--- title: 'Oliver Twist' url: 'https://samisdat.in/books/oliver-twist-1839/read' markdown: 'https://samisdat.in/books/oliver-twist-1839/read.md' lang: eng date: '1839-11-16' description: 'M. G. Jame OLIVER TWIST. BY CHARLES DICKENS, (BOZ,) AUTHOR OF "PICKWICK PAPERS," "NICHOLAS NICKLEBY," "SKETCHES OF EVERY-DAY LIFE." &c. &c. &c. PHILADELPHIA: LEA & BLANCHARD, SUCCESSORS TO CAREY & CO. 1839. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. OLIVER ASKING FOR MORE Page 19 ) OLIVER E…' --- M. G. Jame # OLIVER TWIST. BY ## CHARLES DICKENS, (BOZ,) AUTHOR OF "PICKWICK PAPERS," "NICHOLAS NICKLEBY," "SKETCHES OF EVERY-DAY LIFE." &c. &c. &c. PHILADELPHIA: LEA & BLANCHARD, SUCCESSORS TO CAREY & CO. 1839\. ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_1_Picture_0.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) ## LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. | OLIVER ASKING FOR MORE | Page 19 | ) | |---|---|---| | OLIVER ESCAPES BEING BOUND APPRENTICE TO THE SWEEP | 23 | } | | OLIVER PLUCKS UP A SPIRIT | 33 | ţ | | OLIVER INTRODUCED TO THE RESPECTABLE OLD GENTLEMAN | 40 | ) | | OLIVER AMAZED AT THE DODGER'S MODE OF "GOING TO WORK." | 44 | L | | OLIVER RECOVERING FROM THE FEVER | 51 | | | OLIVER CLAIMED BY HIS AFFECTIONATE FRIENDS | 65 | , | | OLIVER'S RECEPTION BY FAGIN AND THE BOYS | 67 | ľ | | MASTER BATES EXPLAINS A PROFESSIONAL TECHNICALITY | 75 | ó | | THE BURGLARY | 91 | Ĺ | | MR. BUMBLE AND MRS. CORNEY TAKING TEA | 94 | Ł | | MR. CLAYPOLE AS HE APPEARED WHEN HIS MASTER WAS OUT | 109 | ) | | OLIVER TWIST AT MRS. MAYLIE'S DOOR | 113 | 3 | | OLIVER WAITED ON BY THE BOW-STREET RUNNERS | 122 | 2 | | MONKS AND THE JEW | 136 | ò | | MR. BUMBLE DEGRADED IN THE EYES OF THE PAUPERS | 143 | 3 | | THE EVIDENCE DESTROYED | 149 | ) | | MR. FAGIN AND HIS PUPILS RECOVERING NANCY | 151 | l | | THE JEW AND MORRIS BOLTER BEGIN TO UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER | HER. 168 | 3 | | THE MEETING | 180 | ) | | SIKES ATTEMPTING TO DESTROY HIS POG | 190 | ) | | THE LAST CHANCE | 200 | ) | | FAGIN IN THE CONDEMNED CELL | 208 | 3 | | ROSE MAYLIE AND OLIVER | 211 | L | | | 2) | | Mr. F. Gam ## CONTENTS. ### BOOK THE FIRST | CHAPTER THE FIRST | CHAPTER THE TWELFTH, | |---|---| | Treats of the place where Oliver Twist | In which Oliver is taken better care of than | | was born, and of the circumstances at- | he ever was before, with some particulars | | tending his Birth Page 13 | concerning a certain picture | | torrend are partitional and and are | Constituting a cortain protato territorio | | CHAPTER THE SECOND | CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH | | Treats of Oliver Twist's Growth, Educa- | Reverts to the merry old gentlemen and his | | tion, and Board 14 | the vertes to the merry old gentleman and me | | CHAPTED THE THIRD | youthful friends, through whom a new | | CHAPTER THE THIRD | acquaintance is introduced to the intelli- | | Relates how Oliver was very near getting | gent reader, and connected with whom | | a place, which would not have been a | various pleasant matters are related ap- | | sinecure 19 | pertaining to this history | | CHAPTER THE FOURTH | ferming or market | | OF L. C. L. | CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH. | | Oliver, being offered another place, makes | Comprising further nerticulars of Oliver's | | his first entry into public life 23 | Comprising further particulars of Oriver's | | CHAPTER THE FIETH | stay at Mr. Brownlow's, with the remark- | | CHAITER THE FIFTH. | able prediction which one Mr. Grimwig | | Oliver mingles with new associates, and, | uttered concerning him, when he went | | going to a funeral for the first time, forms | out on an errand | | an unfavourable notion of his master's | | | business | CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH. | | CHAPTED THE CIVILI | Showing how very fond of Oliver Twist. | | CHAPTER THE SIAIR. | the marry old Jaw and Miss Nancy were 62 | | Oliver, being goaded by the taunts of Noah, | the merry old sew and miss reality were to | | rouses into action, and rather astonishes | CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH | | him 31 | Poloton what house a Coliner Twist often | | CITA DEPO DITO COMPANDIT | Relates what became of Oliver 1 wist, after | | CHAPTER THE SEVENTH. | he had been claimed by Nancy 63 | | Oliver continues refractory 33 | CHAPTED THE SEVENTEENTH | | CHAPTER THE FIGHTH | CHAILER THE SEVENTEENTH. | | Oliver walks to Lenden and encounters on | Oliver's destiny continuing unpropitious, | | Onver warks to London, and encounters on | brings a great man to London to injure | | the road a strange sort of young gentle- | his reputation | | man 36 | CALL DONNE WALL DIGITALINA | | CHAPTER THE NINTH. | CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH. | | Cantaining Couther neuticulary concerning | How Oliver passed his time in the improv- | | Containing farther particulars concerning | ing society of his reputable friends 74 | | the pleasant old gentleman and his hope- | | | ful pupils 40 | CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH, | | CHAPTER THE TENTH. | In which a notable plan is discussed and | | Oliver becomes better acquainted with the | determined on | | characters of his new essociates, and nur | | | characters of his new associates, and pur- | CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH, | | chases