CHAPTER I
TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN AND OF THE
CIRCUMSTANCES
ATTENDING HIS BIRTH
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 not 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 mortality 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 than 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 biography, 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 itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance
that can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this
particular instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by
possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerable
difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the 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 next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter.
Now, if, during this brief 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 allowance 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 inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having
been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as
could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not
been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for 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, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the
pillow; and a faint 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 the wurkus with me, she'll know better than to take on in that way,
bless her dear 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 bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up
the child. 'Poor 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 little 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 order. She was found lying in the street. She
had walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she
came from, or where she was going to, nobody 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
fire, 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 parish 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 tender mercies of church-wardens and overseers, perhaps he would have
cried the louder.
CHAPTER II
TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST'S GROWTH, EDUCATION, 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 authorities 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 with humility, that there was
not. Upon this, the parish authorities magnanimously 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 about the floor all day, without the inconvenience of too much food or
too much clothing, under the parental superintendence of an elderly female,
who received 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 for 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 woman 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 provided 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 experimenal 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 did perversely happen in eight and a half cases out of ten, either
that it sickened from want and cold, or fell into the fire from neglect, or
got half-smothered by accident; in any one of which cases, the miserable
little being was usually 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 child 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 occurance in the farm—the jury would take it into their heads to ask
troublesome questions, or the parishioners would rebelliously affix
their signatures to a remonstrance. But these impertinences
were speedily checked by the evidence of the surgeon, and 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 whom 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 clean 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 decidely 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 diet 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 ninth birthday; and he was keeping it in
the coal-cellar with a select party of two other young gentleman, who, after
participating with him in a sound thrashing, had been locked up for
atrociously presuming to be hungry, when Mrs. Mann, the good 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 out of the window in well-affected ecstasies of joy.
'(Susan, take Oliver and them 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 removed 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; walk 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-gate, 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 as 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 say.'
Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor;
placed a seat for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and can on
the table before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the
perspiration which his walk had engendered, glanced complacently at the
cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. 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 mention 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 blessed 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 this 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. 'The 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 apron.
'And notwithstanding a offered reward of ten pound, which was afterwards
increased to twenty pound. Notwithstanding the most superlative, and, I
may say, supernat'ral exertions on the part of this parish,' said Bumble, 'we
have never been able to discover who is his father, or what was his mother's
settlement, name, or con—dition.'
Mrs Mann raised her hands in astonishment; but added, after a moment's
reflection, '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 ready 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. Oliver, having had by this time as much of the outer coat of
dirt which encrusted his face and hands, removed, as could be scrubbed off in
one washing, was led into 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 cocked 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 body 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 wanted a great deal more, a piece of bread
and butter, less he should seem too hungry 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 from 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 misery 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. Bumble, 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; for Mr. Bumble gave him a tap on the head, with his cane, to
wake him up: and another on the back to make him lively: and bidding
him to follow, conducted him into a large white-washed room, where eight or
ten fat gentlemen were sitting round a table. At the top of
the table, seated in an arm-chair rather higher than the 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: and 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 in 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 orphan, I suppose?'
'What's that, sir?' inquired poor Oliver.
'The boy IS a fool—I thought he was,' 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 right. 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 surly 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 sleep. What a novel illustration of the tender laws of
England! They let the paupers go to sleep!
Poor Oliver! He little thought, as he lay sleeping in
happy unconsciousness of all around him, that the board had that very day
arrived at a decision which would 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 nver have discovered—the poor people liked
it! It was 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 the 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 this 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 small 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, instead 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 people.
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 week 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 one end: out of which the master, dressed in an apron for the
purpose, and assisted by one or two women, ladled the gruel at
mealtimes. Of this festive composition each boy had one porringer, and
no more—except on occasions of great public 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 they shone again; and when they had performed this operation
(which never took very long, the spoons being nearly as large as the bowls),
they would sit staring 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 splashes 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 afraid 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
implicitly 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 uniform, stationed himself at the copper; his
pauper assistants ranged themselves behind 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 neighbours nudged him. Child as he was, he
was desperate with hunger, and reckless with misery. He rose
from the table; and advancing 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
stupified astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then clung
for support to the copper. The assistants were paralysed with wonder;
the boys with fear.
'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 arm; 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. 'Compose yourself, Bumble,
and answer me distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for
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 morning pasted on the outside of the gate, offering a reward
of five pounds to anybody who would take Oliver Twist off the hands of the
parish. In other words, five 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 will 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 (supposing 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.
CHAPTER III
RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE WHICH WOULD NOT
HAVE BEEN A SINECURE
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 which 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 becoming feeling of respect for the prediction of the
gentleman in the white waistcoat, 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, however, there was one
obstacle: namely, that pocket-handkerchiefs being decided articles of
luxury, had been, for all future times and ages, removed from the 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 before his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching
in the corner, tried to sleep: ever and anon waking with a start and
tremble, and drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel
even its cold hard surface were a protection 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 ablutions 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 flogged as
a public warning and example. And so for from being denied
the advantages 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 inserted by authority of the board, in which they
entreated to be made good, virtuous, 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 confortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down
the High 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 within 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
head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's.
Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of
gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and by these means turned
him round. He then gave him another blow on the head, just to
stun him till he came back again. Having 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 the 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 stoves. So, he spelt the bill through
again, from beginning to end; and then, touching 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 smile. 'What of him?'
'If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good
'spectable 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 with 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.
'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 ain'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, roasting their feet makes
'em struggle to hextricate theirselves.'
The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this
explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr.
Limbkins. The board then procedded to converse among themselves for a
few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words 'saving of expenditure,'
'looked well in the accounts,' 'have a printed report published,' were alone
audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their
being very frequently repeated with great emphasis.
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 bruised 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, and walked slowly from the table.
'So you won't let me have him, gen'l'men?' said Mr. Gamfield, pausing
near the door.
'No,' replied Mr. Limbkins; 'at least, as it's a nasty business, we
think you ought 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 give?'
'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 rid 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 fifteen.'
'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 needn'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 smile 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
astonishment, 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 allowance of two ounces and a quarter of bread. At
this tremendous sight, Oliver began to cry very piteously: thinking,
not unaturally, that the board must have determined to kill him for some
useful purpose, or they never would have begun to fatten him up in that
way.
'Don't make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food and be thankful,'
said Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity. 'You're a going to be
made a 'prentice of, Oliver.'
'A prentice, sir!' said the child, trembling.
'Yes, Oliver,' said Mr. Bumble. 'The kind and blessed
gentleman which is so amny 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!—seventy shillins—one hundred and forty sixpences!—and all for a
naughty orphan which noboday 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 feelings 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 if 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 gentle hint, that if he failed in either particular,
there was no telling what would 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 back to fetch him.
There the boy remained, with a palpitating heart, for half
an hour. At the expiration 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 piece of parchment which lay before
him. Mr. Limbkins was standing in front of the desk on one side; and
Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while 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, and 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 that white stuff on their heads, and were boards
from thenceforth on that account.
'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 feed 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 though it was, he would have dipped his
pen into it, and signed 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 course, 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 and 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
aspect.
'My boy!' said the old gentleman, 'you look pale and alarmed. What is
the matter?'
'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—kill 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
solemnite. '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 given vent to this compound adjective.
'I beg your worship's pardon,' said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of having
heard aright. '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 opinion 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,' said 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
totaly opposite description.
The next morning, the public 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, MAKES 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 could possibly be done with him: the probability being,
that the skipper would flog 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 known, very favourite and common
recreations among gentleman of that class. The more 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 conclusion that the only way of
providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea 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. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker.
Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of
threadbare 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 was 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,' said the undertaker.
'You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,' said the beadle, as he
thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proferred snuff-box of the
undertaker: which was an ingenious 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 laughed 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 article, 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 upon 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 have 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 paid 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 provide 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 honour 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?' As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to
the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words 'five
pounds': which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic
size.
'Gadso!' said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged
lappel of his official 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 before.'
'Yes, I think it rather pretty,' said the beadle, glancing proudly
downwards at the 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 board 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 tradesman, 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,"
didn't they?'
Mr. Bumble nodded.
'And they made it a special verdict, I think,' said the undertaker, 'by
adding some 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 into 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 bring their spirit down for 'em.'
'Let 'em alone for that,' replied the undertaker. So saying,
he smiled, approvingly: 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
engendered; fixed the cocked hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker,
said in a calmer 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 means, 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 food into him, he shall have him for a term of
years, to do what he likes with.
When little Oliver was taken before 'the gentlemen' that evening; and
informed that he was to go, that night, as general house-lad to a
coffin-maker's; and that if he complained of his situation, or ever came back
to the parish again, he would be sent to sea, there to be drowned, or knocked
on the head, as the case might be, he evinced so little emotion, that they by
common consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and orered Mr. Bumble
to remove him forthwith.
Now, although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the
world, should 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 being 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 pulled 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 being a windy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by the
skirts of Mr. Bumble's coat as they blew open, and disclosed to great
advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches. As they
drew near to their destination, however, 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 his 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 covered his face with both; and wept
until the tears sprung out from between his chin and bony fingers.
'Well!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little
charge a look 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 cane; '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, when 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 head, 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 form of a short, then, squeezed-up woman, with
a vixenish countenance.
'My dear,' said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, 'this is the boy from the
workhouse 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; 'he 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 cell, 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 eat '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 him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen Oliver
Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected. I wish
he could have witnessed 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.
'Then come with me,' said Mrs. Sowerberry: taking up a dim
and dirty lamp, and leading the way upstairs; 'your bed's under
the counter. You don't mind sleeping among 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.
CHAPTER V
OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR
THE FIRST TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS
MASTER'S BUSINESS
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 dread, which many people a good deal older than he will be at no loss to
understand. An unfinished coffin on black tressels, which stood in the
middle of the shop, looked so gloomy and death-like that a cold tremble came
over him, every time his eyes wandered in the direction of the dismal object:
from which he almost 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 hearse 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 above 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-door: 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 key.
'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, that's all, my work'us brat!' and having made this obliging promise,
the voice began 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 door.
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 nobody 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 his 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 want 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 great 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 side of the house in which they were kept during the day, was
graciously assisted 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 fulfilment of Noah's prediction, followed
that young gentleman down the stairs to breakfast.
'Come near the fire, Noah,' said Charlotte. 'I saved a nice little
bit of bacon for 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 his 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 Twist, as he sat shivering on the box in the coldest corner of the
room, and ate the 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 by; 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 the 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
the 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 qualities 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, pray. _I_
don't want to intrude upon your 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 frightened 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 itself 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, with 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 very 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,' asquiesced 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 ungrateful 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 great success to two Irish labourers and a coal-heaver, ony
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 excietment; 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 the 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 as 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 overcome.
'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 me.' Oliver obeyed, and followed
his master on his professional mission.
They walked on, for some time, through the most crowded and densely
inhabited part of the town; and then, striking down a narrow street more
dirty and miserable 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 appearance would have sufficiently
dentoed, 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 crazy 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 enough for the passage of a human body. The kennel was stagnant
and filthy. The very rats, which here and there lay putrefying in
its rottenness, were hideous with 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 landing, 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 empty 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 covered 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 blookshot. 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 afriad 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. When 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 starved 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.
The terrified children cried bitterly; but the old woman, who
had hitherto remained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that
passed, menaced them into silence. Having unloosened the cravat of the
man who still remained extended 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 presence 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 ther: 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 himself 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 loaf 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 mourners 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 came. 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 ragged boys whom the spectacle
had attracted into the churchyard played a noisy game 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 along. 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 walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very
loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.
'Come, my good fellow!' said Bumble, tapping the man on the back.
'They want to shut up the yard.'
The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the
grave side, 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 very 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.
CHAPTER VI
OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND
RATHER ASTONISHES HIM
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; and, in the course of a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great
deal of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry's ingenious
speculation, exceeded even his most sanguine hopes. The oldest
inhabitants recollected no period at which measles 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 down 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 which 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—conversing together with as much freedom and gaiety, as if
nothing whatever had happened 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 far 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 new 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, because Noah did; and
Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry was 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 hungry pig was,
when he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain department of a brewery.
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-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton—a pound and a half of
the worst end of the neck—when Charlotte being called out of the way, there
ensued a brief 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 pulled 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 hanged, 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 the occasion.
'Yer know, Work'us,' continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver's silence, and
speaking 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; and 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 great deal better, Work'us, that she died when she did, or else she'd have
been hard 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 murdering 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 from 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 force, which was about equal to that of a
moderately strong man in particularly good 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 assisted 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 out, and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged Oliver,
struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and there
locked him up. This being 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 been 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, when 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 crown 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 occurance 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 to 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 much 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 minute 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 faces 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, wit 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 circumstance: as showing that even a beadle, acted upon a
sudden and powerful impulse, may 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 tried 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 understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of
Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which
he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture.
When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed
Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his
dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a
gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his
lamentations than ever: rightly 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 paces, 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 nearly murdered—all but murdered, sir, —by young Twist.'
'By Jove!' exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping
short. 'I knew 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 out.'
'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 seed 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 been, 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 outside, 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 meditation. '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 person 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 enough 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 there 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 wholly innocent, in thought, word, or deed.
'Ah!' said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth
again; 'the only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to leave him
in the cellar for a day or so, till he's a little starved down; and then to
take him out, and keep 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 have killed any
well-disposed woman, weeks before.'
At this point of Mr. Bumble's discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to
know that 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 apprentice 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 one 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 insulting 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, amidst the jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered
him upstairs to his dismal 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 without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in his heart
which would have kept down 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, hiding 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 door, and looked abroad.
It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy's
eyes, farther from the 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-like, 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 moment's pause of hesitation—he had closed it behind him, and
was in the open street.
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 directly 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, before 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 between 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 don't know where. How pale
you are!'
'I heard the doctor tell them I was dying,' replied the child with a
faint smile. '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 again, 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 ON 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 from the town, he ran, and hid behind the hedges, by turns,
till noon: fearing that 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 and 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 train of ideas in the boy's mind.
London!—that great place!—nobody—not even Mr. Bumble—could ever find
him there! He had often heard the old men in the workhouse, too, say
that no lad of spirit 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 more, before he recollected how much he must undergo ere he could hope
to reach his 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 which 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
small helps to a sixty-five 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 surmounting 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 crust of dry bread, and a few draughts of water, which he begged at
the cottage-doors 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: and 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.
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; when 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
notice of him: and even those told him to wait till they got to the top
of the hill, and then let them see how far he could run for a
halfpenny. Poor Oliver tried 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 halfpence 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 mournfully 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 something. 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 assuredly have fallen dead upon the king's highway. But the
turnpike-man gave him a meal of bread and cheese; and the old lady, who had a
shipwrecked grandson wandering 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 gently 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 slowly 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 rising in all its splendid beauty; but the light only
served to show the boy his own 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 people 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 long, that Oliver raised his head, and returned his
steady look. Upon this, the boy 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 man. 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 ultimated 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 four 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 as 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? But,' he added, noticing Oliver's look
of surprise, 'I suppose you don't know what a beak is, my
flash com-pan-i-on.'
Oliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird's mouth described
by the term in question.
'My eyes, how green!' exclaimed the young gentleman. 'Why,
a beak's a madgst'rate; 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;
but, 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 loaf, 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, and 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 the 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 any genelman he knows interduces you. And don't he
know me? Oh, no!
Not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!'
The young gentelman 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 referred to, would doubtless
provide Oliver with a comfortable place, without loss of time. This
led to a more friendly and confidential dialogue; from which
Oliver discovered that his friend's name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was
a peculiar 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 careless turn, the moral precepts of his benefactor
had hitherto been thrown away upon him. Under this impression, he
secretly resolved to cultivate the good opinion 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 honour of his farther
acquaintance.
As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it
was nearly eleven o'clock when they reached the turnpike at Islington.
They crossed from the Angel into St. John's Road; struck down the small
street which terminates 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 out at the doors, or screaming from the inside. The sole places
that seemed to prosper 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 the 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 man's face peeped out, from where a balustrade of the old
kitchen staircase had been 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-beer 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 seemed to be dividing his attention between the
frying-pan and the clothes-horse, over which a great number of silk
handkerchiefsl 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 crowded about their
associate as he whispered a few words to the Jew; and then turned 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, and 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 went 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 the 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 there? We've just looked 'em out, ready for the wash;
that's all, Oliver; that's all. 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: telling him he must drink it off
directly, because another gentleman wanted the tumbler. Oliver did as
he was desired. Immediately afterwards he felt himself gently lifted
on to one of the sacks; and then he sunk into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER IX
CONTAINING FURTHER PARTICULARS CONCERNING THE PLEASANT OLD GENTLEMAN,
AND HIS HOPEFUL PUPILS
It was late next morning when Oliver awoke, from a sound,
long sleep. There was 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 round and round, with an
iron spoon. He would stop every now and then to listen when there was
the least noise below: and when he had satistified himself, he would 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 minutes 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 closed, and your senses wrapt in perfect
unconsciousness. At such time, a mortal knows 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 against 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 in an irresolute attitude for a few minutes, as if he did
not well know how to employ 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 satisfiying himself upon this head, the Jew stepped gently to the
door: which 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 glistened 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 they? It wouldn't have loosened
the knot, or kept the drop up, a minute longer. No, 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, bracelet, and other articles of
jewellery, of such magnificent materials, and costly workmanship, that Oliver
had no idea, even 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 over it, long and earnestly. At length
he put it down, as if despairing of success; and, leaning back in his chair,
muttered:
'What a fine thing capital punishment is! Dead men never
repent; dead men never bring 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 his 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 show 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 sleep any longer, sir,' replied Oliver, meekly.
