughly. 'What is it? What do you mean? What are you thinking of?'
'Of
many things, Bill,' replied the girl, shivering, and as she did so, pressing
her hands upon her eyes. 'But, Lord! What odds in that?'
The
tone of forced gaiety in which the last words were spoken, seemed to produc=
e a
deeper impression on Sikes than the wild and rigid look which had preceded
them.
'I tell you wot it is,' said Sikes; 'if you haven't caught the fever, and got = it comin' on, now, there's something more than usual in the wind, and something dangerous too. You're not a-going to - . No, damme! you wouldn't do that!'<= o:p>
'Do
what?' asked the girl.
'There
ain't,' said Sikes, fixing his eyes upon her, and muttering the words to
himself; 'there ain't a stauncher-hearted gal going, or I'd have cut her th=
roat
three months ago. She's got the fever coming on; that's it.'
Fortifying
himself with this assurance, Sikes drained the glass to the bottom, and the=
n,
with many grumbling oaths, called for his physic. The girl jumped up, with
great alacrity; poured it quickly out, but with her back towards him; and h=
eld
the vessel to his lips, while he drank off the contents.
'Now,'
said the robber, 'come and sit aside of me, and put on your own face; or I'=
ll
alter it so, that you won't know it agin when you do want it.'
The
girl obeyed. Sikes, locking her hand in his, fell back upon the pillow: tur=
ning
his eyes upon her face. They closed; opened again; closed once more; again
opened. He shifted his position restlessly; and, after dozing again, and ag=
ain,
for two or three minutes, and as often springing up with a look of terror, =
and
gazing vacantly about him, was suddenly stricken, as it were, while in the =
very
attitude of rising, into a deep and heavy sleep. The grasp of his hand rela=
xed;
the upraised arm fell languidly by his side; and he lay like one in a profo=
und
trance.
'The
laudanum has taken effect at last,' murmured the girl, as she rose from the
bedside. 'I may be too late, even now.'
She
hastily dressed herself in her bonnet and shawl: looking fearfully round, f=
rom
time to time, as if, despite the sleeping draught, she expected every momen=
t to
feel the pressure of Sikes's heavy hand upon her shoulder; then, stooping
softly over the bed, she kissed the robber's lips; and then opening and clo=
sing
the room-door with noiseless touch, hurried from the house.
A
watchman was crying half-past nine, down a dark passage through which she h=
ad
to pass, in gaining the main thoroughfare.
'Has
it long gone the half-hour?' asked the girl.
'It'll
strike the hour in another quarter,' said the man: raising his lantern to h=
er
face.
'And
I cannot get there in less than an hour or more,' muttered Nancy: brushing
swiftly past him, and gliding rapidly down the street.
Many
of the shops were already closing in the back lanes and avenues through whi=
ch
she tracked her way, in making from Spitalfields towards the West-End of
London. The clock struck ten, increasing her impatience. She tore along the
narrow pavement: elbowing the passengers from side to side; and darting alm=
ost
under the horses' heads, crossed crowded streets, where clusters of persons
were eagerly watching their opportunity to do the like.
'The
woman is mad!' said the people, turning to look after her as she rushed awa=
y.
When
she reached the more wealthy quarter of the town, the streets were
comparatively deserted; and here her headlong progress excited a still grea=
ter
curiosity in the stragglers whom she hurried past. Some quickened their pace
behind, as though to see whither she was hastening at such an unusual rate;=
and
a few made head upon her, and looked back, surprised at her undiminished sp=
eed;
but they fell off one by one; and when she neared her place of destination,=
she
was alone.
It
was a family hotel in a quiet but handsome street near Hyde Park. As the
brilliant light of the lamp which burnt before its door, guided her to the
spot, the clock struck eleven. She had loitered for a few paces as though
irresolute, and making up her mind to advance; but the sound determined her,
and she stepped into the hall. The porter's seat was vacant. She looked rou=
nd
with an air of incertitude, and advanced towards the stairs.
'Now,
young woman!' said a smartly-dressed female, looking out from a door behind
her, 'who do you want here?'
'A
lady who is stopping in this house,' answered the girl.
'A
lady!' was the reply, accompanied with a scornful look. 'What lady?'
'Miss
Maylie,' said Nancy.
The
young woman, who had by this time, noted her appearance, replied only by a =
look
of virtuous disdain; and summoned a man to answer her. To him, Nancy repeat=
ed
her request.
'What
name am I to say?' asked the waiter.
'It's
of no use saying any,' replied Nancy.
'Nor
business?' said the man.
'No,
nor that neither,' rejoined the girl. 'I must see the lady.'
'Come!'
said the man, pushing her towards the door. 'None of this. Take yourself of=
f.'
'I shall be carried out if I go!' said the girl violently; 'and I can make tha= t a job that two of you won't like to do. Isn't there anybody here,' she said, = looking round, 'that will see a simple message carried for a poor wretch like me?'<= o:p>
This
appeal produced an effect on a good-tempered-faced man-cook, who with some =
of
the other servants was looking on, and who stepped forward to interfere.
'Take
it up for her, Joe; can't you?' said this person.
'What's
the good?' replied the man. 'You don't suppose the young lady will see such=
as
her; do you?'
This
allusion to Nancy's doubtful character, raised a vast quantity of chaste wr=
ath
in the bosoms of four housemaids, who remarked, with great fervour, that the
creature was a disgrace to her sex; and strongly advocated her being thrown,
ruthlessly, into the kennel.
'Do
what you like with me,' said the girl, turning to the men again; 'but do wh=
at I
ask you first, and I ask you to give this message for God Almighty's sake.'=
The
soft-hearted cook added his intercession, and the result was that the man w=
ho
had first appeared undertook its delivery.
'What's
it to be?' said the man, with one foot on the stairs.
'That
a young woman earnestly asks to speak to Miss Maylie alone,' said Nancy; 'a=
nd
that if the lady will only hear the first word she has to say, she will know
whether to hear her business, or to have her turned out of doors as an
impostor.'
'I
say,' said the man, 'you're coming it strong!'
'You
give the message,' said the girl firmly; 'and let me hear the answer.'
The
man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless, listening with
quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn, of which the chaste
housemaids were very prolific; and of which they became still more so, when=
the
man returned, and said the young woman was to walk upstairs.
'It's
no good being proper in this world,' said the first housemaid.
'Brass
can do better than the gold what has stood the fire,' said the second.
The
third contented herself with wondering 'what ladies was made of'; and the
fourth took the first in a quartette of 'Shameful!' with which the Dianas
concluded.
Regardless
of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man,
with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the
ceiling. Here he left her, and retired.
Chapter XL - A Strange Interview, Which Is A Sequel To=
The
Last Chamber
The
girl's life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisome =
of
the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman's origin=
al
nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approaching the d=
oor
opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast
which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with
the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she could scarcely be=
ar
the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview.
But
struggling with these better feelings was pride, - the vice of the lowest a=
nd
most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miser=
able
companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the
associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow=
of
the gallows itself, - even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a
feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which
alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had
obliterated so many, many traces when a very child.
She
raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented its=
elf
was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, =
she
tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said:
'It's
a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone awa=
y,
as many would have done, you'd have been sorry for it one day, and not with=
out
reason either.'
'I
am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you,' replied Rose. 'Do not
think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you inquir=
ed
for.'
The
kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absence of
any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl completely by surpr=
ise,
and she burst into tears.
'Oh,
lady, lady!' she said, clasping her hands passionately before her face, 'if
there was more like you, there would be fewer like me, - there would - there
would!'
'Sit
down,' said Rose, earnestly. 'If you are in poverty or affliction I shall be
truly glad to relieve you if I can, - I shall indeed. Sit down.'
'Let
me stand, lady,' said the girl, still weeping, 'and do not speak to me so
kindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is - is - that door shu=
t?'
'Yes,'
said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance in case she
should require it. 'Why?'
'Because,'
said the girl, 'I am about to put my life and the lives of others in your
hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old Fagin's on the
night he went out from the house in Pentonville.'
'You!'
said Rose Maylie.
'I,
lady!' replied the girl. 'I am the infamous creature you have heard of, that
lives among the thieves, and that never from the first moment I can recolle=
ct
my eyes and senses opening on London streets have known any better life, or
kinder words than they have given me, so help me God! Do not mind shrinking
openly from me, lady. I am younger than you would think, to look at me, but=
I
am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the
crowded pavement.'
'What
dreadful things are these!' said Rose, involuntarily falling from her stran=
ge
companion.
'Thank
Heaven upon your knees, dear lady,' cried the girl, 'that you had friends to
care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the mid=
st
of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and - and - something worse t=
han
all - as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and =
the
gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed.'
'I pity you!' said Rose, in a broken voice. 'It wrings my heart to hear you!'<= o:p>
'Heaven
bless you for your goodness!' rejoined the girl. 'If you knew what I am
sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who
would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I ha=
ve
overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?'
'No,'
said Rose.
'He
knows you,' replied the girl; 'and knew you were here, for it was by hearing
him tell the place that I found you out.'
'I
never heard the name,' said Rose.
'Then
he goes by some other amongst us,' rejoined the girl, 'which I more than
thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your hous=
e on
the night of the robbery, I - suspecting this man - listened to a conversat=
ion
held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that
Monks - the man I asked you about, you know - '
'Yes,'
said Rose, 'I understand.'
'
- That Monks,' pursued the girl, 'had seen him accidently with two of our b=
oys
on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same chi=
ld
that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was str=
uck
with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he
was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some
purpose of his own.'
'For
what purpose?' asked Rose.
'He
caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding
out,' said the girl; 'and there are not many people besides me that could h=
ave
got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him =
no
more till last night.'
'And
what occurred then?'
'I'll
tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I,
wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at=
the
door. The first words I heard Monks say were these: ‘So the only proo=
fs
of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that
received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.’ They laughed,
and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the bo=
y,
and getting very wild, said that though he had got the young devil's money
safely now, he'd rather have had it the other way; for, what a game it would
have been to have brought down the boast of the father's will, by driving h=
im
through every jail in town, and then hauling him up for some capital felony
which Fagin could easily manage, after having made a good profit of him
besides.'
'What
is all this!' said Rose.
'The
truth, lady, though it comes from my lips,' replied the girl. 'Then, he sai=
d,
with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that if he could
gratify his hatred by taking the boy's life without bringing his own neck i=
n danger,
he would; but, as he couldn't, he'd be upon the watch to meet him at every =
turn
in life; and if he took advantage of his birth and history, he might harm h=
im
yet. ‘In short, Fagin,’ he says, ‘Jew as you are, you nev=
er
laid such snares as I'll contrive for my young brother, Oliver.’'
'His
brother!' exclaimed Rose.
'Those
were his words,' said Nancy, glancing uneasily round, as she had scarcely
ceased to do, since she began to speak, for a vision of Sikes haunted her
perpetually. 'And more. When he spoke of you and the other lady, and said it
seemed contrived by Heaven, or the devil, against him, that Oliver should c=
ome
into your hands, he laughed, and said there was some comfort in that too, f=
or
how many thousands and hundreds of thousands of pounds would you not give, =
if
you had them, to know who your two-legged spaniel was.'
'You
do not mean,' said Rose, turning very pale, 'to tell me that this was said =
in
earnest?'
'He
spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man ever did,' replied the girl, shak=
ing
her head. 'He is an earnest man when his hatred is up. I know many who do w=
orse
things; but I'd rather listen to them all a dozen times, than to that Monks
once. It is growing late, and I have to reach home without suspicion of hav=
ing
been on such an errand as this. I must get back quickly.'
'But
what can I do?' said Rose. 'To what use can I turn this communication witho=
ut
you? Back! Why do you wish to return to companions you paint in such terrib=
le
colors? If you repeat this information to a gentleman whom I can summon in =
an
instant from the next room, you can be consigned to some place of safety
without half an hour's delay.'
'I
wish to go back,' said the girl. 'I must go back, because - how can I tell =
such
things to an innocent lady like you? - because among the men I have told you
of, there is one: the most desperate among them all; that I can't leave: no,
not even to be saved from the life I am leading now.'
'Your having interfered in this dear boy's behalf before,' said Rose; 'your coming here, at so great a risk, to tell me what you have heard; your manner, which convinces me of the truth of what you say; your evident contrition, and sen= se of shame; all lead me to believe that you might yet be reclaimed. Oh!' said= the earnest girl, folding her hands as the tears coursed down her face, 'do not turn a deaf ear to the entreaties of one of your own sex; the first - the first, I do believe, who ever appealed to you in the voice of pity and compassion. Do hear my words, and let me save you yet, for better things.'<= o:p>
'Lady,'
cried the girl, sinking on her knees, 'dear, sweet, angel lady, you are the first that ever blessed me=
with
such words as these, and if I had heard them years ago, they might have tur=
ned
me from a life of sin and sorrow; but it is too late, it is too late!'
'It
is never too late,' said Rose, 'for penitence and atonement.'
'It
is,' cried the girl, writhing in agony of her mind; 'I cannot leave him now=
! I
could not be his death.'
'Why
should you be?' asked Rose.
'Nothing
could save him,' cried the girl. 'If I told others what I have told you, and
led to their being taken, he would be sure to die. He is the boldest, and h=
as
been so cruel!'
'Is
it possible,' cried Rose, 'that for such a man as this, you can resign every
future hope, and the certainty of immediate rescue? It is madness.'
'I
don't know what it is,' answered the girl; 'I only know that it is so, and =
not
with me alone, but with hundreds of others as bad and wretched as myself. I
must go back. Whether it is God's wrath for the wrong I have done, I do not
know; but I am drawn back to him through every suffering and ill usage; and=
I
should be, I believe, if I knew that I was to die by his hand at last.'
'What
am I to do?' said Rose. 'I should not let you depart from me thus.'
'You
should, lady, and I know you will,' rejoined the girl, rising. 'You will not
stop my going because I have trusted in your goodness, and forced no promise
from you, as I might have done.'
'Of
what use, then, is the communication you have made?' said Rose. 'This myste=
ry
must be investigated, or how will its disclosure to me, benefit Oliver, whom
you are anxious to serve?'
'You
must have some kind gentleman about you that will hear it as a secret, and
advise you what to do,' rejoined the girl.
'But
where can I find you again when it is necessary?' asked Rose. 'I do not see=
k to
know where these dreadful people live, but where will you be walking or pas=
sing
at any settled period from this time?'
'Will
you promise me that you will have my secret strictly kept, and come alone, =
or
with the only other person that knows it; and that I shall not be watched or
followed?' asked the girl.
'I
promise you solemnly,' answered Rose.
'Every
Sunday night, from eleven until the clock strikes twelve,' said the girl wi=
thout
hesitation, 'I will walk on London Bridge if I am alive.'
'Stay
another moment,' interposed Rose, as the girl moved hurriedly towards the d=
oor.
'Think once again on your own condition, and the opportunity you have of
escaping from it. You have a claim on me: not only as the voluntary bearer =
of
this intelligence, but as a woman lost almost beyond redemption. Will you
return to this gang of robbers, and to this man, when a word can save you? =
What
fascination is it that can take you back, and make you cling to wickedness =
and
misery? Oh! is there no chord in your heart that I can touch! Is there noth=
ing
left, to which I can appeal against this terrible infatuation!'
'When
ladies as young, and good, and beautiful as you are,' replied the girl
steadily, 'give away your hearts, love will carry you all lengths - even su=
ch
as you, who have home, friends, other admirers, everything, to fill them. W=
hen
such as I, who have no certain roof but the coffinlid, and no friend in
sickness or death but the hospital nurse, set our rotten hearts on any man,=
and
let him fill the place that has been a blank through all our wretched lives,
who can hope to cure us? Pity us, lady - pity us for having only one feelin=
g of
the woman left, and for having that turned, by a heavy judgment, from a com=
fort
and a pride, into a new means of violence and suffering.'
'You
will,' said Rose, after a pause, 'take some money from me, which may enable=
you
to live without dishonesty - at all events until we meet again?'
'Not
a penny,' replied the girl, waving her hand.
'Do
not close your heart against all my efforts to help you,' said Rose, steppi=
ng
gently forward. 'I wish to serve you indeed.'
'You
would serve me best, lady,' replied the girl, wringing her hands, 'if you c=
ould
take my life at once; for I have felt more grief to think of what I am,
to-night, than I ever did before, and it would be something not to die in t=
he
hell in which I have lived. God bless you, sweet lady, and send as much
happiness on your head as I have brought shame on mine!'
Thus
speaking, and sobbing aloud, the unhappy creature turned away; while Rose
Maylie, overpowered by this extraordinary interview, which had more the
semblance of a rapid dream than an actual occurrence, sank into a chair, and
endeavoured to collect her wandering thoughts.
Her
situation was, indeed, one of no common trial and difficulty. While she felt
the most eager and burning desire to penetrate the mystery in which Oliver's
history was enveloped, she could not but hold sacred the confidence which t=
he
miserable woman with whom she had just conversed, had reposed in her, as a
young and guileless girl. Her words and manner had touched Rose Maylie's he=
art;
and, mingled with her love for her young charge, and scarcely less intense =
in
its truth and fervour, was her fond wish to win the outcast back to repenta=
nce
and hope.
They
purposed remaining in London only three days, prior to departing for some w=
eeks
to a distant part of the coast. It was now
Mr
Losberne was with them, and would be for the next two days; but Rose was too
well acquainted with the excellent gentleman's impetuosity, and foresaw too
clearly the wrath with which, in the first explosion of his indignation, he
would regard the instrument of Oliver's recapture, to trust him with the
secret, when her representations in the girl's behalf could be seconded by =
no
experienced person. These were all reasons for the greatest caution and most
circumspect behaviour in communicating it to Mrs Maylie, whose first impulse
would infallibly be to hold a conference with the worthy doctor on the subj=
ect.
As to resorting to any legal adviser, even if she had known how to do so, it
was scarcely to be thought of, for the same reason. Once the thought occurr=
ed
to her of seeking assistance from Harry; but this awakened the recollection=
of
their last parting, and it seemed unworthy of her to call him back, when - =
the
tears rose to her eyes as she pursued this train of reflection - he might h=
ave
by this time learnt to forget her, and to be happier away.
Disturbed
by these different reflections; inclining now to one course and then to
another, and again recoiling from all, as each successive consideration
presented itself to her mind; Rose passed a sleepless and anxious night. Af=
ter
more communing with herself next day, she arrived at the desperate conclusi=
on
of consulting Harry.
'If
it be painful to him,' she thought, 'to come back here, how painful it will=
be
to me! But perhaps he will not come; he may write, or he may come himself, =
and
studiously abstain from meeting me - he did when he went away. I hardly tho=
ught
he would; but it was better for us both.' And here Rose dropped the pen, and
turned away, as though the very paper which was to be her messenger should =
not
see her weep.
She
had taken up the same pen, and laid it down again fifty times, and had
considered and reconsidered the first line of her letter without writing the
first word, when Oliver, who had been walking in the streets, with Mr Giles=
for
a body-guard, entered the room in such breathless haste and violent agitati=
on,
as seemed to betoken some new cause of alarm.
'What
makes you look so flurried?' asked Rose, advancing to meet him.
'I
hardly know how; I feel as if I should be choked,' replied the boy. 'Oh dea=
r!
To think that I should see him at last, and you should be able to know that=
I
have told you the truth!'
'I
never thought you had told us anything but the truth,' said Rose, soothing =
him.
'But what is this? - of whom do you speak?'
'I
have seen the gentleman,' replied Oliver, scarcely able to articulate, 'the
gentleman who was so good to me - Mr Brownlow, that we have so often talked
about.'
'Where?'
asked Rose.
'Getting
out of a coach,' replied Oliver, shedding tears of delight, 'and going into=
a
house. I didn't speak to him - I couldn't speak to him, for he didn't see m=
e,
and I trembled so, that I was not able to go up to him. But Giles asked, for
me, whether he lived there, and they said he did. Look here,' said Oliver,
opening a scrap of paper, 'here it is; here's where he lives - I'm going th=
ere
directly! Oh, dear me, dear me! What shall I do when I come to see him and =
hear
him speak again!'
With
her attention not a little distracted by these and a great many other
incoherent exclamations of joy, Rose read the address, which was Craven Str=
eet,
in the Strand. She very soon determined upon turning the discovery to accou=
nt.
'Quick!'
she said. 'Tell them to fetch a hackney-coach, and be ready to go with me. I
will take you there directly, without a minute's loss of time. I will only =
tell
my aunt that we are going out for an hour, and be ready as soon as you are.=
'
Oliver needed no prompting to despatch, and in little more than five minutes they = were on their way to Craven Street. When they arrived there, Rose left Oliver in= the coach, under pretence of preparing the old gentleman to receive him; and sending up her card by the servant, requested to see Mr Brownlow on very pressing business. The servant soon returned, to beg that she would walk up= stairs; and following him into an upper room, Miss Maylie was presented to an elder= ly gentleman of benevolent appearance, in a bottle-green coat. At no great distance from whom, was seated another old gentleman, in nankeen breeches a= nd gaiters; who did not look particularly benevolent, and who was sitting with= his hands clasped on the top of a thick stick, and his chin propped thereupon.<= o:p>
'Dear
me,' said the gentleman, in the bottle-green coat, hastily rising with great
politeness, 'I beg your pardon, young lady - I imagined it was some importu=
nate
person who - I beg you will excuse me. Be seated, pray.'
'Mr
Brownlow, I believe, sir?' said Rose, glancing from the other gentleman to =
the
one who had spoken.
'That
is my name,' said the old gentleman. 'This is my friend, Mr Grimwig. Grimwi=
g,
will you leave us for a few minutes?'
'I
believe,' interposed Miss Maylie, 'that at this period of our interview, I =
need
not give that gentleman the trouble of going away. If I am correctly inform=
ed,
he is cognizant of the business on which I wish to speak to you.'
Mr
Brownlow inclined his head. Mr Grimwig, who had made one very stiff bow, and
risen from his chair, made another very stiff bow, and dropped into it agai=
n.
'I
shall surprise you very much, I have no doubt,' said Rose, naturally
embarrassed; 'but you once showed great benevolence and goodness to a very =
dear
young friend of mine, and I am sure you will take an interest in hearing of=
him
again.'
'Indeed!'
said Mr Brownlow.
'Oliver
Twist you knew him as,' replied Rose.
The
words no sooner escaped her lips, than Mr Grimwig, who had been affecting to
dip into a large book that lay on the table, upset it with a great crash, a=
nd
falling back in his chair, discharged from his features every expression but
one of unmitigated wonder, and indulged in a prolonged and vacant stare; th=
en,
as if ashamed of having betrayed so much emotion, he jerked himself, as it
were, by a convulsion into his former attitude, and looking out straight be=
fore
him emitted a long deep whistle, which seemed, at last, not to be discharge=
d on
empty air, but to die away in the innermost recesses of his stomach.
Mr
Browlow was no less surprised, although his astonishment was not expressed =
in
the same eccentric manner. He drew his chair nearer to Miss Maylie's, and s=
aid,
'Do
me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the question th=
at
goodness and benevolence of which you speak, and of which nobody else knows
anything; and if you have it in your power to produce any evidence which wi=
ll
alter the unfavourable opinion I was once induced to entertain of that poor
child, in Heaven's name put me in possession of it.'
'A
bad one! I'll eat my head if he is not a bad one,' growled Mr Grimwig, spea=
king
by some ventriloquial power, without moving a muscle of his face.
'He
is a child of a noble nature and a warm heart,' said Rose, colouring; 'and =
that
Power which has thought fit to try him beyond his years, has planted in his
breast affections and feelings which would do honour to many who have numbe=
red
his days six times over.'
'I'm
only sixty-one,' said Mr Grimwig, with the same rigid face. 'And, as the
devil's in it if this Oliver is not twelve years old at least, I don't see =
the
application of that remark.'
'Do
not heed my friend, Miss Maylie,' said Mr Brownlow; 'he does not mean what =
he
says.'
'Yes,
he does,' growled Mr Grimwig.
'No,
he does not,' said Mr Brownlow, obviously rising in wrath as he spoke.
'He'll
eat his head, if he doesn't,' growled Mr Grimwig.
'He
would deserve to have it knocked off, if he does,' said Mr Brownlow.
'And
he'd uncommonly like to see any man offer to do it,' responded Mr Grimwig,
knocking his stick upon the floor.
Having
gone thus far, the two old gentlemen severally took snuff, and afterwards s=
hook
hands, according to their invariable custom.
'Now,
Miss Maylie,' said Mr Brownlow, 'to return to the subject in which your
humanity is so much interested. Will you let me know what intelligence you =
have
of this poor child: allowing me to promise that I exhausted every means in =
my
power of discovering him, and that since I have been absent from this count=
ry,
my first impression that he had imposed upon me, and had been persuaded by =
his
former associates to rob me, has been considerably shaken.'
Rose,
who had had time to collect her thoughts, at once related, in a few natural
words, all that had befallen Oliver since he left Mr Brownlow's house;
reserving Nancy's information for that gentleman's private ear, and conclud=
ing
with the assurance that his only sorrow, for some months past, had been not
being able to meet with his former benefactor and friend.
'Thank
God!' said the old gentleman. 'This is great happiness to me, great happine=
ss.
But you have not told me where he is now, Miss Maylie. You must pardon my f=
inding
fault with you, - but why not have brought him?'
'He
is waiting in a coach at the door,' replied Rose.
'At
this door!' cried the old gentleman. With which he hurried out of the room,
down the stairs, up the coachsteps, and into the coach, without another wor=
d.
When
the room-door closed behind him, Mr Grimwig lifted up his head, and convert=
ing
one of the hind legs of his chair into a pivot, described three distinct
circles with the assistance of his stick and the table; sitting in it all t=
he
time. After performing this evolution, he rose and limped as fast as he cou=
ld
up and down the room at least a dozen times, and then stopping suddenly bef=
ore
Rose, kissed her without the slightest preface.
'Hush!'
he said, as the young lady rose in some alarm at this unusual proceeding.
'Don't be afraid. I'm old enough to be your grandfather. You're a sweet gir=
l. I
like you. Here they are!'
In
fact, as he threw himself at one dexterous dive into his former seat, Mr
Brownlow returned, accompanied by Oliver, whom Mr Grimwig received very
graciously; and if the gratification of that moment had been the only reward
for all her anxiety and care in Oliver's behalf, Rose Maylie would have been
well repaid.
'There
is somebody else who should not be forgotten, by the bye,' said Mr Brownlow,
ringing the bell. 'Send Mrs Bedwin here, if you please.'
The
old housekeeper answered the summons with all dispatch; and dropping a curt=
sey
at the door, waited for orders.
'Why,
you get blinder every day, Bedwin,' said Mr Brownlow, rather testily.
'Well,
that I do, sir,' replied the old lady. 'People's eyes, at my time of life,
don't improve with age, sir.'
'I
could have told you that,' rejoined Mr Brownlow; 'but put on your glasses, =
and
see if you can't find out what you were wanted for, will you?'
The
old lady began to rummage in her pocket for her spectacles. But Oliver's
patience was not proof against this new trial; and yielding to his first
impulse, he sprang into her arms.
'God
be good to me!' cried the old lady, embracing him; 'it is my innocent boy!'=
'My
dear old nurse!' cried Oliver.