experience at a night price. Being | Wherein Oliver is delivered over to Mr. | | a short but very important chapter in this | William Sikes 82 | | history 43 | | | CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH | CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST. | | Treats of Mr Fang the police magistrate | The expedition 86 | | reas of Mr. rang, the ponce magistrate, | CITA DOND MAIN MANAGEMENT CONCESSOR | | and furnishes a slight specimen of his | CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND. | | mode of administering justice 45 | The Burglary | | | | | • | | ### BOOK THE SECOND | CHAPTER | THE | FIRST, | |---|---|---| | --------- | ----- | -------- | 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. | CHAPTER THE SECOND | |---| | Treats of a very poor subject, but is a short | | one, and may be found of importance in | | this history | | Wherein this history reverts to Mr. Fagin and company 97 | Wherein the happiness of Oliver and his friends experiences a sudden check | 128 | |---|---|---| | CHAPTER THE FOURTH. | CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH | | | In which a mysterious character appears | Contains some introductory particulars rela- | | | upon the scene, and many things insepar- | tive to a young gentleman who now | | | able from this history are done and per- | arrives upon the scene, and a new adven- | | | iormed 100 | ture which happened to Oliver | 132 | | CHAPTER THE FIFTH | CHAPTER THE TWELFTH, | | | Atones for the unpoliteness of a former | Containing the unsatisfactory result of Oli- | | | ceremoniously 106 | ver's adventure, and a conversation of | | | CHAPMED MHE SIVMH | some importance between Harry Maylie | 196 | | Looks ofter Oliver and proceeds with his | and two | 100 | | adventures | CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH | | | CHAPTED THE SEVENTH | Is a short one, and may appear of no great | | | Has an introductory account of the inmates | importance in its place, but it should be | | | of the house to which Oliver resorted. | read notwithstanding, as a sequel to the | | | and relates what they thought of him 114 | when its time arrives | 140 | | CHAPTER THE EIGHTH | | | | Involves a critical position 119 | CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH, | | | CHAPTED THE NINTH | In which the reader, if he or she resort to | | | Of the hanny life Oliver began to lead with | the fifth chapter of this second book, will perceive a contrast not uncommon in | | | his kind friends | matrimonial cases | 141 | | | | | | | | | | воок тн | E THIRD. | | | CHAPTER THE FIRST, | pledge to Rose Maylie. She fails. Noah | | | Containing an account of what passed be- | Claypole is employed by Fagin on a | | | tween Mr. and Mrs. Bumble and Monks | secret mission | 174 | | at their nocturnal interview 140 | CHAPTER THE EIGHTH. | | | CHAPTER THE SECOND | The appointment kept | 179 | | Introduces some respectable characters with | CHAPTER THE NINTH. | | | whom the reader is already acquainted, | Fatal Consequences | 183 | | their worthy heads together | CHAPTER THE TENTH. | | | CITA DIEED WITE WINDS | The flight of Sikes | 187 | | A stronge interview which is a second to | CHAPMED MILE ELEVENINI | | | the last chapter | Manks and Mr Brownlow at length meet | | | CALL DEED MAIN POSTORY | Monks and Mi. Diowinow at length meet | | | CHAPTER THE FOURTH, | Their conversation, and the intelligence | | | Clause but an C 1 11 are 1 1 1 1 | Their conversation, and the intelligence that interrupts it | 191 | | Containing fresh discoveries, and showing | Their conversation, and the intelligence that interrupts it | 191 | | Containing fresh discoveries, and showing that surprises, like misfortunes, seldom come alone | Their conversation, and the intelligence that interrupts it CHAPTER THE TWELFTH. The pursuit and escape | 191 195 | | Containing fresh discoveries, and showing that surprises, like misfortunes, seldom come alone | Their conversation, and the intelligence that interrupts it CHAPTER THE TWELFTH. The pursuit and escape | 191 195 | | Containing fresh discoveries, and showing that surprises, like misfortunes, seldom come alone | Their conversation, and the intelligence that interrupts it CHAPTER THE TWELFTH. The pursuit and escape CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH, Affording an explanation of more mysteries | 191 195 | | Containing fresh discoveries, and showing that surprises, like misfortunes, seldom come alone | Their conversation, and the intelligence that interrupts it | 191 195 | | Containing fresh discoveries, and showing that surprises, like misfortunes, seldom come alone | Their conversation, and the intelligence that interrupts it | 191 195 | | Containing fresh discoveries, and showing that surprises, like misfortunes, seldom come alone | Their conversation, and the intelligence that interrupts it | 191 195 200 | | Containing fresh discoveries, and showing that surprises, like misfortunes, seldom come alone | Their conversation, and the intelligence that interrupts it CHAPTER THE TWELFTH. The pursuit and escape CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH, Affording an explanation of more mysteries than one, and comprehending a proposal of marriage, with no word of settlement or pin-money CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH. | 191 195 200 | | Containing fresh discoveries, and showing that surprises, like misfortunes, seldom come alone | Their conversation, and the intelligence that interrupts it | 191 195 200 206 | | Containing fresh discoveries, and showing that surprises, like misfortunes, seldom come alone | Their conversation, and the intelligence that interrupts it | 191 195 200 206 | "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 frozen for ever. 