'I am very sorry if I have disturbed 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 the 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 returned: 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 and 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 Dodger, '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 other 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 that 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? Ha! ha! ha!'
'If you please, sir,' said Oliver.
'You'd like to be able to make pocket-handkerchiefs as easy as Charley
Bates, wouldn'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 into another laugh; which laugh, meeting the coffee he was drinking,
and carrying it down some wrong channel, very nearly terminated in his
premature suffocation.
'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 colour mounting, changed the subject by asking whether there had
been much of a crowd at the execution that morning? This made him
wonder more and more; for it was 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 played at a very curious and uncommon game, which was performed in this
way. The merry old gentleman, placing a snuff-box in one pocket of his
trousers, a note-case 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 which old gentlmen walk about the streets any hour
in the day. Sometimes he stopped 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 this 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 took 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 called 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 quite stout and hearty. Being remarkably free and
agreeable in their manners, Oliver 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 conversation 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 the 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, when they are out; and they won't neglect it, if they do, my
dear, depend upon it. Make '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 their 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 short.
'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 hold it, and drew the handkerchief lighty 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 the 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 here, 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.
CHAPTER X
OLIVER BECOMES BETTER ACQUAINTED WITH THE CHARACTERS OF HIS
NEW ASSOCIATES; AND PURCHASES EXPERIENCE AT A HIGH PRICE. BEING A SHORT,
BUT VERY IMPORTANT CHAPTER, IN THIS HISTORY
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
sometimes 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 allow 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 great 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 extent.
At length, one morning, Oliver obtained the permission he had so eagerly
sought. 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 pockets; 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 Oliver 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 pulling 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 kennel 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 thoughts 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 lip, drew his companions back again, with the greatest caution and
circumspection.
'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 had been directed. Oliver walked a few paces after them; and,
not knowing whether 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 velvet 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 hard as if he were in his elbow-chair, in
his own study. It is very possible that 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, anything 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 rapid pace, he very
naturally concluded him to be the depredator; and shouting 'Stop
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 down the open street, had
merely retured 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 acquainted 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 prepared, however, it alarmed him the more; so away he went like the
wind, with the old 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 plot, 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 the human breast. One
wretched breathless child, panting with exhaustion; terror in his
looks; agaony in his eyes; large drops of perspiration streaming down his
face; strains every nerve to make head upon his pursuers; and as they follow
on his track, and gain upon him every instant, they hail his decreasing
strength 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 pursuers.
'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 lubberly 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 round, as if he contemplated running away himself: which it
is very possible he might 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 somewhere.'
'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 crowd as could achieve the feat, got a little ahead, and
stared back at Oliver from time to time. The boys shouted in triumph;
and on they went.
CHAPTER XI
TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE; AND FURNISHES A
SLIGHT SPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE
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.
'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 being found upon him, locked up.
This cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar, only not
so light. It was most intolably dirty; for it was Monday morning; and
it had been tenanted by six drunken people, who had been locked up,
elsewhere, since Saturday night. 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 dungeons, compared with which, those in
Newgate, occupied by the most atrocious felons, 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 which a dusky curtain had hung for many years. 'No,' said
the old gentleman, shaking 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 closed 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 the 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 poor 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 head. 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, said 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 inclination of the head, waited to be questioned.
Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading
article in 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 inquire 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 worshp knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a
safe one.
'Appears against the boy, does he?' said Mr. Fang, surveying
Mr. Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. 'Swear him!'
'Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'and
that is, that 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 magistrate!'
'What!' exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.
'Swear this person!' said Fang to the clerk. 'I'll not
hear another word. Swear him.'
Mr. Brownlow's indignaton 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, sir?'
'I was standing at a bookstall—' Mr. Brownlow began.
'Hold your tongue, sir,' said Mr. Fang. 'Policeman! Where's
the policeman? Here, swear 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 not? 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
floor, 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 boy because he had saw him running away; and expressing his
hope that, if the magistrate should believe him, although not actually the
thief, to be connected with the 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 here, 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 standing 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 severity 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 Oliver'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
instinctively; '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.
'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 voice.
'Summarily,' replied Mr. Fang. 'He stands committed for
three months—hard labour of course. Clear the office.'
The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were preparing
to carry 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, and 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 arbitrary 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 blind 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 not 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.
'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 sworn. 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: loitering 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 perfectly
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
comical 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 down 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 moment. Little Oliver Twist lay on his back on
the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned, and his temples bathed with water;
his face a deadly white; and a cold tremble 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.
CHAPTER XII
IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. AND IN
WHICH THE NARRATIVE REVERTS TO THE MERRY OLD GENTLEMAN AND HIS YOUTHFUL
FRIENDS.
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,
turning 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 after that; and still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy bed,
dwindling away beneath 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, and 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. Lie down again; there's a dear!'
With those words, the old lady very gently placed Oliver's head upon the
pillow; and, smoothing back his hair from his forehead, 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 dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would
his mother feel if she had sat by him as I have, 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 after a moment's silence. 'If she had
seen me hurt, it would have made here sorrowful; 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
spectacles, 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, patting 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, from which he was awakened by the light of a candle:
which, being brought near the 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 you 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 the 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 should 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 let 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'clock. 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 tumblings 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 upon 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 gloom 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
cheerful and happy. The crisis of the disease was safely past. He
belonged to the world 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; and, 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. Brownlow may come in to see you this morning; and we must get up our
best looks, because 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; just opposite his chair.
'I don't quite know, ma'am,' said Oliver, without taking his eyes from
the canvas; 'I have seen so few that I hardly know. What a beautiful,
mild face that lady'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 honest. 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 portrait.'
'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 seems 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 surprise, the look of awe with which the child regarded the
painting.
'Oh no, no,' returned Oliver quickly; 'but the eyes look so sorrowful;
and where 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, suiting 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 door.
'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 chair 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 this morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I'm afraid I have caught
cold.'
'I hope not, sir,' said Mrs. Bedwin. 'Everything you have had, has
been well aired, 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 goodness 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?'
'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 features 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 alike, 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 female who is acknowledged by universal admission to be far above
the numerous little foibles and weaknesses of her sex.
If I wanted any further proof of the strictly philosophical nature of
the conduct of these young gentlemen in their very delicate predicament, I
should at once 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 Oliver; and making immediately for their home by the
shortest possible cut. Although I do not mean to assert that it
is usually the practice of renowned and learned sages, to shorten the road
to any great conclusion (their course indeed being rather to lengthen the
distance, by various circumlocations and discursive staggerings, like unto
those in which drunken men under the pressure of a too 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 philosophers, 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 justify; the amount
of the right, or the amount of the wrong, or indeed the
distinction between the two, being left entirely to the
philosopher concerned, to be settled and determined by his
clear, comprehensive, and impartial view of his 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 beneath a low and dark archway. Having remained silent here, just
long enough to recover breath to speak, Master Bates uttered an exclamation
of amusement and 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 want 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 imagination 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,
scratched 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 said, 'What do you mean?'
The Dodger made no reply; but putting his hat on again, and gathering
the skirts of his long-tailed coat under his arm, thrust his tongue into his
cheek, slapped 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 followed, with a thoughtful countenance.
The noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs, a few minutes after the
occurrence 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; and 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, bent his ear towards the door, and listened.
'Why, how's this?' muttered the Jew: changing countenance;
'only two of 'em? Where'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.
CHAPTER XIII
SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES ARE INTRODUCED TO THE INTELLIGENT
READER, CONNECTED WITH WHOM VARIOUS PLEASANT MATTERS ARE
RELATED, APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY
'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 prudent 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 his 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 out of the big coat, which he left in the Jew's hands, the
Dodger snatched up the toasting fork, and made a pass at the merry old
gentleman's waistcoat; which, if it had taken effect, would have let a little
more merriment out, than could 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 moment, 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 water—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 look in an unfinished and incomplete state without a set of fetters
to garnish them. 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.
'Come in, d'ye hear?' growled this engaging ruffian.
A white shaggy dog, with his face scratched and torn in twenty different
places, 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-looking eyes twenty times in a minute, appeared to
occupy himself in taking a survey 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 done 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, unless 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 whole 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 which 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 some notice of the young gentlemen; which gracious act led to a
conversation, in which the cause and manner of Oliver's capture were
circumstantially detailed, with such alterations and improvements on the
truth, as to the Dodger appeared 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 that, 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 shoulders 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 licking 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 again,' 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, there was one very strong objection to its
being adopted. This was, that the Dodger, 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-office 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 entrance of the two young ladies whom Oliver had seen on a
former occasion, caused the 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 which cannot bear to inflict upon a fellow-creature, the pain
of a direct and pointed 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 friend; for, having
recently removed into the neighborhood of Field Lane from the remote
but genteel suburb of Ratcliffe, she was not under the same apprehension
of being recognised by any of her numerous acquaintance.
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 real 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 company, 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 table with his enormous fist. 'Here's her health, and
wishing they was all like her!'
While these, and many other encomiums, were being passed on
the accomplished Nancy, that young lady made the best of her way to the
police-office; whither, notwithstanding a little natural timidity consequent
upon walking through the 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, and listened. There was no sound within: so she
coughed and listened again. Still 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 Correction 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 anything about him, Nancy made straight up to the bluff officer in the
striped waistcoat; and with the most piteous wailings and lamentations,
rendered more 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
affected 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 that word mentioned in the directions to
the coachman.
In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young woman
staggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a swift
run, returned by the most devious and complicated route she could think of,
to the domicile 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 news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I
trust to you, my dear,—to you and the Artful for everything! Stay,
stay,' added the Jew, unlocking a drawer 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 which 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.'
CHAPTER XIV
COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW'S, WITH
THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN
HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND
Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's
abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully
avoided, 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 too 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 hope 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, let 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 think 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 was 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, such 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 then to go cosily to bed.
They were happy days, those of Oliver's recovery. Everything
was so quiet, and neat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that
after the noise and turbulence 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 asked 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 Jew 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 asked 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, meanwhile, 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 great complacency from head to foot, that
she really didn't think it would have been 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 Oliver, 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 such a great number of
books as seemed to be written to make the world wiser. Which 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 floor 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 you 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 smiling 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 glad 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 gentleman laughed again; and said something about a curious instinct,
which Oliver, not 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, alarmed 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. Don'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 cause.'
'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; but 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 whom 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 coffin of my heart, and sealed
it up, forever, on my best affections. Deep affliction 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 say 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 have 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.'
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 heard 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 friend 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 stick: 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 key 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 corners 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 appearance; and,
holding out a small piece of orange-peel at arm's length, exclaimed, in
a growling, discontented voice.
'Look here! do you see this! Isn't it a most wonderful
and extraordinary thing that I can't call at a man's house but I find a
piece of this poor surgeon's friend 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 every assertion he made; and it was the more singular in his case,
because, even admitting for the sake of argument, the possibility of
scientific improvements being brought to that pass which will enable a
gentleman to eat his own head in the event of his being so disposed, Mr.
Grimwig's head was such a particularly 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. Grimwig, 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 hat; and speak to my young friend.'
'I feel strongly on this subject, sir,' said the irritable
old gentleman, drawing off his gloves. 'There's always more or
less orange-peel on the pavement in our street; and I KNOW it's put there
by the surgeon's boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit
last night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got up I saw
her look towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light. "Don't
go to him," 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
manner, 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 boys. 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 most 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 peope; 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
fever 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 unusually 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 that on no one point of inquiry could he yet return
a satisfactory answer; and that he had postponed any investigation into
Oliver's previous history until he thought the boy was strong enough to hear
it; Mr. Grimwig chuckled maliciously. 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.
All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an
impetuous gentleman: knowing 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, matters 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
presence.
'And when are you going to hear at full, true, and particular account of
the life and adventures of Oliver Twist?' asked Grimwig of Mr. Brownlow, at
the conclusion 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 confused 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
identical 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 Mrs. 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 sure to deliver them safely, you know.'
'Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir,' said Oliver. 'I'll run
all the way, 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
prove 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 bustle; 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 four 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 arm, 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 clearly
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, somehow, to let him go out of my sight.'
At this moment, Oliver looked gaily round, and nodded before he turned
the corner. 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; and 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 you. 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
man, 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 day in the winter-time; and where no ray of sun ever shone in the
summer: there sat, brooding over a little pewter measure and a small
glass, strongly impregnated 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 police 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 cut 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 winking, or whether his feelings were so
wrought upon by his reflections that they required all the relief derivable
from kicking an unoffending animal to allay 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 masters; 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
deliberately 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 very harsh voice; but, appearing to entertain some unaccountable
objection to having 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, and biting at it like a wild beast.
This resistance only infuriated Mr. Sikes the more; who, dropping on his
knees, began 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 swore, and struck and blasphemed; and the struggle was
reaching a most critical point for one or other; when, the door suddenly
opening, the dog darted out: leaving 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 the quarrel to the new comer.
'What the devil do you come in between me and my dog for?' said Sikes,
with a fierce 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. 'Sneaking 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 contempt; '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 it. 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 though 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 his 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
count 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 repulsive 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 Fagin, who raised his eyes for an instant, as if in
expectation of it, and shook his head in reply; so slightly that the action
would have been almost imperceptible to an observant third person. It
was lost upon Sikes, who was stooping at the 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 boded 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 reamining
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 closing 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 several 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 which 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, expressed 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 master was out of
sight.
The Jew thrust his head out of the room door when Sikes had left it;
looked after him as we walked up the dark passage; shook his clenched fist;
muttered a deep 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 while 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 how 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 hardly 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 key 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 anointed
with suet, who was also looking on, whether he didn't think he had better run
for the doctor. To which, the butcher's boy: who appeared of a
lounging, not to say indolent disposition: replied, that he thought
not.
'Oh, no, no, never mind,' said the young woman, grasping Oliver's hand;
'I'm better 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 mother and father, and break my heart!'
'What the devil's this?' said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with a
white dog 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, struggling 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 attack; 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 hardened 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, AFTER 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 girl 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, regarding 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 will soon stop that game. Get on, young'un!'
Bull's-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing
form of speech; 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
Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was
dark and foggy. The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle
through the heavy mist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the streets
and houses in gloom; rendering the strange place still stranger in Oliver's
eyes; and making his uncertainty the more dismal and depressing.
They had hurried on a few paces, when a deep church-bell struck the
hour. With its 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 which 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 jealousy, 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 coming 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 well 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 walked 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: meeting 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 nailed 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 crossed to the opposite side of the street, and
stood for a few moments under a lamp. A noise, as if a sash
window were gently raised, was heard; and soon afterwards 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
familiar 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 hand 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,
opening 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 the 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 steady
assiduity.
'Look at his togs, Fagin!' said Charley, putting the light so close to
his new jacket as nearly to set him on fire. 'Look at his togs!
Superfine cloth, and the heavy 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 humility. '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 even 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 and me has got nothing else to do with our precious time but to
spend it in scouting 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. You 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 affecting to read one of the volumes in question; 'beautiful
writing, isn't is, Oliver?' At sight of the dismayed look with which
Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively
sense of the ludicrous, fell into another 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 was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him back
the books and 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, Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jew's feet; and beat his hands
together, in perfect desperation.
'The boy's right,' remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting
his shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. 'You're right, Oliver, you're
right; they WILL think you have stolen 'em. Ha! ha!' chuckled the Jew,
rubbing his hands, 'it couldn'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 coming 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 all; and they'll ask no questions after him, fear they should
be obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged. He's safe
enough.'
Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being
spoken, as if 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 room: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare
old house echo to the roof.
'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 grasp. '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 dog,
unless you kill me first.'
'Shan't he!' said Sikes, setting his teeth. 'I'll soon do that, if
you don't keep off.'
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 hasn'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, catching 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 raising 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 that 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 into which she had gradually worked herself.
'Why, Nancy!' said the Jew, in a soothing tone; after a pause, during
which he and Mr. Sikes had stared at one another in a disconcerted manner;
'you,—you're more 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; gave utterance to about a couple of score of curses and threats, the
rapid production of which reflected great credit on the fertility of his
invention. 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 were 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 shaking 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 come.'
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 take up the humane and gen—teel side! A pretty subject for
the child, as you call 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 liar, a devil, all that's bad, from this night forth. Isn't
that enough for the old 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, you 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, and 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 marks of her revenge upon him, had not her wrists been seized by
Sikes at the right 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 strong 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,
seemed 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; 'but 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 beds 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 been 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 door 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.
CHAPTER XVII
OLIVER'S DESTINY CONTINUING UNPROPITIOUS, BRINGS A GREAT MAN TO LONDON
TO INJURE HIS REPUTATION
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: her virtue and her life alike in danger,
drawing forth her dagger to preserve the 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, which, 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 great 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
present one may perhaps be deemed unnecessary. If so, let it be
considered a delicate 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 invited to proceed upon such an expedition.
Mr. Bumble emerged at early morning from the workhouse-gate, and walked
with portly 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 sun; he clutched his cane with the vigorous tenacity
of health and power. Mr. Bumble always carried his head high; but this
morning it was higher than usual. There was an abstraction in his eye,
an elevation in his air, which might have warned 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 spoke to him, deferentially, as he passed along. He merely returned
their salutations 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 care.
'Drat that beadle!' said Mrs. Mann, hearing the well-known shaking at
the garden-gate. '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 parlour, 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 paupers 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 cane, 'is a life of worrit, and vexation, and hardihood; but all public
characters, 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-sessions 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 worse 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 quite 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 pound 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 enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much
obliged to you, I'm sure.'
Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann's curtsey;
and inquired 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 Dick.'
'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. Bumble 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 bright. The scanty parish dress, the livery of his misery, hung
loosely on his feeble 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 daring to lift his eyes from the floor; and dreading even to hear
the beadle's voice.
'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,' 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 like 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 who is in Heaven, might forget me, or be unlike me; and
it would be so much happier 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 story, 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. Mann, 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 shortly 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: took 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; although
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 steaks, 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 evening last, from his home, at Pentonville; and has not since been
heard of. The above reward will be paid to any person who will give
such information as will lead 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 of '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 passage 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 that 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 once 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 manner. 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 ARE a beadle, are you not?' inquired Mr. Grimwig.
'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, commenced 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 Oliver was a foundling, born of low and vicious parents. That
he had, from his birth, 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 the 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 brought 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. Brownlow, 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 with 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!'
This was a hard hit at Mr. Grimwig, who was a bachelor. As
it extorted nothing from 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 let 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
earnest.'
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 outright.
CHAPTER XVIII
HOW OLIVER PASSED HIS TIME IN THE IMPROVING SOCIETY OF HIS REPUTABLE
FRIENDS
About noon next day, when the Dodger and Master Bates had gone out to
pursue their customary avocations, Mr. Fagin took the opportunity of reading
Oliver a long lecture on the crying sin of ingratitude; of which he clearly
demonstrated he had been guilty, to no ordinary extent, in wilfully absenting
himself from the society of his anxious friends; and, still more, in
endeavouring to escape from them after so much trouble and expense had
been incurred in his recovery. Mr. Fagin laid great stress on the fact of
his having taken Oliver in, and cherished him, when, without his timely aid,
he might have perished with hunger; and he related the dismal and affecting
history of a young lad whom, in his philanthropy, he had succoured under
parallel circumstances, but who, proving unworthy of his confidence and
evincing a desire to communicate with the police, had unfortunately come to
be hanged at the Old Bailey one morning. Mr. Fagin did not seek
to conceal his share in the catastrophe, but lamented with tears in his
eyes that the wrong-headed and treacherous behaviour of the young person in
question, had rendered it necessary that he should become the victim of
certain evidence for the crown: which, if it were not precisely true, was
indispensably necessary for the safety of him (Mr. Fagin) and a few select
friends. Mr. Fagin concluded by drawing a rather disagreeable picture
of the discomforts of hanging; and, with great friendliness and politeness
of manner, expressed his anxious hopes that he might never be obliged to
submit Oliver Twist to that unpleasant operation.
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 for justice itself to confound the innocent with the guilty
when they were in accidental companionship, he knew already; and that
deeply-laid plans for the destruction of inconveniently knowing or
over-communicative persons, had been really devised and carried out by the
Jew on more occasions than one, he thought 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 good 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, were 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-pieces 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 floor, and run back terrified to their holes. With these
exceptions, there was neither sight nor sound of any living thing; and often,
when it grew dark, and he was 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 would 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 bars 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 rooms 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, Oliver 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 withdrawn 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 seen 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 means an habitual weakness with him); and, with this
end and aim, he condescendingly commanded Oliver to assist him in his toilet,
straightway.
Oliver was but too glad to make himself useful; too happy to have some
faces, however 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 himself 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 whether 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, said, 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 when 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
proceedings. '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 Tuesday 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 feelings 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 them 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 entagled with a laugh, and went up into his head, and down into his
throat: and brought 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 scragged, 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 up 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 indicating, 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 you, though, or you'll be the first he ever had that turned out
unprofitable. You'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, being 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 secure 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 what you mean.'
'If you don't take pocket-handkechers and watches,' said the Dodger,
reducing his conversation to the level of Oliver's capacity, 'some other cove
will; so that 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 all lies in a nutshell my dear; in a nutshell,
take the Dodger's word for it. Ha! 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
proficiency.
The conversation proceeded no farther at this time, for the Jew had
returned home accompanied by Miss Betsy, and a gentleman whom Oliver had
never seen before, but who was accosted by the Dodger as Tom Chitling; and
who, having lingered 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
eighteen 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 slight 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 jacket, greasy fustian trousers, and an
apron. His wardrobe was, in truth, rather out 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 attention on his
private clothes. Mr. Chitling added, with strong marks of irritation,
that 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: which 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 dry 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 mind 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, they 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 the conversation to the topics most calculated to interest his
hearers. These were, the great advantages of the trade, the proficiency
of the Dodger, the amiability of Charley Bates, and the liberality of the
Jew himself. At length these subjects displayed signs of
being thoroughly exhausted; and Mr. Chitling 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 committed 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 sad 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
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 footsteps 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; and, glancing suspiciously round, crossed the road, and struck off in
the direction 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, engendered 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
involved 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 one, 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 person who opened it, he walked upstairs.
A dog growled as he touched the handle of a room-door; and a man's voice
demanded 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 corner 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 saying 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 side.
'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 ugly 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 kinds 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 remainder of its contents into the ashes: as a preparatory ceremony to
filling it again for himself: which he did at once.
The Jew glanced round the room, as his companion tossed down the second
glassful; 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 occupier was anything but a working man; and with no more suspicious
articles displayed 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 reflection, 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 hands, 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 heated: '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 plant.'
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 eyed 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 deaf to all that passed.
'Fagin,' said Sikes, abruptly breaking the stillness that prevailed; 'is
it worth fifty 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 his 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 which 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 second 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 job. But the father gets
lagged; and then the Juvenile Delinquent Society comes, and takes the boy
away from a trade where he was arning 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,' acquiesed 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, Bill; 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 known 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 young 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 man 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 glass 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. These 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.
'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 much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you
want, if he's only to open 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 weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides,
the others are all too 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 send 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 life. 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, Bill.'
'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, 'not 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; and 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. Now, 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 voice, '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 off 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 any 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 contemplated 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 rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling
forth, at the same 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 implements 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 about 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-forgotten feeling; and, the best of them
is, that it never lasts. Ha! ha! The man against 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 descended 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 anxiety, 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. WILLIAM 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 round 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 perusal 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 the 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 end of the room.
'Take heed, Oliver! take heed!' said the old man, shaking his right hand
before him in a warning manner. 'He's a rough man, and thinks nothing
of blood when his own is up. W hatever falls out, say nothing; and do what he
bids you. Mind!' Placing a strong emphasis on the last word, he
suffered his features gradually 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, with a trembling heart, on the words he had just heard. The
more he thought of the 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 suited 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 heavy sigh, snuffed the candle,
and, taking up the book which the Jew had left with him, began to read.
He turned over the leaves. Carelessly at first; but, lighting on a
passage which 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 soiled 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 bodies 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 bloodshed 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 red
with gore; and the words upon them, to be sounded in his ears, as if they
were whispered, in hollow murmers, 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 appaling. By degrees, he grew more calm, and
besought, in a low and broken voice, that he might be rescued from his
present dangers; and that 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 hands, 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.'
Oliver saw that she was very pale, and gently inquired if she were
ill. The girl threw herself into a chair, with her back towards
him: and wrung her hands; but made 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 sound, gasped for breath.
'Nancy!' cried Oliver, 'What is it?'
The girl beat her hands upon her knees, and her feet upon the ground;
and, suddenly 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
herself in arranging her dress; 'it's this damp dirty room, I think.
Now, Nolly, dear, 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 found 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 eyed 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 surprise. 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 not, 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, and perhaps be my death. See here! I have
borne all this for you already, as true 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 some one shrouded in the darkness, and was as quickly closed,
when they had passed 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 the 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 to 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 already 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! That'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 'un; 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 into 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; and 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 without 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 you own
good. D'ye hear me?'
'The short and the long of what you mean,' said Nancy:
speaking very emphatically, and slightly frowning at Oliver as if
to bespeak his serious attention to her 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 other
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 now that he's thoroughly up to it, let's have
some supper, and get a snooze before 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
profession. 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 oaths 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 threw himself on the bed; ordering Nancy, with many imprecations
in case of failure, 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 seek that opportunity of whispering some further advice; but the girl
sat brooding over the fire, without moving, save now and then to trim the
light. Weary with 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 back 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 black 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 throat; Sikes gave him a large rough cape to button over his
shoulders. Thus attired, he gave his hand to the robber, who, merely
pausing to show him with a menacing 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 away.
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.
CHAPTER XXI
THE EXPEDITION
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 aggrevated than relieved the gloom of the
scene: the sombre light only 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, were noiseless and empty.
By the time they had turned into the Bethnal Green Road, the day had
fairly begun 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, and admonitory 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 vegetables; 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
Shoreditch and Smithfield, it had swelled into a roar of sound and
bustle. It was as light as it was likely to be, till night came on
again, and the busy morning of half 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, and 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 and mire; a thick steam, perpetually rising from the reeking
bodies of the cattle, and mingling with the fog, which seemd 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 oxen, 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 oxen, 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 bells and roar of voices, that issued from every public-house; the
crowding, pushing, driving, beating, whooping and yelling; the hideous
and discordant dim that resounded from every corner of the market; and the
unwashed, unshaven, squalid, and dirty figues 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 the 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 friend; 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, 'hard upon seven! you must step out. Come, don't lag behind
already, Lazy-legs!'
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 run, 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 driver: 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 Bridge, 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 run off. And here, the cart
stopped.
Sikes dismounted with great precipitation, holding Oliver by the hand
all the while; 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 about 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, taking 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 about, 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 dinner 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 the, he and his young comrade sat in a
corner by themselves, without 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 getting 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 case might be—for drinking; 'and not slow about it neither. My
horse hasn't got 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 prevent my standing treat for a pint or so, in return?'
The stranger reflected upon this argument, with a very profound face;
having done 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, and 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: ready 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 bear 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 air 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 sleepy; 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 open 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 below 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 suddenly 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 young 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 one 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.
CHAPTER XXII
THE BURGLARY
'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 nobody 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 the 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 been heretofore described as labouring under the infirmity
of speaking through his 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 id.'
'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 entered 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 fingers, 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 detracted 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 made 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 to 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, carefully 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, if he isn't more trouble than a whole family of Dodgers. Drink
it, you perwerse imp; drink it!'
Frightened by the menacing gestures of the two men, Oliver hastily
swallowed the contents 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 themselves down on chairs for a short nap. Oliver retained his
stool by the fire; Barney wrapped in a blanket, stretched himself on the
floor: close outside the fender.
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 doze: imagining himself straying along the gloomy lanes, or
wandering about the dark churchyard, or retracing some one or other of the
scenes of the past day: when 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 cupboard, brought forth several articles, which he hastily crammed
into the pockets.
'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
delivered 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 which 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 early part of the night; and the atmosphere was so damp,
that, although no rain fell, Oliver's hair and eyebrows, within a few minutes
after leaving the house, had 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-night, to see us.'
Toby acquiesced; and they hurried through the main street of the little
town, which 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 silence 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 that housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the
objects of the expedition. He clasped his hands together, and
involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamation 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 delay, 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 lattice; 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 you 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,' repied Toby, after peeping in to satisfy himself. 'The game of
that is, that 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; then 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 sooner done, than Sikes, mounting upon him, put
Oiver gently through the window with 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 within 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 go 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 dart upstairs from the hall, and alarm the family. Filled
with this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthiy.
'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 advance 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.
Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again, and had him
by the collar before the smoke had cleared away. He fired his own
pistol after the men, who 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 the shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried
over uneven ground at a rapid 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.
CHAPTER XXIII
WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR.
BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE MAY BE SUSCEPTIBLE ON SOME
POINTS
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 increased fury on such prey as it found, caught it savagely up
in clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies, scattered it in
air. Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night for the well-housed
and fed to draw round the bright fire and thank God they were at home; and
for the homeless, starving wretch to lay 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 Mr. Corney, the matron
of the workhouse to which our readers have been already introduced as the
birthplace 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 table: 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 table to the fireplace, where the smallest
of all possible kettles was singing a small song in a small voice, her inward
satisfaction evidently increased,—so much 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 great deal, if we did but know it. Ah!'
Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the
mental blindness of those 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 creature 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 took 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 tea.
'When, indeed, ma'am!' rejoined Mr. Bumble. 'Why here's one
man that, in consideraton of his wife and large family, has a quartern
loaf and a good pound of cheese, 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 afore 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 dinner; and says, he must
be relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn't go away, and shocked the
company very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a
pint of oatmeal. "My heart!" says the ungrateful villain, "what's the
use of THIS to me? You might as well give me a pair of iron
spectacles!' "Very good," says our overseer, taking 'em away again,
"you won't get anything else here." "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 matron. '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. 'But don't you think out-of-door relief a very
bad thing, any way, Mr. Bumble? You'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, ma'am: is the
porochial safeguard. The great principle of out-of-door relief is, to
give the paupers exactly what they don't want; and then they get tired of
coming.'
'Dear me!' 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 the country. But, however,' said the beadle, stopping to unpack his
bundle, 'these are official secrets, ma'am; not to be spoken of;
except, as I may say, among the porochial officers, such as ourselves.
This is the port wine, ma'am, that the board ordered for the infirmary;
real, fresh, genuine port wine; only out 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—louder 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 as 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 shorts, 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 toast 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 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 teaspoon, 'I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could
live with you, ma'am, and NOT be fond of its home, must be 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 will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keeping
at the table, increased the distance between himself and Mrs. Corney; which
proceeding, some prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to admire, and
to consider an act 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 parliament, ministers
of state, lord mayors, and other great public functionaries, but more
particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who (as
is well 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 was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by
little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between himself and
the matron; and, continuing to travel round the outer edge of the circle,
brought his chair, in time, close to that in which the matron was
seated.
Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr.
Bumble stopped.
Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have been
scorched by the fire; and if to the left, she must have fallen into Mr.
Bumble's arms; so (being a discreet matron, and no doubt foreseeing these
consequences at a glance) she remained where she was, and handed Mr. Bumble
another cup of tea.
'Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?' said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and
looking up into the matron'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 the 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 made 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,
than Mr. Bumble darted, with much agility, to the wine bottles, and began
dusting them 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 sudden surprise in counteracting the effects of extreme fear, that her
voice had quite 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, can I?'
'No, no, mistress,' replied the old woman, 'nobody can; she's far beyond
the reach of help. I've seen a many people die; little babes and great
strong men; and 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 night hobbling up the stairs, she followed her from the room
with a very ill grace, scolding all the way.
Mr. Bumble's conduct on being left to himself, was
rather inexplicable. He opened the closet, counted the
teaspoons, weighed the sugar-tongs, closely inspected 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, seemed to be mentally engaged in taking an exact inventory of the
furniture.
CHAPTER XXIV
TREATS ON A VERY POOR SUBJECT. BUT IS A SHORT ONE, AND MAY
BE FOUND OF IMPORTANCE IN THIS HISTORY
It was no unfit messanger 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! The 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 infancy, 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 coffin's side in awe, and
see the Angel even upon earth.
The old crone tottered alone the passages, and up the stairs, muttering
some indistinct answers to the chidings of her companion; being at length
compelled 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 was 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 dropping a curtsey as she spoke.
'You should get better coals out of your contractors,' said
the apothecary's deputy, 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
previously 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 system 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 minutes or so: when apparently growing rather dull, he wished Mrs.
Corney joy of her job, 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. The flame threw a ghastly light on their shrivelled faces,
and made their ugliness appear terrible, as, in this position, they began to
converse in a low voice.
'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 strength in her, so I easily kept her quiet. I ain't so
weak for an old woman, although 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, and she clenched the mug so hard that it was as much as I could do
to get it back 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 have 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 sharply asked how long she was to wait?
'Not long, mistress,' replied the second woman, looking up into her
face. 'We have 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 again 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 does wake; take care, both of you, how you worry me again for
nothing. It's no part 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 women 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 unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by
the apothecary, she was 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 ladies 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 her 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 flushed, and her eyes starting from her head—'I robbed her, so I
did! She wasn't cold—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—yest—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! They 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 mother, 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 Heaven!" 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
indistinct 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 opened.
'And nothing to tell, after all,' rejoined the matron,
walking carelessly away.
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 variety 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 requesting 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
that 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 every 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 drew 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 make 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 roused 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 hasn'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 want to come over him.'
Mr. Dawkins received these handsome compliments with much philosophy,
and offered 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 had 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 Bates, with a grin, 'that he
was uncommon sweet upon Betsy. See how he's a-blushing! 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, that 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,' replied 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 Charley 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 would 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; wouldn'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 question with great volubility.
'No, no, to be sure,' replied the Jew; 'you were too stout-hearted for
that. A deal 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, appealed 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 aimed a blow at the offender; who, being skilful
in evading pursuit, ducked to avoid 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 light, 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 mysteriously.
'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 better 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 room.
'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, pulled 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 away in my castor, Dodger, so that I may know where to find it when I
cut; that's the 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 drop of Day and Martin since you know when; not a bubble of blacking,
by Jove! But 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 have 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 table; 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 his countenance, as if to gain from its expression some clue to the
intelligence 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, there still shone, unimpaired, the self-satisfied smirk of flash
Toby Crackit. Then the Jew, in an agony of impatience, watched every morsel
he put into his mouth; 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, until 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. Damme! 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 between us; his head hung down, and he was cold. They
were close upon our heels; every 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 hands in his hair, rushed from the room, and from the house.