'He
would come back - I knew he would,' said the old lady, holding him in her a=
rms.
'How well he looks, and how like a gentleman's son he is dressed again! Whe=
re
have you been, this long, long while? Ah! the same sweet face, but not so p=
ale;
the same soft eye, but not so sad. I have never forgotten them or his quiet
smile, but have seen them every day, side by side with those of my own dear
children, dead and gone since I was a lightsome young creature.' Running on
thus, and now holding Oliver from her to mark how he had grown, now clasping
him to her and passing her fingers fondly through his hair, the good soul
laughed and wept upon his neck by turns.
Leaving
her and Oliver to compare notes at leisure, Mr Brownlow led the way into
another room; and there, heard from Rose a full narration of her interview =
with
Nancy, which occasioned him no little surprise and perplexity. Rose also
explained her reasons for not confiding in her friend Mr Losberne in the fi=
rst
instance. The old gentleman considered that she had acted prudently, and
readily undertook to hold solemn conference with the worthy doctor himself.=
To
afford him an early opportunity for the execution of this design, it was
arranged that he should call at the hotel at eight o'clock that evening, and
that in the meantime Mrs Maylie should be cautiously informed of all that h=
ad
occurred. These preliminaries adjusted, Rose and Oliver returned home.
Rose
had by no means overrated the measure of the good doctor's wrath. Nancy's
history was no sooner unfolded to him, than he poured forth a shower of min=
gled
threats and execrations; threatened to make her the first victim of the
combined ingenuity of Messrs. Blathers and Duff; and actually put on his hat
preparatory to sallying forth to obtain the assistance of those worthies. A=
nd,
doubtless, he would, in this first outbreak, have carried the intention into
effect without a moment's consideration of the consequences, if he had not =
been
restrained, in part, by corresponding violence on the side of Mr Brownlow, =
who
was himself of an irascible temperament, and party by such arguments and
representations as seemed best calculated to dissuade him from his hotbrain=
ed
purpose.
'Then
what the devil is to be done?' said the impetuous doctor, when they had
rejoined the two ladies. 'Are we to pass a vote of thanks to all these
vagabonds, male and female, and beg them to accept a hundred pounds, or so,
apiece, as a trifling mark of our esteem, and some slight acknowledgment of
their kindness to Oliver?'
'Not
exactly that,' rejoined Mr Brownlow, laughing; 'but we must proceed gently =
and
with great care.'
'Gentleness
and care,' exclaimed the doctor. 'I'd send them one and all to - '
'Never
mind where,' interposed Mr Brownlow. 'But reflect whether sending them anyw=
here
is likely to attain the object we have in view.'
'What
object?' asked the doctor.
'Simply,
the discovery of Oliver's parentage, and regaining for him the inheritance =
of
which, if this story be true, he has been fraudulently deprived.'
'Ah!'
said Mr Losberne, cooling himself with his pocket-handkerchief; 'I almost
forgot that.'
'You
see,' pursued Mr Brownlow; 'placing this poor girl entirely out of the
question, and supposing it were possible to bring these scoundrels to justi=
ce
without compromising her safety, what good should we bring about?'
'Hanging
a few of them at least, in all probability,' suggested the doctor, 'and
transporting the rest.'
'Very
good,' replied Mr Brownlow, smiling; 'but no doubt they will bring that abo=
ut
for themselves in the fulness of time, and if we step in to forestall them,=
it
seems to me that we shall be performing a very Quixotic act, in direct
opposition to our own interest - or at least to Oliver's, which is the same
thing.'
'How?'
inquired the doctor.
'Thus.
It is quite clear that we shall have extreme difficulty in getting to the
bottom of this mystery, unless we can bring this man, Monks, upon his knees.
That can only be done by stratagem, and by catching him when he is not
surrounded by these people. For, suppose he were apprehended, we have no pr=
oof
against him. He is not even (so far as we know, or as the facts appear to u=
s)
concerned with the gang in any of their robberies. If he were not discharge=
d, it
is very unlikely that he could receive any further punishment than being
committed to prison as a rogue and vagabond; and of course ever afterwards =
his
mouth would be so obstinately closed that he might as well, for our purpose=
s,
be deaf, dumb, blind, and an idiot.'
'Then,'
said the doctor impetuously, 'I put it to you again, whether you think it
reasonable that this promise to the girl should be considered binding; a
promise made with the best and kindest intentions, but really - '
'Do
not discuss the point, my dear young lady, pray,' said Mr Brownlow,
interrupting Rose as she was about to speak. 'The promise shall be kept. I
don't think it will, in the slightest degree, interfere with our proceeding=
s.
But, before we can resolve upon any precise course of action, it will be
necessary to see the girl; to ascertain from her whether she will point out
this Monks, on the understanding that he is to be dealt with by us, and not=
by
the law; or, if she will not, or cannot do that, to procure from her such a=
n account
of his haunts and description of his person, as will enable us to identify =
him.
She cannot be seen until next Sunday night; this is Tuesday. I would suggest
that in the meantime, we remain perfectly quiet, and keep these matters sec=
ret
even from Oliver himself.'
Although
Mr Losberne received with many wry faces a proposal involving a delay of fi=
ve
whole days, he was fain to admit that no better course occurred to him just
then; and as both Rose and Mrs Maylie sided very strongly with Mr Brownlow,
that gentleman's proposition was carried unanimously.
'I should like,' he said, 'to call in the aid of my friend Grimwig. He is a strange creature, but a shrewd one, and might prove of material assistance = to us; I should say that he was bred a lawyer, and quitted the Bar in disgust because he had only one brief and a motion of course, in twenty years, thou= gh whether that is recommendation or not, you must determine for yourselves.'<= o:p>
'I
have no objection to your calling in your friend if I may call in mine,' sa=
id
the doctor.
'We
must put it to the vote,' replied Mr Brownlow, 'who may he be?'
'That
lady's son, and this young lady's - very old friend,' said the doctor,
motioning towards Mrs Maylie, and concluding with an expressive glance at h=
er
niece.
Rose
blushed deeply, but she did not make any audible objection to this motion
(possibly she felt in a hopeless minority); and Harry Maylie and Mr Grimwig
were accordingly added to the committee.
'We
stay in town, of course,' said Mrs Maylie, 'while there remains the slighte=
st
prospect of prosecuting this inquiry with a chance of success. I will spare
neither trouble nor expense in behalf of the object in which we are all so
deeply interested, and I am content to remain here, if it be for twelve mon=
ths,
so long as you assure me that any hope remains.'
'Good!'
rejoined Mr Brownlow. 'And as I see on the faces about me, a disposition to
inquire how it happened that I was not in the way to corroborate Oliver's t=
ale,
and had so suddenly left the kingdom, let me stipulate that I shall be aske=
d no
questions until such time as I may deem it expedient to forestall them by
telling my own story. Believe me, I make this request with good reason, for=
I
might otherwise excite hopes destined never to be realised, and only increa=
se
difficulties and disappointments already quite numerous enough. Come! Supper
has been announced, and young Oliver, who is all alone in the next room, wi=
ll
have begun to think, by this time, that we have wearied of his company, and
entered into some dark conspiracy to thrust him forth upon the world.'
With
these words, the old gentleman gave his hand to Mrs Maylie, and escorted her
into the supper-room. Mr Losberne followed, leading Rose; and the council w=
as,
for the present, effectually broken up.
Upon
the night when Nancy, having lulled Mr Sikes to sleep, hurried on her
self-imposed mission to Rose Maylie, there advanced towards London, by the
Great North Road, two persons, upon whom it is expedient that this history
should bestow some attention.
They
were a man and woman; or perhaps they would be better described as a male a=
nd
female: for the former was one of those long-limbed, knock-kneed, shambling,
bony people, to whom it is difficult to assign any precise age, - looking as
they do, when they are yet boys, like undergrown men, and when they are alm=
ost
men, like overgrown boys. The woman was young, but of a robust and hardy ma=
ke,
as she need have been to bear the weight of the heavy bundle which was stra=
pped
to her back. Her companion was not encumbered with much luggage, as there
merely dangled from a stick which he carried over his shoulder, a small par=
cel
wrapped in a common handkerchief, and apparently light enough. This
circumstance, added to the length of his legs, which were of unusual extent,
enabled him with much ease to keep some half-dozen paces in advance of his
companion, to whom he occasionally turned with an impatient jerk of the hea=
d:
as if reproaching her tardiness, and urging her to greater exertion.
Thus,
they had toiled along the dusty road, taking little heed of any object with=
in
sight, save when they stepped aside to allow a wider passage for the mail-c=
oaches
which were whirling out of town, until they passed through Highgate archway;
when the foremost traveller stopped and called impatiently to his companion=
,
'Come
on, can't yer? What a lazybones yer are, Charlotte.'
'It's
a heavy load, I can tell you,' said the female, coming up, almost breathless
with fatigue.
'Heavy!
What are yer talking about? What are yer made for?' rejoined the male
traveller, changing his own little bundle as he spoke, to the other shoulde=
r.
'Oh, there yer are, resting again! Well, if yer ain't enough to tire anybod=
y's
patience out, I don't know what is!'
'Is
it much farther?' asked the woman, resting herself against a bank, and look=
ing
up with the perspiration streaming from her face.
'Much
farther! Yer as good as there,' said the long-legged tramper, pointing out
before him. 'Look there! Those are the lights of London.'
'They're
a good two mile off, at least,' said the woman despondingly.
'Never
mind whether they're two mile off, or twenty,' said Noah Claypole; for he i=
t was;
'but get up and come on, or I'll kick yer, and so I give yer notice.'
As
Noah's red nose grew redder with anger, and as he crossed the road while
speaking, as if fully prepared to put his threat into execution, the woman =
rose
without any further remark, and trudged onward by his side.
'Where
do you mean to stop for the night, Noah?' she asked, after they had walked a
few hundred yards.
'How
should I know?' replied Noah, whose temper had been considerably impaired by
walking.
'Near,
I hope,' said Charlotte.
'No,
not near,' replied Mr Claypole. 'There! Not near; so don't think it.'
'Why
not?'
'When
I tell yer that I don't mean to do a thing, that's enough, without any why =
or
because either,' replied Mr Claypole with dignity.
'Well,
you needn't be so cross,' said his companion.
'A
pretty thing it would be, wouldn't it to go and stop at the very first
public-house outside the town, so that Sowerberry, if he come up after us,
might poke in his old nose, and have us taken back in a cart with handcuffs
on,' said Mr Claypole in a jeering tone. 'No! I shall go and lose myself am=
ong
the narrowest streets I can find, and not stop till we come to the very
out-of-the-wayest house I can set eyes on. 'Cod, yer may thanks yer stars I=
've
got a head; for if we hadn't gone, at first, the wrong road a purpose, and =
come
back across country, yer'd have been locked up hard and fast a week ago, my
lady. And serve yer right for being a fool.'
'I
know I ain't as cunning as you are,' replied Charlotte; 'but don't put all =
the
blame on me, and say I should have been locked up. You would have been if I=
had
been, any way.'
'Yer
took the money from the till, yer know yer did,' said Mr Claypole.
'I
took it for you, Noah, dear,' rejoined Charlotte.
'Did
I keep it?' asked Mr Claypole.
'No;
you trusted in me, and let me carry it like a dear, and so you are,' said t=
he
lady, chucking him under the chin, and drawing her arm through his.
This
was indeed the case; but as it was not Mr Claypole's habit to repose a blind
and foolish confidence in anybody, it should be observed, in justice to that
gentleman, that he had trusted Charlotte to this extent, in order that, if =
they
were pursued, the money might be found on her: which would leave him an
opportunity of asserting his innocence of any theft, and would greatly
facilitate his chances of escape. Of course, he entered at this juncture, i=
nto
no explanation of his motives, and they walked on very lovingly together.
In
pursuance of this cautious plan, Mr Claypole went on, without halting, unti=
l he
arrived at the Angel at Islington, where he wisely judged, from the crowd of
passengers and numbers of vehicles, that London began in earnest. Just paus=
ing
to observe which appeared the most crowded streets, and consequently the mo=
st
to be avoided, he crossed into Saint John's Road, and was soon deep in the
obscurity of the intricate and dirty ways, which, lying between Gray's Inn =
Lane
and Smithfield, render that part of the town one of the lowest and worst th=
at
improvement has left in the midst of London.
Through
these streets, Noah Claypole walked, dragging Charlotte after him; now step=
ping
into the kennel to embrace at a glance the whole external character of some
small public-house; now jogging on again, as some fancied appearance induced
him to believe it too public for his purpose. At length, he stopped in fron=
t of
one, more humble in appearance and more dirty than any he had yet seen; and,
having crossed over and surveyed it from the opposite pavement, graciously
announced his intention of putting up there, for the night.
'So
give us the bundle,' said Noah, unstrapping it from the woman's shoulders, =
and
slinging it over his own; 'and don't yer speak, except when yer spoke to.
What's the name of the house - t-h-r - three what?'
'Cripples,'
said Charlotte.
'Three
Cripples,' repeated Noah, 'and a very good sign too. Now, then! Keep close =
at
my heels, and come along.' With these injunctions, he pushed the rattling d=
oor
with his shoulder, and entered the house, followed by his companion.
There
was nobody in the bar but a young Jew, who, with his two elbows on the coun=
ter,
was reading a dirty newspaper. He stared very hard at Noah, and Noah stared
very hard at him.
If
Noah had been attired in his charity-boy's dress, there might have been som=
e reason
for the Jew opening his eyes so wide; but as he had discarded the coat and
badge, and wore a short smock-frock over his leathers, there seemed no
particular reason for his appearance exciting so much attention in a
public-house.
'Is
this the Three Cripples?' asked Noah.
'That
is the dabe of this 'ouse,' replied the Jew.
'A
gentleman we met on the road, coming up from the country, recommended us he=
re,'
said Noah, nudging Charlotte, perhaps to call her attention to this most
ingenious device for attracting respect, and perhaps to warn her to betray =
no
surprise. 'We want to sleep here to-night.'
'I'b
dot certaid you cad,' said Barney, who was the attendant sprite; 'but I'll
idquire.'
'Show
us the tap, and give us a bit of cold meat and a drop of beer while yer
inquiring, will yer?' said Noah.
Barney
complied by ushering them into a small back-room, and setting the required
viands before them; having done which, he informed the travellers that they
could be lodged that night, and left the amiable couple to their refreshmen=
t.
Now,
this back-room was immediately behind the bar, and some steps lower, so that
any person connected with the house, undrawing a small curtain which concea=
led
a single pane of glass fixed in the wall of the last-named apartment, about
five feet from its flooring, could not only look down upon any guests in the
back-room without any great hazard of being observed (the glass being in a =
dark
angle of the wall, between which and a large upright beam the observer had =
to
thrust himself), but could, by applying his ear to the partition, ascertain
with tolerable distinctness, their subject of conversation. The landlord of=
the
house had not withdrawn his eye from this place of espial for five minutes,=
and
Barney had only just returned from making the communication above related, =
when
Fagin, in the course of his evening's business, came into the bar to inquire
after some of his young pupils.
'Hush!'
said Barney: 'stradegers id the next roob.'
'Strangers!'
repeated the old man in a whisper.
'Ah!
Ad rub uds too,' added Barney. 'Frob the cuttry, but subthig in your way, or
I'b bistaked.'
Fagin
appeared to receive this communication with great interest.
Mounting
a stool, he cautiously applied his eye to the pane of glass, from which sec=
ret post
he could see Mr Claypole taking cold beef from the dish, and porter from the
pot, and administering homeopathic doses of both to Charlotte, who sat
patiently by, eating and drinking at his pleasure.
'Aha!'
he whispered, looking round to Barney, 'I like that fellow's looks. He'd be=
of
use to us; he knows how to train the girl already. Don't make as much noise=
as
a mouse, my dear, and let me hear 'em talk - let me hear 'em.'
He
again applied his eye to the glass, and turning his ear to the partition, l=
istened
attentively: with a subtle and eager look upon his face, that might have
appertained to some old goblin.
'So
I mean to be a gentleman,' said Mr Claypole, kicking out his legs, and
continuing a conversation, the commencement of which Fagin had arrived too =
late
to hear. 'No more jolly old coffins, Charlotte, but a gentleman's life for =
me:
and, if yer like, yer shall be a lady.'
'I
should like that well enough, dear,' replied Charlotte; 'but tills ain't to=
be
emptied every day, and people to get clear off after it.'
'Tills
be blowed!' said Mr Claypole; 'there's more things besides tills to be
emptied.'
'What
do you mean?' asked his companion.
'Pockets,
women's ridicules, houses, mail-coaches, banks!' said Mr Claypole, rising w=
ith
the porter.
'But
you can't do all that, dear,' said Charlotte.
'I
shall look out to get into company with them as can,' replied Noah. 'They'l=
l be
able to make us useful some way or another. Why, you yourself are worth fif=
ty
women; I never see such a precious sly and deceitful creetur as yer can be =
when
I let yer.'
'Lor,
how nice it is to hear yer say so!' exclaimed Charlotte, imprinting a kiss =
upon
his ugly face.
'There,
that'll do: don't yer be too affectionate, in case I'm cross with yer,' said
Noah, disengaging himself with great gravity. 'I should like to be the capt=
ain
of some band, and have the whopping of 'em, and follering 'em about, unbekn=
own
to themselves. That would suit me, if there was good profit; and if we could
only get in with some gentleman of this sort, I say it would be cheap at th=
at
twenty-pound note you've got, - especially as we don't very well know how to
get rid of it ourselves.'
After
expressing this opinion, Mr Claypole looked into the porter-pot with an asp=
ect
of deep wisdom; and having well shaken its contents, nodded condescendingly=
to
Charlotte, and took a draught, wherewith he appeared greatly refreshed. He =
was
meditating another, when the sudden opening of the door, and the appearance=
of
a stranger, interrupted him.
The
stranger was Mr Fagin. And very amiable he looked, and a very low bow he ma=
de,
as he advanced, and setting himself down at the nearest table, ordered
something to drink of the grinning Barney.
'A
pleasant night, sir, but cool for the time of year,' said Fagin, rubbing hi=
s hands.
'From the country, I see, sir?'
'How
do yer see that?' asked Noah Claypole.
'We
have not so much dust as that in London,' replied Fagin, pointing from Noah=
's
shoes to those of his companion, and from them to the two bundles.
'Yer
a sharp feller,' said Noah. 'Ha! ha! only hear that, Charlotte!'
'Why,
one need be sharp in this town, my dear,' replied the Jew, sinking his voic=
e to
a confidential whisper; 'and that's the truth.' Fagin followed up this rema=
rk
by striking the side of his nose with his right forefinger, - a gesture whi=
ch
Noah attempted to imitate, though not with complete success, in consequence=
of
his own nose not being large enough for the purpose. However, Mr Fagin seem=
ed
to interpret the endeavour as expressing a perfect coincidence with his
opinion, and put about the liquor which Barney reappeared with, in a very
friendly manner.
'Good
stuff that,' observed Mr Claypole, smacking his lips.
'Dear!'
said Fagin. 'A man need be always emptying a till, or a pocket, or a woman's
reticule, or a house, or a mail-coach, or a bank, if he drinks it regularly=
.'
Mr
Claypole no sooner heard this extract from his own remarks than he fell bac=
k in
his chair, and looked from the Jew to Charlotte with a countenance of ashy
paleness and excessive terror.
'Don't
mind me, my dear,' said Fagin, drawing his chair closer. 'Ha! ha! it was lu=
cky
it was only me that heard you by chance. It was very lucky it was only me.'=
'I
didn't take it,' stammered Noah, no longer stretching out his legs like an
independent gentleman, but coiling them up as well as he could under his ch=
air;
'it was all her doing; yer've got it now, Charlotte, yer know yer have.'
'No
matter who's got it, or who did it, my dear,' replied Fagin, glancing,
nevertheless, with a hawk's eye at the girl and the two bundles. 'I'm in th=
at
way myself, and I like you for it.'
'In
what way?' asked Mr Claypole, a little recovering.
'In
that way of business,' rejoined Fagin; 'and so are the people of the house.
You've hit the right nail upon the head, and are as safe here as you could =
be.
There is not a safer place in all this town than is the Cripples; that is, =
when
I like to make it so. And I have taken a fancy to you and the young woman; =
so
I've said the word, and you may make your minds easy.'
Noah
Claypole's mind might have been at ease after this assurance, but his body
certainly was not; for he shuffled and writhed about, into various uncouth
positions: eyeing his new friend meanwhile with mingled fear and suspicion.=
'I'll
tell you more,' said Fagin, after he had reassured the girl, by dint of
friendly nods and muttered encouragements. 'I have got a friend that I think
can gratify your darling wish, and put you in the right way, where you can =
take
whatever department of the business you think will suit you best at first, =
and
be taught all the others.'
'Yer
speak as if yer were in earnest,' replied Noah.
'What
advantage would it be to me to be anything else?' inquired Fagin, shrugging=
his
shoulders. 'Here! Let me have a word with you outside.'
'There's
no occasion to trouble ourselves to move,' said Noah, getting his legs by
gradual degrees abroad again. 'She'll take the luggage upstairs the while.
Charlotte, see to them bundles.'
This
mandate, which had been delivered with great majesty, was obeyed without the
slightest demur; and Charlotte made the best of her way off with the packag=
es
while Noah held the door open and watched her out.
'She's
kept tolerably well under, ain't she?' he asked as he resumed his seat: in =
the
tone of a keeper who had tamed some wild animal.
'Quite
perfect,' rejoined Fagin, clapping him on the shoulder. 'You're a genius, my
dear.'
'Why,
I suppose if I wasn't, I shouldn't be here,' replied Noah. 'But, I say, she=
'll
be back if yer lose time.'
'Now,
what do you think?' said Fagin. 'If you was to like my friend, could you do
better than join him?'
'Is
he in a good way of business; that's where it is!' responded Noah, winking =
one
of his little eyes.
'The
top of the tree; employs a power of hands; has the very best society in the
profession.'
'Regular
town-maders?' asked Mr Claypole.
'Not
a countryman among 'em; and I don't think he'd take you, even on my
recommendation, if he didn't run rather short of assistants just now,' repl=
ied
Fagin.
'Should
I have to hand over?' said Noah, slapping his breeches-pocket.
'It
couldn't possibly be done without,' replied Fagin, in a most decided manner=
.
'Twenty
pound, though - it's a lot of money!'
'Not
when it's in a note you can't get rid of,' retorted Fagin. 'Number and date
taken, I suppose? Payment stopped at the Bank? Ah! It's not worth much to h=
im.
It'll have to go abroad, and he couldn't sell it for a great deal in the
market.'
'When
could I see him?' asked Noah doubtfully.
'To-morrow
morning.'
'Where?'
'Here.'
'Um!'
said Noah. 'What's the wages?'
'Live
like a gentleman - board and lodging, pipes and spirits free - half of all =
you
earn, and half of all the young woman earns,' replied Mr Fagin.
Whether
Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of the least comprehensive, would ha=
ve
acceded even to these glowing terms, had he been a perfectly free agent, is
very doubtful; but as he recollected that, in the event of his refusal, it =
was
in the power of his new acquaintance to give him up to justice immediately =
(and
more unlikely things had come to pass), he gradually relented, and said he
thought that would suit him.
'But,
yer see,' observed Noah, 'as she will be able to do a good deal, I should l=
ike
to take something very light.'
'A
little fancy work?' suggested Fagin.
'Ah!
something of that sort,' replied Noah. 'What do you think would suit me now?
Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, you know.
That's the sort of thing!'
'I
heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear,' said
Fagin. 'My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much.'
'Why,
I did mention that, and I shouldn't mind turning my hand to it sometimes,'
rejoined Mr Claypole slowly; 'but it wouldn't pay by itself, you know.'
'That's
true!' observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate. 'No, it might
not.'
'What
do you think, then?' asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. 'Something in the
sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than be=
ing
at home.'
'What
do you think of the old ladies?' asked Fagin. 'There's a good deal of money
made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner.'
'Don't
they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?' asked Noah, shaking his
head. 'I don't think that would answer my purpose. Ain't there any other li=
ne
open?'
'Stop!'
said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah's knee. 'The kinchin lay.'
'What's
that?' demanded Mr Claypole.
'The
kinchins, my dear,' said Fagin, 'is the young children that's sent on erran=
ds
by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the lay is just to take
their money away - they've always got it ready in their hands, - then knock=
'em
into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there were nothing else the
matter but a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!'
'Ha!
ha!' roared Mr Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy. 'Lord, that's t=
he
very thing!'
'To
be sure it is,' replied Fagin; 'and you can have a few good beats chalked o=
ut
in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and neighborhoods like that, where they'=
re
always going errands; and you can upset as many kinchins as you want, any h=
our
in the day. Ha! ha! ha!'
With
this, Fagin poked Mr Claypole in the side, and they joined in a burst of
laughter both long and loud.
'Well,
that's all right!' said Noah, when he had recovered himself, and Charlotte =
had
returned. 'What time to-morrow shall we say?'
'Will
ten do?' asked Fagin, adding, as Mr Claypole nodded assent, 'What name shal=
l I
tell my good friend.'
'Mr
Bolter,' replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such emergency. 'Mr Mor=
ris
Bolter. This is Mrs Bolter.'
'Mrs
Bolter's humble servant,' said Fagin, bowing with grotesque politeness. 'I =
hope
I shall know her better very shortly.' 'Do you hear the gentleman, Charlott=
e?'
thundered Mr Claypole.
'Yes,
Noah, dear!' replied Mrs Bolter, extending her hand.
'She
calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking,' said Mr Morris Bolter, la=
te
Claypole, turning to Fagin. 'You understand?'
'Oh
yes, I understand - perfectly,' replied Fagin, telling the truth for once.
'Good-night! Good-night!'
With
many adieus and good wishes, Mr Fagin went his way. Noah Claypole, bespeaki=
ng
his good lady's attention, proceeded to enlighten her relative to the
arrangement he had made, with all that haughtiness and air of superiority,
becoming, not only a member of the sterner sex, but a gentleman who appreci=
ated
the dignity of a special appointment on the kinchin lay, in London and its
vicinity.
Chapter XLIII - Wherein Is Shown How The Artful Dodger=
Got
Into Trouble
'And
so it was you that was your own friend, was it?' asked Mr Claypole, otherwi=
se
Bolter, when, by virtue of the compact entered into between them, he had
removed next day to Fagin's house. ''Cod, I thought as much last night!'
'Every
man's his own friend, my dear,' replied Fagin, with his most insinuating gr=
in.
'He hasn't as good a one as himself anywhere.'
'Except
sometimes,' replied Morris Bolter, assuming the air of a man of the world.
'Some people are nobody's enemies but their own, yer know.'
'Don't
believe that,' said Fagin. 'When a man's his own enemy, it's only because h=
e's
too much his own friend; not because he's careful for everybody but himself.
Pooh! pooh! There ain't such a thing in nature.'
'There
oughn't to be, if there is,' replied Mr Bolter.
'That
stands to reason. Some conjurers say that number three is the magic number,=
and
some say number seven. It's neither, my friend, neither. It's number one.
'Ha!
ha!' cried Mr Bolter. 'Number one for ever.'