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 shes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows." The surgeon leant 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. And what an 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 fixed his station in society. But now he was enveloped in the old calico robes, that 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 torder mercies of churchwardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder. #### CHAPTER THE SECOND 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 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 despatched 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 got his own horse down to a straw a day, and would most unquestionably have rendered him a very spirited and rampacious animal upon nothing at all, if he hadn't died, just four-and-twenty hours before he was to have had his first comfortable bait of air. Unfortunately for the experimental philosophy of the female to whose protecting care Oliver Twist was delivered over, a similar result usually attended the operation of her system; for just at the very moment when a 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 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 which 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 searce,—anything approaching to a washing being of rare occurrence 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 coming. 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 eighth birth-day found him a pale, thin child, somewhat diminutive in stature, and decidedly small in circumference. But nature or inheritance had implanted a good sturdy spirit in Oliver's breast; it had plenty of room to expand, thanks to the spare diet of the establishment; and perhaps to this circumstance may be attributed his having any eighth birth-day at all. Be this as it may, however it was his eighth birth-day; and he was keeping it in the coal-cellar with a select party of two other young gentlemen, who, after participating with him in a sound threshing, had been locked up therein, 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 gracions! is that you, Mr. Bumble, sir?" said Mrs. Mann, thrusting her head out of the window in well-affected ecstacies of joy. "(Susan, take Oliver and them two brats up stairs, 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 one; 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 churchwarden, 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 on porochial business connected with the porochial orphans? Are you aware, 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. mility. 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 got some- thing 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 cane 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 generating. Mr. Pourble," "Not a drop—not a drop," said Mr. nified, but still 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 little drop," said Mrs lann persuasively. "Why it's what. I'm obliged to keep a little of in the house, to put in 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." "Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?" inquired Bumble, following with his eyes the interesting process of mixing. "Ah, bless 'em, that I do, dear as it is," replied the nurse. "I couldn't see 'em suffer before my 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 an 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-baptised, Oliver Twist, is eight years old to-day." "Bless him!" interposed Mrs. Mann, inflaming her left eye with the corner of ner apron. "And notwithstanding an 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 is his mother's settlement, name, or condition." 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 foundlin's in alphabetical order. The last was a S,—Swubble: I named him. This was a T,—Twist: I named him. The next one as 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 charac- er, 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; and 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. And Oliver having by this time had 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 pro- tectress. "Make a bow to the gentleman, Oli- ver, 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 upwards, 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; but, young as he was, 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 the 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, lest 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 upon 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; and 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 which 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 what a live board was, Oliver was rather astounded by this intelligence, and was not quite costs in whether he cought to lough 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 his back to make him lively, and, bidding him follow, conducted him into a