CHAPTER XXVI
IN WHICH A MYSTERIOUS CHARACTER APPEARS UPON THE SCENE; AND MANY THINGS,
INSEPARABLE FROM THIS HISTORY, ARE DONE AND PERFORMED
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; but 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
court; when, as if conscious that he was now in his proper element,
he fell into his 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 Saffron 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 dangling 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
larceny: 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 heaps 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 sell, 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 end 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 hoptalymy!' 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 him. '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 himself 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 chair, and, exchanging a shake of the head
with a lady in the opposite shop, in which 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 injured 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; and 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 office 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 through, as loud as he could. When this was over, the
chairman gave a sentiment, after which, the professional gentleman on
the chairman's right and left volunteered 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 coarse, 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 turn, 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 there, 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 and stamp of their sex
utterly beaten out, and presenting but one loathsome blank 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 quietly 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 moved, 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. Let 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 before 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-morrow. 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 whisper; '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 quarter 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 here, 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
miserable.'
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 inquired 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 himself 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
concilitory 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 face. 'Poor leetle child! Left in a ditch, Nance; only
think!'
'The child,' said the girl, suddenly looking up, 'is better where he is,
than among 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 away 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 never 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 pounds to me, am I to lose what chance threw me in the way of
getting safely, through 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 the 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 more 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 is, 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 confirmed. 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 stong 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 object 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 people were abroad, and they
were to all appearance hastening fast home. It blew from 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.
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
entrance which lay in deep shadow, and, crossing the road, glided up to him
unperceived.
'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
companion, 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 look 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 him.
Fagin looked as if he could have willingly excused himself from taking
home a visitor 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 light.
'It's as dark as the grave,' said the man, groping forward a
few steps. 'Make haste!'
'Shut the door,' whispered Fagin from the end of the passage. As he
spoke, it closed 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 the 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; and the Jew, drawing up the arm-chair opposite, they
sat face to face. It was not quite dark; the door was
partially open; and the candle outside, threw a feeble 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 might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be
defending himself against some 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 several 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 interests 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 enough of that, at first, my dear;
I trembled for us all.'
'THAT was not my doing,' observed Monks.
'No, no, my dear!' renewed the Jew. 'And I don't quarrel with
it now; because, if 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 got 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; 'and, besides, that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one of
these days, I might 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 this time; and,
if—if—' said the Jew, drawing nearer to the other,—'it's not 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 dead, I was not the cause; do
you hear me? Fire this infernal den! What's that?'
'What!' cried the Jew, grasping the coward round the body, with both
arms, as he sprung to his feet. 'Where?'
'Yonder! replied the man, glaring at the opposite wall.
'The shadow! I saw the shadow 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 candle, 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 saw 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 the 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. 'Besides 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.
CHAPTER XXVII
ATONES FOR THE UNPOLITENESS OF A FORMER CHAPTER; WHICH DESERTED A LADY,
MOST UNCEREMONIOUSLY
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
pleasure to relieve him; and as it would still less become his station, or
his gallentry 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 words, 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—trusting that he knows his place, and that he
entertains a becoming reverence for those upon earth to whom high and
important authority is delegated—hastens to pay them that respect which
their position demands, and to treat them with all that duteous ceremony
which their exalted rank, and (by consequence) great virtues, imperatively
claim at his hands. Towards this end, indeed, he had purposed to
introduce, in this place, a dissertation touching the divine right of
beadles, 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 postpone 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 say, a parochial
beadle, attached to a parochail workhouse, and attending in his
official capacity the parochial church: is, in right and virtue of
his office, 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 closer 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 that 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 between two layers of old
newspapers, speckled with dried lavender: seemed to yield him exceeding
satisfaction. Arriving, in course of time, at the right-hand corner
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 coin,
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 pleasant 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
heart, 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 paupers!'
'It's dreadful to think of!' said the lady, shuddering.
'Then DON'T think of it, ma'am,' rejoined Mr. Bumble.
'I can't help it,' whimpered the lady.
'Then take something, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble soothingly.
'A little of the wine?'
'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 spasms. Mr. Bumble rushed to the closet;
and, snatching a pint green-glass bottle from 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 another 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 you 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. Corney's aprong-string, round which is 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 her 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 Angel you are!'
The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She
sank into Mr. Bumble's arms; and that gentleman in his
agitation, imprinted a passionate kiss upon her chaste nose.
'Such 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 filled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this opens!
What a opportunity for a jining of hearts and housekeepings!'
Mrs. Corney sobbed.
'The little word?' said Mr. Bumble, bending over the
bashful beauty. 'The one little, 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 decease.
'Very good,' said that gentleman, sipping his peppermint; 'I'll call at
Sowerberry's as I go home, and tell him to send to-morrow morning. Was
it that as frightened 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 them 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 with 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 again 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 himself that he could fill the office of workhouse-master with
needful acerbity. Assured of his qualifications, Mr. Bumble left the
building with a light heart, 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 forward, he was
not a little surprised.
The cloth was laid for supper; the table was covered with bread and
butter, plates 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 bread in the other. Close beside him stood Charlotte,
opening oysters from a barrel: 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 cooling properties, in cases of
internal fever, could have sufficiently accounted.
'Here's a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!' said Charlotte; 'try him, do;
only this one.'
'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, and 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 ground, 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. Bumble, sir; she chucks me under the chin, please, sir; and makes
all manner of love!'
'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 their
abominable courses under consideration, this country's ruined, and the
character of the peasantry gone for ever!' With these words, the beadle
strode, 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 across 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, roused by the sound of the alarm bell, resounded in every
direction.
'Stop, you white-livered hound!' cried the robber, shouting after Toby
Crackit, who, 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 field in which he stood; and that a couple of dogs were some paces in
advance of them.
'It's all up, Bill!' cried Toby; 'drop the kid, and show 'em
your heels.' With this parting advice, Mr. Crackit, preferring
the chance of being shot by his friend, to the certainty of being taken by
his enemies, fairly turned tail, and darted off at full speed. Sikes
clenched his teeth; took one look around; threw over the prostrate form of
Oliver, the cape in which he had been hurriedly muffled; 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 another hedge which met
it at right angles; and whirling his pistol high into the air, cleared it
at a bound, and was gone.
'Ho, ho, there!' cried a tremulous voice in the rear.
'Pincher! Neptune! Come here, 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, stopped 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 man; 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 arisen from his indignation at having the responsibility of going
home again, imposed 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
bounceably.'
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 wind 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 blood, 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,
therefore, 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 which they had left their lantern, lest its light should inform the
thieves in what direction to fire. Catching up the light, they made the
best of their way home, 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 which 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 places, were all mire and water; the damp breath of an
unwholesome wind went languidly by, with a hollow moaning. Still,
Oliver lay motionless and insensible on the spot where Sikes had left
him.
Morning drew on apace. The air become more sharp and piercing, as
its first dull hue—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 came 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 useless 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 joint, from cold and exhaustion,
he made an effort to stand upright; but, shuddering 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 from 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 alone 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; lights 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, uneasy conscious 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 the 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 the 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. Flight! 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; and, 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 his 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 tow,' said Mr. Giles, 'or I wouldn't swear that
it mightn't have been a little nearer three, when I woke up, and, turning
round in my bed, 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 heerd 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 noise 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 Brittles.
'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 stared 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 looking 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, turning 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 room. "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
don'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 as I was.'
'I should have died at once, I'm sure, if it had been me,' observed the
housemaid.
'You're a woman,' retorted Brittles, plucking up a little.
'Brittles is right,' said Mr. Giles, nodding his head, approvingly;
'from a woman, nothing else was to be expected. We, being men, took a dark
lantern that was standing 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
violently, 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 morning,' said Mr. Giles, surveying the pale faces which surrounded him,
and looking very 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 could not have any application to him; at all events, he tendered no
reply. Mr. Giles directed an appealing glance at the tinker; but he had
suddenly fallen asleep. 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 capitualated 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, took 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 same 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 command to open the door. Brittles obeyed; the group,
peeping timourously 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 uttered 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 staircase; 'here's one of the thieves, ma'am! Here's a thief,
miss! Wounded, miss! I shot 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 this 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 many 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 instant, while I speak to aunt.'
With a footstep as soft and gentle as the voice, the speaker tripped
away. She soon 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 Oliver, he helped to carry him upstairs, with the care and
solicitude of a woman.
CHAPTER XXIX
HAS AN INTRODUCTORY ACCOUNT OF THE INMATES 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 chair in which she sat, was not more upright than she. Dressed
with the utmost nicety 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 style 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 little 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 rough 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 might have smiled to look upon her.
'And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?' asked the old
lady, after a pause.
'An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am,' replied Mr. Giles, referring to a
silver watch, 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 bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty
years, there appeared 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 the 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. Maylie—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 would 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, Giles, 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 hit 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 opposite 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, known through a circuit of ten miles round as 'the
doctor,' had grown fat, more from 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 tokens it was justly concluded that something
important was going on above. At length he returned; and in reply to an
anxious inquiry after his patient; looked very 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 extraordinary 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 about him when Doctor Losberne came in.'
The fact was, that Mr. Giles had not, at first, been able to bring his
mind to the avowal, that he had only shot a boy. Such commendations had
been bestowed upon 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 THOUGHT OF HIM
With many loquacious assurances that they would be agreeably surprised
in the aspect of the criminal, the doctor drew the young lady's arm through
one of him; and 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 very 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. Upon it, in lieu of the dogged, black-visaged
ruffian they had expected to behold, 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 breast; his head reclined upon the
other arm, which was half hidden by his long hair, 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 his 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 exertion of the mind can ever recall.
'What can this mean?' exclaimed the elder lady. 'This poor
child can never have been the pupil of robbers!'
'Vice,' said the surgeon, replacing the curtain, 'takes up her abode in
many temples; 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 very possible; and observing that they might disturb the patient, led
the way into an adjoining apartment.
'But even if he has been wicked,' pursued Rose, 'think how young he is;
think that 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 have forced him to guilt. Aunt, dear aunt, for mercy's
sake, think of this, before 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 might 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 bosom, '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 mercy 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 down 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 made a dead halt, and spoke as follows:
'I think if you give me a full and unlimited commission to bully Giles,
and that 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 reward 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-headed 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 reason, that he is
a real and thorough bad one (which is more than possible), he shall 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, with 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 thing, to hear, in the darkened
room, the feeble voice of the sick child recounting 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 pour 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 without a murmur.
The momentous interview was no sooner concluded, and Oliver composed to
rest again, 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
special 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 had 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 going to die. If I thought it, I should never be happy
again. I wouldn't cut a boy off: 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 doctor, 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 put 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 each 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 nose with it, to bespeak the exercise of that worthy's utmost
acuteness. 'Something may come of this before long.'
The constable looked as wise as he could, and took up his staff of
office: which had been recling 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 house, 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 danger—and swear he is the thief. Now,
the question is, whether these men are justified 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 they 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 anything 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 officer; 'he's in the gig, a-minding the prad. Have you got a coach
'us here, that you 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, aged 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-boots; with a rather ill-favoured countenance,
and a turned-up sinister-looking nose.
'Tell your governor that Blathers and Duff is here, will you?' said the
stouter man, 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.
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; 'but 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
were a pair of castanets. 'Who is the boy?
What account does he give of himself? Where 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 like, 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 little 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 with. This done, amidst
the breathless interest of all beholders, they came in again; and
Mr. Giles and Brittles were put through a melodramatic representation of
their share in the previous night's adventures: which they performed some six
times over: contradiction each other, in not more than one important respect,
the first time, and in not more than a dozen the last. This
consummation being 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 play.
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 way and the wherefore, 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
taken 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 violent fancy to him, whether he will or no; and is put through a
window to rob a house; and then, just at the very moment when he is going to
alarm the inmates, and so do the very thing that would set him all to rights,
there rushes into the way, 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 publicity to all the doubts that will be cast upon it, must interfere,
materially, with your benevolent plan of rescuing him from misery.'
'Oh! what is to be done?' cried Rose. 'Dear, dear! whyddid
they send for these people?'
'Why, indeed!' exclaimed Mrs. Maylie. 'I would not have had
them here, 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 is 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 comfort. 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 making 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 servants 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 style 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; that'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.
'A little drop of spirits, master, if it's all the same,'
replied Blathers. 'It'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 the 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 Conkey 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 intellectural 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 bedrrom 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 about it. But Conkey was quick, too; for
he fired a blunderbuss arter him, and roused 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 of Mr. Chickweed,
licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrupts; 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
going to make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in a
hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of
talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer),
and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as
robbed his house. "I see him, Spyers," said Chickweed, "pass my house
yesterday morning," "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 toothpick," 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 have 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 ready to bolt out, at a moment's notice. He was
smoking his pipe here, late at night, 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 keeps 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 nowhere, so they went back to
the public-house. Next morning, Spyers took his old place, 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 shutting '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 robbed by the devil, who was playing tricks with him arterwards; and
the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweed had gone mad with grief.'
'What did Jem Spyers say?' inquired the doctor; who had returned to the
room shortly 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
snuff, "none of that gammon! You did it yourself." So he had; and
a good bit of money he had made by it, too; and nobody would never have
found it out, 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 Oliver'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 appeared 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 been 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 boyish 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 Oliver towards Mr. Losberne, with
a most ludicrous mixture of fear and perplexity.
'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 thought 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; but he now rose from the chair by the bedside, and remarked, that
if the officers had any doubts upon the subject, they would perhaps like to
step into the next 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 such 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 begain 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, after 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 cage at Kingston, who had been apprehended over night under suspicious
circumstances; and to Kingston Messrs. Blathers and Duff journeyed
accordingly. The suspicious circumstances, however, resolving themselves, on
investigation, 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 other evidence, that the sleeper, or sleepers,
have committed burglary accompanied with violence, and have therefore
rendered themselves liable to the punishment of death; Messrs. Blathers and
Duff came back again, as wise as they went.
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, returned 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 hearts 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 two 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 would 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 utter 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, and 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 could 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 give 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 pleased, 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 the 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 this 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 don'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 volley 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.
He looked anxiously round; not an article of furniture; not a vestige of
anything, animate or inanimate; not even the position of the cupboards;
answered Oliver'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 murder me? Which is it?'
'Did you ever know a man come out to do either, in a chariot and a pair,
you ridiculous old vampire?' said the irritable doctor.
'What do you want, then?' demanded the hunchback. 'Will you
take yourself off, before 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 scared 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 wild 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 these 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 curses all the way; but as Mr. Losberne turned to speak to the driver, he
looked into the carriage, and eyed Oliver for an instant with a glance so
sharp and fierce 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 pretended rage.
'I am an ass!' said the doctor, after a long silence. 'Did
you know that before, 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 could 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 if 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 knew 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 soon
came round again, however; and finding that Oliver's replies to
his questions, were still as straightforward and consistent, and still
delivered with as much 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 tremble 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 me.'
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, with 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 gentleman 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. 'Quite enough for both of us. If we go to the book-stall
keeper's, we shall certainly find that he is dead, or has set his house on
fire, or run away. No; home again straight!' And in obedience to
the doctor's impulse, home they went.
This bitter disappointment caused Oliver much sorrow and grief, even in
the midst of his happiness; for he had pleased himself, many times during his
illness, with 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 passed in reflecting on what they had done for him, and in bewailing
his cruel separation 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 him, under many of his recent trials; and now, the idea
that they should have gone so far, and carried with them the belief that the
was an impostor and a robber—a belief which might remain uncontradicted to
his dying day—was almost more 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 some months.
Sending the plate, which had so excited Fagin's cupidity, to
the banker's; and leaving 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
tranquillity, the sickly boy felt in the balmy air, and among the green hills
and rich woods, of an inland village! Who can tell how scenes of peace
and quietude sink into 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, pent-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 last 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 quick 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 before, 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 before, 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 enter on a new existence there. The rose and
honeysuckle clung to the cottage walls; 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 fresh turf and moss:
beneath which, the old people of the village lay at rest. Oliver 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
eyes 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 associating 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 enought about it. When it became quite dark,
and they returned home, the 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. There 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 knelt so reverently in prayer, that it seemed a pleasure, not
a tedious duty, their assembling there together; and though the singing
might be rude, it was real, and sounded more musical (to Oliver's ears at
least) than any he had ever heard 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 two from the Bible, which he had been
studying all the week, and in the performance of which duty he felt more
proud and pleased, than if he had been the clergyman 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 which 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-table. 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 made 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 science 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
blessed and favoured of mortals, might have been unmingled happiness, and
which, in Oliver's were true felicity. With the purest and most amiable
generousity 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 completely domesticated with the old lady and her niece, and
that the fervent attachment of his young and sensitive heart, was repaid by
their pride in, and attachment to, himself.
CHAPTER XXXIII
WHEREIN THE HAPPINESS OF OLIVER AND HIS FRIENDS, EXPERIENCES A SUDDEN
CHECK
Spring flew swiftly by, and summer came. If the village had
been beautiful at first it was now in the full glow and luxuriance of its
richness. The great trees, which had looked shrunken and bare in the
earlier months, had now burst into strong life and health; and stretching
forth their green arms over the thirsty ground, converted open and naked
spots into choice nooks, where was a deep and pleasant 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 shed
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 beauty; 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 with a crimson flush: and a heavy wildness
came over the soft blue eye. Again this disappeared, like the
shadow thrown by a passing cloud; and she was once more 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, that when Rose was persuaded by her aunt to retire for the
night, she was in better 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 been 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, she was quite well.'
'She is very ill now,' rejoined Mrs. Maylies; 'and will be worse, I am
sure. My dear, 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—certain—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 will 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 objects of our love.