'In
a little community like ours, my dear,' said Fagin, who felt it necessary to
qualify this position, 'we have a general number one, without considering me
too as the same, and all the other young people.'
'Oh,
the devil!' exclaimed Mr Bolter.
'You
see,' pursued Fagin, affecting to disregard this interruption, 'we are so m=
ixed
up together, and identified in our interests, that it must be so. For insta=
nce,
it's your object to take care of number one - meaning yourself.'
'Certainly,'
replied Mr Bolter. 'Yer about right there.'
'Well!
You can't take care of yourself, number one, without taking care of me, num=
ber
one.'
'Number
two, you mean,' said Mr Bolter, who was largely endowed with the quality of
selfishness.
'No,
I don't!' retorted Fagin. 'I'm of the same importance to you, as you are to
yourself.'
'I
say,' interrupted Mr Bolter, 'yer a very nice man, and I'm very fond of yer;
but we ain't quite so thick together, as all that comes to.'
'Only
think,' said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders, and stretching out his hands;
'only consider. You've done what's a very pretty thing, and what I love you=
for
doing; but what at the same time would put the cravat round your throat, th=
at's
so very easily tied and so very difficult to unloose - in plain English, the
halter!'
Mr
Bolter put his hand to his neckerchief, as if he felt it inconveniently tig=
ht;
and murmured an assent, qualified in tone but not in substance.
'The
gallows,' continued Fagin, 'the gallows, my dear, is an ugly finger-post, w=
hich
points out a very short and sharp turning that has stopped many a bold fell=
ow's
career on the broad highway. To keep in the easy road, and keep it at a
distance, is object number one with you.'
'Of
course it is,' replied Mr Bolter. 'What do yer talk about such things for?'=
'Only
to show you my meaning clearly,' said the Jew, raising his eyebrows. 'To be
able to do that, you depend upon me. To keep my little business all snug, I
depend upon you. The first is your number one, the second my number one. The
more you value your number one, the more careful you must be of mine; so we
come at last to what I told you at first - that a regard for number one hol=
ds
us all together, and must do so, unless we would all go to pieces in compan=
y.'
'That's
true,' rejoined Mr Bolter, thoughtfully. 'Oh! yer a cunning old codger!'
Mr
Fagin saw, with delight, that this tribute to his powers was no mere
compliment, but that he had really impressed his recruit with a sense of his
wily genius, which it was most important that he should entertain in the ou=
tset
of their acquaintance. To strengthen an impression so desirable and useful,=
he
followed up the blow by acquainting him, in some detail, with the magnitude=
and
extent of his operations; blending truth and fiction together, as best serv=
ed
his purpose; and bringing both to bear, with so much art, that Mr Bolter's
respect visibly increased, and became tempered, at the same time, with a de=
gree
of wholesome fear, which it was highly desirable to awaken.
'It's
this mutual trust we have in each other that consoles me under heavy losses=
,'
said Fagin. 'My best hand was taken from me, yesterday morning.'
'You
don't mean to say he died?' cried Mr Bolter.
'No,
no,' replied Fagin, 'not so bad as that. Not quite so bad.'
'What,
I suppose he was - '
'Wanted,'
interposed Fagin. 'Yes, he was wanted.'
'Very
particular?' inquired Mr Bolter.
'No,'
replied Fagin, 'not very. He was charged with attempting to pick a pocket, =
and
they found a silver snuff-box on him, - his own, my dear, his own, for he t=
ook
snuff himself, and was very fond of it. They remanded him till to-day, for =
they
thought they knew the owner. Ah! he was worth fifty boxes, and I'd give the
price of as many to have him back. You should have known the Dodger, my dea=
r;
you should have known the Dodger.'
'Well,
but I shall know him, I hope; don't yer think so?' said Mr Bolter.
'I'm
doubtful about it,' replied Fagin, with a sigh. 'If they don't get any fresh
evidence, it'll only be a summary conviction, and we shall have him back ag=
ain
after six weeks or so; but, if they do, it's a case of lagging. They know w=
hat
a clever lad he is; he'll be a lifer. They'll make the Artful nothing less =
than
a lifer.'
'What
do you mean by lagging and a lifer?' demanded Mr Bolter. 'What's the good of
talking in that way to me; why don't yer speak so as I can understand yer?'=
Fagin
was about to translate these mysterious expressions into the vulgar tongue;
and, being interpreted, Mr Bolter would have been informed that they
represented that combination of words, 'transportation for life,' when the
dialogue was cut short by the entry of Master Bates, with his hands in his
breeches-pockets, and his face twisted into a look of semi-comical woe.
'It's
all up, Fagin,' said Charley, when he and his new companion had been made k=
nown
to each other.
'What
do you mean?'
'They've
found the gentleman as owns the box; two or three more's a coming to 'denti=
fy
him; and the Artful's booked for a passage out,' replied Master Bates. 'I m=
ust
have a full suit of mourning, Fagin, and a hatband, to wisit him in, afore =
he
sets out upon his travels. To think of Jack Dawkins - lummy Jack - the Dodg=
er -
the Artful Dodger - going abroad for a common twopenny-halfpenny sneeze-box=
! I
never thought he'd a done it under a gold watch, chain, and seals, at the
lowest. Oh, why didn't he rob some rich old gentleman of all his walables, =
and
go out as a gentleman, and not like a common prig, without no honour nor
glory!'
With
this expression of feeling for his unfortunate friend, Master Bates sat him=
self
on the nearest chair with an aspect of chagrin and despondency.
'What
do you talk about his having neither honour nor glory for!' exclaimed Fagin,
darting an angry look at his pupil. 'Wasn't he always the top-sawyer among =
you
all! Is there one of you that could touch him or come near him on any scent!
Eh?'
'Not
one,' replied Master Bates, in a voice rendered husky by regret; 'not one.'=
'Then
what do you talk of?' replied Fagin angrily; 'what are you blubbering for?'=
''Cause
it isn't on the rec-ord, is it?' said Charley, chafed into perfect defiance=
of
his venerable friend by the current of his regrets; ''cause it can't come o=
ut
in the 'dictment; 'cause nobody will never know half of what he was. How wi=
ll
he stand in the Newgate Calendar? P'raps not be there at all. Oh, my eye, my
eye, wot a blow it is!'
'Ha!
ha!' cried Fagin, extending his right hand, and turning to Mr Bolter in a f=
it
of chuckling which shook him as though he had the palsy; 'see what a pride =
they
take in their profession, my dear. Ain't it beautiful?'
Mr
Bolter nodded assent, and Fagin, after contemplating the grief of Charley B=
ates
for some seconds with evident satisfaction, stepped up to that young gentle=
man
and patted him on the shoulder.
'Never
mind, Charley,' said Fagin soothingly; 'it'll come out, it'll be sure to co=
me
out. They'll all know what a clever fellow he was; he'll show it himself, a=
nd
not disgrace his old pals and teachers. Think how young he is too! What a
distinction, Charley, to be lagged at his time of life!'
'Well,
it is a honour that is!' said Charley, a little consoled.
'He
shall have all he wants,' continued the Jew. 'He shall be kept in the Stone
Jug, Charley, like a gentleman. Like a gentleman! With his beer every day, =
and
money in his pocket to pitch and toss with, if he can't spend it.'
'No,
shall he though?' cried Charley Bates.
'Ay,
that he shall,' replied Fagin, 'and we'll have a big-wig, Charley: one that=
's
got the greatest gift of the gab: to carry on his defence; and he shall mak=
e a
speech for himself too, if he likes; and we'll read it all in the papers -
’Artful Dodger - shrieks of laughter - here the court was convulsed=
8217;
- eh, Charley, eh?'
'Ha!
ha!' laughed Master Bates, 'what a lark that would be, wouldn't it, Fagin? I
say, how the Artful would bother 'em wouldn't he?'
'Would!'
cried Fagin. 'He shall - he will!'
'Ah,
to be sure, so he will,' repeated Charley, rubbing his hands.
'I
think I see him now,' cried the Jew, bending his eyes upon his pupil.
'So
do I,' cried Charley Bates. 'Ha! ha! ha! so do I. I see it all afore me, up=
on
my soul I do, Fagin. What a game! What a regular game! All the big-wigs try=
ing
to look solemn, and Jack Dawkins addressing of 'em as intimate and comforta=
ble
as if he was the judge's own son making a speech arter dinner - ha! ha! ha!=
'
In
fact, Mr Fagin had so well humoured his young friend's eccentric dispositio=
n,
that Master Bates, who had at first been disposed to consider the imprisoned
Dodger rather in the light of a victim, now looked upon him as the chief ac=
tor
in a scene of most uncommon and exquisite humour, and felt quite impatient =
for
the arrival of the time when his old companion should have so favourable an
opportunity of displaying his abilities.
'We
must know how he gets on to-day, by some handy means or other,' said Fagin.=
'Let
me think.'
'Shall
I go?' asked Charley.
'Not
for the world,' replied Fagin. 'Are you mad, my dear, stark mad, that you'd
walk into the very place where - No, Charley, no. One is enough to lose at a
time.'
'You
don't mean to go yourself, I suppose?' said Charley with a humorous leer.
'That
wouldn't quite fit,' replied Fagin shaking his head.
'Then
why don't you send this new cove?' asked Master Bates, laying his hand on
Noah's arm. 'Nobody knows him.'
'Why,
if he didn't mind - ' observed Fagin.
'Mind!'
interposed Charley. 'What should he have to mind?'
'Really
nothing, my dear,' said Fagin, turning to Mr Bolter, 'really nothing.'
'Oh,
I dare say about that, yer know,' observed Noah, backing towards the door, =
and
shaking his head with a kind of sober alarm. 'No, no - none of that. It's n=
ot
in my department, that ain't.'
'Wot department has he got, Fagin?' inquired Master Bates, surveying Noah's lank form with much disgust. 'The cutting away when there's anything wrong, and = the eating all the wittles when there's everything right; is that his branch?'<= o:p>
'Never
mind,' retorted Mr Bolter; 'and don't yer take liberties with yer superiors,
little boy, or yer'll find yerself in the wrong shop.'
Master
Bates laughed so vehemently at this magnificent threat, that it was some ti=
me
before Fagin could interpose, and represent to Mr Bolter that he incurred no
possible danger in visiting the police-office; that, inasmuch as no account=
of
the little affair in which he had engaged, nor any description of his perso=
n,
had yet been forwarded to the metropolis, it was very probable that he was =
not
even suspected of having resorted to it for shelter; and that, if he were
properly disguised, it would be as safe a spot for him to visit as any in
London, inasmuch as it would be, of all places, the very last, to which he
could be supposed likely to resort of his own free will.
Persuaded,
in part, by these representations, but overborne in a much greater degree by
his fear of Fagin, Mr Bolter at length consented, with a very bad grace, to
undertake the expedition. By Fagin's directions, he immediately substituted=
for
his own attire, a waggoner's frock, velveteen breeches, and leather legging=
s:
all of which articles the Jew had at hand. He was likewise furnished with a
felt hat well garnished with turnpike tickets; and a carter's whip. Thus
equipped, he was to saunter into the office, as some country fellow from Co=
vent
Garden market might be supposed to do for the gratification of his curiousi=
ty;
and as he was as awkward, ungainly, and raw-boned a fellow as need be, Mr F=
agin
had no fear but that he would look the part to perfection.
These
arrangements completed, he was informed of the necessary signs and tokens by
which to recognise the Artful Dodger, and was conveyed by Master Bates thro=
ugh
dark and winding ways to within a very short distance of Bow Street. Having
described the precise situation of the office, and accompanied it with copi=
ous
directions how he was to walk straight up the passage, and when he got into=
the
side, and pull off his hat as he went into the room, Charley Bates bade him
hurry on alone, and promised to bide his return on the spot of their partin=
g.
Noah
Claypole, or Morris Bolter as the reader pleases, punctually followed the
directions he had received, which - Master Bates being pretty well acquaint=
ed
with the locality - were so exact that he was enabled to gain the magisteri=
al
presence without asking any question, or meeting with any interruption by t=
he
way.
He
found himself jostled among a crowd of people, chiefly women, who were hudd=
led
together in a dirty frowsy room, at the upper end of which was a raised
platform railed off from the rest, with a dock for the prisoners on the left
hand against the wall, a box for the witnesses in the middle, and a desk for
the magistrates on the right; the awful locality last named, being screened=
off
by a partition which concealed the bench from the common gaze, and left the
vulgar to imagine (if they could) the full majesty of justice.
There
were only a couple of women in the dock, who were nodding to their admiring
friends, while the clerk read some depositions to a couple of policemen and=
a
man in plain clothes who leant over the table. A jailer stood reclining aga=
inst
the dock-rail, tapping his nose listlessly with a large key, except when he
repressed an undue tendency to conversation among the idlers, by proclaiming
silence; or looked sternly up to bid some woman 'Take that baby out,' when =
the
gravity of justice was disturbed by feeble cries, half-smothered in the
mother's shawl, from some meagre infant. The room smelt close and unwholeso=
me;
the walls were dirt-discoloured; and the ceiling blackened. There was an old
smoky bust over the mantel-shelf, and a dusty clock above the dock - the on=
ly
thing present, that seemed to go on as it ought; for depravity, or poverty,=
or
an habitual acquaintance with both, had left a taint on all the animate mat=
ter,
hardly less unpleasant than the thick greasy scum on every inamimate object
that frowned upon it.
Noah
looked eagerly about him for the Dodger; but although there were several wo=
men
who would have done very well for that distinguished character's mother or
sister, and more than one man who might be supposed to bear a strong
resemblance to his father, nobody at all answering the description given hi=
m of
Mr Dawkins was to be seen. He waited in a state of much suspense and
uncertainty until the women, being committed for trial, went flaunting out;=
and
then was quickly relieved by the appearance of another prisoner who he felt=
at
once could be no other than the object of his visit.
It
was indeed Mr Dawkins, who, shuffling into the office with the big coat sle=
eves
tucked up as usual, his left hand in his pocket, and his hat in his right h=
and,
preceded the jailer, with a rolling gait altogether indescribable, and, tak=
ing
his place in the dock, requested in an audible voice to know what he was pl=
aced
in that 'ere disgraceful sitivation for.
'Hold
your tongue, will you?' said the jailer.
'I'm
an Englishman, ain't I?' rejoined the Dodger. 'Where are my priwileges?'
'You'll
get your privileges soon enough,' retorted the jailer, 'and pepper with 'em=
.'
'We'll
see wot the Secretary of State for the Home Affairs has got to say to the
beaks, if I don't,' replied Mr Dawkins. 'Now then! Wot is this here busines=
s? I
shall thank the madg'strates to dispose of this here little affair, and not=
to
keep me while they read the paper, for I've got an appointment with a genel=
man
in the City, and as I am a man of my word and wery punctual in business
matters, he'll go away if I ain't there to my time, and then pr'aps ther wo=
n't
be an action for damage against them as kep me away. Oh no, certainly not!'=
At
this point, the Dodger, with a show of being very particular with a view to
proceedings to be had thereafter, desired the jailer to communicate 'the na=
mes
of them two files as was on the bench.' Which so tickled the spectators, th=
at
they laughed almost as heartily as Master Bates could have done if he had h=
eard
the request.
'Silence
there!' cried the jailer.
'What
is this?' inquired one of the magistrates.
'A
pick-pocketing case, your worship.'
'Has
the boy ever been here before?'
'He
ought to have been, a many times,' replied the jailer. 'He has been pretty =
well
everywhere else. I know him wel=
l,
your worship.'
'Oh!
you know me, do you?' cried the Artful, making a note of the statement. 'We=
ry
good. That's a case of deformation of character, any way.'
Here
there was another laugh, and another cry of silence.
'Now
then, where are the witnesses?' said the clerk.
'Ah!
that's right,' added the Dodger. 'Where are they? I should like to see 'em.=
'
This
wish was immediately gratified, for a policeman stepped forward who had seen
the prisoner attempt the pocket of an unknown gentleman in a crowd, and ind=
eed
take a handkerchief therefrom, which, being a very old one, he deliberately=
put
back again, after trying it on his own countenance. For this reason, he took
the Dodger into custody as soon as he could get near him, and the said Dodg=
er,
being searched, had upon his person a silver snuff-box, with the owner's na=
me
engraved upon the lid. This gentleman had been discovered on reference to t=
he
Court Guide, and being then and there present, swore that the snuff-box was
his, and that he had missed it on the previous day, the moment he had
disengaged himself from the crowd before referred to. He had also remarked a
young gentleman in the throng, particularly active in making his way about,=
and
that young gentleman was the prisoner before him.
'Have
you anything to ask this witness, boy?' said the magistrate.
'I
wouldn't abase myself by descending to hold no conversation with him,' repl=
ied
the Dodger.
'Have
you anything to say at all?'
'Do
you hear his worship ask if you've anything to say?' inquired the jailer,
nudging the silent Dodger with his elbow.
'I
beg your pardon,' said the Dodger, looking up with an air of abstraction. '=
Did
you redress yourself to me, my man?'
'I
never see such an out-and-out young wagabond, your worship,' observed the o=
fficer
with a grin. 'Do you mean to say anything, you young shaver?'
'No,'
replied the Dodger, 'not here, for this ain't the shop for justice: besides
which, my attorney is a-breakfasting this morning with the Wice President of
the House of Commons; but I shall have something to say elsewhere, and so w=
ill
he, and so will a wery numerous and 'spectable circle of acquaintance as'll
make them beaks wish they'd never been born, or that they'd got their footm=
en
to hang 'em up to their own hat-pegs, afore they let 'em come out this morn=
ing
to try it on upon me. I'll - '
'There!
He's fully committed!' interposed the clerk. 'Take him away.' 'Come on,' sa=
id
the jailer.
'Oh
ah! I'll come on,' replied the Dodger, brushing his hat with the palm of his
hand. 'Ah! (to the Bench) it's no use your looking frightened; I won't show=
you
no mercy, not a ha'porth of it. You=
'll
pay for this, my fine fellers. I wouldn't be you for something! I wouldn't =
go
free, now, if you was to fall down on your knees and ask me. Here, carry me=
off
to prison! Take me away!'
With
these last words, the Dodger suffered himself to be led off by the collar;
threatening, till he got into the yard, to make a parliamentary business of=
it;
and then grinning in the officer's face, with great glee and self-approval.=
Having
seen him locked up by himself in a little cell, Noah made the best of his w=
ay
back to where he had left Master Bates. After waiting here some time, he was
joined by that young gentleman, who had prudently abstained from showing
himself until he had looked carefully abroad from a snug retreat, and
ascertained that his new friend had not been followed by any impertinent
person.
The
two hastened back together, to bear to Mr Fagin the animating news that the
Dodger was doing full justice to his bringing-up, and establishing for hims=
elf
a glorious reputation.
Chapter XLIV - The Time Arrives For Nancy To Redeem Her
Pledge To Rose Maylie. She Fails
Adept
as she was, in all the arts of cunning and dissimulation, the girl Nancy co=
uld
not wholly conceal the effect which the knowledge of the step she had taken,
wrought upon her mind. She remembered that both the crafty Jew and the brut=
al
Sikes had confided to her schemes, which had been hidden from all others: in
the full confidence that she was trustworthy and beyond the reach of their
suspicion. Vile as those schemes were, desperate as were their originators,=
and
bitter as were her feelings towards Fagin, who had led her, step by step,
deeper and deeper down into an abyss of crime and misery, whence was no esc=
ape;
still, there were times when, even towards him, she felt some relenting, le=
st
her disclosure should bring him within the iron grasp he had so long eluded,
and he should fall at last - richly as he merited such a fate - by her hand=
.
But,
these were the mere wanderings of a mind unable wholly to detach itself from
old companions and associations, though enabled to fix itself steadily on o=
ne
object, and resolved not to be turned aside by any consideration. Her fears=
for
Sikes would have been more powerful inducements to recoil while there was y=
et
time; but she had stipulated that her secret should be rigidly kept, she had
dropped no clue which could lead to his discovery, she had refused, even for
his sake, a refuge from all the guilt and wretchedness that encompasses her=
- and
what more could she do! She was resolved.
Though
all her mental struggles terminated in this conclusion, they forced themsel=
ves
upon her, again and again, and left their traces too. She grew pale and thi=
n,
even within a few days. At times, she took no heed of what was passing befo=
re
her, or no part in conversations where once, she would have been the loudes=
t.
At other times, she laughed without merriment, and was noisy without a mome=
nt
afterwards - she sat silent and dejected, brooding with her head upon her
hands, while the very effort by which she roused herself, told, more forcib=
ly
than even these indications, that she was ill at ease, and that her thoughts
were occupied with matters very different and distant from those in the cou=
rse
of discussion by her companions.
It
was Sunday night, and the bell of the nearest church struck the hour. Sikes=
and
the Jew were talking, but they paused to listen. The girl looked up from the
low seat on which she crouched, and listened too. Eleven.
'An
hour this side of midnight,' said Sikes, raising the blind to look out and
returning to his seat. 'Dark and heavy it is too. A good night for business
this.'
'Ah!'
replied Fagin. 'What a pity, Bill, my dear, that there's none quite ready t=
o be
done.'
'You're
right for once,' replied Sikes gruffly. 'It is a pity, for I'm in the humour
too.'
Fagin
sighed, and shook his head despondingly.
'We
must make up for lost time when we've got things into a good train. That's =
all
I know,' said Sikes.
'That's
the way to talk, my dear,' replied Fagin, venturing to pat him on the shoul=
der.
'It does me good to hear you.'
'Does
you good, does it!' cried Sikes. 'Well, so be it.'
'Ha!
ha! ha!' laughed Fagin, as if he were relieved by even this concession. 'Yo=
u're
like yourself to-night, Bill. Quite like yourself.'
'I
don't feel like myself when you lay that withered old claw on my shoulder, =
so
take it away,' said Sikes, casting off the Jew's hand.
'It
make you nervous, Bill, - reminds you of being nabbed, does it?' said Fagin,
determined not to be offended.
'Reminds
me of being nabbed by the devil,' returned Sikes. 'There never was another =
man
with such a face as yours, unless it was your father, and I suppose he is singeing his grizzled red be=
ard by
this time, unless you came straight from the old 'un without any father at =
all
betwixt you; which I shouldn't wonder at, a bit.'
Fagin
offered no reply to this compliment: but, pulling Sikes by the sleeve, poin=
ted
his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the foregoing conversa=
tion
to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room.
'Hallo!'
cried Sikes. 'Nance. Where's the gal going to at this time of night?'
'Not
far.'
'What
answer's that?' retorted Sikes. 'Do you hear me?'
'I
don't know where,' replied the girl.
'Then
I do,' said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any =
real
objection to the girl going where she listed. 'Nowhere. Sit down.'
'I'm
not well. I told you that before,' rejoined the girl. 'I want a breath of a=
ir.'
'Put
your head out of the winder,' replied Sikes.
'There's
not enough there,' said the girl. 'I want it in the street.'
'Then
you won't have it,' replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the
door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to
the top of an old press. 'There,' said the robber. 'Now stop quietly where =
you
are, will you?'
'It's
not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me,' said the girl turning very pa=
le.
'What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?'
'Know
what I'm - Oh!' cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, 'she's out of her senses, you
know, or she daren't talk to me in that way.'
'You'll
drive me on the something desperate,' muttered the girl placing both hands =
upon
her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. 'Let me =
go,
will you, - this minute - this instant.'
'No!'
said Sikes.
'Tell
him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It'll be better for him. Do you hear
me?' cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground.
'Hear
you!' repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her. 'Aye! And =
if I
hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a grip on your
throat as'll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has come over you, =
you
jade! Wot is it?'
'Let
me go,' said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself down on =
the
floor, before the door, she said, 'Bill, let me go; you don't know what you=
are
doing. You don't, indeed. For only one hour - do - do!'
'Cut
my limbs off one by one!' cried Sikes, seizing her roughly by the arm, 'If I
don't think the gal's stark raving mad. Get up.'
'Not
till you let me go - not till you let me go - Never - never!' screamed the
girl. Sikes looked on, for a minute, watching his opportunity, and suddenly=
pinioning
her hands dragged her, struggling and wrestling with him by the way, into a
small room adjoining, where he sat himself on a bench, and thrusting her in=
to a
chair, held her down by force. She struggled and implored by turns until tw=
elve
o'clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest the
point any further. With a caution, backed by many oaths, to make no more
efforts to go out that night, Sikes left her to recover at leisure and rejo=
ined
Fagin.
'Whew!'
said the housebreaker wiping the perspiration from his face. 'Wot a precious
strange gal that is!'
'You
may say that, Bill,' replied Fagin thoughtfully. 'You may say that.'
'Wot
did she take it into her head to go out to-night for, do you think?' asked
Sikes. 'Come; you should know her better than me. Wot does it mean?'
'Obstinacy;
woman's obstinacy, I suppose, my dear.'
'Well,
I suppose it is,' growled Sikes. 'I thought I had tamed her, but she's as b=
ad
as ever.'
'Worse,'
said Fagin thoughtfully. 'I never knew her like this, for such a little cau=
se.'
'Nor
I,' said Sikes. 'I think she's got a touch of that fever in her blood yet, =
and
it won't come out - eh?'
'Like
enough.'
'I'll
let her a little blood, without troubling the doctor, if she's took that way
again,' said Sikes.
Fagin
nodded an expressive approval of this mode of treatment.
'She
was hanging about me all day, and night too, when I was stretched on my bac=
k;
and you, like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept yourself aloof,' said Si=
kes.
'We was poor too, all the time, and I think, one way or other, it's worried=
and
fretted her; and that being shut up here so long has made her restless - eh=
?'
'That's
it, my dear,' replied the Jew in a whisper. 'Hush!'
As
he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared and resumed her former se=
at.
Her eyes were swollen and red; she rocked herself to and fro; tossed her he=
ad;
and, after a little time, burst out laughing.
'Why,
now she's on the other tack!' exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of excessive
surprise on his companion.
Fagin
nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few minutes, t=
he
girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there wa=
s no
fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. He pa=
used
when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebody would l=
ight
him down the dark stairs.
'Light
him down,' said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. 'It's a pity he should bre=
ak
his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light.'
Nancy
followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the passa=
ge,
he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the girl, said, in a
whisper.
'What
is it, Nancy, dear?'
'What
do you mean?' replied the girl, in the same tone.
'The
reason of all this,' replied Fagin. 'If he'
- he pointed with his skinny fore-finger up the stairs - 'is so hard with y=
ou
(he's a brute, Nance, a brute-beast), why don't you - '
'Well?'
said the girl, as Fagin paused, with his mouth almost touching her ear, and=
his
eyes looking into hers.
'No
matter just now. We'll talk of this again. You have a friend in me, Nance; a
staunch friend. I have the means at hand, quiet and close. If you want reve=
nge
on those that treat you like a dog - like a dog! worse than his dog, for he
humours him sometimes - come to me. I say, come to me. He is the mere hound=
of
a day, but you know me of old, Nance.'
'I
know you well,' replied the girl, without manifesting the least emotion.
'Good-night.'
She
shrank back, as Fagin offered to lay his hand on hers, but said good-night
again, in a steady voice, and, answering his parting look with a nod of
intelligence, closed the door between them.
Fagin
walked towards his home, intent upon the thoughts that were working within =
his
brain. He had conceived the idea - not from what had just passed though that
had tended to confirm him, but slowly and by degrees - that Nancy, wearied =
of
the housebreaker's brutality, had conceived an attachment for some new frie=
nd.
Her altered manner, her repeated absences from home alone, her comparative
indifference to the interests of the gang for which she had once been so
zealous, and, added to these, her desperate impatience to leave home that n=
ight
at a particular hour, all favoured the supposition, and rendered it, to him=
at
least, almost matter of certainty. The object of this new liking was not am=
ong
his myrmidons. He would be a valuable acquisition with such an assistant as
Nancy, and must (thus Fagin argued) be secured without delay.
There
was another, and a darker object, to be gained. Sikes knew too much, and his
ruffian taunts had not galled Fagin the less, because the wounds were hidde=
n.
The girl must know, well, that if she shook him off, she could never be safe
from his fury, and that it would be surely wreaked - to the maiming of limb=
s,
or perhaps the loss of life - on the object of her more recent fancy.
'With
a little persuasion,' thought Fagin, 'what more likely than that she would
consent to poison him? Women have done such things, and worse, to secure the
same object before now. There would be the dangerous villain: the man I hat=
e:
gone; another secured in his place; and my influence over the girl, with a
knowledge of this crime to back it, unlimited.'
These
things passed through the mind of Fagin, during the short time he sat alone=
, in
the housebreaker's room; and with them uppermost in his thoughts, he had ta=
ken
the opportunity afterwards afforded him, of sounding the girl in the broken
hints he threw out at parting. There was no expression of surprise, no
assumption of an inability to understand his meaning. The girl clearly
comprehended it. Her glance at parting showed that.
But
perhaps she would recoil from a plot to take the life of Sikes, and that was
one of the chief ends to be attained. 'How,' thought Fagin, as he crept
homeward, 'can I increase my influence with her? What new power can I acqui=
re?'
Such
brains are fertile in expedients. If, without extracting a confession from
herself, he laid a watch, discovered the object of her altered regard, and
threatened to reveal the whole history to Sikes (of whom she stood in no co=
mmon
fear) unless she entered into his designs, could he not secure her complian=
ce?
'I
can,' said Fagin, almost aloud. 'She durst not refuse me then. Not for her =
life,
not for her life! I have it all. The means are ready, and shall be set to w=
ork.
I shall have you yet!'
He
cast back a dark look, and a threatening motion of the hand, towards the sp=
ot
where he had left the bolder villain; and went on his way: busying his bony
hands in the folds of his tattered garment, which he wrenched tightly in his
grasp, as though there were a hated enemy crushed with every motion of his
fingers.
Chapter XLV - Noah Claypole Is Employed By Fagin On A =
Secret
Mission
The
old man was up, betimes, next morning, and waited impatiently for the
appearance of his new associate, who after a delay that seemed interminable=
, at
length presented himself, and commenced a voracious assault on the breakfas=
t.
'Bolter,' said Fagin, drawing up a chair and seating himself opposite Morris Bolter.<= o:p>
'Well,
here I am,' returned Noah. 'What's the matter? Don't yer ask me to do anyth=
ing
till I have done eating. That's a great fault in this place. Yer never get =
time
enough over yer meals.'
'You
can talk as you eat, can't you?' said Fagin, cursing his dear young friend's
greediness from the very bottom of his heart.
'Oh
yes, I can talk. I get on better when I talk,' said Noah, cutting a monstro=
us
slice of bread. 'Where's Charlotte?'
'Out,'
said Fagin. 'I sent her out this morning with the other young woman, becaus=
e I
wanted us to be alone.'
'Oh!'
said Noah. 'I wish yer'd ordered her to make some buttered toast first. Wel=
l.
Talk away. Yer won't interrupt me.'
There
seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he had evide=
ntly
sat down with a determination to do a great deal of business.
'You
did well yesterday, my dear,' said Fagin. 'Beautiful! Six shillings and
ninepence halfpenny on the very first day! The kinchin lay will be a fortun=
e to
you.'
'Don't
you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can,' said Mr Bolter.
'No,
no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the milk-can w=
as a
perfect masterpiece.'
'Pretty
well, I think, for a beginner,' remarked Mr Bolter complacently. 'The pots I
took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a
public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer
know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!'
Fagin
affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr Bolter having had his laugh out, to=
ok a
series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, a=
nd
assisted himself to a second.
'I
want you, Bolter,' said Fagin, leaning over the table, 'to do a piece of wo=
rk
for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution.'
'I
say,' rejoined Bolter, 'don't yer go shoving me into danger, or sending me =
any
more o' yer police-offices. That don't suit me, that don't; and so I tell y=
er.'
'That's
not the smallest danger in it - not the very smallest,' said the Jew; 'it's
only to dodge a woman.'
'An
old woman?' demanded Mr Bolter.
'A
young one,' replied Fagin.
'I
can do that pretty well, I know,' said Bolter. 'I was a regular cunning sne=
ak
when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to - '
'Not
to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, if possib=
le,
what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street, or the house, if =
it
is a house; and to bring me back all the information you can.'
'What'll
yer give me?' asked Noah, setting down his cup, and looking his employer,
eagerly, in the face.
'If
you do it well, a pound, my dear. One pound,' said Fagin, wishing to intere=
st
him in the scent as much as possible. 'And that's what I never gave yet, for
any job of work where there wasn't valuable consideration to be gained.'
'Who
is she?' inquired Noah.
'One
of us.'
'Oh
Lor!' cried Noah, curling up his nose. 'Yer doubtful of her, are yer?'
'She
has found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they are,' rep=
lied
Fagin.
'I
see,' said Noah. 'Just to have the pleasure of knowing them, if they're
respectable people, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I'm your man.'
'I
knew you would be,' cried Fagin, elated by the success of his proposal.
'Of
course, of course,' replied Noah. 'Where is she? Where am I to wait for her?
Where am I to go?'
'All
that, my dear, you shall hear from me. I'll point her out at the proper tim=
e,'
said Fagin. 'You keep ready, and leave the rest to me.'
That
night, and the next, and the next again, the spy sat booted and equipped in=
his
carter's dress: ready to turn out at a word from Fagin. Six nights passed -=
six
long weary nights - and on each, Fagin came home with a disappointed face, =
and
briefly intimated that it was not yet time. On the seventh, he returned
earlier, and with an exultation he could not conceal. It was Sunday.
'She
goes abroad to-night,' said Fagin, 'and on the right errand, I'm sure; for =
she
has been alone all day, and the man she is afraid of will not be back much
before daybreak. Come with me. Quick!'
Noah
started up without saying a word; for the Jew was in a state of such intense
excitement that it infected him. They left the house stealthily, and hurryi=
ng
through a labyrinth of streets, arrived at length before a public-house, wh=
ich
Noah recognised as the same in which he had slept, on the night of his arri=
val
in London.
It
was past eleven o'clock, and the door was closed. It opened softly on its
hinges as Fagin gave a low whistle. They entered, without noise; and the do=
or
was closed behind them.
Scarcely
venturing to whisper, but substituting dumb show for words, Fagin, and the
young Jew who had admitted them, pointed out the pane of glass to Noah, and
signed to him to climb up and observe the person in the adjoining room.
'Is
that the woman?' he asked, scarcely above his breath.
Fagin
nodded yes.
'I
can't see her face well,' whispered Noah. 'She is looking down, and the can=
dle
is behind her.
'Stay
there,' whispered Fagin. He signed to Barney, who withdrew. In an instant, =
the
lad entered the room adjoining, and, under pretence of snuffing the candle,
moved it in the required position, and, speaking to the girl, caused her to
raise her face.
'I
see her now,' cried the spy.
'Plainly?'
'I
should know her among a thousand.'
He
hastily descended, as the room-door opened, and the girl came out. Fagin dr=
ew
him behind a small partition which was curtained off, and they held their
breaths as she passed within a few feet of their place of concealment, and
emerged by the door at which they had entered.
'Hist!'
cried the lad who held the door. 'Dow.'
Noah
exchanged a look with Fagin, and darted out.
'To
the left,' whispered the lad; 'take the left had, and keep od the other sid=
e.'
He
did so; and, by the light of the lamps, saw the girl's retreating figure,
already at some distance before him. He advanced as near as he considered
prudent, and kept on the opposite side of the street, the better to observe=
her
motions. She looked nervously round, twice or thrice, and once stopped to l=
et
two men who were following close behind her, pass on. She seemed to gather
courage as she advanced, and to walk with a steadier and firmer step. The s=
py
preserved the same relative distance between them, and followed: with his e=
ye
upon her.
Chapter XLVI - The Appointment Kept
The
church clocks chimed three quarters past eleven, as two figures emerged on
London Bridge. One, which advanced with a swift and rapid step, was that of=
a
woman who looked eagerly about her as though in quest of some expected obje=
ct;
the other figure was that of a man, who slunk along in the deepest shadow he
could find, and, at some distance, accommodated his pace to hers: stopping =
when
she stopped: and as she moved again, creeping stealthily on: but never allo=
wing
himself, in the ardour of his pursuit, to gain upon her footsteps. Thus, th=
ey
crossed the bridge, from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore, when the woman,
apparently disappointed in her anxious scrutiny of the foot-passengers, tur=
ned
back. The movement was sudden; but he who watched her, was not thrown off h=
is
guard by it; for, shrinking into one of the recesses which surmount the pie=
rs
of the bridge, and leaning over the parapet the better to conceal his figur=
e,
he suffered her to pass on the opposite pavement. When she was about the sa=
me
distance in advance as she had been before, he slipped quietly down, and
followed her again. At nearly the centre of the bridge, she stopped. The man
stopped too.
It
was a very dark night. The day had been unfavourable, and at that hour and
place there were few people stirring. Such as there were, hurried quickly p=
ast:
very possibly without seeing, but certainly without noticing, either the wo=
man,
or the man who kept her in view. Their appearance was not calculated to att=
ract
the importunate regards of such of London's destitute population, as chance=
d to
take their way over the bridge that night in search of some cold arch or
doorless hovel wherein to lay their heads; they stood there in silence: nei=
ther
speaking nor spoken to, by any one who passed.
A
mist hung over the river, deepening the red glare of the fires that burnt u=
pon
the small craft moored off the different wharfs, and rendering darker and m=
ore
indistinct the murky buildings on the banks. The old smoke-stained storehou=
ses
on either side, rose heavy and dull from the dense mass of roofs and gables,
and frowned sternly upon water too black to reflect even their lumbering
shapes. The tower of old Saint Saviour's Church, and the spire of Saint Mag=
nus,
so long the giant-warders of the ancient bridge, were visible in the gloom;=
but
the forest of shipping below bridge, and the thickly scattered spires of
churches above, were nearly all hidden from sight.
The
girl had taken a few restless turns to and fro - closely watched meanwhile =
by
her hidden observer - when the heavy bell of St. Paul's tolled for the deat=
h of
another day.
The
hour had not struck two minutes, when a young lady, accompanied by a
grey-haired gentleman, alighted from a hackney-carriage within a short dist=
ance
of the bridge, and, having dismissed the vehicle, walked straight towards i=
t.
They had scarcely set foot upon its pavement, when the girl started, and
immediately made towards them.
They
walked onward, looking about them with the air of persons who entertained s=
ome
very slight expectation which had little chance of being realised, when they
were suddenly joined by this new associate. They halted with an exclamation=
of
surprise, but suppressed it immediately; for a man in the garments of a
countryman came close up - brushed against them, indeed - at that precise
moment.
'Not
here,' said Nancy hurriedly, 'I am afraid to speak to you here. Come away -=
out
of the public road - down the steps yonder!'
As
she uttered these words, and indicated, with her hand, the direction in whi=
ch
she wished them to proceed, the countryman looked round, and roughly asking
what they took up the whole pavement for, passed on.
The
steps to which the girl had pointed, were those which, on the Surrey bank, =
and
on the same side of the bridge as Saint Saviour's Church, form a landing-st=
airs
from the river. To this spot, the man bearing the appearance of a countryma=
n,
hastened unobserved; and after a moment's survey of the place, he began to
descend.
These
stairs are a part of the bridge; they consist of three flights. Just below =
the
end of the second, going down, the stone wall on the left terminates in an
ornamental pilaster facing towards the Thames. At this point the lower steps
widen: so that a person turning that angle of the wall, is necessarily unse=
en
by any others on the stairs who chance to be above him, if only a step. The
countryman looked hastily round, when he reached this point; and as there
seemed no better place of concealment, and, the tide being out, there was
plenty of room, he slipped aside, with his back to the pilaster, and there
waited: pretty certain that they would come no lower, and that even if he c=
ould
not hear what was said, he could follow them again, with safety.
So
tardily stole the time in this lonely place, and so eager was the spy to pe=
netrate
the motives of an interview so different from what he had been led to expec=
t,
that he more than once gave the matter up for lost, and persuaded himself,
either that they had stopped far above, or had resorted to some entirely
different spot to hold their mysterious conversation. He was on the point of
emerging from his hiding-place, and regaining the road above, when he heard=
the
sound of footsteps, and directly afterwards of voices almost close at his e=
ar.
He
drew himself straight upright against the wall, and, scarcely breathing,
listened attentively.
'This
is far enough,' said a voice, which was evidently that of the gentleman. 'I
will not suffer the young lady to go any farther. Many people would have
distrusted you too much to have come even so far, but you see I am willing =
to
humour you.'
'To
humour me!' cried the voice of the girl whom he had followed. 'You're
considerate, indeed, sir. To humour me! Well, well, it's no matter.'
'Why,
for what,' said the gentleman in a kinder tone, 'for what purpose can you h=
ave
brought us to this strange place? Why not have let me speak to you, above
there, where it is light, and there is something stirring, instead of bring=
ing
us to this dark and dismal hole?'
'I
told you before,' replied Nancy, 'that I was afraid to speak to you there. I
don't know why it is,' said the girl, shuddering, 'but I have such a fear a=
nd
dread upon me to-night that I can hardly stand.'
'A
fear of what?' asked the gentleman, who seemed to pity her.
'I
scarcely know of what,' replied the girl. 'I wish I did. Horrible thoughts =
of
death, and shrouds with blood upon them, and a fear that has made me burn a=
s if
I was on fire, have been upon me all day. I was reading a book to-night, to
wile the time away, and the same things came into the print.'
'Imagination,'
said the gentleman, soothing her.
'No
imagination,' replied the girl in a hoarse voice. 'I'll swear I saw ‘=
coffin’
written in every page of the book in large black letters, - aye, and they
carried one close to me, in the streets to-night.'
'There
is nothing unusual in that,' said the gentleman. 'They have passed me often=
.'
'Real ones,' rejoined the girl. 'Th=
is was
not.'
There
was something so uncommon in her manner, that the flesh of the concealed
listener crept as he heard the girl utter these words, and the blood chilled
within him. He had never experienced a greater relief than in hearing the s=
weet
voice of the young lady as she begged her to be calm, and not allow herself=
to
become the prey of such fearful fancies.
'Speak
to her kindly,' said the young lady to her companion. 'Poor creature! She s=
eems
to need it.'
'Your
haughty religious people would have held their heads up to see me as I am
to-night, and preached of flames and vengeance,' cried the girl. 'Oh, dear
lady, why ar'n't those who claim to be God's own folks as gentle and as kin=
d to
us poor wretches as you, who, having youth, and beauty, and all that they h=
ave
lost, might be a little proud instead of so much humbler?'
'Ah!'
said the gentleman. 'A Turk turns his face, after washing it well, to the E=
ast,
when he says his prayers; these good people, after giving their faces such a
rub against the World as to take the smiles off, turn with no less regulari=
ty,
to the darkest side of Heaven. Between the Mussulman and the Pharisee, comm=
end
me to the first!'
These
words appeared to be addressed to the young lady, and were perhaps uttered =
with
the view of affording Nancy time to recover herself. The gentleman, shortly
afterwards, addressed himself to her.
'You
were not here last Sunday night,' he said.
'I
couldn't come,' replied Nancy; 'I was kept by force.'
'By
whom?'
'Him
that I told the young lady of before.'
'You
were not suspected of holding any communication with anybody on the subject
which has brought us here to-night, I hope?' asked the old gentleman.
'No,'
replied the girl, shaking her head. 'It's not very easy for me to leave him
unless he knows why; I couldn't give him a drink of laudanum before I came
away.'
'Did
he awake before you returned?' inquired the gentleman.
'No;
and neither he nor any of them suspect me.'
'Good,'
said the gentleman. 'Now listen to me.'
'I
am ready,' replied the girl, as he paused for a moment.
'This
young lady,' the gentleman began, 'has communicated to me, and to some other
friends who can be safely trusted, what you told her nearly a fortnight sin=
ce.
I confess to you that I had doubts, at first, whether you were to be implic=
itly
relied upon, but now I firmly believe you are.'
'I
am,' said the girl earnestly.
'I
repeat that I firmly believe it. To prove to you that I am disposed to trust
you, I tell you without reserve, that we propose to extort the secret, what=
ever
it may be, from the fear of this man Monks. But if - if - ' said the gentle=
man,
'he cannot be secured, or, if secured, cannot be acted upon as we wish, you
must deliver up the Jew.'
'Fagin,'
cried the girl, recoiling.
'That
man must be delivered up by you,' said the gentleman.
'I
will not do it! I will never do it!' replied the girl. 'Devil that he is, a=
nd
worse than devil as he has been to me, I will never do that.'
'You
will not?' said the gentleman, who seemed fully prepared for this answer.
'Never!'
returned the girl.
'Tell
me why?'
'For
one reason,' rejoined the girl firmly, 'for one reason, that the lady knows=
and
will stand by me in, I know she will, for I have her promise: and for this
other reason, besides, that, bad life as he has led, I have led a bad life =
too;
there are many of us who have kept the same courses together, and I'll not =
turn
upon them, who might - any of them - have turned upon me, but didn't, bad as
they are.'
'Then,'
said the gentleman, quickly, as if this had been the point he had been aimi=
ng
to attain; 'put Monks into my hands, and leave him to me to deal with.'
'What
if he turns against the others?'
'I
promise you that in that case, if the truth is forced from him, there the
matter will rest; there must be circumstances in Oliver's little history wh=
ich
it would be painful to drag before the public eye, and if the truth is once
elicited, they shall go scot free.'
'And
if it is not?' suggested the girl.
'Then,'
pursued the gentleman, 'this Fagin shall not be brought to justice without =
your
consent. In such a case I could show you reasons, I think, which would indu=
ce
you to yield it.'
'Have
I the lady's promise for that?' asked the girl.
'You
have,' replied Rose. 'My true and faithful pledge.'
'Monks
would never learn how you knew what you do?' said the girl, after a short
pause.
'Never,'
replied the gentleman. 'The intelligence should be brought to bear upon him,
that he could never even guess.'
'I
have been a liar, and among liars from a little child,' said the girl after
another interval of silence, 'but I will take your words.'
After
receiving an assurance from both, that she might safely do so, she proceede=
d in
a voice so low that it was often difficult for the listener to discover even
the purport of what she said, to describe, by name and situation, the
public-house whence she had been followed that night. From the manner in wh=
ich
she occasionally paused, it appeared as if the gentleman were making some h=
asty
notes of the information she communicated. When she had thoroughly explained
the localities of the place, the best position from which to watch it witho=
ut
exciting observation, and the night and hour on which Monks was most in the
habit of frequenting it, she seemed to consider for a few moments, for the
purpose of recalling his features and appearances more forcibly to her
recollection.
'He
is tall,' said the girl, 'and a strongly made man, but not stout; he has a
lurking walk; and as he walks, constantly looks over his shoulder, first on=
one
side, and then on the other. Don't forget that, for his eyes are sunk in his
head so much deeper than any other man's, that you might almost tell him by
that alone. His face is dark, like his hair and eyes; and, although he can'=
t be
more than six or eight and twenty, withered and haggard. His lips are often
discoloured and disfigured with the marks of teeth; for he has desperate fi=
ts,
and sometimes even bites his hands and covers them with wounds - why did you
start?' said the girl, stopping suddenly.
The
gentleman replied, in a hurried manner, that he was not conscious of having
done so, and begged her to proceed.
'Part
of this,' said the girl, 'I have drawn out from other people at the house I
tell you of, for I have only seen him twice, and both times he was covered =
up
in a large cloak. I think that's all I can give you to know him by. Stay
though,' she added. 'Upon his throat: so high that you can see a part of it
below his neckerchief when he turns his face: there is - '
'A
broad red mark, like a burn or scald?' cried the gentleman.
'How's
this?' said the girl. 'You know him!'
The
young lady uttered a cry of surprise, and for a few moments they were so st=
ill
that the listener could distinctly hear them breathe.
'I
think I do,' said the gentleman, breaking silence. 'I should by your
description. We shall see. Many people are singularly like each other. It m=
ay
not be the same.'
As
he expressed himself to this effect, with assumed carelessness, he took a s=
tep
or two nearer the concealed spy, as the latter could tell from the distinct=
ness
with which he heard him mutter, 'It must be he!'
'Now,'
he said, returning: so it seemed by the sound: to the spot where he had sto=
od
before, 'you have given us most valuable assistance, young woman, and I wish
you to be the better for it. What can I do to serve you?'
'Nothing,'
replied Nancy.
'You
will not persist in saying that,' rejoined the gentleman, with a voice and
emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder and more obdurate
heart. 'Think now. Tell me.'
'Nothing,
sir,' rejoined the girl, weeping. 'You can do nothing to help me. I am past=
all
hope, indeed.'
'You
put yourself beyond its pale,' said the gentleman. 'The past has been a dre=
ary
waste with you, of youthful energies mis-spent, and such priceless treasures
lavished, as the Creator bestows but once and never grants again, but, for =
the
future, you may hope. I do not say that it is in our power to offer you pea=
ce
of heart and mind, for that must come as you seek it; but a quiet asylum,
either in England, or, if you fear to remain here, in some foreign country,=
it
is not only within the compass of our ability but our most anxious wish to
secure you. Before the dawn of morning, before this river wakes to the first
glimpse of day-light, you shall be placed as entirely beyond the reach of y=
our
former associates, and leave as utter an absence of all trace behind you, a=
s if
you were to disappear from the earth this moment. Come! I would not have yo=
u go
back to exchange one word with any old companion, or take one look at any o=
ld
haunt, or breathe the very air which is pestilence and death to you. Quit t=
hem
all, while there is time and opportunity!'
'She
will be persuaded now,' cried the young lady. 'She hesitates, I am sure.'
'I
fear not, my dear,' said the gentleman.
'No
sir, I do not,' replied the girl, after a short struggle. 'I am chained to =
my
old life. I loathe and hate it now, but I cannot leave it. I must have gone=
too
far to turn back, - and yet I don't know, for if you had spoken to me so, s=
ome
time ago, I should have laughed it off. But,' she said, looking hastily rou=
nd,
'this fear comes over me again. I must go home.'
'Home!'
repeated the young lady, with great stress upon the word.
'Home,
lady,' rejoined the girl. 'To such a home as I have raised for myself with =
the
work of my whole life. Let us part. I shall be watched or seen. Go! Go! If I
have done you any service all I ask is, that you leave me, and let me go my=
way
alone.'
'It
is useless,' said the gentleman, with a sigh. 'We compromise her safety,
perhaps, by staying here. We may have detained her longer than she expected
already.'
'Yes,
yes,' urged the girl. 'You have.'
'What,'
cried the young lady, 'can be the end of this poor creature's life!'
'What!'
repeated the girl. 'Look before you, lady. Look at that dark water. How many
times do you read of such as I who spring into the tide, and leave no living
thing, to care for, or bewail them. It may be years hence, or it may be only
months, but I shall come to that at last.'
'Do
not speak thus, pray,' returned the young lady, sobbing.
'It
will never reach your ears, dear lady, and God forbid such horrors should!'
replied the girl. 'Good-night, good-night!'
The
gentleman turned away.
'This
purse,' cried the young lady. 'Take it for my sake, that you may have some
resource in an hour of need and trouble.'
'No!'
replied the girl. 'I have not done this for money. Let me have that to think
of. And yet - give me something that you have worn: I should like to have
something - no, no, not a ring - your gloves or handkerchief - anything tha=
t I
can keep, as having belonged to you, sweet lady. There. Bless you! God bless
you. Good-night, good-night!'
The
violent agitation of the girl, and the apprehension of some discovery which
would subject her to ill-usage and violence, seemed to determine the gentle=
man
to leave her, as she requested.
The
sound of retreating footsteps were audible and the voices ceased.
The
two figures of the young lady and her companion soon afterwards appeared up=
on
the bridge. They stopped at the summit of the stairs.
'Hark!'
cried the young lady, listening. 'Did she call! I thought I heard her voice=
.'
'No,
my love,' replied Mr Brownlow, looking sadly back. 'She has not moved, and =
will
not till we are gone.'
Rose
Maylie lingered, but the old gentleman drew her arm through his, and led he=
r,
with gentle force, away. As they disappeared, the girl sunk down nearly at =
her
full length upon one of the stone stairs, and vented the anguish of her hea=
rt
in bitter tears.
After
a time she arose, and with feeble and tottering steps ascended the street. =
The
astonished listener remained motionless on his post for some minutes
afterwards, and having ascertained, with many cautious glances round him, t=
hat
he was again alone, crept slowly from his hiding-place, and returned,
stealthily and in the shade of the wall, in the same manner as he had desce=
nded.
Peeping
out, more than once, when he reached the top, to make sure that he was
unobserved, Noah Claypole darted away at his utmost speed, and made for the
Jew's house as fast as his legs would carry him.
Chapter XLVII - Fatal Consequences
It
was nearly two hours before day-break; that time which in the autumn of the
year, may be truly called the dead of night; when the streets are silent and
deserted; when even sounds appear to slumber, and profligacy and riot have
staggered home to dream; it was at this still and silent hour, that Fagin s=
at
watching in his old lair, with face so distorted and pale, and eyes so red =
and
blood-shot, that he looked less like a man, than like some hideous phantom,
moist from the grave, and worried by an evil spirit.
He
sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an old torn coverlet, with his
face turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table by his side. H=
is
right hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed in thought, he hit his =
long
black nails, he disclosed among his toothless gums a few such fangs as shou=
ld
have been a dog's or rat's.
Stretched
upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah Claypole, fast asleep. Towards him t=
he
old man sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, and then brought them b=
ack
again to the candle; which with a long-burnt wick drooping almost double, a=
nd
hot grease falling down in clots upon the table, plainly showed that his
thoughts were busy elsewhere.
Indeed
they were. Mortification at the overthrow of his notable scheme; hatred of =
the
girl who had dared to palter with strangers; and utter distrust of the
sincerity of her refusal to yield him up; bitter disappointment at the loss=
of
his revenge on Sikes; the fear of detection, and ruin, and death; and a fie=
rce
and deadly rage kindled by all; these were the passionate considerations wh=
ich,
following close upon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot through
the brain of Fagin, as every evil thought and blackest purpose lay working =
at
his heart.
He
sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to take the
smallest heed of time, until his quick ear seemed to be attracted by a foot=
step
in the street.
'At
last,' he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. 'At last!'