I have seen enough, too, to know that it is not always the youngest 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 passage to it is
speedy. God's will be done! I love her; and He know
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 cheerfully. 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 horseback, 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 send 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 house 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-morrow.'
With these words, she gave Oliver her purse, and he started off, without
more delay, 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 on 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 toothpick.
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 anxiety, 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 uneven paving of the market-place, was
out of the town, and galloping along the turnpike-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 heart. 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.
'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 coffin, to come in my way!'
'I am sorry,' stammered Oliver, confused by the strange man's wild
look. 'I hope 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 in 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 towards Oliver, as if with the intention of aiming a blow at him,
but fell violently on the ground: writhing and foaming, in a fit.
Oliver gazed, for a moment, at the struggles of the madman (for such he
supposed him to be); and then darted into the house for help. Having
seen him safely carried 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 parted.
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 medical 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 pronounced her disorder to be one of a
most alarming nature. 'In fact,' he said, 'it would 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 the sick chamber! How often did a tremble shake his frame, and
cold drops of terror 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 been 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 verge!
Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while
the life 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 DESPERATE 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 helplessness 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 went 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 hard,' 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, and health, and sounds and sights of joy,
surrounding her on every side: the fair 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 silence.
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; such 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 and 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. Another! 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 stood 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 young 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-reproach 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 sand 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 removed, 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 those brilliant hues which herald his departure. Their
quick ears caught the sound 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 energy which had supported her so long, fled up to Heaven with her first
thanksgiving; and she sank into the friendly arms which were extended to
receive her.
CHAPTER XXIV
CONTAINS SOME INTRODUCTORY PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO
NOW ARRIVES UPON THE SCENE; AND A NEW ADVENTURE WHICH HAPPENED TO OLIVER
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 scarcely the power of understanding anything that had
passed, until, after a long ramble in the quiet evening air, a burst of tears
came to his relief, and he seemed 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 which he had culled, with peculiar care, for
the adornment of the sick chamber. As he walked briskly along
the road, he heard behind him, the noise of some vehicle, approaching at a
furious pace. Looking round, he saw that it was a post-chaise, 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 nitecap,
whose face 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: which he did, as soon as he could pull up his
horses. Then, the nightcap once again 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
beginning 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 what 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 steps 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 fellow had not been feigning emotion, was abundently
demonstrated by the very red eyes with which he regarded the young gentleman,
when he turned round and addressed 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 say that, I should be very much obliged to you. It wouldn't
be proper for the maids to see me in this state, sir; I should never have any
more authority with them 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 madmen.'
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
out 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, and was of the middle height;
his countenance was frank and handsome; and his demeanor easy
and prepossessing. Notwithstanding the difference between youth
and age, he bore so strong a likeness to the old lady, that Oliver would
have had no great difficulty in imagining their relationship, if he had not
already 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 Mrs. Maylie; 'but, on reflection, I determined to keep
back the letter until I had heard Mr. Losberne's opinion.'
'But why,' said the young man, 'why run the chance of that occurring
which so nearly happened? If Rose had—I cannot utter that word now—if
this illness had terminated differently, how could you ever have forgiven
yourself! How could 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 that your arrival here, a
day sooner or a day later, would have been of very, very 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 require no ordinary return, but one that shall be deep and
lasting. If I did not feel this, and know, besides, that a changed
behaviour in one she loved would break 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 to be the strict line of duty.'
'This is unkind, mother,' said Harry. 'Do you still suppose that I
am a boy ignorant 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 them 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 cold 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 may have the pain of knowing that he does
so.'
'Mother,' said the young man, impatiently, 'he would be a selfish brute,
unworthy alike 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 the 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, sweet, gentle girl! my heart is set, as firmly
as ever heart of man was set on woman. 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 disregard
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 hearts, that I would spare them from being wounded.
But we have said enough, and more 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 impatient reply; 'Mother, I
have considered, years and years. I have considered, ever since
I have been capable of serious reflection. My feelings
remain unchanged, as they ever will; and why should I suffer the pain of a
delay in giving them 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 son as he was about to speak, 'is this. Before you
stake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried to
the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my dear child, on
Rose's history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her doubtful birth
may have on her decision: devoted as she 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 bless 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 Harry 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 the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to
be busy about the luggage, listened 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 patronage; '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 request of your good mistress, a small commission in your
favour. Just step into this 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
termination 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. Giles walked straight thither, and having called for a mug of
ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly effective, that
it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the
occasion of that attempted robbery, to depost, in the local savings-bank, the
sum of five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and benefit. At this,
the two women-servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr.
Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, 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 with
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 recollections, 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, with 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 rustle 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, even 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 his 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 left 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 window 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 stood in water, just inside the lattice, one
particular little bunch, which was made up with great care, every
morning. Oliver could not help noticing that the withered flowers were
never thrown away, although the little vase was regularly
replenished; nor, could he help observing, that whenever the doctor came
into 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 assiduity, 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 unexpected
occurence.
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, with a lattice-window: around which were clusters of
jessamine and honeysuckle, that 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 settle upon the earth, Oliver sat at this window, intent upon his
books. He had been poring over them for some time; and, as the day had
been uncommonly sultry, and he had exerted himself a great deal, it it 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,
until 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 indcidental to such a state. It
is an undoubted fact, that although our senses of touch and sight be for
the time dead, yet our sleeping 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 were 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, that he was in the Jew's house again. There
sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed corner, pointing at him, and
whispering to another man, with his face averted, who sat beside him.
'Hush, my dear!' he thought he heard the Jew say; 'it is he,
sure enough. Come away.'
'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 them, there is something that would tell
me how to point him out. If you buried him fifty feet deep, and took me
across his grave, I fancy I should know, if there 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 the fear, and started up.
Good Heaven! what was that, which sent the blood tingling to
his heart, and deprived him of his voice, and of power to move!
There—there—at the window—close before him—so close, that he could
have almost touched him before he started 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 him from his birth. He stood transfixed for a moment; then,
leaping from the window into the garden, called loudly for help.
CHAPTER XXXV
CONTAINING THE UNSATISFACTORY RESULT OF OLIVER'S ADVENTURE; AND
A CONVERSATION OF SOME IMPORTANCE BETWEEN HARRY MAYLIE AND ROSE
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 standing in a corner.
'That,' replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man had taken; 'I
missed them in an instant.'
'Then, they are in the ditch!' said Harry. 'Follow! And keep
as near me, as you can.' So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and darted
off with a speed which rendered 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 returned, 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 party 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 Oliver 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 skirted 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 him.'
'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 fell satisfied of
the accuracy of what he said. Still, in no direction were there
any appearances of the trampling of men in hurried flight. The
grass was long; but it was trodden down nowhere, save where their own feet
had crushed it. The sides and brinks of the ditches were of damp clay;
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; but 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 upon 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 appeared with traces of tears upon her
face. After Mr. Losberne had fixed a day for his 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 Maylie 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
chair 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 from 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 had.'
'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 with 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 kind, 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 fresh 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
death. Oh! who could hope, when the distant world to which she was
akin, half opened 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 light 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 that you belonged to that bright sphere
whither so many of the fairest and the best have winged their early flight;
and yet to pray, amid all these consolations, 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, lest you should die, and never
know how devotedly I loved you, as almost bore down 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 mankind.'
'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 worthy of you.'
'There is no pursuit more worthy of me: more worthy of the highest
nature that exists: 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; hoping 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 ungrateful, 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 and dearly-attached companion, for that would wound me deeply; but,
as the object 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 the truest, warmest, and most faithful friend you
have.'
There was a pause, during which, Rose, who had covered her face with one
hand, gave 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, and 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 so, without doing heavy wrong to him I loved,'
rejoined Rose, 'I could have—'
'Have received this declaration very differently?' said Harry. 'Do not
conceal that 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 placed 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 truth 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 public life, are in store for you.
But those connections are proud; and I will neither 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 firmness forsook
her, 'there is a stain upon my name, which the world visits on innocent
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 before 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 advancement to riches and honour, given this scruple birth?'
'Do not press me to reply,' answered Rose. 'The question does not
arise, and never 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 enduring 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 even 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 drawback 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 should 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 year, 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
melancholy 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 time 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.
CHAPTER XXXVI
IS A VERY SHORT ONE, AND MAY APPEAR OF NO GREAT IMPORTANCE IN ITS PLACE,
BUT IT SHOULD BE READ NOTWITHSTANDING, AS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST, AND A KEY TO
ONE THAT WILL FOLLOW WHEN ITS TIME ARRIVES
'And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning;
eh?' said the 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 without any perceptible reason.
'I hope I may have good cause to do so,' replied Mr. Losberne; 'though I
confess 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 honour 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 breakfast when he ought to be ranging the meadows
after botanical phenomena of all kinds. 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 include 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 into parliament at the election before Christmas,
and these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political
life. There's something in that. 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 surprised 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 to 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 delighted 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 what 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 is be a secret between
you and me; and mind 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 shouting to the postillion; 'something very short of flyng 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 road, 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 the 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 direction, 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 ceiling, to which he occasionally raised his eyes in gloomy thought;
and, as the heedless insects hovered round the gaudy net-work, Mr.
Bumble would heave a deep sigh, while a more gloomy shadow overspread his
countenance. Mr. Bumble was meditating; it might be that the insects
brought to mind, some painful passage in his own past life.
Nor was Mr. Bumble's gloom the only thing calculated to awaken
a pleasing melancholy in the bosom of a spectator. There were not wanting
other appearances, and those closely connected with his own person, which
announced that a great change had taken place in the position of his
affairs. The laced coat, and the cocked hat; where were they? He
still wore knee-breeches, and dark cotton stockings on his nether limbs; but
they were not THE breeches. The coat was wide-skirted; and in that
respect like THE coat, but, oh how different! The mighty cocked hat
was replaced by a modest round one. Mr. Bumble was no longer
a beadle.
There are some promotions in life, which, independent of the
more substantial rewards they offer, require peculiar value and dignity
from the coats and waistcoats connected with them. A field-marshal has
his uniform; a bishop his silk apron; a counsellor his silk gown; a beadle
his cocked hat. Strip the bishop of his apron, or the beadle of his hat
and lace; what are they? Men. Mere men. Dignity, and even
holiness too, sometimes, are more questions of coat and waistcoat than
some people imagine.
Mr. Bumle had married Mrs. Corney, and was master of
the workhouse. Another beadle had come into power. On him
the cocked hat, gold-laced coat, and staff, had all three descended.
'And to-morrow two months it was done!' said Mr. Bumble, with
a sigh. 'It seems a age.'
Mr. Bumble might have meant that he had concentrated a whole existence
of happiness into the short space of eight weeks; but the sigh—there was a
vast deal of meaning in the sigh.
'I sold myself,' said Mr. Bumble, pursuing the same train of relection,
'for six teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a milk-pot; with a small
quantity of second-hand furniture, and twenty pound in money. I went
very reasonable. Cheap, dirt cheap!'
'Cheap!' cried a shrill voice in Mr. Bumble's ear: 'you would have been
dear at any price; and dear enough I paid for you, Lord above knows
that!'
Mr. Bumble turned, and encountered the face of his interesting consort,
who, imperfectly comprehending the few words she had overheard of his
complaint, had hazarded the foregoing remark at a venture.
'Mrs. Bumble, ma'am!' said Mr. Bumble, with a
sentimental sternness.
'Well!' cried the lady.
'Have the goodness to look at me,' said Mr. Bumble, fixing his eyes upon
her. (If she stands such a eye as that,' said Mr. Bumble to himself,
'she can stand anything. It is a eye I never knew to fail with
paupers. If it fails with her, my power is gone.')
Whether an exceedingly small expansion of eye be sufficient to quell
paupers, who, being lightly fed, are in no very high condition; or whether
the late Mrs. Corney was particularly proof against eagle glances; are
matters of opinion. The matter of fact, is, that the matron was in no
way overpowered by Mr. Bumble's scowl, but, on the contrary, treated it with
great disdain, and even raised a laugh threreat, which sounded as though
it were genuine.
On hearing this most unexpected sound, Mr. Bumble looked,
first incredulous, and afterwards amazed. He then relapsed into
his former state; nor did he rouse himself until his attention was again
awakened by the voice of his partner.
'Are you going to sit snoring there, all day?' inquired
Mrs. Bumble.
'I am going to sit here, as long as I think proper, ma'am,' rejoined Mr.
Bumble; 'and although I was NOT snoring, I shall snore, gape, sneeze, laugh,
or cry, as the humour strikes me; such being my prerogative.'
'Your PREROGATIVE!' sneered Mrs. Bumble, with ineffable contempt.
'I said the word, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble. 'The prerogative of
a man is to command.'
'And what's the prerogative of a woman, in the name of Goodness?' cried
the relict of Mr. Corney deceased.
'To obey, ma'am,' thundered Mr. Bumble. 'Your late
unfortunate husband should have taught it you; and then, perhaps, he
might have been alive now. I wish he was, poor man!'
Mrs. Bumble, seeing at a glance, that the decisive moment had
now arrived, and that a blow struck for the mastership on one side
or other, must necessarily be final and conclusive, no sooner heard this
allusion to the dead and gone, than she dropped into a chair, and with a loud
scream that Mr. Bumble was a hard-hearted brute, fell into a paroxysm of
tears.
But, tears were not the things to find their way to Mr. Bumble's soul;
his heart was waterproof. Like washable beaver hats that improve with
rain, his nerves were rendered stouter and more vigorous, by showers of
tears, which, being tokens of weakness, and so far tacit admissions of his
own power, please and exalted him. He eyed his good lady with looks of
great satisfaction, and begged, in an encouraging manner, that she should cry
her hardest: the exercise being looked upon, by the faculty,
as stronly conducive to health.
'It opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises the eyes, and
softens down the temper,' said Mr. Bumble. 'So cry away.'
As he discharged himself of this pleasantry, Mr. Bumble took his hat
from a peg, and putting it on, rather rakishly, on one side, as a man might,
who felt he had asserted his superiority in a becoming manner, thrust his
hands into his pockets, and sauntered towards the door, with much ease and
waggishness depicted in his whole appearance.
Now, Mrs. Corney that was, had tried the tears, because they were less
troublesome than a manual assault; but, she was quite prepared to make trial
of the latter mode of proceeding, as Mr. Bumble was not long in
discovering.
The first proof he experienced of the fact, was conveyed in a hollow
sound, immediately succeeded by the sudden flying off of his hat to the
opposite end of the room. This preliminary proceeding laying bare his
head, the expert lady, clasping him tightly round the throat with one hand,
inflicted a shower of blows (dealt with singular vigour and dexterity) upon
it with the other. This done, she created a little variety by
scratching his face, and tearing his hair; and, having, by this time,
inflicted as much punishment as she deemed necessary for the offence,
she pushed him over a chair, which was luckily well situated for
the purpose: and defied him to talk about his prerogative again,
if he dared.
'Get up!' said Mrs. Bumble, in a voice of command. 'And
take yourself away from here, unless you want me to do
something desperate.'
Mr. Bumble rose with a very rueful countenance: wondering
much what something desperate might be. Picking up his hat, he
looked towards the door.
'Are you going?' demanded Mr. Bumble.
'Certainly, my dear, certainly,' rejoined Mr. Bumble, making a quicker
motion towards the door. 'I didn't intend to—I'm going, my dear!
You are so very violent, that really I—'
At this instant, Mrs. Bumble stepped hastily forward to replace the
carpet, which had been kicked up in the scuffle. Mr. Bumble immediately
darted out of the room, without bestowing another thought on his unfinished
sentence: leaving the late Mrs. Corney in full possession of the
field.
Mr. Bumble was fairly taken by surprise, and fairly beaten. He had
a decided propensity for bullying: derived no inconsiderable pleasure
from the exercise of petty cruelty; and, consequently, was (it is needless to
say) a coward. This is by no means a disparagement to his character;
for many official personages, who are held in high respect and admiration,
are the victims of similar infirmities. The remark is made, indeed,
rather in his favour than otherwise, and with a view of impressing the
reader with a just sense of his qualifications for office.
But, the measure of his degradation was not yet full. After making
a tour of the house, and thinking, for the first time, that the poor-laws
really were too hard on people; and that men who ran away from their wives,
leaving them chargeable to the parish, ought, in justice to be visited with
no punishment at all, but rather rewarded as meritorious individuals who
had suffered much; Mr. Bumble came to a room where some of the
female paupers were usually employed in washing the parish linen:
when the sound of voices in conversation, now proceeded.
'Hem!' said Mr. Bumble, summoning up all his native dignity. 'These
women at least shall continue to respect the prerogative. Hallo! hallo
there! What do you mean by this noise, you hussies?'
With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door, and walked in with a very
fierce and angry manner: which was at once exchanged for a most
humiliated and cowering air, as his eyes unexpectedly rested on the form of
his lady wife.
'My dear,' said Mr. Bumble, 'I didn't know you were here.'
'Didn't know I was here!' repeated Mrs. Bumble. 'What do YOU
do here?'
'I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their work
properly, my dear,' replied Mr. Bumble: glancing distractedly at a
couple of old women at the wash-tub, who were comparing notes of admiration
at the workhouse-master's humility.
'YOU thought they were talking too much?' said Mrs. Bumble.
'What business is it of yours?'
'Why, my dear—' urged Mr. Bumble submissively.
'What business is it of yours?' demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.
'It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,' submitted Mr. Bumble;
'but I thought you mightn't be in the way just then.'
'I'll tell you what, Mr. Bumble,' returned his lady. 'We
don't want any of your interference. You're a great deal too fond
of poking your nose into things that don't concern you, making everybody
in the house laugh, the moment your back is turned, and making yourself look
like a fool every hour in the day. Be off; come!'
Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings, the delight of the two
old paupers, who were tittering together most rapturously, hesitated for an
instant. Mrs. Bumble, whose patience brooked no delay, caught up a bowl
of soap-suds, and motioning him towards the door, ordered him instantly to
depart, on pain of receiving the contents upon his portly person.
What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked dejectedly round, and
slunk away; and, as he reached the door, the titterings of the
paupers broke into a shrill chuckle of irrepressible delight. It
wanted but this. He was degraded in their eyes; he had lost caste
and station before the very paupers; he had fallen from all the height and
pomp of beadleship, to the lowest depth of the most snubbed
hen-peckery.
'All in two months!' said Mr. Bumble, filled with dismal thoughts.
'Two months! No more than two months ago, I was not only my own master,
but everybody else's, so far as the porochial workhouse was concerned, and
now!—'
It was too much. Mr. Bumble boxed the ears of the boy who
opened the gate for him (for he had reached the portal in his
reverie); and walked, distractedly, into the street.
He walked up one street, and down another, until exercise had abated the
first passion of his grief; and then the revulsion of feeling made him
thirsty. He passed a great many public-houses; but, at length paused
before one in a by-way, whose parlour, as he gathered from a hasty peep over
the blinds, was deserted, save by one solitary customer. It began to
rain, heavily, at the moment. This determined him. Mr. Bumble
stepped in; and ordering something to drink, as he passed the bar, entered
the apartment into which he had looked from the street.
The man who was seated there, was tall and dark, and wore a
large cloak. He had the air of a stranger; and seemed, by a
certain haggardness in his look, as well as by the dusty soils on
his dress, to have travelled some distance. He eyed Bumble
askance, as he entered, but scarcely deigned to nod his head
in acknowledgment of his salutation.
Mr. Bumble had quite dignity enough for two; supposing even that the
stranger had been more familiar: so he drank his gin-and-water in
silence, and read the paper with great show of pomp and circumstance.
It so happened, however: as it will happen very often, when men fall
into company under such circumstances: that Mr. Bumble felt, every now
and then, a powerful inducement, which he could not resist, to steal a look
at the stranger: and that whenever he did so, he withdrew his eyes, in
some confusion, to find that the stranger was at that moment stealing a look
at him. Mr. Bumble's awkwardness was enhanced by the very
remarkable expression of the stranger's eye, which was keen and bright,
but shadowed by a scowl of distrust and suspicion, unlike anything he had
ever observed before, and repulsive to behold.
When they had encountered each other's glance several times in this way,
the stranger, in a harsh, deep voice, broke silence.
'Were you looking for me,' he said, 'when you peered in at
the window?'
'Not that I am aware of, unless you're Mr. —' Here Mr.
Bumble stopped short; for he was curious to know the stranger's name, and
thought in his impatience, he might supply the blank.
'I see you were not,' said the stranger; and expression of quiet sarcasm
playing about his mouth; 'or you have known my name. You don't know
it. I would recommend you not to ask for it.'
'I meant no harm, young man,' observed Mr. Bumble, majestically.
'And have done none,' said the stranger.
Another silence succeeded this short dialogue: which was
again broken by the stranger.
'I have seen you before, I think?' said he. 'You were differently
dressed at that time, and I only passed you in the street, but I should know
you again. You were beadle here, once; were you not?'
'I was,' said Mr. Bumble, in some surprise; 'porochial beadle.'
'Just so,' rejoined the other, nodding his head. 'It was in
that character I saw you. What are you now?'
'Master of the workhouse,' rejoined Mr. Bumble, slowly and impressively,
to check any undue familiarity the stranger might otherwise assume.
'Master of the workhouse, young man!'
'You have the same eye to your own interest, that you always had, I
doubt not?' resumed the stranger, looking keenly into Mr. Bumble's eyes, as
he raised them in astonishment at the question.
'Don't scruple to answer freely, man. I know you pretty well, you
see.'
'I suppose, a married man,' replied Mr. Bumble, shading his eyes with
his hand, and surveying the stranger, from head to foot, in evident
perplexity, 'is not more averse to turning an honest penny when he can, than
a single one. Porochial officers are not so well paid that they can
afford to refuse any little extra fee, when it comes to them in a civil and
proper manner.'
The stranger smiled, and nodded his head again: as much to say, he had
not mistaken his man; then rang the bell.
'Fill this glass again,' he said, handing Mr. Bumble's empty tumbler to
the landlord. 'Let it be strong and hot. You like it so, I
suppose?'
'Not too strong,' replied Mr. Bumble, with a delicate cough.
'You understand what that means, landlord!' said the
stranger, drily.
The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a
steaming jorum: of which, the first gulp brought the water into Mr. Bumble's
eyes.
'Now listen to me,' said the stranger, after closing the door
and window. 'I came down to this place, to-day, to find you
out; and, by one of those chances which the devil throws in the way of his
friends sometimes, you walked into the very room I was sitting in, while you
were uppermost in my mind. I want some information from you. I
don't ask you to give it for mothing, slight as it is. Put up that, to
begin with.'
As he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to his
companion, carefully, as though unwilling that the chinking of money should
be heard without. When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins,
to see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with much satisfaction,
in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on:
'Carry your memory back—let me see—twelve years, last winter.'
'It's a long time,' said Mr. Bumble. 'Very good. I've done
it.'
'The scene, the workhouse.'
'Good!'
'And the time, night.'
'Yes.'
'And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable
drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves—gave
birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and hid their shame, rot 'em
in the grave!'
'The lying-in room, I suppose?' said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the
stranger's excited description.
'Yes,' said the stranger. 'A boy was born there.'
'A many boys,' observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his
head, despondingly.
'A murrain on the young devils!' cried the stranger; 'I speak of one; a
meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down here, to a
coffin-maker—I wish he had made his coffin, and screwed his body in it—and
who afterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed.
'Why, you mean Oliver! Young Twist!' said Mr. Bumble; 'I remember
him, of course. There wasn't a obstinater young rascal—'
'It's not of him I want to hear; I've heard enough of him,' said the
stranger, stopping Mr. Bumble in the outset of a tirade on the subject of
poor Oliver's vices. 'It's of a woman; the hag that nursed his
mother. Where is she?'
'Where is she?' said Mr. Bumble, whom the gin-and-water had rendered
facetious. 'It would be hard to tell. There's no midwifery there,
whichever place she's gone to; so I suppose she's out of employment,
anyway.'
'What do you mean?' demanded the stranger, sternly.
'That she died last winter,' rejoined Mr. Bumble.
The man looked fixedly at him when he had given this information, and
although he did not withdraw his eyes for some time afterwards, his gaze
gradually became vacant and abstracted, and he seemed lost in thought.
For some time, he appeared doubtful whether he ought to be relieved or
disappointed by the intelligence; but at length he breathed more freely;
and withdrawing his eyes, observed that it was no great matter.
With that he rose, as if to depart.
But Mr. Bumble was cunning enough; and he at once saw that
an opportunity was opened, for the lucrative disposal of some secret in
the possession of his better half. He well remembered the night of old
Sally's death, which the occurrences of that day had given him good reason to
recollect, as the occasion on which he had proposed to Mrs. Corney; and
although that lady had never confided to him the disclosure of which she had
been the solitary witness, he had heard enough to know that it related to
something that had occurred in the old woman's attendance, as
workhouse nurse, upon the young mother of Oliver Twist. Hastily
calling this circumstance to mind, he informed the stranger, with an
air of mystery, that one woman had been closeted with the old harridan
shortly before she died; and that she could, as he had reason to believe,
throw some light on the subject of his inquiry.
'How can I find her?' said the stranger, thrown off his guard; and
plainly showing that all his fears (whatever they were) were aroused afresh
by the intelligence.
'Only through me,' rejoined Mr. Bumble.
'When?' cried the stranger, hastily.
'To-morrow,' rejoined Bumble.
'At nine in the evening,' said the stranger, producing a scrap of paper,
and writing down upon it, an obscure address by the water-side, in characters
that betrayed his agitation; 'at nine in the evening, bring her to me
there. I needn't tell you to be secret. It's your
interest.'
With these words, he led the way to the door, after stopping to pay for
the liquor that had been drunk. Shortly remarking that their roads were
different, he departed, without more ceremony than an emphatic repetition of
the hour of appointment for the following night.
On glancing at the address, the parochial functionary observed that it
contained no name. The stranger had not gone far, so he made after him
to ask it.
'What do you want?' cried the man. turning quickly round, as Bumble
touched him on the arm. 'Following me?'
'Only to ask a question,' said the other, pointing to the scrap of
paper. 'What name am I to ask for?'
'Monks!' rejoined the man; and strode hastily, away.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN MR. AND MRS. BUMBLE, AND
MR. MONKS, AT THEIR NOCTURNAL INTERVIEW
It was a dull, close, overcast summer evening. The clouds,
which had been threatening all day, spread out in a dense and
sluggish mass of vapour, already yielded large drops of rain, and
seemed to presage a violent thunder-storm, when Mr. and Mrs.
Bumble, turning out of the main street of the town, directed their
course towards a scattered little colony of ruinous houses, distant
from it some mile and a-half, or thereabouts, and erected on a
low unwholesome swamp, bordering upon the river.
They were both wrapped in old and shabby outer garments, which might,
perhaps, serve the double purpose of protecting their persons from the rain,
and sheltering them from observation. The husband carried a lantern,
from which, however, no light yet shone; and trudged on, a few paces in
front, as though—the way being dirty—to give his wife the benefit of
treading in his heavy footprints. They went on, in profound silence;
every now and then, Mr. Bumble relaxed his pace, and turned his head as
if to make sure that his helpmate was following; then, discovering that
she was close at his heels, he mended his rate of walking, and proceeded, at
a considerable increase of speed, towards their place of destination.
This was far from being a place of doubtful character; for it had long
been known as the residence of none but low ruffians, who, under various
pretences of living by their labour, subsisted chiefly on plunder and
crime. It was a collection of mere hovels: some, hastily built
with loose bricks: others, of old worm-eaten ship-timber: jumbled together
without any attempt at order or arrangement, and planted, for the most part,
within a few feet of the river's bank. A few leaky boats drawn up on
the mud, and made fast to the dwarf wall which skirted it: and
here and there an oar or coil of rope: appeared, at first,
to indicate that the inhabitants of these miserable cottages pursued some
avocation on the river; but a glance at the shattered and useless condition
of the articles thus displayed, would have led a passer-by, without much
difficulty, to the conjecture that they were disposed there, rather for the
preservation of appearances, than with any view to their being actually
employed.
In the heart of this cluster of huts; and skirting the river, which its
upper stories overhung; stood a large building, formerly used as a
manufactory of some kind. It had, in its day, probably furnished
employment to the inhabitants of the surrounding tenements. But it had
long since gone to ruin. The rat, the worm, and the action of the damp,
had weakened and rotted the piles on which it stood; and a considerable
portion of the building had already sunk down into the water; while
the remainder, tottering and bending over the dark stream, seemed to wait
a favourable opportunity of following its old companion, and involving itself
in the same fate.
It was before this ruinous building that the worthy couple paused, as
the first peal of distant thunder reverberated in the air, and the rain
commenced pouring violently down.
'The place should be somewhere here,' said Bumble, consulting a scrap of
paper he held in his hand.
'Halloa there!' cried a voice from above.
Following the sound, Mr. Bumble raised his head and descried a man
looking out of a door, breast-high, on the second story.
'Stand still, a minute,' cried the voice; 'I'll be with
you directly.' With which the head disappeared, and the door
closed.
'Is that the man?' asked Mr. Bumble's good lady.
Mr. Bumble nodded in the affirmative.
'Then, mind what I told you,' said the matron: 'and be careful to say as
little as you can, or you'll betray us at once.'
Mr. Bumble, who had eyed the building with very rueful looks,
was apparently about to express some doubts relative to the advisability
of proceeding any further with the enterprise just then, when he was
prevented by the appearance of Monks: w ho opened a small door, near which
they stood, and beckoned them inwards.
'Come in!' he cried impatiently, stamping his foot upon
the ground. 'Don't keep me here!'
The woman, who had hesitated at first, walked boldly in, without any
other invitation. Mr. Bumble, who was ashamed or afraid to lag behind,
followed: obviously very ill at ease and with scarcely any of that
remarkable dignity which was usually his chief characteristic.
'What the devil made you stand lingering there, in the wet?' said Monks,
turning round, and addressing Bumble, after he had bolted the door behind
them.
'We—we were only cooling ourselves,' stammered Bumble,
looking apprehensively about him.
'Cooling yourselves!' retorted Monks. 'Not all the rain that ever
fell, or ever will fall, will put as much of hell's fire out, as a man can
carry about with him. You won't cool yourself so easily; don't think
it!'
With this agreeable speech, Monks turned short upon the matron, and bent
his gaze upon her, till even she, who was not easily cowed, was fain to
withdraw her eyes, and turn them them towards the ground.
'This is the woman, is it?' demanded Monks.
'Hem! That is the woman,' replied Mr. Bumble, mindful of
his wife's caution.
'You think women never can keep secrets, I suppose?' said the matron,
interposing, and returning, as she spoke, the searching look of Monks.
'I know they will always keep ONE till it's found out,'
said Monks.
'And what may that be?' asked the matron.
'The loss of their own good name,' replied Monks. 'So, by the same
rule, if a woman's a party to a secret that might hang or transport her, I'm
not afraid of her telling it to anybody; not I! Do you understand,
mistress?'
'No,' rejoined the matron, slightly colouring as she spoke.
'Of course you don't!' said Monks. 'How should you?'
Bestowing something half-way between a smile and a frown upon his two
companions, and again beckoning them to follow him, the man hastened across
the apartment, which was of considerable extent, but low in the roof.
He was preparing to ascend a steep staircase, or rather ladder, leading to
another floor of warehouses above: when a bright flash of lightning
streamed down the aperture, and a peal of thunder followed, which shook
the crazy building to its centre.
'Hear it!' he cried, shrinking back. 'Hear it! Rolling
and crashing on as if it echoed through a thousand caverns where
the devils were hiding from it. I hate the sound!'
He remained silent for a few moments; and then, removing his hands
suddenly from his face, showed, to the unspeakable discomposure of Mr.
Bumble, that it was much distorted and discoloured.
'These fits come over me, now and then,' said Monks, observing his
alarm; 'and thunder sometimes brings them on. Don't mind me now; it's all
over for this once.'
Thus speaking, he led the way up the ladder; and hastily closing the
window-shutter of the room into which it led, lowered a lantern which hung at
the end of a rope and pulley passed through one of the heavy beams in the
ceiling: and which cast a dim light upon an old table and three chairs
that were placed beneath it.
'Now,' said Monks, when they had all three seated themselves, 'the
sooner we come to our business, the better for all. The woman know what
it is, does she?'
The question was addressed to Bumble; but his wife anticipated the
reply, by intimating that she was perfectly acquainted with it.
'He is right in saying that you were with this hag the night she died;
and that she told you something—'
'About the mother of the boy you named,' replied the matron interrupting
him. 'Yes.'
'The first question is, of what nature was her communication?' said
Monks.
'That's the second,' observed the woman with much deliberation. 'The
first is, what may the communication be worth?'
'Who the devil can tell that, without knowing of what kind it is?' asked
Monks.
'Nobody better than you, I am persuaded,' answered Mrs. Bumble: who did
not want for spirit, as her yoke-fellow could abundantly testify.
'Humph!' said Monks significantly, and with a look of eager inquiry;
'there may be money's worth to get, eh?'
'Perhaps there may,' was the composed reply.
'Something that was taken from her,' said Monks. 'Something
that she wore. Something that—'
'You had better bid,' interrupted Mrs. Bumble. 'I have
heard enough, already, to assure me that you are the man I ought to talk
to.'
Mr. Bumble, who had not yet been admitted by his better half into any
greater share of the secret than he had originally possessed, listened to
this dialogue with outstretched neck and distended eyes: which he
directed towards his wife and Monks, by turns, in undisguised astonishment;
increased, if possible, when the latter sternly demanded, what sum was
required for the disclosure.
'What's it worth to you?' asked the woman, as collectedly
as before.
'It may be nothing; it may be twenty pounds,' replied Monks. 'Speak out,
and let me know which.'
'Add five pounds to the sum you have named; give me five-and-twenty
pounds in gold,' said the woman; 'and I'll tell you all I know. Not
before.'
'Five-and-twenty pounds!' exclaimed Monks, drawing back.
'I spoke as plainly as I could,' replied Mrs. Bumble. 'It's not a
large sum, either.'
'Not a large sum for a paltry secret, that may be nothing when it's
told!' cried Monks impatiently; 'and which has been lying dead for twelve
years past or more!'
'Such matters keep well, and, like good wine, often double their value
in course of time,' answered the matron, still preserving the resolute
indifference she had assumed. 'As to lying dead, there are those who
will lie dead for twelve thousand years to come, or twelve million, for
anything you or I know, who will tell strange tales at last!'
'What if I pay it for nothing?' asked Monks, hesitating.
'You can easily take it away again,' replied the matron. 'I am but a
woman; alone here; and unprotected.'
'Not alone, my dear, nor unprotected, neither,' submitted Mr. Bumble, in
a voice tremulous with fear: '_I_ am here, my dear. And besides,' said Mr.