The
bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, and presently
returned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a bundle und=
er
one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the man displayed t=
he
burly frame of Sikes.
'There!'
he said, laying the bundle on the table. 'Take care of that, and do the most
you can with it. It's been trouble enough to get; I thought I should have b=
een
here, three hours ago.'
Fagin
laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down aga=
in
without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an insta=
nt,
during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to
face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and h=
is
face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreak=
er
involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real
affright.
'Wot
now?' cried Sikes. 'Wot do you look at a man so for?'
Fagin
raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but h=
is
passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone.
'Damme!'
said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. 'He's gone mad. I m=
ust
look to myself here.'
'No,
no,' rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. 'It's not - you're not the person,
Bill. I've no - no fault to find with you.'
'Oh,
you haven't, haven't you?' said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and
ostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket. 'That's luck=
y - for
one of us. Which one that is, don't matter.'
'I've
got that to tell you, Bill,' said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer, 'will ma=
ke
you worse than me.'
'Aye?'
returned the robber with an incredulous air. 'Tell away! Look sharp, or Nan=
ce
will think I'm lost.'
'Lost!' cried Fagin. 'She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind, already.'<= o:p>
Sikes
looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew's face, and reading =
no
satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat collar in h=
is
huge hand and shook him soundly.
'Speak,
will you!' he said; 'or if you don't, it shall be for want of breath. Open =
your
mouth and say wot you've got to say in plain words. Out with it, you thunde=
ring
old cur, out with it!'
'Suppose
that lad that's laying there - ' Fagin began.
Sikes
turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not previously observ=
ed
him. 'Well!' he said, resuming his former position.
'Suppose
that lad,' pursued Fagin, 'was to peach - to blow upon us all - first seeki=
ng
out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with 'em in =
the
street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they might know us=
by,
and the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all
this, and besides to blow upon a plant we've all been in, more or less - of=
his
own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and brought=
to
it on bread and water, - but of his own fancy; to please his own taste;
stealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and peachi=
ng
to them. Do you hear me?' cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. 'Supp=
ose
he did all this, what then?'
'What
then!' replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. 'If he was left alive till I
came, I'd grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grain=
s as
there are hairs upon his head.'
'What
if I did it!' cried Fagin almost in a yell. 'I, that knows so much, and cou=
ld
hang so many besides myself!'
'I
don't know,' replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the me=
re
suggestion. 'I'd do something in the jail that 'ud get me put in irons; and=
if
I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you with them in the open court, =
and
beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength,' mutter=
ed
the robber, poising his brawny arm, 'that I could smash your head as if a
loaded waggon had gone over it.'
'You
would?'
'Would
I!' said the housebreaker. 'Try me.'
'If
it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or - '
'I
don't care who,' replied Sikes impatiently. 'Whoever it was, I'd serve them=
the
same.'
Fagin
looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the
bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward=
in
his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much w=
hat
all this questioning and preparation was to end in.
'Bolter,
Bolter! Poor lad!' said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish
anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. 'He's tired - t=
ired
with watching for her so long, - watching for her, Bill.'
'Wot
d'ye mean?' asked Sikes, drawing back.
Fagin
made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitti=
ng
posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed=
his
eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him.
'Tell
me that again - once again, just for him to hear,' said the Jew, pointing to
Sikes as he spoke.
'Tell
yer what?' asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly.
'That
about - Nancy,' said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prev=
ent
his leaving the house before he had heard enough. 'You followed her?'
'Yes.'
'To
London Bridge?'
'Yes.'
'Where
she met two people.'
'So
she did.'
'A
gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who ask=
ed
her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did - and to descri=
be
him, which she did - and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and=
go
to, which she did - and where it could be best watched from, which she did =
- and
what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told =
it
all every word without a threat, without a murmur - she did - did she not?'
cried Fagin, half mad with fury.
'All
right,' replied Noah, scratching his head. 'That's just what it was!'
'What
did they say, about last Sunday?'
'About
last Sunday!' replied Noah, considering. 'Why I told yer that before.'
'Again.
Tell it again!' cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing=
his
other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips.
'They
asked her,' said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawni=
ng
perception who Sikes was, 'they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday,=
as
she promised. She said she couldn't.'
'Why
- why? Tell him that.'
'Because
she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before,'
replied Noah.
'What
more of him?' cried Fagin. 'What more of the man she had told them of befor=
e?
Tell him that, tell him that.'
'Why,
that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was
going to,' said Noah; 'and so the first time she went to see the lady, she =
- ha!
ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did - she gave him a dri=
nk
of laudanum.'
'Hell's
fire!' cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. 'Let me go!'
Flinging
the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and
furiously, up the stairs.
'Bill,
Bill!' cried Fagin, following him hastily. 'A word. Only a word.'
The
word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to
open the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when=
the
Jew came panting up.
'Let
me out,' said Sikes. 'Don't speak to me; it's not safe. Let me out, I say!'=
'Hear
me speak a word,' rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. 'You won't=
be
- '
'Well,'
replied the other.
'You
won't be - too - violent, Bill?'
The
day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see each other's
faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a fire in the eyes of bot=
h,
which could not be mistaken.
'I
mean,' said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguise was now useless, 'not =
too
violent for safety. Be crafty, Bill, and not too bold.'
Sikes
made no reply; but, pulling open the door, of which Fagin had turned the lo=
ck,
dashed into the silent streets.
Without
one pause, or moment's consideration; without once turning his head to the
right or left, or raising his eyes to the sky, or lowering them to the grou=
nd,
but looking straight before him with savage resolution: his teeth so tightly
compressed that the strained jaw seemed starting through his skin; the robb=
er
held on his headlong course, nor muttered a word, nor relaxed a muscle, unt=
il
he reached his own door. He opened it, softly, with a key; strode lightly up
the stairs; and entering his own room, double-locked the door, and lifting a
heavy table against it, drew back the curtain of the bed.
The
girl was lying, half-dressed, upon it. He had roused her from her sleep, for
she raised herself with a hurried and startled look.
'Get
up!' said the man.
'It
is you, Bill!' said the girl, with an expression of pleasure at his return.=
'It
is,' was the reply. 'Get up.'
There
was a candle burning, but the man hastily drew it from the candlestick, and
hurled it under the grate. Seeing the faint light of early day without, the
girl rose to undraw the curtain.
'Let
it be,' said Sikes, thrusting his hand before her. 'There's enough light for
wot I've got to do.'
'Bill,'
said the girl, in the low voice of alarm, 'why do you look like that at me!=
'
The
robber sat regarding her, for a few seconds, with dilated nostrils and heav=
ing
breast; and then, grasping her by the head and throat, dragged her into the
middle of the room, and looking once towards the door, placed his heavy hand
upon her mouth.
'Bill,
Bill!' gasped the girl, wrestling with the strength of mortal fear, - 'I - I
won't scream or cry - not once - hear me - speak to me - tell me what I have
done!'
'You
know, you she devil!' returned the robber, suppressing his breath. 'You were
watched to-night; every word you said was heard.'
'Then
spare my life for the love of Heaven, as I spared yours,' rejoined the girl,
clinging to him. 'Bill, dear Bill, you cannot have the heart to kill me. Oh!
think of all I have given up, only this one night, for you. You shall have time to think, and save
yourself this crime; I will not loose my hold, you cannot throw me off. Bil=
l,
Bill, for dear God's sake, for your own, for mine, stop before you spill my
blood! I have been true to you, upon my guilty soul I have!'
The
man struggled violently, to release his arms; but those of the girl were
clasped round his, and tear her as he would, he could not tear them away.
'Bill,'
cried the girl, striving to lay her head upon his breast, 'the gentleman and
that dear lady, told me to-night of a home in some foreign country where I
could end my days in solitude and peace. Let me see them again, and beg the=
m,
on my knees, to show the same mercy and goodness to you; and let us both le=
ave
this dreadful place, and far apart lead better lives, and forget how we have
lived, except in prayers, and never see each other more. It is never too la=
te
to repent. They told me so - I feel it now - but we must have time - a litt=
le,
little time!'
The
housebreaker freed one arm, and grasped his pistol. The certainty of immedi=
ate
detection if he fired, flashed across his mind even in the midst of his fur=
y;
and he beat it twice with all the force he could summon, upon the upturned =
face
that almost touched his own.
She
staggered and fell: nearly blinded with the blood that rained down from a d=
eep
gash in her forehead; but raising herself, with difficulty, on her knees, d=
rew
from her bosom a white handkerchief - Rose Maylie's own - and holding it up=
, in
her folded hands, as high towards Heaven as her feeble strength would allow,
breathed one prayer for mercy to her Maker.
It
was a ghastly figure to look upon. The murderer staggering backward to the
wall, and shutting out the sight with his hand, seized a heavy club and str=
uck
her down.
Chapter XLVIII - The Flight Of Sikes
Of
all bad deeds that, under cover of the darkness, had been committed within =
wide
London's bounds since night hung over it, that was the worst. Of all the
horrors that rose with an ill scent upon the morning air, that was the foul=
est
and most cruel.
The
sun - the bright sun, that brings back, not light alone, but new life, and
hope, and freshness to man - burst upon the crowded city in clear and radia=
nt
glory. Through costly-coloured glass and paper-mended window, through cathe=
dral
dome and rotten crevice, it shed its equal ray. It lighted up the room where
the murdered woman lay. It did. He tried to shut it out, but it would stream
in. If the sight had been a ghastly one in the dull morning, what was it, n=
ow,
in all that brilliant light!
He
had not moved; he had been afraid to stir. There had been a moan and motion=
of
the hand; and, with terror added to rage, he had struck and struck again. O=
nce
he threw a rug over it; but it was worse to fancy the eyes, and imagine them
moving towards him, than to see them glaring upward, as if watching the
reflection of the pool of gore that quivered and danced in the sunlight on =
the
ceiling. He had plucked it off again. And there was the body - mere flesh a=
nd
blood, no more - but such flesh, and so much blood!
He
struck a light, kindled a fire, and thrust the club into it. There was hair
upon the end, which blazed and shrunk into a light cinder, and, caught by t=
he
air, whirled up the chimney. Even that frightened him, sturdy as he was; bu=
t he
held the weapon till it broke, and then piled it on the coals to burn away,=
and
smoulder into ashes. He washed himself, and rubbed his clothes; there were
spots that would not be removed, but he cut the pieces out, and burnt them.=
How
those stains were dispersed about the room! The very feet of the dog were
bloody. All this time he had, never once, turned his back upon the corpse; =
no,
not for a moment. Such preparations completed, he moved, backward, towards =
the
door: dragging the dog with him, lest he should soil his feet anew and carry
out new evidence of the crime into the streets. He shut the door softly, lo=
cked
it, took the key, and left the house.
He
crossed over, and glanced up at the window, to be sure that nothing was vis=
ible
from the outside. There was the curtain still drawn, which she would have
opened to admit the light she never saw again. It lay nearly under there. He knew that. God, how the sun pou=
red
down upon the very spot!
The
glance was instantaneous. It was a relief to have got free of the room. He
whistled on the dog, and walked rapidly away.
He
went through Islington; strode up the hill at Highgate on which stands the
stone in honour of Whittington; turned down to Highgate Hill, unsteady of
purpose, and uncertain where to go; struck off to the right again, almost as
soon as he began to descend it; and taking the foot-path across the fields,
skirted Caen Wood, and so came on Hampstead Heath. Traversing the hollow by=
the
Vale of Heath, he mounted the opposite bank, and crossing the road which jo=
ins
the villages of Hampstead and Highgate, made along the remaining portion of=
the
heath to the fields at North End, in one of which he laid himself down unde=
r a
hedge, and slept.
Soon
he was up again, and away, - not far into the country, but back towards Lon=
don
by the high-road - then back again - then over another part of the same gro=
und
as he already traversed - then wandering up and down in fields, and lying on
ditches' brinks to rest, and starting up to make for some other spot, and do
the same, and ramble on again.
Where
could he go, that was near and not too public, to get some meat and drink?
Hendon. That was a good place, not far off, and out of most people's way.
Thither he directed his steps, - running sometimes, and sometimes, with a s=
trange
perversity, loitering at a snail's pace, or stopping altogether and idly
breaking the hedges with a stick. But when he got there, all the people he =
met
- the very children at the doors - seemed to view him with suspicion. Back =
he
turned again, without the courage to purchase bit or drop, though he had ta=
sted
no food for many hours; and once more he lingered on the Heath, uncertain w=
here
to go.
He
wandered over miles and miles of ground, and still came back to the old pla=
ce.
Morning and
It
was nine o'clock at night, when the man, quite tired out, and the dog, limp=
ing
and lame from the unaccustomed exercise, turned down the hill by the church=
of
the quiet village, and plodding along the little street, crept into a small
public-house, whose scanty light had guided them to the spot. There was a f=
ire
in the tap-room, and some country-labourers were drinking before it.
They
made room for the stranger, but he sat down in the furthest corner, and ate=
and
drank alone, or rather with his dog: to whom he cast a morsel of food from =
time
to time.
The conversation of the men assembled here, turned upon the neighbouring land, = and farmers; and when those topics were exhausted, upon the age of some old man= who had been buried on the previous Sunday; the young men present considering h= im very old, and the old men present declaring him to have been quite young - = not older, one white-haired grandfather said, than he was - with ten or fifteen year of life in him at least - if he had taken care; if he had taken care.<= o:p>
There
was nothing to attract attention, or excite alarm in this. The robber, after
paying his reckoning, sat silent and unnoticed in his corner, and had almost
dropped asleep, when he was half wakened by the noisy entrance of a new com=
er.
This
was an antic fellow, half pedlar and half mountebank, who travelled about t=
he
country on foot to vend hones, strops, razors, washballs, harness-paste,
medicine for dogs and horses, cheap perfumery, cosmetics, and such-like war=
es,
which he carried in a case slung to his back. His entrance was the signal f=
or various
homely jokes with the countrymen, which slackened not until he had made his
supper, and opened his box of treasures, when he ingeniously contrived to u=
nite
business with amusement.
'And
what be that stoof? Good to eat, Harry?' asked a grinning countryman, point=
ing
to some composition-cakes in one corner.
'This,'
said the fellow, producing one, 'this is the infallible and invaluable
composition for removing all sorts of stain, rust, dirt, mildew, spick, spe=
ck,
spot, or spatter, from silk, satin, linen, cambric, cloth, crape, stuff,
carpet, merino, muslin, bombazeen, or woollen stuff. Wine-stains, fruit-sta=
ins,
beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains, any stains, all come=
out
at one rub with the infallible and invaluable composition. If a lady stains=
her
honour, she has only need to swallow one cake and she's cured at once - for
it's poison. If a gentleman wants to prove this, he has only need to bolt o=
ne
little square, and he has put it beyond question - for it's quite as
satisfactory as a pistol-bullet, and a great deal nastier in the flavour,
consequently the more credit in taking it. One penny a square. With all the=
se
virtues, one penny a square!'
There
were two buyers directly, and more of the listeners plainly hesitated. The
vendor observing this, increased in loquacity.
'It's
all bought up as fast as it can be made,' said the fellow. 'There are fourt=
een
water-mills, six steam-engines, and a galvanic battery, always a-working up=
on
it, and they can't make it fast enough, though the men work so hard that th=
ey
die off, and the widows is pensioned directly, with twenty pound a-year for
each of the children, and a premium of fifty for twins. One penny a square!=
Two
half-pence is all the same, and four farthings is received with joy. One pe=
nny
a square! Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stain=
s,
pitch-stains, mud-stains, blood-stains! Here is a stain upon the hat of a
gentleman in company, that I'll take clean out, before he can order me a pi=
nt
of ale.'
'Hah!'
cried Sikes starting up. 'Give that back.'
'I'll
take it clean out, sir,' replied the man, winking to the company, 'before y=
ou
can come across the room to get it. Gentlemen all, observe the dark stain u=
pon
this gentleman's hat, no wider than a shilling, but thicker than a half-cro=
wn.
Whether it is a wine-stain, fruit-stain, beer-stain, water-stain, paint-sta=
in,
pitch-stain, mud-stain, or blood-stain - '
The
man got no further, for Sikes with a hideous imprecation overthrew the tabl=
e,
and tearing the hat from him, burst out of the house.
With
the same perversity of feeling and irresolution that had fastened upon him,
despite himself, all day, the murderer, finding that he was not followed, a=
nd
that they most probably considered him some drunken sullen fellow, turned b=
ack
up the town, and getting out of the glare of the lamps of a stage-coach that
was standing in the street, was walking past, when he recognised the mail f=
rom
London, and saw that it was standing at the little post-office. He almost k=
new
what was to come; but he crossed over, and listened.
The
guard was standing at the door, waiting for the letter-bag. A man, dressed =
like
a game-keeper, came up at the moment, and he handed him a basket which lay
ready on the pavement.
'That's for your people,' said the guard. 'Now, look alive in there, will you. Damn that 'ere bag, it warn't ready night afore last; this won't do, you know!'<= o:p>
'Anything
new up in town, Ben?' asked the game-keeper, drawing back to the
window-shutters, the better to admire the horses.
'No,
nothing that I knows on,' replied the man, pulling on his gloves. 'Corn's u=
p a
little. I heerd talk of a murder, too, down Spitalfields way, but I don't
reckon much upon it.'
'Oh,
that's quite true,' said a gentleman inside, who was looking out of the win=
dow.
'And a dreadful murder it was.'
'Was it, sir?' rejoined the guard, touching his hat. 'Man or woman, pray, sir?'<= o:p>
'A
woman,' replied the gentleman. 'It is supposed - '
'Now,
Ben,' replied the coachman impatiently.
'Damn
that 'ere bag,' said the guard; 'are you gone to sleep in there?'
'Coming!'
cried the office keeper, running out.
'Coming,'
growled the guard. 'Ah, and so's the young 'ooman of property that's going =
to
take a fancy to me, but I don't know when. Here, give hold. All ri - ight!'=
The
horn sounded a few cheerful notes, and the coach was gone.
Sikes
remained standing in the street, apparently unmoved by what he had just hea=
rd,
and agitated by no stronger feeling than a doubt where to go. At length he =
went
back again, and took the road which leads from Hatfield to St. Albans.
He
went on doggedly; but as he left the town behind him, and plunged into the
solitude and darkness of the road, he felt a dread and awe creeping upon him
which shook him to the core. Every object before him, substance or shadow,
still or moving, took the semblance of some fearful thing; but these fears =
were
nothing compared to the sense that haunted him of that morning's ghastly fi=
gure
following at his heels. He could trace its shadow in the gloom, supply the =
smallest
item of the outline, and note how stiff and solemn it seemed to stalk along=
. He
could hear its garments rustling in the leaves, and every breath of wind ca=
me
laden with that last low cry. If he stopped it did the same. If he ran, it
followed - not running too: that would have been a relief: but like a corpse
endowed with the mere machinery of life, and borne on one slow melancholy w=
ind
that never rose or fell.
At
times, he turned, with desperate determination, resolved to beat this phant=
om
off, though it should look him dead; but the hair rose on his head, and his
blood stood still, for it had turned with him and was behind him then. He h=
ad
kept it before him that morning, but it was behind now - always. He leaned =
his
back against a bank, and felt that it stood above him, visibly out against =
the
cold night-sky. He threw himself upon the road - on his back upon the road.=
At
his head it stood, silent, erect, and still - a living grave-stone, with its
epitaph in blood.
Let
no man talk of murderers escaping justice, and hint that Providence must sl=
eep.
There were twenty score of violent deaths in one long minute of that agony =
of
fear.
There
was a shed in a field he passed, that offered shelter for the night. Before=
the
door, were three tall poplar trees, which made it very dark within; and the
wind moaned through them with a dismal wail. He could not walk on, till daylight came again; and here he stretc=
hed
himself close to the wall - to undergo new torture.
For
now, a vision came before him, as constant and more terrible than that from
which he had escaped. Those widely staring eyes, so lustreless and so glass=
y,
that he had better borne to see them than think upon them, appeared in the
midst of the darkness: light in themselves, but giving light to nothing. Th=
ere
were but two, but they were everywhere. If he shut out the sight, there came
the room with every well-known object - some, indeed, that he would have
forgotten, if he had gone over its contents from memory - each in its accus=
tomed
place. The body was in its plac=
e, and
its eyes were as he saw them when he stole away. He got up, and rushed into=
the
field without. The figure was behind him. He re-entered the shed, and shrunk
down once more. The eyes were there, before he had laid himself along.
And
here he remained in such terror as none but he can know, trembling in every
limb, and the cold sweat starting from every pore, when suddenly there arose
upon the night-wind the noise of distant shouting, and the roar of voices
mingled in alarm and wonder. Any sound of men in that lonely place, even th=
ough
it conveyed a real cause of alarm, was something to him. He regained his
strength and energy at the prospect of personal danger; and springing to his
feet, rushed into the open air.
The
broad sky seemed on fire. Rising into the air with showers of sparks, and
rolling one above the other, were sheets of flame, lighting the atmosphere =
for
miles round, and driving clouds of smoke in the direction where he stood. T=
he
shouts grew louder as new voices swelled the roar, and he could hear the cr=
y of
Fire! mingled with the ringing of an alarm-bell, the fall of heavy bodies, =
and
the crackling of flames as they twined round some new obstacle, and shot al=
oft
as though refreshed by food. The noise increased as he looked. There were
people there - men and women - light, bustle. It was like new life to him. =
He
darted onward - straight, headlong - dashing through brier and brake, and
leaping gate and fence as madly as his dog, who careered with loud and soun=
ding
bark before him.
He
came upon the spot. There were half-dressed figures tearing to and fro, some
endeavouring to drag the frightened horses from the stables, others driving=
the
cattle from the yard and out-houses, and others coming laden from the burni=
ng
pile, amidst a shower of falling sparks, and the tumbling down of red-hot
beams. The apertures, where doors and windows stood an hour ago, disclosed a
mass of raging fire; walls rocked and crumbled into the burning well; the
molten lead and iron poured down, white hot, upon the ground. Women and
children shrieked, and men encouraged each other with noisy shouts and chee=
rs.
The clanking of the engine-pumps, and the spirting and hissing of the water=
as
it fell upon the blazing wood, added to the tremendous roar. He shouted, to=
o,
till he was hoarse; and flying from memory and himself, plunged into the
thickest of the throng. Hither and thither he dived that night: now working=
at
the pumps, and now hurrying through the smoke and flame, but never ceasing =
to
engage himself wherever noise and men were thickest. Up and down the ladder=
s,
upon the roofs of buildings, over floors that quaked and trembled with his
weight, under the lee of falling bricks and stones, in every part of that g=
reat
fire was he; but he bore a charmed life, and had neither scratch nor bruise,
nor weariness nor thought, till morning dawned again, and only smoke and
blackened ruins remained.
This
mad excitement over, there returned, with ten-fold force, the dreadful
consciousness of his crime. He looked suspiciously about him, for the men w=
ere
conversing in groups, and he feared to be the subject of their talk. The dog
obeyed the significant beck of his finger, and they drew off, stealthily,
together. He passed near an engine where some men were seated, and they cal=
led
to him to share in their refreshment. He took some bread and meat; and as he
drank a draught of beer, heard the firemen, who were from London, talking a=
bout
the murder. 'He has gone to Birmingham, they say,' said one: 'but they'll h=
ave
him yet, for the scouts are out, and by to-morrow night there'll be a cry a=
ll
through the country.'
He
hurried off, and walked till he almost dropped upon the ground; then lay do=
wn
in a lane, and had a long, but broken and uneasy sleep. He wandered on agai=
n,
irresolute and undecided, and oppressed with the fear of another solitary
night.
Suddenly,
he took the desperate resolution to going back to London.
'There's
somebody to speak to there, at all event,' he thought. 'A good hiding-place,
too. They'll never expect to nab me there, after this country scent. Why ca=
n't
I lie by for a week or so, and, forcing blunt from Fagin, get abroad to Fra=
nce?
Damme, I'll risk it.'
He
acted upon this impulse without delay, and choosing the least frequented ro=
ads
began his journey back, resolved to lie concealed within a short distance of
the metropolis, and, entering it at dusk by a circuitous route, to proceed
straight to that part of it which he had fixed on for his destination.
The
dog, though. If any description of him were out, it would not be forgotten =
that
the dog was missing, and had probably gone with him. This might lead to his
apprehension as he passed along the streets. He resolved to drown him, and
walked on, looking about for a pond: picking up a heavy stone and tying it =
to
his handkerchief as he went.
The
animal looked up into his master's face while these preparations were makin=
g;
whether his instinct apprehended something of their purpose, or the robber's
sidelong look at him was sterner than ordinary, he skulked a little farther=
in
the rear than usual, and cowered as he came more slowly along. When his mas=
ter
halted at the brink of a pool, and looked round to call him, he stopped
outright.
'Do
you hear me call? Come here!' cried Sikes.
The
animal came up from the very force of habit; but as Sikes stooped to attach=
the
handkerchief to his throat, he uttered a low growl and started back.
'Come
back!' said the robber.
The
dog wagged his tail, but moved not. Sikes made a running noose and called h=
im
again.
The
dog advanced, retreated, paused an instant, and scoured away at his hardest
speed.
The
man whistled again and again, and sat down and waited in the expectation th=
at
he would return. But no dog appeared, and at length he resumed his journey.=
The
twilight was beginning to close in, when Mr Brownlow alighted from a
hackney-coach at his own door, and knocked softly. The door being opened, a
sturdy man got out of the coach and stationed himself on one side of the st=
eps,
while another man, who had been seated on the box, dismounted too, and stood
upon the other side. At a sign from Mr Brownlow, they helped out a third ma=
n,
and taking him between them, hurried him into the house. This man was Monks=
.
They
walked in the same manner up the stairs without speaking, and Mr Brownlow,
preceding them, led the way into a back-room. At the door of this apartment,
Monks, who had ascended with evident reluctance, stopped. The two men looke=
d at
the old gentleman as if for instructions.
'He
knows the alternative,' said Mr Browlow. 'If he hesitates or moves a finger=
but
as you bid him, drag him into the street, call for the aid of the police, a=
nd
impeach him as a felon in my name.'
'How
dare you say this of me?' asked Monks.
'How
dare you urge me to it, young man?' replied Mr Brownlow, confronting him wi=
th a
steady look. 'Are you mad enough to leave this house? Unhand him. There, si=
r.
You are free to go, and we to follow. But I warn you, by all I hold most so=
lemn
and most sacred, that instant will have you apprehended on a charge of fraud
and robbery. I am resolute and immoveable. If you are determined to be the
same, your blood be upon your own head!'
'By
what authority am I kidnapped in the street, and brought here by these dogs=
?'
asked Monks, looking from one to the other of the men who stood beside him.=
'By
mine,' replied Mr Brownlow. 'Those persons are indemnified by me. If you
complain of being deprived of your liberty - you had power and opportunity =
to
retrieve it as you came along, but you deemed it advisable to remain quiet =
- I
say again, throw yourself for protection on the law. I will appeal to the l=
aw
too; but when you have gone too far to recede, do not sue to me for lenienc=
y,
when the power will have passed into other hands; and do not say I plunged =
you
down the gulf into which you rushed, yourself.'
Monks
was plainly disconcerted, and alarmed besides. He hesitated.