Bumble, his teeth chattering as he spoke, 'Mr. Monks is too much of a
gentleman to attempt any violence on porochial persons. Mr. Monks is
aware that I am not a young man, my dear, and also that I am a little run to
seed, as I may say; bu he has heerd: I say I have no doubt Mr. Monks
has heerd, my dear: that I am a very determined officer, with very
uncommon strength, if I'm once roused. I only want a little
rousing; that's all.'
As Mr. Bumble spoke, he made a melancholy feint of grasping his lantern
with fierce determination; and plainly showed, by the alarmed expression of
every feature, that he DID want a little rousing, and not a little, prior to
making any very warlike demonstration: unless, indeed, against paupers, or
other person or persons trained down for the purpose.
'You are a fool,' said Mrs. Bumble, in reply; 'and had better hold your
tongue.'
'He had better have cut it out, before he came, if he can't speak in a
lower tone,' said Monks, grimly. 'So! He's your
husband, eh?'
'He my husband!' tittered the matron, parrying the question.
'I thought as much, when you came in,' rejoined Monks, marking the angry
glance which the lady darted at her spouse as she spoke. 'So much the
better; I have less hesitation in dealing with two people, when I find that
there's only one will between them. I'm in earnest. See
here!'
He thrust his hand into a side-pocket; and producing a canvas bag, told
out twenty-five sovereigns on the table, and pushed them over to the
woman.
'Now,' he said, 'gather them up; and when this cursed peal of thunder,
which I feel is coming up to break over the house-top, is gone, let's hear
your story.'
The thunder, which seemed in fact much nearer, and to shiver and break
almost over their heads, having subsided, Monks, raising his face from the
table, bent forward to listen to what the woman should say. The faces
of the three nearly touched, as the two men leant over the small table in
their eagerness to hear, and the woman also leant forward to render her
whisper audible. The sickly rays of the suspended lantern falling
directly upon them, aggravated the paleness and anxiety of their
countenances: which, encircled by the deepest gloom and darkness, looked
ghastly in the extreme.
'When this woman, that we called old Sally, died,' the matron began,
'she and I were alone.'
'Was there no one by?' asked Monks, in the same hollow whisper; 'No sick
wretch or idiot in some other bed? No one who could hear, and might, by
possibility, understand?'
'Not a soul,' replied the woman; 'we were alone. _I_ stood
alone beside the body when death came over it.'
'Good,' said Monks, regarding her attentively. 'Go on.'
'She spoke of a young creature,' resumed the matron, 'who had brought a
child into the world some years before; not merely in the same room, but in
the same bed, in which she then lay dying.'
'Ay?' said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing over his shoulder,
'Blood! How things come about!'
'The child was the one you named to him last night,' said the matron,
nodding carelessly towards her husband; 'the mother this nurse had
robbed.'
'In life?' asked Monks.
'In death,' replied the woman, with something like a shudder. 'She stole
from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother
had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant's sake.'
'She sold it,' cried Monks, with desperate eagerness; 'did she sell
it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?'
'As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this,' said
the matron, 'she fell back and died.'
'Without saying more?' cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very
suppression, seemed only the more furious. 'It's a lie! I'll not be
played with. She said more. I'll tear the life out of you both,
but I'll know what it was.'
'She didn't utter another word,' said the woman, to all appearance
unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man's
violence; 'but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was
partly closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by
force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper.'
'Which contained—' interposed Monks, stretching forward.
'Nothing,' replied the woman; 'it was a pawnbroker's duplicate.'
'For what?' demanded Monks.
'In good time I'll tell you.' said the woman. 'I judge that
she had kept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it
to better account; and then had pawned it; and had saved or
scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker's interest year by year,
and prevent its running out; so that if anything came of it, it
could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell
you, she died with the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in
her hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something
might one day come of it too; and so redeemed the pledge.'
'Where is it now?' asked Monks quickly.
'THERE,' replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it,
she hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a
French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling
hands. It contained a little gold locket: in which were two locks of
hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring.
'It has the word "Agnes" engraved on the inside,' said the woman.
'There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which
is within a year before the child was born. I found out that.'
'And this is all?' said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the
contents of the little packet.
'All,' replied the woman.
Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story
was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back
again; and now he took courage to wipe the perspiration which had been
trickling over his nose, unchecked, during the whole of the previous
dialogue.
'I know nothing of the story, beyond what I can guess at,' said his wife
addressing Monks, after a short silence; 'and I want to know nothing; for
it's safer not. But I may ask you two questions, may I?'
'You may ask,' said Monks, with some show of surprise; 'but whether I
answer or not is another question.'
'—Which makes three,' observed Mr. Bumble, essaying a stroke
of facetiousness.
'Is that what you expected to get from me?' demanded the matron.
'It is,' replied Monks. 'The other question?'
'What do you propose to do with it? Can it be used against me?'
'Never,' rejoined Monks; 'nor against me either. See here!
But don't move a step forward, or your life is not worth a bulrush.'
With these words, he suddenly wheeled the table aside, and pulling an
iron ring in the boarding, threw back a large trap-door which opened close at
Mr. Bumble's feet, and caused that gentleman to retire several paces
backward, with great precipitation.
'Look down,' said Monks, lowering the lantern into the gulf. 'Don't fear
me. I could have let you down, quietly enough, when you were seated
over it, if that had been my game.'
Thus encouraged, the matron drew near to the brink; and even Mr. Bumble
himself, impelled by curiousity, ventured to do the same. The turbid water,
swollen by the heavy rain, was rushing rapidly on below; and all other sounds
were lost in the noise of its plashing and eddying against the green and
slimy piles. There had once been a water-mill beneath; the tide foaming
and chafing round the few rotten stakes, and fragments of machinery that
yet remained, seemed to dart onward, with a new impulse, when freed from
the obstacles which had unavailingly attempted to stem its headlong
course.
'If you flung a man's body down there, where would it be to-morrow
morning?' said Monks, swinging the lantern to and fro in the dark well.
'Twelve miles down the river, and cut to pieces besides,'
replied Bumble, recoiling at the thought.
Monks drew the little packet from his breast, where he had hurriedly
thrust it; and tying it to a leaden weight, which had formed a part of some
pulley, and was lying on the floor, dropped it into the stream. It fell
straight, and true as a die; clove the water with a scarcely audible splash;
and was gone.
The three looking into each other's faces, seemed to breathe
more freely.
'There!' said Monks, closing the trap-door, which fell heavily back into
its former position. 'If the sea ever gives up its dead, as books say
it will, it will keep its gold and silver to itself, and that trash among
it. We have nothing more to say, and may break up our pleasant
party.'
'By all means,' observed Mr. Bumble, with great alacrity.
'You'll keep a quiet tongue in your head, will you?' said Monks, with a
threatening look. 'I am not afraid of your wife.'
'You may depend upon me, young man,' answered Mr. Bumble, bowing himself
gradually towards the ladder, with excessive politeness. 'On everybody's
account, young man; on my own, you know, Mr. Monks.'
'I am glad, for your sake, to hear it,' remarked Monks. 'Light your
lantern! And get away from here as fast as you can.'
It was fortunate that the conversation terminated at this point, or Mr.
Bumble, who had bowed himself to within six inches of the ladder, would
infallibly have pitched headlong into the room below. He lighted his
lantern from that which Monks had detached from the rope, and now carried in
his hand; and making no effort to prolong the discourse, descended in
silence, followed by his wife. Monks brought up the rear, after pausing
on the steps to satisfy himself that there were no other sounds to be heard
than the beating of the rain without, and the rushing of the water.
They traversed the lower room, slowly, and with caution; for Monks
started at every shadow; and Mr. Bumble, holding his lantern a foot above the
ground, walked not only with remarkable care, but with a marvellously light
step for a gentleman of his figure: looking nervously about him for
hidden trap-doors. The gate at which they had entered, was softly
unfastened and opened by Monks; merely exchanging a nod with their
mysterious acquaintance, the married couple emerged into the wet
and darkness outside.
They were no sooner gone, than Monks, who appeared to entertain an
invincible repugnance to being left alone, called to a boy who had been
hidden somewhere below. Bidding him go first, and bear the light, he returned
to the chamber he had just quitted.
CHAPTER XXXIX
INTRODUCES SOME RESPECTABLE CHARACTERS WITH WHOM THE READER IS ALREADY
ACQUAINTED, AND SHOWS HOW MONKS AND THE JEW LAID THEIR WORTHY HEADS TOGETHER
On the evening following that upon which the three worthies mentioned in
the last 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 close 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 small moveables as
spare clothes and linen, bespoke a state of extreme poverty; while 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 stiff, 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 growl as some noise in the street, or
in the lower part of the house, attracted his 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 awkwardnewss,
and struck her.
'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 which 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, which 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 yourself; 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 usually 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 came
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
taste, 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 department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share
in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in
producing the 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 appearance.
'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 money on, this morning.'
In compliance with Mr. Fagin's request, the Artful untied this bundle,
which was 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 huge pasty; 'sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs,
Bill, that the wery 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 sort you ever lushed!'
Uttering this last panegyrie, Master Bates produced, from one of his
extensive pockets, 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 carried: 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; you'll do now.'
'Do!' exclaimed Mr. Sikes; 'I might have been done for, twenty times
over, afore you'd have done anything to help me. What do you mean by
leaving a man in this state, 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 Jew.
'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 piece 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 been scheming and plotting away, every hour that
I have laid shivering and burning 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 such a handy girl about you?'
'He says true enough there!' said Nancy, coming hastily forward. 'Let
him be; let him be.'
Nancy's appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys,
receiving a sly 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 heartily 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-night.'
'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 some 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 and 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 have 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: protesting with many solemn asseverations that that would only
leave him eighteen-pence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes sullenly remarking
that if he couldn't get any more he must accompany him home; with the Dodger
and Master Bates put the eatables 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 until the young lady's
return.
In due course, they arrived at Fagin's abode, where they found Toby
Crackit and 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 his inferior in station and
mental endowments, yawned, and inquiring after Sikes, 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 dull as swipes. You ought to stand something handsome, Fagin,
to recompense me for keeping house so long. Damme, I'm as flat as a juryman;
and should have gone 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 glances 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 that 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
declaration.
'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 loss 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 are 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, Nancy. 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 thanks; 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, came 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 immediately 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 towards her
at the time.
'Bah!' he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption; 'it's the
man I expected 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, as a man's step was heard upon the stairs without. He reached
it, at the same moment 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 looks 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 went upstairs. Fagin laughed; and making some reply which did
not reach her, seemed, 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 muffling 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 back 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 pale 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 dear.'
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 breath: 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
hopelessness of her condition; but she turned back; and hurrying with nearly
as great rapidity 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 where 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
receiving 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 interrupted.
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 is 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, who would most probably have taken the alarm at once;
but Mr. Sikes lacking the niceties of discrimination, and being troubled with
no more subtle misgivings than those which resolve themselves into a dogged
roughness of behaviour towards everybody; and being, furthermore, in
an unusually amiable condition, as has been already observed; saw nothing
unusual in her demeanor, and indeed, 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 on, 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 struck 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, seemd to
produce 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!'
'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 throat 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 then, 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 held 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: turning his eyes upon her face. They closed;
opened again; closed once more; again opened. He shifted his
position restlessly; and, after dozing again, and again, 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
relaxed; the upraised arm fell languidly by his side; and he lay like one in
a profound 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, from time to time, as if, despite the
sleeping draught, she expected every moment 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 closing the room-door
with noiseless touch, hurried from the house.
A watchman was crying half-past nine, down a dark passage through which
she had 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 her 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 which 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 almost 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 away.
When she reached the more wealthy quarter of the town, the streets were
comparatively deserted; and here her headlong progress excited a still
greater 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 speed; 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 round 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 repeated 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 off.'
'I shall be carried out if I go!' said the girl violently; 'and I can
make that 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?'
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 wrath 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 what 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 who 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; 'and 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 original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step
approaching the door 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 bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this
interview.
But struggling with these better feelings was pride,—the vice of the
lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and
self-assured. The miserable 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 itself 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 away, as many would have done, you'd have
been sorry for it one day, and not without 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 inquired 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 surprise, 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 shut?'
'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 recollect 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 strange 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 midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness,
and—and—something worse than 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!'
'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 have 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 house on the night of the robbery, I—suspecting this man—listened
to a conversation 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 boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the
same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A
bargain was struck 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 have 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 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." They
laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking
on about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had got the
young devil's money safely know, 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 him 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 said, 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 in 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 him yet. "In short, Fagin," he says, "Jew as
you are, you never 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 come into your hands, he laughed, and said there was some
comfort in that too, for 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, shaking her head. 'He is an earnest man when his hatred is
up. I know many who do worse 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 having 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 without you? Back! Why do you wish to return
to companions you paint in such terrible 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 sense 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.'
'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 turned 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 has 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 mystery 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 seek to know where these dreadful people live, but where will you
be walking or passing 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 without hesitation, 'I will walk on London Bridge if I am
alive.'
'Stay another moment,' interposed Rose, as the girl moved hurriedly
towards the door. '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 nothing 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
such as you, who have home, friends, other admirers, everything, to fill
them. When 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 feeling of the woman left, and for
having that turned, by a heavy judgment, from a comfort 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,
stepping gently forward. 'I wish to serve you indeed.'
'You would serve me best, lady,' replied the girl, wringing her hands,
'if you could 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 the 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 occurance, sank into a
chair, and endeavoured to collect her wandering thoughts.
CHAPTER XLI
CONTAINING FRESH DISCOVERIES, AND SHOWING THAT SUPRISES,
LIKE MISFORTUNES, SELDOM COME ALONE
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 the 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 heart; 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 repentance and hope.
They purposed remaining in London only three days, prior to departing
for some weeks to a distant part of the coast. It was now midnight of
the first day. What course of action could she determine upon, which
could be adopted in eight-and-forty hours? Or how could she postpone the
journey without exciting suspicion?
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 subject. 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 occurred 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 have 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. After more communing with herself next day, she arrived
at the desperate conclusion 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 thought 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
agitation, 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 dear! 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 me, 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 there 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
Street, in the Strand. She very soon determined upon turning the
discovery to account.
'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 upstairs; and following him into an
upper room, Miss Maylie was presented to an elderly gentleman of
benevolent appearance, in a bottle-green coat. At no great distance
from whom, was seated another old gentleman, in nankeen breeches
and 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.
'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
importunate 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. Grimwig, 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 informed, 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 again.
'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, and falling back in his chair, discharged from his features
every expression but one of unmitigated wonder, and indulged in a prolonged
and vacant stare; then, 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 before him emitted a long deep whistle, which seemed, at
last, not to be discharged 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 said,
'Do me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the
question that 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 will 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, speaking 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 numbered 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 shook 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 country, 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
concluding 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 happiness. But you have not told me where he is
now, Miss Maylie. You must pardon my finding 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 word.
When the room-door closed behind him, Mr. Grimwig lifted up his head,
and converting one of the hind legs of his chair into a pivot, described
three distinct circles with the assistance of his stick and the table;
stitting in it all the time. After performing this evolution, he rose
and limped as fast as he could up and down the room at least a dozen times,
and then stopping suddenly before 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 girl. 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 curtsey 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 arms. 'How well he looks, and how like a gentleman's son he is
dressed again! Where have you been, this long, long while? Ah!
the same sweet face, but not so pale; 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 first 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 had
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 mingled 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. And, 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 hotbrained 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 anywhere 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
justice 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 about 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 proof against him. He is not even (so far as we
know, or as the facts appear to us) concerned with the gang in any of their
robberies. If he were not discharged, 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 purposes, 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 proceedings. 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 an 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 secret even from Oliver
himself.'
Although Mr. Loseberne received with many wry faces a proposal involving
a delay of five 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, though whether that is recommendation or
not, you must determine for yourselves.'
'I have no objection to your calling in your friend if I may call in
mine,' said 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 her 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
slightest 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 months, 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 tale, and had so suddenly left the kingdom, let
me stipulate that I shall be asked 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 increase difficulties and
disappointments already quite numerous enough. Come! Supper has
been announced, and young Oliver, who is all alone in the next room, will
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 was, for the present, effectually broken up.
CHAPTER XLII
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE OF OLIVER'S, EXHIBITING DECIDED MARKS OF GENIUS,
BECOMES A PUBLIC CHARACTER IN THE METROPOLIS
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 and 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 almost men, like overgrown boys. The woman was
young, but of a robust and hardy make, as she need have been to bear the
weight of the heavy bundle which was strapped 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 parcel 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 head: 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 within sight, save when they stepped aside to allow a wider passage
for the mail-coaches 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 shoulder. 'Oh, there yer are, resting
again!
Well, if yer ain't enough to tire anybody's patience out, I don't know
what is!'
'Is it much farther?' asked the woman, resting herself against a bank,
and looking 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 it 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 among 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 the 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, into no explanation of his motives, and
they walked on very lovingly together.
In pursuance of this cautious plan, Mr. Claypole went on,
without halting, until 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 pausing to observe which appeared
the most crowded streets, and consequently the most 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 that improvement
has left in the midst of London.
Through these streets, Noah Claypole walked, dragging Charlotte after
him; now stepping 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 front 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 door 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 counter, 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 some 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 here,' 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
refreshment.
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 concealed 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 secret post he could see Mr. Claypole taking cold beef from the
dish, and porter from the pot, and administering homoepathic 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, listened 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 with 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'll be able to make us useful some way or another.
Why, you yourself are worth fifty 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 captain of some band, and
have the whopping of 'em, and follering 'em about, unbeknown
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 that 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 aspect 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 made, 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 his 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 voice to a confidential whisper; 'and that's the truth.'