'You
will decide quickly,' said Mr Brownlow, with perfect firmness and composure.
'If you wish me to prefer my charges publicly, and consign you to a punishm=
ent
the extent of which, although I can, with a shudder, foresee, I cannot cont=
rol,
once more, I say, for you know the way. If not, and you appeal to my
forbearance, and the mercy of those you have deeply injured, seat yourself,
without a word, in that chair. It has waited for you two whole days.'
Monks
muttered some unintelligible words, but wavered still.
'You
will be prompt,' said Mr Brownlow. 'A word from me, and the alternative has
gone for ever.'
Still
the man hesitated.
'I
have not the inclination to parley,' said Mr Brownlow, 'and, as I advocate =
the
dearest interests of others, I have not the right.'
'Is
there - ' demanded Monks with a faltering tongue, - 'is there - no middle
course?'
'None.'
Monks
looked at the old gentleman, with an anxious eye; but, reading in his
countenance nothing but severity and determination, walked into the room, a=
nd,
shrugging his shoulders, sat down.
'Lock
the door on the outside,' said Mr Brownlow to the attendants, 'and come whe=
n I
ring.'
The
men obeyed, and the two were left alone together.
'This
is pretty treatment, sir,' said Monks, throwing down his hat and cloak, 'fr=
om
my father's oldest friend.'
'It
is because I was your father's oldest friend, young man,' returned Mr Brown=
low;
'it is because the hopes and wishes of young and happy years were bound up =
with
him, and that fair creature of his blood and kindred who rejoined her God in
youth, and left me here a solitary, lonely man: it is because he knelt with=
me
beside his only sisters' death-bed when he was yet a boy, on the morning th=
at
would - but Heaven willed otherwise - have made her my young wife; it is
because my seared heart clung to him, from that time forth, through all his
trials and errors, till he died; it is because old recollections and
associations filled my heart, and even the sight of you brings with it old
thoughts of him; it is because of all these things that I am moved to treat=
you
gently now - yes, Edward Leeford, even now - and blush for your unworthiness
who bear the name.'
'What
has the name to do with it?' asked the other, after contemplating, half in
silence, and half in dogged wonder, the agitation of his companion. 'What is
the name to me?'
'Nothing,'
replied Mr Brownlow, 'nothing to you. But it was hers, and even at this distance of time brings back to me, an o=
ld
man, the glow and thrill which I once felt, only to hear it repeated by a
stranger. I am very glad you have changed it - very - very.'
'This
is all mighty fine,' said Monks (to retain his assumed designation) after a
long silence, during which he had jerked himself in sullen defiance to and =
fro,
and Mr Brownlow had sat, shading his face with his hand. 'But what do you w=
ant
with me?'
'You
have a brother,' said Mr Brownlow, rousing himself: 'a brother, the whisper=
of
whose name in your ear when I came behind you in the street, was, in itself,
almost enough to make you accompany me hither, in wonder and alarm.'
'I
have no brother,' replied Monks. 'You know I was an only child. Why do you =
talk
to me of brothers? You know that, as well as I.'
'Attend
to what I do know, and you may not,' said Mr Brownlow. 'I shall interest yo=
u by
and by. I know that of the wretched marriage, into which family pride, and =
the
most sordid and narrowest of all ambition, forced your unhappy father when a
mere boy, you were the sole and most unnatural issue.'
'I
don't care for hard names,' interrupted Monks with a jeering laugh. 'You kn=
ow
the fact, and that's enough for me.'
'But
I also know,' pursued the old gentleman, 'the misery, the slow torture, the
protracted anguish of that ill-assorted union. I know how listlessly and
wearily each of that wretched pair dragged on their heavy chain through a w=
orld
that was poisoned to them both. I know how cold formalities were succeeded =
by
open taunts; how indifference gave place to dislike, dislike to hate, and h=
ate
to loathing, until at last they wrenched the clanking bond asunder, and
retiring a wide space apart, carried each a galling fragment, of which noth=
ing
but death could break the rivets, to hide it in new society beneath the gay=
est
looks they could assume. Your mother succeeded; she forgot it soon. But it
rusted and cankered at your father's heart for years.'
'Well,
they were separated,' said Monks, 'and what of that?'
'When
they had been separated for some time,' returned Mr Brownlow, 'and your mot=
her,
wholly given up to continental frivolities, had utterly forgotten the young
husband ten good years her junior, who, with prospects blighted, lingered o=
n at
home, he fell among new friends. This circumstance, at least, you know
already.'
'Not
I,' said Monks, turning away his eyes and beating his foot upon the ground,=
as
a man who is determined to deny everything. 'Not I.'
'Your
manner, no less than your actions, assures me that you have never forgotten=
it,
or ceased to think of it with bitterness,' returned Mr Brownlow. 'I speak of
fifteen years ago, when you were not more than eleven years old, and your
father but one-and-thirty - for he was, I repeat, a boy, when his father ordered him to marry. M=
ust I
go back to events which cast a shade upon the memory of your parent, or will
you spare it, and disclose to me the truth?'
'I have nothing to disclose,' rejoined Monks. 'You must talk on if you will.'<= o:p>
'These
new friends, then,' said Mr Brownlow, 'were a naval officer retired from ac=
tive
service, whose wife had died some half-a-year before, and left him with two
children - there had been more, but, of all their family, happily but two
survived. They were both daughters; one a beautiful creature of nineteen, a=
nd
the other a mere child of two or three years old.'
'What's
this to me?' asked Monks.
'They
resided,' said Mr Brownlow, without seeming to hear the interruption, 'in a
part of the country to which your father in his wandering had repaired, and
where he had taken up his abode. Acquaintance, intimacy, friendship, fast
followed on each other. Your father was gifted as few men are. He had his
sister's soul and person. As the old officer knew him more and more, he gre=
w to
love him. I would that it had ended there. His daughter did the same.'
The
old gentleman paused; Monks was biting his lips, with his eyes fixed upon t=
he
floor; seeing this, he immediately resumed:
'The
end of a year found him contracted, solemnly contracted, to that daughter; =
the
object of the first, true, ardent, only passion of a guileless girl.'
'Your
tale is of the longest,' observed Monks, moving restlessly in his chair.
'It
is a true tale of grief and trial, and sorrow, young man,' returned Mr
Brownlow, 'and such tales usually are; if it were one of unmixed joy and
happiness, it would be very brief. At length one of those rich relations to
strengthen whose interest and importance your father had been sacrificed, as
others are often - it is no uncommon case - died, and to repair the misery =
he
had been instrumental in occasioning, left him his panacea for all griefs -=
Money.
It was necessary that he should immediately repair to Rome, whither this man
had sped for health, and where he had died, leaving his affairs in great
confusion. He went; was seized with mortal illness there; was followed, the
moment the intelligence reached Paris, by your mother who carried you with =
her;
he died the day after her arrival, leaving no will - no will - so that=
the
whole property fell to her and you.'
At
this part of the recital Monks held his breath, and listened with a face of
intense eagerness, though his eyes were not directed towards the speaker. A=
s Mr
Brownlow paused, he changed his position with the air of one who has
experienced a sudden relief, and wiped his hot face and hands.
'Before
he went abroad, and as he passed through London on his way,' said Mr Brownl=
ow,
slowly, and fixing his eyes upon the other's face, 'he came to me.'
'I
never heard of that,' interrupted MOnks in a tone intended to appear
incredulous, but savouring more of disagreeable surprise.
'He
came to me, and left with me, among some other things, a picture - a portra=
it
painted by himself - a likeness of this poor girl - which he did not wish to
leave behind, and could not carry forward on his hasty journey. He was worn=
by
anxiety and remorse almost to a shadow; talked in a wild, distracted way, of
ruin and dishonour worked by himself; confided to me his intention to conve=
rt
his whole property, at any loss, into money, and, having settled on his wife
and you a portion of his recent acquisition, to fly the country - I guessed=
too
well he would not fly alone - and never see it more. Even from me, his old =
and
early friend, whose strong attachment had taken root in the earth that cove=
red
one most dear to both - even from me he withheld any more particular
confession, promising to write and tell me all, and after that to see me on=
ce
again, for the last time on earth. Alas! That
was the last time. I had no letter, and I never saw him more.'
'I
went,' said Mr Brownlow, after a short pause, 'I went, when all was over, to
the scene of his - I will use the term the world would freely use, for worl=
dly
harshness or favour are now alike to him - of his guilty love, resolved tha=
t if
my fears were realised that erring child should find one heart and home to
shelter and compassionate her. The family had left that part a week before;
they had called in such trifling debts as were outstanding, discharged them,
and left the place by night. Why, or whither, none can tell.'
Monks drew his breath yet more freely, and looked round with a smile of triumph.<= o:p>
'When
your brother,' said Mr Brownlow, drawing nearer to the other's chair, 'When
your brother: a feeble, ragged, neglected child: was cast in my way by a
stronger hand than chance, and rescued by me from a life of vice and infamy=
- '
'What?'
cried Monks.
'By
me,' said Mr Brownlow. 'I told you I should interest you before long. I say=
by
me - I see that your cunning associate suppressed my name, although for oug=
ht
he knew, it would be quite strange to your ears. When he was rescued by me,
then, and lay recovering from sickness in my house, his strong resemblance =
to
this picture I have spoken of, struck me with astonishment. Even when I fir=
st
saw him in all his dirt and misery, there was a lingering expression in his
face that came upon me like a glimpse of some old friend flashing on one in=
a
vivid dream. I need not tell you he was snared away before I knew his histo=
ry -
'
'Why
not?' asked Monks hastily.
'Because
you know it well.'
'I!'
'Denial
to me is vain,' replied Mr Brownlow. 'I shall show you that I know more tha=
n that.'
'You
- you - can't prove anything against me,' stammered Monks. 'I defy you to do
it!'
'We
shall see,' returned the old gentleman with a searching glance. 'I lost the
boy, and no efforts of mine could recover him. Your mother being dead, I kn=
ew
that you alone could solve the mystery if anybody could, and as when I had =
last
heard of you you were on your own estate in the West Indies - whither, as y=
ou
well know, you retired upon your mother's death to escape the consequences =
of
vicious courses here - I made the voyage. You had left it, months before, a=
nd
were supposed to be in London, but no one could tell where. I returned. Your
agents had no clue to your residence. You came and went, they said, as
strangely as you had ever done: sometimes for days together and sometimes n=
ot
for months: keeping to all appearance the same low haunts and mingling with=
the
same infamous herd who had been your associates when a fierce ungovernable =
boy.
I wearied them with new applications. I paced the streets by night and day,=
but
until two hours ago, all my efforts were fruitless, and I never saw you for=
an
instant.'
'And
now you do see me,' said Monks, rising boldly, 'what then? Fraud and robbery
are high-sounding words - justified, you think, by a fancied resemblance in
some young imp to an idle daub of a dead man's Brother! You don't even know
that a child was born of this maudlin pair; you don't even know that.'
'I
did not,' replied Mr Brownlow, =
rising
too; 'but within the last fortnight I have learnt it all. You have a brothe=
r;
you know it, and him. There was a will, which your mother destroyed, leaving
the secret and the gain to you at her own death. It contained a reference to
some child likely to be the result of this sad connection, which child was
born, and accidentally encountered by you, when your suspicions were first
awakened by his resemblance to your father. You repaired to the place of his
birth. There existed proofs - proofs long suppressed - of his birth and
parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your own words to
your accomplice the Jew, ‘the=
only
proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag
that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.’
Unworthy son, coward, liar, - you, who hold your councils with thieves and
murderers in dark rooms at night, - you, whose plots and wiles have brought=
a
violent death upon the head of one worth millions such as you, - you, who f=
rom
your cradle were gall and bitterness to your own father's heart, and in whom
all evil passions, vice, and profligacy, festered, till they found a vent i=
n a
hideous disease which had made your face an index even to your mind - you,
Edward Leeford, do you still brave me!'
'No,
no, no!' returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges.
'Every
word!' cried the gentleman, 'every word that has passed between you and this
detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your
whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has
turned vice itself, and given it the courage and almost the attributes of
virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not really a par=
ty.'
'No,
no,' interposed Monks. 'I - I knew nothing of that; I was going to inquire =
the
truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn't know the cause. I thought=
it
was a common quarrel.'
'It
was the partial disclosure of your secrets,' replied Mr Brownlow. 'Will you
disclose the whole?'
'Yes,
I will.'
'Set
your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before witnesses=
?'
'That
I promise too.'
'Remain
quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to suc=
h a
place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?'
'If
you insist upon that, I'll do that also,' replied Monks.
'You
must do more than that,' said Mr Brownlow. 'Make restitution to an innocent=
and
unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and m=
ost
miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry th=
em into
execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please=
. In
this world you need meet no more.'
While
Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on this
proposal and the possibilities of evading it: torn by his fears on the one =
hand
and his hatred on the other: the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentlem=
an (Mr
Losberne) entered the room in violent agitation.
'The
man will be taken,' he cried. 'He will be taken to-night!'
'The
murderer?' asked Mr Brownlow.
'Yes,
yes,' replied the other. 'His dog has been seen lurking about some old haun=
t,
and there seems little doubt that his master either is, or will be, there,
under cover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in every direction. I
have spoken to the men who are charged with his capture, and they tell me he
cannot escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by Government
to-night.'
'I
will give fifty more,' said Mr Brownlow, 'and proclaim it with my own lips =
upon
the spot, if I can reach it. Where is Mr Maylie?'
'Harry?
As soon as he had seen your friend here, safe in a coach with you, he hurri=
ed
off to where he heard this,' replied the doctor, 'and mounting his horse
sallied forth to join the first party at some place in the outskirts agreed=
upon
between them.'
'Fagin,'
said Mr Brownlow; 'what of him?'
'When
I last heard, he had not been taken, but he will be, or is, by this time.
They're sure of him.'
'Have
you made up your mind?' asked Mr Brownlow, in a low voice, of Monks.
'Yes,'
he replied. 'You - you - will be secret with me?'
'I
will. Remain here till I return. It is your only hope of safety.'
They
left the room, and the door was again locked.
'What
have you done?' asked the doctor in a whisper.
'All
that I could hope to do, and even more. Coupling the poor girl's intelligen=
ce
with my previous knowledge, and the result of our good friend's inquiries on
the spot, I left him no loophole of escape, and laid bare the whole villainy
which by these lights became plain as day. Write and appoint the evening af=
ter
to-morrow, at seven, for the meeting. We shall be down there, a few hours
before, but shall require rest: especially the young lady, who may have greater need of firmness =
than
either you or I can quite foresee just now. But my blood boils to avenge th=
is
poor murdered creature. Which way have they taken?'
'Drive
straight to the office and you will be in time,' replied Mr Losberne. 'I wi=
ll
remain here.'
The
two gentlemen hastily separated; each in a fever of excitement wholly uncon=
trollable.
Chapter L - The Pursuit And Escape
Near
to that part of the Thames on which the church at Rotherhithe abuts, where =
the
buildings on the banks are dirtiest and the vessels on the river blackest w=
ith
the dust of colliers and the smoke of close-built low-roofed houses, there
exists the filthiest, the strangest, the most extraordinary of the many
localities that are hidden in London, wholly unknown, even by name, to the
great mass of its inhabitants.
To
reach this place, the visitor has to penetrate through a maze of close, nar=
row,
and muddy streets, thronged by the roughest and poorest of waterside people,
and devoted to the traffic they may be supposed to occasion. The cheapest a=
nd
least delicate provisions are heaped in the shops; the coarsest and commone=
st
articles of wearing apparel dangle at the salesman's door, and stream from =
the
house-parapet and windows. Jostling with unemployed labourers of the lowest
class, ballast-heavers, coal-whippers, brazen women, ragged children, and t=
he
raff and refuse of the river, he makes his way with difficulty along, assai=
led
by offensive sights and smells from the narrow alleys which branch off on t=
he
right and left, and deafened by the clash of ponderous waggons that bear gr=
eat
piles of merchandise from the stacks of warehouses that rise from every cor=
ner.
Arriving, at length, in streets remoter and less-frequented than those thro=
ugh
which he has passed, he walks beneath tottering house-fronts projecting over
the pavement, dismantled walls that seem to totter as he passes, chimneys h=
alf
crushed half hesitating to fall, windows guarded by rusty iron bars that ti=
me
and dirt have almost eaten away, every imaginable sign of desolation and
neglect.
In
such a neighborhood, beyond Dockhead in the Borough of Southwark, stands
Jacob's Island, surrounded by a muddy ditch, six or eight feet deep and fif=
teen
or twenty wide when the tide is in, once called Mill Pond, but known in the
days of this story as Folly Ditch. It is a creek or inlet from the Thames, =
and
can always be filled at high water by opening the sluices at the Lead Mills
from which it took its old name. At such times, a stranger, looking from on=
e of
the wooden bridges thrown across it at Mill Lane, will see the inhabitants =
of
the houses on either side lowering from their back doors and windows, bucke=
ts,
pails, domestic utensils of all kinds, in which to haul the water up; and w=
hen
his eye is turned from these operations to the houses themselves, his utmost
astonishment will be excited by the scene before him. Crazy wooden galleries
common to the backs of half a dozen houses, with holes from which to look u=
pon
the slime beneath; windows, broken and patched, with poles thrust out, on w=
hich
to dry the linen that is never there; rooms so small, so filthy, so confine=
d,
that the air would seem too tainted even for the dirt and squalor which they
shelter; wooden chambers thrusting themselves out above the mud, and
threatening to fall into it - as some have done; dirt-besmeared walls and
decaying foundations; every repulsive lineament of poverty, every loathsome
indication of filth, rot, and garbage; all these ornament the banks of Folly
Ditch.
In
Jacob's Island, the warehouses are roofless and empty; the walls are crumbl=
ing
down; the windows are windows no more; the doors are falling into the stree=
ts;
the chimneys are blackened, but they yield no smoke. Thirty or forty years =
ago,
before losses and chancery suits came upon it, it was a thriving place; but=
now
it is a desolate island indeed. The houses have no owners; they are broken
open, and entered upon by those who have the courage; and there they live, =
and
there they die. They must have powerful motives for a secret residence, or =
be
reduced to a destitute condition indeed, who seek a refuge in Jacob's Islan=
d.
In
an upper room of one of these houses - a detached house of fair size, ruino=
us
in other respects, but strongly defended at door and window: of which house=
the
back commanded the ditch in manner already described - there were assembled
three men, who, regarding each other every now and then with looks expressi=
ve
of perplexity and expectation, sat for some time in profound and gloomy
silence. One of these was Toby Crackit, another Mr Chitling, and the third a
robber of fifty years, whose nose had been almost beaten in, in some old
scuffle, and whose face bore a frightful scar which might probably be trace=
d to
the same occasion. This man was a returned transport, and his name was Kags=
.
'I
wish,' said Toby turning to Mr Chitling, 'that you had picked out some othe=
r crib
when the two old ones got too warm, and had not come here, my fine feller.'=
'Why
didn't you, blunder-head!' said Kags.
'Well,
I thought you'd have been a little more glad to see me than this,' replied =
Mr
Chitling, with a melancholy air.
'Why,
look'e, young gentleman,' said Toby, 'when a man keeps himself so very
ex-clusive as I have done, and by that means has a snug house over his head
with nobody a prying and smelling about it, it's rather a startling thing to
have the honour of a wisit from a young gentleman (however respectable and
pleasant a person he may be to play cards with at conweniency) circumstance=
d as
you are.'
'Especially,
when the exclusive young man has got a friend stopping with him, that's arr=
ived
sooner than was expected from foreign parts, and is too modest to want to be
presented to the Judges on his return,' added Mr Kags.
There
was a short silence, after which Toby Crackit, seeming to abandon as hopele=
ss
any further effort to maintain his usual devil-may-care swagger, turned to
Chitling and said,
'When
was Fagin took then?'
'Just
at dinner-time - two o'clock this afternoon. Charley and I made our lucky up
the wash-us chimney, and Bolter got into the empty water-butt, head downwar=
ds;
but his legs were so precious long that they stuck out at the top, and so t=
hey
took him too.'
'And
Bet?'
'Poor
Bet! She went to see the Body, to speak to who it was,' replied Chitling, h=
is
countenance falling more and more, 'and went off mad, screaming and raving,=
and
beating her head against the boards; so they put a strait-weskut on her and
took her to the hospital - and there she is.'
'Wot's
come of young Bates?' demanded Kags.
'He
hung about, not to come over here afore dark, but he'll be here soon,' repl=
ied
Chitling. 'There's nowhere else to go to now, for the people at the Cripples
are all in custody, and the bar of the ken - I went up there and see it wit=
h my
own eyes - is filled with traps.'
'This
is a smash,' observed Toby, biting his lips. 'There's more than one will go
with this.'
'The
sessions are on,' said Kags: 'if they get the inquest over, and Bolter turns
King's evidence: as of course he will, from what he's said already: they can
prove Fagin an accessory before the fact, and get the trial on on Friday, a=
nd
he'll swing in six days from this, by G - !'
'You
should have heard the people groan,' said Chitling; 'the officers fought li=
ke
devils, or they'd have torn him away. He was down once, but they made a ring
round him, and fought their way along. You should have seen how he looked a=
bout
him, all muddy and bleeding, and clung to them as if they were his dearest
friends. I can see 'em now, not able to stand upright with the pressing of =
the
mob, and draggin him along amongst 'em; I can see the people jumping up, one
behind another, and snarling with their teeth and making at him; I can see =
the
blood upon his hair and beard, and hear the cries with which the women work=
ed
themselves into the centre of the crowd at the street corner, and swore the=
y'd
tear his heart out!'
The
horror-stricken witness of this scene pressed his hands upon his ears, and =
with
his eyes closed got up and paced violently to and fro, like one distracted.=
While
he was thus engaged, and the two men sat by in silence with their eyes fixed
upon the floor, a pattering noise was heard upon the stairs, and Sikes's dog
bounded into the room. They ran to the window, downstairs, and into the str=
eet.
The dog had jumped in at an open window; he made no attempt to follow them,=
nor
was his master to be seen.
'What's
the meaning of this?' said Toby when they had returned. 'He can't be coming
here. I - I - hope not.'
'If
he was coming here, he'd have come with the dog,' said Kags, stooping down =
to
examine the animal, who lay panting on the floor. 'Here! Give us some water=
for
him; he has run himself faint.'
'He's
drunk it all up, every drop,' said Chitling after watching the dog some tim=
e in
silence. 'Covered with mud - lame - half blind - he must have come a long w=
ay.'
'Where
can he have come from!' exclaimed Toby. 'He's been to the other kens of cou=
rse,
and finding them filled with strangers come on here, where he's been many a
time and often. But where can he have come from first, and how comes he here
alone without the other!'
'He'
- (none of them called the murderer by his old name) - 'He can't have made =
away
with himself. What do you think?' said Chitling.
Toby
shook his head.
'If
he had,' said Kags, 'the dog 'ud want to lead us away to where he did it. N=
o. I
think he's got out of the country, and left the dog behind. He must have gi=
ven
him the slip somehow, or he wouldn't be so easy.'
This
solution, appearing the most probable one, was adopted as the right; the do=
g,
creeping under a chair, coiled himself up to sleep, without more notice from
anybody.
It
being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a candle lighted and placed upon
the table. The terrible events of the last two days had made a deep impress=
ion
on all three, increased by the danger and uncertainty of their own position.
They drew their chairs closer together, starting at every sound. They spoke
little, and that in whispers, and were as silent and awe-stricken as if the
remains of the murdered woman lay in the next room.
They
had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was heard a hurried knocking at the =
door
below.
'Young
Bates,' said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself=
.
The
knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like that.
Crackit
went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no ne=
ed
to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the a=
lert
in an instant, and ran whining to the door.
'We
must let him in,' he said, taking up the candle.
'Isn't
there any help for it?' asked the other man in a hoarse voice.
'None.
He must come in.'
'Don't
leave us in the dark,' said Kags, taking down a candle from the chimney-pie=
ce,
and lighting it, with such a trembling hand that the knocking was twice
repeated before he had finished.
Crackit
went down to the door, and returned followed by a man with the lower part of
his face buried in a handkerchief, and another tied over his head under his
hat. He drew them slowly off. Blanched face, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, be=
ard
of three days' growth, wasted flesh, short thick breath; it was the very gh=
ost
of Sikes.
He
laid his hand upon a chair which stood in the middle of the room, but
shuddering as he was about to drop into it, and seeming to glance over his
shoulder, dragged it back close to the wall - as close as it would go - and
ground it against it - and sat down.
Not
a word had been exchanged. He looked from one to another in silence. If an =
eye
were furtively raised and met his, it was instantly averted. When his hollow
voice broke silence, they all three started. They seemed never to have heard
its tones before.
'How
came that dog here?' he asked.
'Alone.
Three hours ago.'
'To-night's
paper says that Fagin's took. Is it true, or a lie?'
'True.'
They
were silent again.
'Damn
you all!' said Sikes, passing his hand across his forehead.
'Have
you nothing to say to me?'
There
was an uneasy movement among them, but nobody spoke.
'You
that keep this house,' said Sikes, turning his face to Crackit, 'do you mea=
n to
sell me, or to let me lie here till this hunt is over?'
'You
may stop here, if you think it safe,' returned the person addressed, after =
some
hesitation.
Sikes
carried his eyes slowly up the wall behind him: rather trying to turn his h=
ead
than actually doing it: and said, 'Is - it - the body - is it buried?'
They
shook their heads.
'Why
isn't it!' he retorted with the same glance behind him. 'Wot do they keep s=
uch
ugly things above the ground for? - Who's that knocking?'
Crackit
intimated, by a motion of his hand as he left the room, that there was noth=
ing
to fear; and directly came back with Charley Bates behind him. Sikes sat
opposite the door, so that the moment the boy entered the room he encounter=
ed
his figure.
'Toby,'
said the boy falling back, as Sikes turned his eyes towards him, 'why didn't
you tell me this, downstairs?'
There
had been something so tremendous in the shrinking off of the three, that the
wretched man was willing to propitiate even this lad. Accordingly he nodded,
and made as though he would shake hands with him.
'Let
me go into some other room,' said the boy, retreating still farther.
'Charley!'
said Sikes, stepping forward. 'Don't you - don't you know me?'
'Don't
come nearer me,' answered the boy, still retreating, and looking, with horr=
or
in his eyes, upon the murderer's face. 'You monster!'
The
man stopped half-way, and they looked at each other; but Sikes's eyes sunk
gradually to the ground.
'Witness
you three,' cried the boy shaking his clenched fist, and becoming more and =
more
excited as he spoke. 'Witness you three - I'm not afraid of him - if they c=
ome
here after him, I'll give him up; I will. I tell you out at once. He may ki=
ll
me for it if he likes, or if he dares, but if I am here I'll give him up. I=
'd
give him up if he was to be boiled alive. Murder! Help! If there's the pluc=
k of
a man among you three, you'll help me. Murder! Help! Down with him!'
Pouring
out these cries, and accompanying them with violent gesticulation, the boy
actually threw himself, single-handed, upon the strong man, and in the
intensity of his energy and the suddenness of his surprise, brought him hea=
vily
to the ground.
The
three spectators seemed quite stupefied. They offered no interference, and =
the
boy and man rolled on the ground together; the former, heedless of the blows
that showered upon him, wrenching his hands tighter and tighter in the garm=
ents
about the murderer's breast, and never ceasing to call for help with all his
might.
The
contest, however, was too unequal to last long. Sikes had him down, and his
knee was on his throat, when Crackit pulled him back with a look of alarm, =
and
pointed to the window. There were lights gleaming below, voices in loud and
earnest conversation, the tramp of hurried footsteps - endless they seemed =
in
number - crossing the nearest wooden bridge. One man on horseback seemed to=
be
among the crowd; for there was the noise of hoofs rattling on the uneven
pavement. The gleam of lights increased; the footsteps came more thickly and
noisily on. Then, came a loud knocking at the door, and then a hoarse murmur
from such a multitude of angry voices as would have made the boldest quail.=
'Help!'
shrieked the boy in a voice that rent the air.
'He's
here! Break down the door!'
'In
the King's name,' cried the voices without; and the hoarse cry arose again,=
but
louder.
'Break
down the door!' screamed the boy. 'I tell you they'll never open it. Run
straight to the room where the light is. Break down the door!'
Strokes,
thick and heavy, rattled upon the door and lower window-shutters as he ceas=
ed
to speak, and a loud huzzah burst from the crowd; giving the listener, for =
the
first time, some adequate idea of its immense extent.
'Open
the door of some place where I can lock this screeching Hell-babe,' cried S=
ikes
fiercely; running to and fro, and dragging the boy, now, as easily as if he
were an empty sack. 'That door. Quick!' He flung him in, bolted it, and tur=
ned
the key. 'Is the downstairs door fast?'
'Double-locked
and chained,' replied Crackit, who, with the other two men, still remained
quite helpless and bewildered.
'The
panels - are they strong?'
'Lined
with sheet-iron.'
'And
the windows too?'
'Yes,
and the windows.'
'Damn
you!' cried the desperate ruffian, throwing up the sash and menacing the cr=
owd.
'Do your worst! I'll cheat you yet!'
Of
all the terrific yells that ever fell on mortal ears, none could exceed the=
cry
of the infuriated throng. Some shouted to those who were nearest to set the
house on fire; others roared to the officers to shoot him dead. Among them =
all,
none showed such fury as the man on horseback, who, throwing himself out of=
the
saddle, and bursting through the crowd as if he were parting water, cried,
beneath the window, in a voice that rose above all others, 'Twenty guineas =
to
the man who brings a ladder!'
The
nearest voices took up the cry, and hundreds echoed it. Some called for
ladders, some for sledge-hammers; some ran with torches to and fro as if to
seek them, and still came back and roared again; some spent their breath in
impotent curses and execrations; some pressed forward with the ecstasy of m=
admen,
and thus impeded the progress of those below; some among the boldest attemp=
ted
to climb up by the water-spout and crevices in the wall; and all waved to a=
nd
fro, in the darkness beneath, like a field of corn moved by an angry wind: =
and
joined from time to time in one loud furious roar.
'The
tide,' cried the murderer, as he staggered back into the room, and shut the
faces out, 'the tide was in as I came up. Give me a rope, a long rope. They=
're
all in front. I may drop into the Folly Ditch, and clear off that way. Give=
me
a rope, or I shall do three more murders and kill myself.'
The
panic-stricken men pointed to where such articles were kept; the murderer,
hastily selecting the longest and strongest cord, hurried up to the house-t=
op.
All
the window in the rear of the house had been long ago bricked up, except one
small trap in the room where the boy was locked, and that was too small even
for the passage of his body. But, from this aperture, he had never ceased to
call on those without, to guard the back; and thus, when the murderer emerg=
ed
at last on the house-top by the door in the roof, a loud shout proclaimed t=
he
fact to those in front, who immediately began to pour round, pressing upon =
each
other in an unbroken stream.
He
planted a board, which he had carried up with him for the purpose, so firmly
against the door that it must be matter of great difficulty to open it from=
the
inside; and creeping over the tiles, looked over the low parapet.
The
water was out, and the ditch a bed of mud.
The
crowd had been hushed during these few moments, watching his motions and
doubtful of his purpose, but the instant they perceived it and knew it was
defeated, they raised a cry of triumphant execration to which all their
previous shouting had been whispers. Again and again it rose. Those who wer=
e at
too great a distance to know its meaning, took up the sound; it echoed and
re-echoed; it seemed as though the whole city had poured its population out=
to
curse him.
On
pressed the people from the front - on, on, on, in a strong struggling curr=
ent
of angry faces, with here and there a glaring torch to lighten them up, and
show them out in all their wrath and passion. The houses on the opposite si=
de
of the ditch had been entered by the mob; sashes were thrown up, or torn bo=
dily
out; there were tiers and tiers of faces in every window; cluster upon clus=
ter
of people clinging to every house-top. Each little bridge (and there were t=
hree
in sight) bent beneath the weight of the crowd upon it. Still the current
poured on to find some nook or hole from which to vent their shouts, and on=
ly
for an instant see the wretch.
'They
have him now,' cried a man on the nearest bridge. 'Hurrah!'
The
crowd grew light with uncovered heads; and again the shout uprose.
'I
will give fifty pounds,' cried an old gentleman from the same quarter, 'to =
the
man who takes him alive. I will remain here, till he come to ask me for it.=
'
There
was another roar. At this moment the word was passed among the crowd that t=
he
door was forced at last, and that he who had first called for the ladder had
mounted into the room. The stream abruptly turned, as this intelligence ran
from mouth to mouth; and the people at the windows, seeing those upon the
bridges pouring back, quitted their stations, and running into the street,
joined the concourse that now thronged pell-mell to the spot they had left:
each man crushing and striving with his neighbor, and all panting with
impatience to get near the door, and look upon the criminal as the officers
brought him out. The cries and shrieks of those who were pressed almost to
suffocation, or trampled down and trodden under foot in the confusion, were
dreadful; the narrow ways were completely blocked up; and at this time, bet=
ween
the rush of some to regain the space in front of the house, and the unavail=
ing
struggles of others to extricate themselves from the mass, the immediate
attention was distracted from the murderer, although the universal eagerness
for his capture was, if possible, increased.
The
man had shrunk down, thoroughly quelled by the ferocity of the crowd, and t=
he
impossibility of escape; but seeing this sudden change with no less rapidity
than it had occurred, he sprang upon his feet, determined to make one last
effort for his life by dropping into the ditch, and, at the risk of being
stifled, endeavouring to creep away in the darkness and confusion.
Roused
into new strength and energy, and stimulated by the noise within the house
which announced that an entrance had really been effected, he set his foot
against the stack of chimneys, fastened one end of the rope tightly and fir=
mly
round it, and with the other made a strong running noose by the aid of his
hands and teeth almost in a second. He could let himself down by the cord to
within a less distance of the ground than his own height, and had his knife
ready in his hand to cut it then and drop.
At
the very instant when he brought the loop over his head previous to slippin=
g it
beneath his arm-pits, and when the old gentleman before-mentioned (who had
clung so tight to the railing of the bridge as to resist the force of the
crowd, and retain his position) earnestly warned those about him that the m=
an
was about to lower himself down - at that very instant the murderer, looking
behind him on the roof, threw his arms above his head, and uttered a yell of
terror.
'The
eyes again!' he cried in an unearthly screech.
Staggering
as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbled over the parapet.
The noose was on his neck. It ran up with his weight, tight as a bow-string,
and swift as the arrow it speeds. He fell for five-and-thirty feet. There w=
as a
sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion of the limbs; and there he hung, with the
open knife clenched in his stiffening hand.
The
old chimney quivered with the shock, but stood it bravely. The murderer swu=
ng
lifeless against the wall; and the boy, thrusting aside the dangling body w=
hich
obscured his view, called to the people to come and take him out, for God's
sake.
A
dog, which had lain concealed till now, ran backwards and forwards on the
parapet with a dismal howl, and collecting himself for a spring, jumped for=
the
dead man's shoulders. Missing his aim, he fell into the ditch, turning
completely over as he went; and striking his head against a stone, dashed o=
ut
his brains.
The
events narrated in the last chapter were yet but two days old, when Oliver
found himself, at three o'clock in the afternoon, in a travelling-carriage
rolling fast towards his native town. Mrs Maylie, and Rose, and Mrs Bedwin,=
and
the good doctor were with him: and Mr Brownlow followed in a post-chaise,
accompanied by one other person whose name had not been mentioned.
They
had not talked much upon the way; for Oliver was in a flutter of agitation =
and
uncertainty which deprived him of the power of collecting his thoughts, and
almost of speech, and appeared to have scarcely less effect on his companio=
ns,
who shared it, in at least an equal degree. He and the two ladies had been =
very
carefully made acquainted by Mr Brownlow with the nature of the admissions
which had been forced from Monks; and although they knew that the object of
their present journey was to complete the work which had been so well begun,
still the whole matter was enveloped in enough of doubt and mystery to leave
them in endurance of the most intense suspense.
The
same kind friend had, with Mr Losberne's assistance, cautiously stopped all
channels of communication through which they could receive intelligence of =
the
dreadful occurrences that so recently taken place. 'It was quite true,' he
said, 'that they must know them before long, but it might be at a better ti=
me
than the present, and it could not be at a worse.' So, they travelled on in
silence: each busied with reflections on the object which had brought them
together: and no one disposed to give utterance to the thoughts which crowd=
ed
upon all.
But
if Oliver, under these influences, had remained silent while they journeyed
towards his birth-place by a road he had never seen, how the whole current =
of
his recollections ran back to old times, and what a crowd of emotions were
wakened up in his breast, when they turned into that which he had traversed=
on
foot: a poor houseless, wandering boy, without a friend to help him, or a r=
oof
to shelter his head.
'See
there, there!' cried Oliver, eagerly clasping the hand of Rose, and pointing
out at the carriage window; 'that's the stile I came over; there are the he=
dges
I crept behind, for fear any one should overtake me and force me back! Yond=
er
is the path across the fields, leading to the old house where I was a little
child! Oh Dick, Dick, my dear old friend, if I could only see you now!'
'You
will see him soon,' replied Rose, gently taking his folded hands between her
own. 'You shall tell him how happy you are, and how rich you have grown, and
that in all your happiness you have none so great as the coming back to make
him happy too.'
'Yes,
yes,' said Oliver, 'and we'll - we'll take him away from here, and have him
clothed and taught, and send him to some quiet country place where he may g=
row
strong and well, - shall we?'
Rose
nodded 'yes,' for the boy was smiling through such happy tears that she cou=
ld
not speak.
'You
will be kind and good to him, for you are to every one,' said Oliver. 'It w=
ill
make you cry, I know, to hear what he can tell; but never mind, never mind,=
it
will be all over, and you will smile again - I know that too - to think how
changed he is; you did the same with me. He said ‘God bless you’=
; to
me when I ran away,' cried the boy with a burst of affectionate emotion; 'a=
nd I
will say ‘God bless you’ now, and show him how I love him for i=
t!'
As
they approached the town, and at length drove through its narrow streets, it
became matter of no small difficulty to restrain the boy within reasonable
bounds. There was Sowerberry's the undertaker's just as it used to be, only
smaller and less imposing in appearance than he remembered it - there were =
all
the well-known shops and houses, with almost every one of which he had some
slight incident connected - there was Gamfield's cart, the very cart he use=
d to
have, standing at the old public-house door - there was the workhouse, the
dreary prison of his youthful days, with its dismal windows frowning on the
street - there was the same lean porter standing at the gate, at sight of w=
hom
Oliver involuntarily shrunk back, and then laughed at himself for being so
foolish, then cried, then laughed again - there were scores of faces at the
doors and windows that he knew quite well - there was nearly everything as =
if
he had left it but yesterday, and all his recent life had been but a happy
dream.
But
it was pure, earnest, joyful reality. They drove straight to the door of the
chief hotel (which Oliver used to stare up at, with awe, and think a mighty
palace, but which had somehow fallen off in grandeur and size); and here wa=
s Mr
Grimwig all ready to receive them, kissing the young lady, and the old one =
too,
when they got out of the coach, as if he were the grandfather of the whole
party, all smiles and kindness, and not offering to eat his head - no, not
once; not even when he contradicted a very old postboy about the nearest ro=
ad
to London, and maintained he knew it best, though he had only come that way
once, and that time fast asleep. There was dinner prepared, and there were
bedrooms ready, and everything was arranged as if by magic.
Notwithstanding
all this, when the hurry of the first half-hour was over, the same silence =
and
constraint prevailed that had marked their journey down. Mr Brownlow did not
join them at dinner, but remained in a separate room. The two other gentlem=
en
hurried in and out with anxious faces, and, during the short intervals when
they were present, conversed apart. Once, Mrs Maylie was called away, and a=
fter
being absent for nearly an hour, returned with eyes swollen with weeping. A=
ll
these things made Rose and Oliver, who were not in any new secrets, nervous=
and
uncomfortable. They sat wondering, in silence; or, if they exchanged a few
words, spoke in whispers, as if they were afraid to hear the sound of their=
own
voices.
At
length, when nine o'clock had come, and they began to think they were to he=
ar
no more that night, Mr Losberne and Mr Grimwig entered the room, followed b=
y Mr
Brownlow and a man whom Oliver almost shrieked with surprise to see; for th=
ey
told him it was his brother, and it was the same man he had met at the
market-town, and seen looking in with Fagin at the window of his little roo=
m.
Monks cast a look of hate, which, even then, he could not dissemble, at the
astonished boy, and sat down near the door. Mr Brownlow, who had papers in =
his
hand, walked to a table near which Rose and Oliver were seated.
'This
is a painful task,' said he, 'but these declarations, which have been signe=
d in
London before many gentlemen, must be in substance repeated here. I would h=
ave
spared you the degradation, but we must hear them from your own lips before=
we
part, and you know why.'
'Go
on,' said the person addressed, turning away his face. 'Quick. I have almost
done enough, I think. Don't keep me here.'
'This
child,' said Mr Brownlow, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his hand upon h=
is
head, 'is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, my dear
friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving him
birth.'
'Yes,'
said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy: the beating of whose heart he mi=
ght
have heard. 'That is the bastard child.'
'The
term you use,' said Mr Brownlow, sternly, 'is a reproach to those long since
passed beyond the feeble censure of the world. It reflects disgrace on no o=
ne
living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this town.'
'In
the workhouse of this town,' was the sullen reply. 'You have the story ther=
e.'
He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke.
'I
must have it here, too,' said Mr Brownlow, looking round upon the listeners=
.
'Listen
then! You!' returned Monks. 'His father being taken ill at Rome, was joined=
by
his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long separated, who went from Pa=
ris
and took me with her - to look after his property, for what I know, for she=
had
no great affection for him, nor he for her. He knew nothing of us, for his =
senses
were gone, and he slumbered on till next day, when he died. Among the paper=
s in
his desk, were two, dated on the night his illness first came on, directed =
to
yourself'; he addressed himself to Mr Brownlow; 'and enclosed in a few short
lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of the package that it was no=
t to
be forwarded till after he was dead. One of these papers was a letter to th=
is
girl Agnes; the other a will.'
'What
of the letter?' asked Mr Brownlow.
'The
letter? - A sheet of paper crossed and crossed again, with a penitent
confession, and prayers to God to help her. He had palmed a tale on the girl
that some secret mystery - to be explained one day - prevented his marrying=
her
just then; and so she had gone on, trusting patiently to him, until she tru=
sted
too far, and lost what none could ever give her back. She was, at that time,
within a few months of her confinement. He told her all he had meant to do,=
to
hide her shame, if he had lived, and prayed her, if he died, not to curse h=
is
memory, or think the consequences of their sin would be visited on her or t=
heir
young child; for all the guilt was his. He reminded her of the day he had g=
iven
her the little locket and the ring with her christian name engraved upon it,
and a blank left for that which he hoped one day to have bestowed upon her =
- prayed
her yet to keep it, and wear it next her heart, as she had done before - and
then ran on, wildly, in the same words, over and over again, as if he had g=
one
distracted. I believe he had.'
'The
will,' said Mr Brownlow, as Oliver's tears fell fast.
Monks
was silent.
'The
will,' said Mr Brownlow, speaking for him, 'was in the same spirit as the
letter. He talked of miseries which his wife had brought upon him; of the
rebellious disposition, vice, malice, and premature bad passions of you his
only son, who had been trained to hate him; and left you, and your mother, =
each
an annuity of eight hundred pounds. The bulk of his property he divided into
two equal portions - one for Agnes Fleming, and the other for their child, =
if
it should be born alive, and ever come of age. If it were a girl, it was to
inherit the money unconditionally; but if a boy, only on the stipulation th=
at
in his minority he should never have stained his name with any public act o=
f dishonour,
meanness, cowardice, or wrong. He did this, he said, to mark his confidence=
in
the other, and his conviction - only strengthened by approaching death - th=
at
the child would share her gentle heart, and noble nature. If he were
disappointed in this expectation, then the money was to come to you: for th=
en,
and not till then, when both children were equal, would he recognise your p=
rior
claim upon his purse, who had none upon his heart, but had, from an infant,
repulsed him with coldness and aversion.'
'My
mother,' said Monks, in a louder tone, 'did what a woman should have done. =
She
burnt this will. The letter never reached its destination; but that, and ot=
her
proofs, she kept, in case they ever tried to lie away the blot. The girl's
father had the truth from her with every aggravation that her violent hate =
- I
love her for it now - could add. Goaded by shame and dishonour he fled with=
his
children into a remote corner of Wales, changing his very name that his fri=
ends
might never know of his retreat; and here, no great while afterwards, he was
found dead in his bed. The girl had left her home, in secret, some weeks
before; he had searched for her, on foot, in every town and village near; it
was on the night when he returned home, assured that she had destroyed hers=
elf,
to hide her shame and his, that his old heart broke.'
There
was a short silence here, until Mr Brownlow took up the thread of the
narrative.
'Years
after this,' he said, 'this man's - Edward Leeford's - mother came to me. He
had left her, when only eighteen; robbed her of jewels and money; gambled,
squandered, forged, and fled to London: where for two years he had associat=
ed
with the lowest outcasts. She was sinking under a painful and incurable
disease, and wished to recover him before she died. Inquiries were set on f=
oot,
and strict searches made. They were unavailing for a long time, but ultimat=
ely
successful; and he went back with her to France.'
'There
she died,' said Monks, 'after a lingering illness; and, on her death-bed, s=
he
bequeathed these secrets to me, together with her unquenchable and deadly
hatred of all whom they involved - though she need not have left me that, f=
or I
had inherited it long before. She would not believe that the girl had destr=
oyed
herself, and the child too, but was filled with the impression that a male
child had been born, and was alive. I swore to her, if ever it crossed my p=
ath,
to hunt it down; never to let it rest; to pursue it with the bitterest and =
most
unrelenting animosity; to vent upon it the hatred that I deeply felt, and to
spit upon the empty vaunt of that insulting will by draggin it, if I could,=
to
the very gallows-foot. She was right. He came in my way at last. I began we=
ll;
and, but for babbling drabs, I would have finished as I began!'
As
the villain folded his arms tight together, and muttered curses on himself =
in
the impotence of baffled malice, Mr Brownlow turned to the terrified group
beside him, and explained that the Jew, who had been his old accomplice and
confidant, had a large reward for keeping Oliver ensnared: of which some pa=
rt
was to be given up, in the event of his being rescued: and that a dispute on
this head had led to their visit to the country house for the purpose of
identifying him.
'The
locket and ring?' said Mr Brownlow, turning to Monks.
'I
bought them from the man and woman I told you of, who stole them from the
nurse, who stole them from the corpse,' answered Monks without raising his
eyes. 'You know what became of them.'
Mr
Brownlow merely nodded to Mr Grimwig, who disappearing with great alacrity,
shortly returned, pushing in Mrs Bumble, and dragging her unwilling consort
after him.
'Do
my hi's deceive me!' cried Mr Bumble, with ill-feigned enthusiasm, 'or is t=
hat
little Oliver? Oh O-li-ver, if you know'd how I've been a-grieving for you =
- '
'Hold
your tongue, fool,' murmured Mrs Bumble.
'Isn't
natur, natur, Mrs Bumble?' remonstrated the workhouse master. 'Can't I be
supposed to feel - I as brought=
him
up porochially - when I see him a-setting here among ladies and gentlemen of
the very affablest description! I always loved that boy as if he'd been my =
- my
- my own grandfather,' said Mr Bumble, halting for an appropriate compariso=
n.
'Master Oliver, my dear, you remember the blessed gentleman in the white
waistcoat? Ah! he went to heaven last week, in a oak coffin with plated
handles, Oliver.'
'Come,
sir,' said Mr Grimwig, tartly; 'suppress your feelings.'
'I
will do my endeavours, sir,' replied Mr Bumble. 'How do you do, sir? I hope=
you
are very well.'
This
salutation was addressed to Mr Brownlow, who had stepped up to within a sho=
rt
distance of the respectable couple. He inquired, as he pointed to Monks,
'Do
you know that person?'
'No,'
replied Mrs Bumble flatly.
'Perhaps
you don't?' said Mr Brownlow, a=
ddressing
her spouse.
'I
never saw him in all my life,' said Mr Bumble.
'Nor
sold him anything, perhaps?'
'No,'
replied Mrs Bumble.
'You
never had, perhaps, a certain gold locket and ring?' said Mr Brownlow.
'Certainly
not,' replied the matron. 'Why are we brought here to answer to such nonsen=
se
as this?'
Again
Mr Brownlow nodded to Mr Grimwig; and again that gentleman limped away with
extraordinary readiness. But not again did he return with a stout man and w=
ife;
for this time, he led in two palsied women, who shook and tottered as they
walked.
'You
shut the door the night old Sally died,' said the foremost one, raising her
shrivelled hand, 'but you couldn't shut out the sound, nor stop the chinks.=
'
'No,
no,' said the other, looking round her and wagging her toothless jaws. 'No,=
no,
no.'
'We
heard her try to tell you what she'd done, and saw you take a paper from her
hand, and watched you too, next day, to the pawnbroker's shop,' said the fi=
rst.
'Yes,'
added the second, 'and it was a ‘locket and gold ring.’ We found
out that, and saw it given you. We were by. Oh! we were by.'
'And
we know more than that,' resumed the first, 'for she told us often, long ag=
o,
that the young mother had told her that, feeling she should never get over =
it,
she was on her way, at the time that she was taken ill, to die near the gra=
ve
of the father of the child.'
'Would
you like to see the pawnbroker himself?' asked Mr Grimwig with a motion tow=
ards
the door.
'No,'
replied the woman; 'if he - she pointed to Monks - 'has been coward enough =
to
confess, as I see he has, and you have sounded all these hags till you have
found the right ones, I have nothing more to say. I did sell them, and they're where you'll never get them. What th=
en?'
'Nothing,' replied Mr Brownlow, 'except that it remains for us to take care that neith= er of you is employed in a situation of trust again. You may leave the room.'<= o:p>
'I
hope,' said Mr Bumble, looking about him with great ruefulness, as Mr Grimw=
ig
disappeared with the two old women: 'I hope that this unfortunate little
circumstance will not deprive me of my porochial office?'
'Indeed
it will,' replied Mr Brownlow. 'You may make up your mind to that, and think
yourself well off besides.'
'It
was all Mrs Bumble. She would d=
o it,'
urged Mr Bumble; first looking round to ascertain that his partner had left=
the
room.
'That
is no excuse,' replied Mr Brownlow. 'You were present on the occasion of the
destruction of these trinkets, and indeed are the more guilty of the two, in
the eye of the law; for the law supposes that your wife acts under your
direction.'
'If
the law supposes that,' said Mr Bumble, squeezing his hat emphatically in b=
oth
hands, 'the law is a ass - a idiot. If that's the eye of the law, the law i=
s a
bachelor; and the worst I wish the law is, that his eye may be opened by
experience - by experience.'
Laying
great stress on the repetition of these two words, Mr Bumble fixed his hat =
on
very tight, and putting his hands in his pockets, followed his helpmate
downstairs.
'Young
lady,' said Mr Brownlow, turning to Rose, 'give me your hand. Do not trembl=
e.
You need not fear to hear the few remaining words we have to say.'
'If
they have - I do not know how they can, but if they have - any reference to
me,' said Rose, 'pray let me hear them at some other time. I have not stren=
gth
or spirits now.'
'Nay,'
returned the old gentlman, drawing her arm through his; 'you have more
fortitude than this, I am sure. Do you know this young lady, sir?'
'Yes,'
replied Monks.
'I
never saw you before,' said Rose faintly.
'I
have seen you often,' returned Monks.
'The
father of the unhappy Agnes had two=
daughters,' said Mr Brownlow. 'What was the fate of the other - the child?'=
'The
child,' replied Monks, 'when her father died in a strange place, in a stran=
ge
name, without a letter, book, or scrap of paper that yielded the faintest c=
lue
by which his friends or relatives could be traced - the child was taken by =
some
wretched cottagers, who reared it as their own.'
'Go
on,' said Mr Brownlow, signing to Mrs Maylie to approach. 'Go on!'
'You
couldn't find the spot to which these people had repaired,' said Monks, 'but
where friendship fails, hatred will often force a way. My mother found it,
after a year of cunning search - ay, and found the child.'
'She
took it, did she?'
'No. The people were poor and began to sicken - at least the man did - of their = fine humanity; so she left it with them, giving them a small present of money wh= ich would not last long, and promised more, which she never meant to send. She didn't quite rely, however, on their discontent and poverty for the child's unhappiness, but told the history of the sister's shame, with such alterati= ons as suited her; bade them take good heed of the child, for she came of bad blood; and told them she was illegitimate, and sure to go wrong at one time= or other. The circumstances countenanced all this; the people believed it; and there the child dragged on an existence, miserable enough even to satisfy u= s, until a widow lady, residing, then, at Chester, saw the girl by chance, pit= ied her, and took her home. There was some cursed spell, I think, against us; f= or in spite of all our efforts she remained there and was happy. I lost sight = of her, two or three years ago, and saw her no more until a few months back.'<= o:p>
'Do
you see her now?'
'Yes.
Leaning on your arm.'
'But
not the less my niece,' cried Mrs Maylie, folding the fainting girl in her
arms; 'not the less my dearest child. I would not lose her now, for all the
treasures of the world. My sweet companion, my own dear girl!'
'The
only friend I ever had,' cried Rose, clinging to her. 'The kindest, best of
friends. My heart will burst. I cannot bear all this.'
'You
have borne more, and have been, through all, the best and gentlest creature
that ever shed happiness on every one she knew,' said Mrs Maylie, embracing=
her
tenderly. 'Come, come, my love, remember who this is who waits to clasp you=
in
his arms, poor child! See here - look, look, my dear!'
'Not
aunt,' cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck; 'I'll never call her
aunt - sister, my own dear sister, that something taught my heart to love so
dearly from the first! Rose, dear, darling Rose!'
Let
the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the long
close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother,
were gained, and lost, in that one moment. Joy and grief were mingled in the
cup; but there were no bitter tears: for even grief itself arose so softene=
d,
and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemn
pleasure, and lost all character of pain.
They
were a long, long time alone. A soft tap at the door, at length announced t=
hat
some one was without. Oliver opened it, glided away, and gave place to Harry
Maylie.