Fagin followed up this remark by striking the side of his nose with his
right forefinger,—a gesture which 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 seemed 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 back in his chair, and looked from the Jew to Charlotte with a
countenance of ashy palences and excessive terror.
'Don't mind me, my dear,' said Fagin, drawing his chair closer. 'Ha!
ha! it was lucky 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 chair; '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 that 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 packages 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,'
replied 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 him. 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 have 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 like 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 being 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 line open?'
'Stop!' said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah's knee. 'The
kinchin lay.'
'The kinchins, my dear,' said Fagin, 'is the young children that's sent
on errands 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 the very thing!'
'To be sure it is,' replied Fagin; 'and you can have a few good beats
chalked out 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 hour 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 shall I tell my good friend.'
'Mr. Bolter,' replied Noah, who had prepared himself for
such emergency. 'Mr. Morris 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, Charlotte?' 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, late 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,
bespeaking 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 appreciated 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, otherwise 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 grin. '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 he'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 mixed up together, and identified in our interests, that it must be
so. For instance, 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, number 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, that'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 tight; and murmured an assent, qualified in tone but not
in substance.
'The gallows,' continued Fagin, 'the gallows, my dear, is an
ugly finger-post, which points out a very short and sharp turning that has
stopped many a bold fellow'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 holds us all together, and must do so,
unless we would all go to pieces in company.'
'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
outset 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 served 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 degree 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 took 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 dear; 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 again after six weeks or so; but, if they do, it's a
case of lagging. They know what 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 known to each other.
'What do you mean?'
'They've found the gentleman as owns the box; two or three more's a
coming to 'dentify him; and the Artful's booked for a passage out,' replied
Master Bates. 'I must 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 Dodger—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 himself 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 out in the 'dictment; 'cause nobody will never know
half of what he was. How will 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 fit 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 Bates for some seconds with evident satisfaction, stepped up to that
young gentleman and patted him on the shoulder.
'Never mind, Charley,' said Fagin soothingly; 'it'll come out, it'll be
sure to come out. They'll all know what a clever fellow he was; he'll
show it himself, and 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 make 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"—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, upon my soul I do, Fagin. What a game! What
a regular game! All the big-wigs trying to look solemn, and
Jack Dawkins addressing of 'em as intimate and comfortable 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
disposition, 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 actor 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 not 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?'
'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 time 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 person, 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 leggings: 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 Covent Garden
market might be supposed to do for the gratification of his
curiousity; and as he was as awkward, ungainly, and raw-boned a fellow
as need be, Mr. Fagin 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 through 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 copious 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 parting.
Noah Claypole, or Morris Bolter as the reader pleases,
punctually followed the directions he had received, which—Master
Bates being pretty well acquainted with the locality—were so exact that
he was enabled to gain the magisterial presence without asking any question,
or meeting with any interruption by the way.
He found himself jostled among a crowd of people, chiefly women, who
were huddled 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 against 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 unwholesome; 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 only 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 matter, hardly
less unpleasant than the thick greasy scum on every inaminate object that
frowned upon it.
Noah looked eagerly about him for the Dodger; but although there were
several women 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 him 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 sleeves tucked up as usual, his left hand in his pocket, and his hat in
his right hand, preceded the jailer, with a rolling gait altogether
indescribable, and, taking his place in the dock, requested in an audible
voice to know what he was placed 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 business? 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 genelman 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 won'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 names of them two files as was on the bench.' Which so tickled the
spectators, that they laughed almost as heartily as Master Bates could have
done if he had heard 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 well, your worship.'
'Oh! you know me, do you?' cried the Artful, making a note of
the statement. 'Wery 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 indeed take a handkerchief therefrom, which, being a very old one, he
deliberately put back again, after trying in on his own countenance.
For this reason, he took the Dodger into custody as soon as he could get near
him, and the said Dodger, being searched, had upon his person a
silver snuff-box, with the owner's name engraved upon the lid.
This gentleman had been discovered on reference to the 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'
replied 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 officer 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 will 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 footmen to hang 'em up to their own
hat-pegs, afore they let 'em come out this morning to try it on upon
me. I'll—'
'There! He's fully committed!' interposed the clerk. 'Take
him away.'
'Come on,' said 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 way 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 himself 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 could 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 brutal 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
escape; still, there were times when, even towards him, she felt
some relenting, lest 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 unwholly to detach itself
from old companions and associations, though enabled to fix itself steadily
on one 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 yet 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 themselves upon her, again and again, and left their traces too.
She grew pale and thin, even within a few days. At times, she took no
heed of what was passing before her, or no part in conversations where once,
she would have been the loudest. At other times, she laughed without
merriment, and was noisy without a moment afterwards—she sat silent and
dejected, brooding with her head upon her hands, while the very effort
by which she roused herself, told, more forcibly 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
course 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 to 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 shoulder. '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. 'You'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 beard 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, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage
of the foregoing conversation 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 air.'
'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 pale. '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 into a chair, held her down by force. She struggled and
implored by turns until twelve 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 rejoined 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 is 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 bad as ever.'
'Worse,' said Fagin thoughtfully. 'I never knew her like this, for
such a little cause.'
'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 back; and you, like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept yourself
aloof,' said Sikes. '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 seat. Her eyes were swollen and red; she rocked herself to and
fro; tossed her head; 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, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes
that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him
good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking round,
asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.
'Light him down,' said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. 'It's a pity he
should break 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 passage, 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 you (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 revenge 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 girls, 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
friend. 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 night 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 among 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 hidden. 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 limbs, 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 hate: 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 taken 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 acquire?'
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 common fear) unless she entered into his designs, could he
not secure her compliance?
'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 work. I shall have
you yet!'
He cast back a dark look, and a threatening motion of the hand, towards
the spot where he had left the bolder villian; 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 breakfast.
'Bolter,' said Fagin, drawing up a chair and seating himself opposite
Morris Bolter.
'Well, here I am,' returned Noah. 'What's the matter? Don't
yer ask me to do anything 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 monstrous slice of bread. 'Where's Charlotte?'
'Out,' said Fagin. 'I sent her out this morning with the
other young woman, because I wanted us to be alone.'
'Oh!' said Noah. 'I wish yer'd ordered her to make some
buttered toast first. Well. Talk away. Yer won't interrupt
me.'
There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he
had evidently 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 fortune 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 was 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, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of
bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second.
'I want you, Bolter,' said Fagin, leaning over the table, 'to do a piece
of work 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 yer.'
'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 sneak 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 possible, 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 interest 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 had found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they
are,' replied 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, eleated 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 time,' 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 hurrying through a labyrinth of streets, arrived at length
before a public-house, which Noah recognised as the same in which he had
slept, on the night of his arrival 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 door 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 candle 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 drew 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 side.'
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 let 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 spy preserved the same
relative distance between them, and followed: with his eye 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 object; 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 allowing himself, in
the ardour of his pursuit, to gain upon her footsteps. Thus,
they crossed the bridge, from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore, when the
woman, apparently disappointed in her anxious scrutiny of
the foot-passengers, turned back. The movement was sudden; but
he who watched her, was not thrown off his guard by it; for, shrinking
into one of the recesses which surmount the piers of the bridge, and leaning
over the parapet the better to conceal his figure, he suffered her to pass on
the opposite pavement. When she was about the same 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 past: very possibly without seeing, but certainly
without noticing, either the woman, or the man who kept her in view.
Their appearance was not calculated to attract the importunate regards of
such of London's destitute population, as chanced 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: neither speaking nor
spoken to, by any one who passed.
A mist hung over the river, deepening the red glare of the fires that
burnt upon the small craft moored off the different wharfs, and rendering
darker and more indistinct the murky buildings on the banks. The old
smoke-stained storehouses 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 Magnus, 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 death of another day. Midnight had come upon the crowded
city. The palace, the night-cellar, the jail, the madhouse: the
chambers of birth and death, of health and sickness, the rigid face of the
corpse and the calm sleep of the child: midnight was upon them
all.
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
distance of the bridge, and, having dismissed the vehicle, walked straight
towards it. 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 some 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 which 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-stairs from the river. To this spot, the man bearing the
appearance of a countryman, 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 unseen 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
could 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 penetrate the motives of an interview so different from what he had been
led to expect, 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 ear.
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 have 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 bringing 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 and 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 as 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. 'This 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 sweet 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 seems 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 kind to us poor wretches as you, who, having youth, and
beauty, and all that they have 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 East, 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 regularity, to the darkest side of Heaven. Between the
Mussulman and the Pharisee, commend me to the first!'
These words appeared to be addressed to the young lady, and were perhaps
uttered with the view of afffording 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 since. I confess to you that I had doubts, at first, whether
you were to be implicitly 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, whatever it may be, from the fear of this man Monks.
But if—if—' said the gentleman, '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, and 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 aiming 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
which 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 induce 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 receving an assurance from both, that she might safely do so, she
proceeded 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 which she occasionally paused, it appeared as if the
gentleman were making some hasty notes of the information she
communicated. When she had thoroughly explained the localities of the
place, the best position from which to watch it without 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 fits, 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 still 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 may not be the same.'
As he expressed himself to this effect, with assumed carelessness, he
took a step or two nearer the concealed spy, as the latter could tell from
the distinctness 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 stood 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 dreary 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 peace 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 your former associates, and
leave as utter an absence of all trace behind you, as if you were to
disappear from the earth this moment. Come! I would not have you
go back to exchange one word with any old companion, or take one look at any
old haunt, or breathe the very air which is pestilence and death to
you. Quit them 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, some time ago, I should have laughed it
off. But,' she said, looking hastily round, '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 that 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 gentleman 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 upon 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 her, 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 heart 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, that 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 descended.
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 sat 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. His 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 should have been a dog's or rat's.
Stretched upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah Claypole,
fast asleep. Towards him the old man sometimes directed his eyes
for an instant, and then brought them back again to the candle; which with
a long-burnt wick drooping almost double, and 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 fierce and deadly rage kindled by all; these were
the passionate considerations which, 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 tkae
the smallest heed of time, until his quick ear seemed to be attracted by a
footstep 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 under one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his outer
coat, the man displayed the 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 been here, three hours ago.'
Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat
down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the
robber, for an instant, 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 his face so altered by the emotions which had
mastered him, that the housebreaker 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 his 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 must 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
lucky—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 make you worse than me.'
'Aye?' returned the robber with an incredulous air. 'Tell away!
Look sharp, or Nance will think I'm lost.'
'Lost!' cried Fagin. 'She has pretty well settled that, in her own
mind, already.'
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 his 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 thundering 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 observed him. 'Well!' he said, resuming his
former position.
'Suppose that lad,' pursued Fagin, 'was to peach—to blow upon
us all—first seeking 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 peaching to them. Do
you hear me?' cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage.
'Suppose 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 grains as there are hairs upon his head.'
'What if I did it!' cried Fagin almost in a yell. 'I, that
knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!'
'I don't know,' replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at
the mere 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,' muttered 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 what 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—tired 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 sitting 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 pettishy.
'That about—NANCY,' said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to
prevent 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 asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did—and to
describe 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 dawning 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 before? 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 drink 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 both, 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 lock, 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 ground, but looking straight before him with savage resolution:
his teeth so tightly compressed that the strained jaw seemed starting through
his skin; the robber held on his headlong course, nor muttered a word, nor
relaxed a muscle, until 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 heaving 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. Bill, 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 them, on my knees, to show the same mercy and goodness to
you; and let us both leave 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 late to repent. They told me so—I feel
it now—but we must have time—a little, little time!'
The housebreaker freed one arm, and grasped his pistol. The certainty of
immediate detection if he fired, flashed across his mind even in the midst of
his fury; 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 deep gash in her forehead; but raising herself, with difficulty,
on her knees, drew 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 struck her down.
CHAPTER XLVIII
THE FLIGHT OF SIKES
Of all bad deeds that, under cover of the darkness, had been committed
with 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 foulest 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 radiant glory. Through costly-coloured glass and paper-mended
window, through cathedral 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, now, 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. Once 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 and blood, nor 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 the air, whirled up the chimney. Even that frightened him,
sturdy as he was; but 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, locked it, took the key, and left the house.
He crossed over, and glanced up at the window, to be sure that nothing
was visible 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 poured 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 joins 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 under a hedge, and slept.
Soon he was up again, and away,—not far into the country, but back
towards London by the high-road—then back again—then over another part of
the same ground 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 strange 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
tasted no food for many hours; and once more he lingered on the
Heath, uncertain where to go.
He wandered over miles and miles of ground, and still came back to the
old place. Morning and noon had passed, and the day was on the wane,
and still he rambled to and fro, and up and down, and round and round, and
still lingered about the same spot. At last he got away, and shaped his
course for Hatfield.
It was nine o'clock at night, when the man, quite tired out, and the
dog, limping 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 fire 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 neighboring
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 him 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.
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 comer.
This was an antic fellow, half pedlar and half mountebank, who travelled
about the country on foot to vend hones, stops, razors, washballs,
harness-paste, medicine for dogs and horses, cheap perfumery, cosmetics, and
such-like wares, which he carried in a case slung to his back. His
entrance was the signal for 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 unite business with amusement.
'And what be that stoof? Good to eat, Harry?' asked a
grinning countryman, pointing 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, speck, spot, or spatter, from silk, satin, linen, cambrick, cloth,
crape, stuff, carpet, merino, muslin, bombazeen, or woollen stuff.
Wine-stains, fruit-stains, 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 one 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 these 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 fourteen water-mills, six steam-engines, and a galvanic battery, always
a-working upon it, and they can't make it fast enough, though the men work so
hard that they 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 penny a square!
Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains,
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
pint 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 you can come across the room to get it. Gentlemen all, observe the
dark stain upon this gentleman's hat, no wider than a shilling, but thicker
than a half-crown. Whether it is a wine-stain, fruit-stain, beer-stain,
water-stain, paint-stain, pitch-stain, mud-stain, or blood-stain—'
The man got no further, for Sikes with a hideous imprecation overthrew
the table, 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, and that they most probably considered him some drunken sullen
fellow, turned back 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 from London, and saw that it was standing at the
little post-office. He almost knew 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!'
'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 up 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 window. 'And a dreadful murder it was.'
'Was it, sir?' rejoined the guard, touching his hat. 'Man
or woman, pray, sir?'
'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 heard, 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 figure 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 came 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 wind that never rose or fell.
At times, he turned, with desperate determination, resolved to beat this
phantom 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 had 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 sleep. 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 stretched 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 glassy, 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. There 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 accustomed place. The body
was in ITS place, 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 though 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. The shouts grew louder as new voices swelled the roar,
and he could hear the cry 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 aloft 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
sounding 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 burning 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 cheers. 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, too, 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 ladders, 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 great 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 were 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 called 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 about the murder. 'He has gone
to Birmingham, they say,' said one: 'but they'll have him yet,
for the scouts are out, and by to-morrow night there'll be a cry
all through the country.'
He hurried off, and walked till he almost dropped upon the ground; then
lay down in a lane, and had a long, but broken and uneasy sleep. He
wandered on again, 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 can't I lie by for a week or so, and, forcing blunt
from Fagin, get abroad to France? Damme, I'll risk it.'
He acted upon this impluse without delay, and choosing the
least frequented roads 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 handerkerchief as he went.
The animal looked up into his master's face while these preparations
were making; 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 master 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 him 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 that he would return. But no dog appeared, and
at length he resumed his journey.
CHAPTER XLIX
MONKS AND MR. BROWNLOW AT LENGTH MEET. THEIR CONVERSATION, AND THE
INTELLIGENCE THAT INTERRUPTS IT
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 steps, 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 man, 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 looked 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, and 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 with a steady look. 'Are you mad enough to
leave this house? Unhand him. There, sir. You are free to go, and
we to follow. But I warn you, by all I hold most solemn 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 law too; but when you have gone too far to recede, do
not sue to me for leniency, 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 punishment the extent of which, although I can, with a shudder,
foresee, I cannot control, 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,
and, shrugging his shoulders, sat down.
'Lock the door on the outside,' said Mr. Brownlow to the attendants,
'and come when 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, 'from my father's oldest friend.'
'It is because I was your father's oldest friend, young man,' returned
Mr. Brownlow; '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 that 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 old 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 want 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 you 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 know 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 world 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 hate to loathing, until at last they wrenched
the clanking bond asunder, and retiring a wide space apart, carried each
a galling fragment, of which nothing but death could break the rivets, to
hide it in new society beneath the gayest 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 mother, wholly given up to continental frivolities, had utterly
forgotten the young husband ten good years her junior, who, with prospects
blighted, lingered on 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. Must 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.'
'These new friends, then,' said Mr. Brownlow, 'were a naval officer
retired from active 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, and 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 grew 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 the 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. As 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. Brownlow, 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
portrait 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 convert 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 covered 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 once 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 worldly harshness or favour are now alike to him—of his guilty love,
resolved that 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 whithter, none can tell.'
Monks drew his breath yet more freely, and looked round with a smile of
triumph.
'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 ought 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
first 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 history—'
'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 than 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 knew 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 you 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, and 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 not 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 brother; 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 FORM 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 from 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 in 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 party.'
'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 such 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 most miserable love. You have not forgotten the
provisions of the will. Carry them 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 gentleman (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 haunt, and there seems little doubt hat 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 hurried 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 intelligence 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 after 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 this poor murdered creature. Which way have they taken?'
'Drive straight to the office and you will be in time,' replied Mr.
Losberne. 'I will remain here.'
The two gentlemen hastily separated; each in a fever of excitement
wholly uncontrollable.
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 with 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.