'I
know it all,' he said, taking a seat beside the lovely girl. 'Dear Rose, I =
know
it all.'
'I
am not here by accident,' he added after a lengthened silence; 'nor have I
heard all this to-night, for I knew it yesterday - only yesterday. Do you g=
uess
that I have come to remind you of a promise?'
'Stay,'
said Rose. 'You do know all.'
'All.
You gave me leave, at any time within a year, to renew the subject of our l=
ast
discourse.'
'I
did.'
'Not to press you to alter your determination,' pursued the young man, 'but to h= ear you repeat it, if you would. I was to lay whatever of station or fortune I might possess at your feet, and if you still adhered to your former determination, I pledged myself, by no word or act, to seek to change it.'<= o:p>
'The
same reasons which influenced me then, will influence me now,' said Rose
firmly. 'If I ever owed a strict and rigid duty to her, whose goodness save=
d me
from a life of indigence and suffering, when should I ever feel it, as I sh=
ould
to-night? It is a struggle,' said Rose, 'but one I am proud to make; it is a
pang, but one my heart shall bear.'
'The
disclosure of to-night,' - Harry began.
'The
disclosure of to-night,' replied Rose softly, 'leaves me in the same positi=
on,
with reference to you, as that in which I stood before.'
'You
harden your heart against me, Rose,' urged her lover.
'Oh
Harry, Harry,' said the young lady, bursting into tears; 'I wish I could, a=
nd
spare myself this pain.'
'Then
why inflict it on yourself?' said Harry, taking her hand. 'Think, dear Rose,
think what you have heard to-night.'
'And
what have I heard! What have I heard!' cried Rose. 'That a sense of his deep
disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned all - there, we have =
said
enough, Harry, we have said enough.'
'Not
yet, not yet,' said the young man, detaining her as she rose. 'My hopes, my
wishes, prospects, feeling: every thought in life except my love for you: h=
ave
undergone a change. I offer you, now, no distinction among a bustling crowd=
; no
mingling with a world of malice and detraction, where the blood is called i=
nto
honest cheeks by aught but real disgrace and shame; but a home - a heart and
home - yes, dearest Rose, and those, and those alone, are all I have to off=
er.'
'What
do you mean!' she faltered.
'I
mean but this - that when I left you last, I left you with a firm determina=
tion
to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me; resolved that if my
world could not be yours, I would make yours mine; that no pride of birth
should curl the lip at you, for I would turn from it. This I have done. Tho=
se
who have shrunk from me because of this, have shrunk from you, and proved y=
ou
so far right. Such power and patronage: such relatives of influence and ran=
k:
as smiled upon me then, look coldly now; but there are smiling fields and
waving trees in England's richest county; and by one village church - mine,
Rose, my own! - there stands a rustic dwelling which you can make me prouder
of, than all the hopes I have renounced, measured a thousandfold. This is my
rank and station now, and here I lay it down!'
*******
'It's
a trying thing waiting supper for lovers,' said Mr Grimwig, waking up, and
pulling his pocket-handkerchief from over his head.
Truth
to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. Neither Mrs
Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could offer a word =
in
extenuation.
'I
had serious thoughts of eating my head to-night,' said Mr Grimwig, 'for I b=
egan
to think I should get nothing else. I'll take the liberty, if you'll allow =
me,
of saluting the bride that is to be.'
Mr
Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into effect upon the blushing
girl; and the example, being contagious, was followed both by the doctor an=
d Mr
Brownlow: some people affirm that Harry Maylie had been observed to set it,
originally, in a dark room adjoining; but the best authorities consider this
downright scandal: he being young and a clergyman.
'Oliver,
my child,' said Mrs Maylie, 'where have you been, and why do you look so sa=
d?
There are tears stealing down your face at this moment. What is the matter?=
'
It
is a world of disappointment: often to the hopes we most cherish, and hopes
that do our nature the greatest honour.
Poor
Dick was dead!
Chapter LII - Fagin's Last Night Alive
The
court was paved, from floor to roof, with human faces. Inquisitive and eager
eyes peered from every inch of space. From the rail before the dock, away i=
nto
the sharpest angle of the smallest corner in the galleries, all looks were
fixed upon one man - Fagin. Before him and behind: above, below, on the rig=
ht
and on the left: he seemed to stand surrounded by a firmament, all bright w=
ith
gleaming eyes.
He
stood there, in all this glare of living light, with one hand resting on the
wooden slab before him, the other held to his ear, and his head thrust forw=
ard
to enable him to catch with greater distinctness every word that fell from =
the
presiding judge, who was delivering his charge to the jury. At times, he tu=
rned
his eyes sharply upon them to observe the effect of the slightest featherwe=
ight
in his favour; and when the points against him were stated with terrible
distinctness, looked towards his counsel, in mute appeal that he would, even
then, urge something in his behalf. Beyond these manifestations of anxiety,=
he
stirred not hand or foot. He had scarcely moved since the trial began; and =
now
that the judge ceased to speak, he still remained in the same strained atti=
tude
of close attention, with his gaze bent on him, as though he listened still.=
A
slight bustle in the court, recalled him to himself. Looking round, he saw =
that
the juryman had turned together, to consider their verdict. As his eyes
wandered to the gallery, he could see the people rising above each other to=
see
his face: some hastily applying their glasses to their eyes: and others whi=
spering
their neighbours with looks expressive of abhorrence. A few there were, who
seemed unmindful of him, and looked only to the jury, in impatient wonder h=
ow
they could delay. But in no one face - not even among the women, of whom th=
ere
were many there - could he read the faintest sympathy with himself, or any
feeling but one of all-absorbing interest that he should be condemned.
As
he saw all this in one bewildered glance, the deathlike stillness came agai=
n,
and looking back he saw that the jurymen had turned towards the judge. Hush=
!
They
only sought permission to retire.
He
looked, wistfully, into their faces, one by one when they passed out, as th=
ough
to see which way the greater number leant; but that was fruitless. The jail=
er
touched him on the shoulder. He followed mechanically to the end of the doc=
k,
and sat down on a chair. The man pointed it out, or he would not have seen =
it.
He
looked up into the gallery again. Some of the people were eating, and some
fanning themselves with handkerchiefs; for the crowded place was very hot.
There was one young man sketching his face in a little note-book. He wonder=
ed
whether it was like, and looked on when the artist broke his pencil-point, =
and
made another with his knife, as any idle spectator might have done.
In
the same way, when he turned his eyes towards the judge, his mind began to =
busy
itself with the fashion of his dress, and what it cost, and how he put it o=
n.
There was an old fat gentleman on the bench, too, who had gone out, some ha=
lf
an hour before, and now come back. He wondered within himself whether this =
man
had been to get his dinner, what he had had, and where he had had it; and
pursued this train of careless thought until some new object caught his eye=
and
roused another.
Not
that, all this time, his mind was, for an instant, free from one oppressive
overwhelming sense of the grave that opened at his feet; it was ever presen=
t to
him, but in a vague and general way, and he could not fix his thoughts upon=
it.
Thus, even while he trembled, and turned burning hot at the idea of speedy
death, he fell to counting the iron spikes before him, and wondering how the
head of one had been broken off, and whether they would mend it, or leave i=
t as
it was. Then, he thought of all the horrors of the gallows and the scaffold=
- and
stopped to watch a man sprinkling the floor to cool it - and then went on to
think again.
At
length there was a cry of silence, and a breathless look from all towards t=
he
door. The jury returned, and passed him close. He could glean nothing from
their faces; they might as well have been of stone. Perfect stillness ensue=
d - not
a rustle - not a breath - Guilty.
The
building rang with a tremendous shout, and another, and another, and then it
echoed loud groans, that gathered strength as they swelled out, like angry
thunder. It was a peal of joy from the populace outside, greeting the news =
that
he would die on Monday.
The
noise subsided, and he was asked if he had anything to say why sentence of
death should not be passed upon him. He had resumed his listening attitude,=
and
looked intently at his questioner while the demand was made; but it was twi=
ce
repeated before he seemed to hear it, and then he only muttered that he was=
an
old man - an old man - and so, dropping into a whisper, was silent again.
The
judge assumed the black cap, and the prisoner still stood with the same air=
and
gesture. A woman in the gallery, uttered some exclamation, called forth by =
this
dread solemnity; he looked hastily up as if angry at the interruption, and =
bent
forward yet more attentively. The address was solemn and impressive; the
sentence fearful to hear. But he stood, like a marble figure, without the
motion of a nerve. His haggard face was still thrust forward, his under-jaw
hanging down, and his eyes staring out before him, when the jailer put his =
hand
upon his arm, and beckoned him away. He gazed stupidly about him for an
instant, and obeyed.
They
led him through a paved room under the court, where some prisoners were wai=
ting
till their turns came, and others were talking to their friends, who crowded
round a grate which looked into the open yard. There was nobody there to sp=
eak
to him; but, as he passed, the
prisoners fell back to render him more visible to the people who were cling=
ing
to the bars: and they assailed him with opprobrious names, and screeched and
hissed. He shook his fist, and would have spat upon them; but his conductors
hurried him on, through a gloomy passage lighted by a few dim lamps, into t=
he
interior of the prison.
Here,
he was searched, that he might not have about him the means of anticipating=
the
law; this ceremony performed, they led him to one of the condemned cells, a=
nd
left him there - alone.
He
sat down on a stone bench opposite the door, which served for seat and beds=
tead;
and casting his blood-shot eyes upon the ground, tried to collect his thoug=
hts.
After awhile, he began to remember a few disjointed fragments of what the j=
udge
had said: though it had seemed to him, at the time, that he could not hear a
word. These gradually fell into their proper places, and by degrees suggest=
ed
more: so that in a little time he had the whole, almost as it was delivered=
. To
be hanged by the neck, till he was dead - that was the end. To be hanged by=
the
neck till he was dead.
As
it came on very dark, he began to think of all the men he had known who had
died upon the scaffold; some of them through his means. They rose up, in su=
ch
quick succession, that he could hardly count them. He had seen some of them
die, - and had joked too, because they died with prayers upon their lips. W=
ith
what a rattling noise the drop went down; and how suddenly they changed, fr=
om
strong and vigorous men to dangling heaps of clothes!
Some
of them might have inhabited that very cell - sat upon that very spot. It w=
as
very dark; why didn't they bring a light? The cell had been built for many
years. Scores of men must have passed their last hours there. It was like
sitting in a vault strewn with dead bodies - the cap, the noose, the pinion=
ed
arms, the faces that he knew, even beneath that hideous veil. - Light, ligh=
t!
At
length, when his hands were raw with beating against the heavy door and wal=
ls,
two men appeared: one bearing a candle, which he thrust into an iron
candlestick fixed against the wall: the other dragging in a mattress on whi=
ch
to pass the night; for the prisoner was to be left alone no more.
Then
came the night - dark, dismal, silent night. Other watchers are glad to hear
this church-clock strike, for they tell of life and coming day. To him they=
brought
despair. The boom of every iron bell came laden with the one, deep, hollow
sound - Death. What availed the noise and bustle of cheerful morning, which
penetrated even there, to him? It was another form of knell, with mockery a=
dded
to the warning.
The
day passed off. Day? There was no day; it was gone as soon as come - and ni=
ght
came on again; night so long, and yet so short; long in its dreadful silenc=
e,
and short in its fleeting hours. At one time he raved and blasphemed; and at
another howled and tore his hair. Venerable men of his own persuasion had c=
ome
to pray beside him, but he had driven them away with curses. They renewed t=
heir
charitable efforts, and he beat them off.
Saturday
night. He had only one night more to live. And as he thought of this, the d=
ay
broke - Sunday.
It
was not until the night of this last awful day, that a withering sense of h=
is
helpless, desperate state came in its full intensity upon his blighted soul;
not that he had ever held any defined or positive hope of mercy, but that he
had never been able to consider more than the dim probability of dying so s=
oon.
He had spoken little to either of the two men, who relieved each other in t=
heir
attendance upon him; and they, for their parts, made no effort to rouse his
attention. He had sat there, awake, but dreaming. Now, he started up, every
minute, and with gasping mouth and burning skin, hurried to and fro, in suc=
h a
paroxysm of fear and wrath that even they - used to such sights - recoiled =
from
him with horror. He grew so terrible, at last, in all the tortures of his e=
vil
conscience, that one man could not bear to sit there, eyeing him alone; and=
so
the two kept watch together.
He
cowered down upon his stone bed, and thought of the past. He had been wound=
ed
with some missiles from the crowd on the day of his capture, and his head w=
as
bandaged with a linen cloth. His red hair hung down upon his bloodless face;
his beard was torn, and twisted into knots; his eyes shone with a terrible
light; his unwashed flesh crackled with the fever that burnt him up. Eight =
- nine
- then. If it was not a trick to frighten him, and those were the real hours
treading on each other's heels, where would he be, when they came round aga=
in!
Eleven! Another struck, before the voice of the previous hour had ceased to
vibrate. At eight, he would be the only mourner in his own funeral train; at
eleven -
Those
dreadful walls of Newgate, which have hidden so much misery and such
unspeakable anguish, not only from the eyes, but, too often, and too long, =
from
the thoughts, of men, never held so dread a spectacle as that. The few who
lingered as they passed, and wondered what the man was doing who was to be
hanged to-morrow, would have slept but ill that night, if they could have s=
een
him.
From
early in the evening until nearly midnight, little groups of two and three
presented themselves at the lodge-gate, and inquired, with anxious faces,
whether any reprieve had been received. These being answered in the negativ=
e,
communicated the welcome intelligence to clusters in the street, who pointed
out to one another the door from which he must come out, and showed where t=
he
scaffold would be built, and, walking with unwilling steps away, turned bac=
k to
conjure up the scene. By degrees they fell off, one by one; and, for an hou=
r,
in the dead of night, the street was left to solitude and darkness.
The
space before the prison was cleared, and a few strong barriers, painted bla=
ck,
had been already thrown across the road to break the pressure of the expect=
ed
crowd, when Mr Brownlow and Oliver appeared at the wicket, and presented an
order of admission to the prisoner, signed by one of the sheriffs. They were
immediately admitted into the lodge.
'Is
the young gentleman to come too, sir?' said the man whose duty it was to co=
nduct
them. 'It's not a sight for children, sir.'
'It
is not indeed, my friend,' rejoined Mr Brownlow; 'but my business with this=
man
is intimately connected with him; and as this child has seen him in the full
career of his success and villainy, I think it as well - even at the cost of
some pain and fear - that he should see him now.'
These
few words had been said apart, so as to be inaudible to Oliver. The man tou=
ched
his hat; and glancing at Oliver with some curiousity, opened another gate,
opposite to that by which they had entered, and led them on, through dark a=
nd
winding ways, towards the cells.
'This,'
said the man, stopping in a gloomy passage where a couple of workmen were
making some preparations in profound silence - 'this is the place he passes
through. If you step this way, you can see the door he goes out at.'
He
led them into a stone kitchen, fitted with coppers for dressing the prison
food, and pointed to a door. There was an open grating above it, through wh=
ich
came the sound of men's voices, mingled with the noise of hammering, and the
throwing down of boards. There were putting up the scaffold.
From
this place, they passed through several strong gates, opened by other turnk=
eys
from the inner side; and, having entered an open yard, ascended a flight of
narrow steps, and came into a passage with a row of strong doors on the left
hand. Motioning them to remain where they were, the turnkey knocked at one =
of
these with his bunch of keys. The two attendants, after a little whispering,
came out into the passage, stretching themselves as if glad of the temporary
relief, and motioned the visitors to follow the jailer into the cell. They =
did
so.
The
condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himself from side to side,
with a countenance more like that of a snared beast than the face of a man.=
His
mind was evidently wandering to his old life, for he continued to mutter,
without appearing conscious of their presence otherwise than as a part of h=
is
vision.
'Good
boy, Charley - well done - ' he mumbled. 'Oliver, too, ha! ha! ha! Oliver t=
oo -
quite the gentleman now - quite the - take that boy away to bed!'
The
jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver; and, whispering him not to be
alarmed, looked on without speaking.
'Take
him away to bed!' cried Fagin. 'Do you hear me, some of you? He has been th=
e - the
- somehow the cause of all this. It's worth the money to bring him up to it=
- Bolter's
throat, Bill; never mind the girl - Bolter's throat as deep as you can cut.=
Saw
his head off!'
'Fagin,'
said the jailer.
'That's
me!' cried the Jew, falling instantly, into the attitude of listening he had
assumed upon his trial. 'An old man, my Lord; a very old, old man!'
'Here,'
said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his breast to keep him down. 'Here's
somebody wants to see you, to ask you some questions, I suppose. Fagin, Fag=
in!
Are you a man?'
'I
shan't be one long,' he replied, looking up with a face retaining no human
expression but rage and terror. 'Strike them all dead! What right have they=
to
butcher me?'
As
he spoke he caught sight of Oliver and Mr Brownlow. Shrinking to the furthe=
st
corner of the seat, he demanded to know what they wanted there.
'Steady,'
said the turnkey, still holding him down. 'Now, sir, tell him what you want.
Quick, if you please, for he grows worse as the time gets on.'
'You
have some papers,' said Mr Brownlow advancing, 'which were placed in your
hands, for better security, by a man called Monks.'
'It's
all a lie together,' replied Fagin. 'I haven't one - not one.'
'For
the love of God,' said Mr Brownlow solemnly, 'do not say that now, upon the
very verge of death; but tell me where they are. You know that Sikes is dea=
d;
that Monks has confessed; that there is no hope of any further gain. Where =
are
those papers?'
'Oliver,'
cried Fagin, beckoning to him. 'Here, here! Let me whisper to you.'
'I
am not afraid,' said Oliver in a low voice, as he relinquished Mr Brownlow's
hand.
'The
papers,' said Fagin, drawing Oliver towards him, 'are in a canvas bag, in a
hole a little way up the chimney in the top front-room. I want to talk to y=
ou,
my dear. I want to talk to you.'
'Yes,
yes,' returned Oliver. 'Let me say a prayer. Do! Let me say one prayer. Say
only one, upon your knees, with me, and we will talk till morning.'
'Outside,
outside,' replied Fagin, pushing the boy before him towards the door, and
looking vacantly over his head. 'Say I've gone to sleep - they'll believe y=
ou.
You can get me out, if you take me so. Now then, now then!'
'Oh!
God forgive this wretched man!' cried the boy with a burst of tears.
'That's
right, that's right,' said Fagin. 'That'll help us on. This door first. If I
shake and tremble, as we pass the gallows, don't you mind, but hurry on. No=
w,
now, now!'
'Have
you nothing else to ask him, sir?' inquired the turnkey.
'No
other question,' replied Mr Brownlow. 'If I hoped we could recall him to a
sense of his position - '
'Nothing
will do that, sir,' replied the man, shaking his head. 'You had better leave
him.'
The
door of the cell opened, and the attendants returned.
'Press
on, press on,' cried Fagin. 'Softly, but not so slow. Faster, faster!'
The
men laid hands upon him, and disengaging Oliver from his grasp, held him ba=
ck.
He struggled with the power of desperation, for an instant; and then sent up
cry upon cry that penetrated even those massive walls, and rang in their ea=
rs
until they reached the open yard.
It
was some time before they left the prison. Oliver nearly swooned after this
frightful scene, and was so weak that for an hour or more, he had not the
strength to walk.
Day
was dawning when they again emerged. A great multitude had already assemble=
d;
the windows were filled with people, smoking and playing cards to beguile t=
he
time; the crowd were pushing, quarrelling, joking. Everything told of life =
and
animation, but one dark cluster of objects in the centre of all - the black
stage, the cross-beam, the rope, and all the hideous apparatus of death.
The fortunes of those who
have figured in this tale are nearly closed. The little that remains to the=
ir
historian to relate, is told in few and simple words.
Before three months had
passed, Rose Fleming and Harry Maylie were married in the village church wh=
ich
was henceforth to be the scene of the young clergyman's labours; on the same
day they entered into possession of their new and happy home.
Mrs Maylie took up her ab=
ode
with her son and daughter-in-law, to enjoy, during the tranquil remainder of
her days, the greatest felicity that age and worth can know - the contempla=
tion
of the happiness of those on whom the warmest affections and tenderest care=
s of
a well-spent life, have been unceasingly bestowed.
It appeared, on full and
careful investigation, that if the wreck of property remaining in the custo=
dy
of Monks (which had never prospered either in his hands or in those of his
mother) were equally divided between himself and Oliver, it would yield, to
each, little more than three thousand pounds. By the provisions of his fath=
er's
will, Oliver would have been entitled to the whole; but Mr Brownlow, unwill=
ing
to deprive the elder son of the opportunity of retrieving his former vices =
and
pursuing an honest career, proposed this mode of distribution, to which his
young charge joyfully acceded.
Monks, still bearing that
assumed name, retired with his portion to a distant part of the New World;
where, having quickly squandered it, he once more fell into his old courses,
and, after undergoing a long confinement for some fresh act of fraud and
knavery, at length sunk under an attack of his old disorder, and died in
prison. As far from home, died the chief remaining members of his friend
Fagin's gang.
Mr Brownlow adopted Olive=
r as
his son. Removing with him and the old housekeeper to within a mile of the
parsonage-house, where his dear friends resided, he gratified the only
remaining wish of Oliver's warm and earnest heart, and thus linked together=
a
little society, whose condition approached as nearly to one of perfect
happiness as can ever be known in this changing world.
Soon after the marriage of
the young people, the worthy doctor returned to Chertsey, where, bereft of =
the
presence of his old friends, he would have been discontented if his tempera=
ment
had admitted of such a feeling; and would have turned quite peevish if he h=
ad
known how. For two or three months, he contented himself with hinting that =
he
feared the air began to disagree with him; then, finding that the place rea=
lly
no longer was, to him, what it had been, he settled his business on his
assistant, took a bachelor's cottage outside the village of which his young
friend was pastor, and instantaneously recovered. Here he took to gardening,
planting, fishing, carpentering, and various other pursuits of a similar ki=
nd:
all undertaken with his characteristic impetuosity. In each and all he has
since become famous throughout the neighborhood, as a most profound authori=
ty.
Before his removal, he had
managed to contract a strong friendship for Mr Grimwig, which that eccentric
gentleman cordially reciprocated. He is accordingly visited by Mr Grimwig a
great many times in the course of the year. On all such occasions, Mr Grimw=
ig
plants, fishes, and carpenters, with great ardour; doing everything in a ve=
ry
singular and unprecedented manner, but always maintaining with his favourite
asseveration, that his mode is the right one. On Sundays, he never fails to
criticise the sermon to the young clergyman's face: always informing Mr
Losberne, in strict confidence afterwards, that he considers it an excellent
performance, but deems it as well not to say so. It is a standing and very
favourite joke, for Mr Brownlow to rally him on his old prophecy concerning
Oliver, and to remind him of the night on which they sat with the watch bet=
ween
them, waiting his return; but Mr Grimwig contends that he was right in the
main, and, in proof thereof, remarks that Oliver did not come back after al=
l;
which always calls forth a laugh on his side, and increases his good humour=
.
Mr Noah Claypole: receivi=
ng a
free pardon from the Crown in consequence of being admitted approver against
Fagin: and considering his profession not altogether as safe a one as he co=
uld
wish: was, for some little time, at a loss for the means of a livelihood, n=
ot
burdened with too much work. After some consideration, he went into busines=
s as
an Informer, in which calling he realises a genteel subsistence. His plan i=
s,
to walk out once a week during church time attended by Charlotte in respect=
able
attire. The lady faints away at the doors of charitable publicans, and the
gentleman being accommodated with three-penny worth of brandy to restore he=
r,
lays an information next day, and pockets half the penalty. Sometimes Mr
Claypole faints himself, but the result is the same.
Mr and Mrs Bumble, depriv=
ed
of their situations, were gradually reduced to great indigence and misery, =
and
finally became paupers in that very same workhouse in which they had once
lorded it over others. Mr Bumble has been heard to say, that in this reverse
and degradation, he has not even spirits to be thankful for being separated
from his wife.
As to Mr Giles and Brittl=
es,
they still remain in their old posts, although the former is bald, and the
last-named boy quite grey. They sleep at the parsonage, but divide their
attentions so equally among its inmates, and Oliver and Mr Brownlow, and Mr
Losberne, that to this day the villagers have never been able to discover to
which establishment they properly belong.
Master Charles Bates,
appalled by Sikes's crime, fell into a train of reflection whether an honest
life was not, after all, the best. Arriving at the conclusion that it certa=
inly
was, he turned his back upon the scenes of the past, resolved to amend it in
some new sphere of action. He struggled hard, and suffered much, for some t=
ime;
but, having a contented disposition, and a good purpose, succeeded in the e=
nd;
and, from being a farmer's drudge, and a carrier's lad, he is now the merri=
est
young grazier in all Northamptonshire.
And now, the hand that tr=
aces
these words, falters, as it approaches the conclusion of its task; and would
weave, for a little longer space, the thread of these adventures.
I would fain linger yet w=
ith
a few of those among whom I have so long moved, and share their happiness by
endeavouring to depict it. I would show Rose Maylie in all the bloom and gr=
ace
of early womanhood, shedding on her secluded path in life soft and gentle
light, that fell on all who trod it with her, and shone into their hearts. I
would paint her the life and joy of the fire-side circle and the lively sum=
mer
group; I would follow her through the sultry fields at noon, and hear the l=
ow
tones of her sweet voice in the moonlit evening walk; I would watch her in =
all
her goodness and charity abroad, and the smiling untiring discharge of dome=
stic
duties at home; I would paint her and her dead sister's child happy in their
love for one another, and passing whole hours together in picturing the fri=
ends
whom they had so sadly lost; I would summon before me, once again, those jo=
yous
little faces that clustered round her knee, and listen to their merry pratt=
le;
I would recall the tones of that clear laugh, and conjure up the sympathisi=
ng
tear that glistened in the soft blue eye. These, and a thousand looks and
smiles, and turns of thought and speech - I would fain recall them every on=
e.
How Mr Brownlow went on, =
from
day to day, filling the mind of his adopted child with stores of knowledge,=
and
becoming attached to him, more and more, as his nature developed itself, and
showed the thriving seeds of all he wished him to become - how he traced in=
him
new traits of his early friend, that awakened in his own bosom old
remembrances, melancholy and yet sweet and soothing - how the two orphans,
tried by adversity, remembered its lessons in mercy to others, and mutual l=
ove,
and fervent thanks to Him who had protected and preserved them - these are =
all
matters which need not to be told. I have said that they were truly happy; =
and
without strong affection and humanity of heart, and gratitude to that Being
whose code is Mercy, and whose great attribute is Benevolence to all things
that breathe, happiness can never be attained.
Within the altar of the o=
ld
village church there stands a white marble tablet, which bears as yet but o=
ne
word: 'AGNES.' There is no coffin in that tomb; and may it be many, many ye=
ars,
before another name is placed above it! But, if the spirits of the Dead ever
come back to earth, to visit spots hallowed by the love - the love beyond t=
he
grave - of those whom they knew in life, I believe that the shade of Agnes
sometimes hovers round that solemn nook. I believe it none the less because
that nook is in a Church, and she was weak and erring.
THE END