large whitewashed room, where eight or ten fat gentlemen were sitting round a table, at the top of which, 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 rentleman 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; and 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 spirit, and putting him quite at his ease. "Boy," said the gentleman in the high chair; "listen to me. You know you're in orphan, I suppose?" "What's that, sir?" inquired poor Oli- ver. "The boy is a fool—I thought he was," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, in a very decided tone. If one member of a class be blessed with an intuitive perception of others of the same race, the gentleman in the white waistcoat was unquestionably well qualified to pronounce an opinion on the matter. "Hush!" said the gentleman who had spoken first. "You know you've got no father or mother, and that you are brought up by the parish, don't you !" "Yes, sir," replied Oliver, weeping bit terly. "What are you crying for?" inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat; and to be sure it was very extraordinary. "I hope you say your prayers every night," said another gentleman in a gruff voice, "and pray for the people who feed tian." "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. ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_10_Picture_1.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) Cliver asking fire more. a long grace was said over the short commons. The gruel disappeared, and the boys whispered to 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, basin and spoon in hand, to the master, 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, and 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 arms, 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 any-body 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 propose 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 will be a long or a short piece of biography. ### CHAPTER THE THIRD Relates how Oliver 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, solemly 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, he 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 far frem being danied 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 the 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 devil himself. It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweeper, was wending his way adown 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 calculation of funds could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when, passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate. "Woo!" said Mr. Gamfield to the do key. 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 onwards. 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, having by these means turned him round, he gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him until he came back again; and, having done so, walked to the gate to read the bill. The gentleman with the white waist-coat 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 just 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. "Yes, 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 light, pleasant trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin bisness," said Mr. Gamfield. "I wants a 'prentis, and I'm ready to take him." "Walk in," said the gentleman with the white waistcoat. And Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the don key another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw as a caution not to runaway in his absence, followed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, into the room where Oliver had first seen him. "It's a nasty trade," said Mr. Limb- wish. "Young boys have been smothered in chimneys, before now," said another gen- "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 makin' a boy come down; it only sinds him to sleep, and that's wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, gen'lm'n, and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make 'em come down vith a run; it's humane too, gen'lm'n, acause, even if they 've stuck in the chimbley, roastin' their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate theirselves." The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused with this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes; but in so low a tone that the words "saving of expenditure," "look well in the accounts," "have a printed report publish- ed," were alone audible: and they only chanced to be heard on 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 "Not at all," said the gentleman in the "Decidedly not," added the other mem- 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'lnen," 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'lmen? Come, don't be too hard on a poor man. What'll you give?" "I should say three pound ten wa plenty," said Mr. Limbkin "Ten shillings too much," said the "Come," said Gamfield; "say four pound, and you've got rid of him for good and all. There!" "Three pound ten," repeated Mr. Limb- kins, hrmly. "Come, I'll split the difference, gen'lmen," urged Gamfield. "Three pound fifteen." "Not a farthing more," was the firm "You're desp'rate hard upor "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. 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, and 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 after- noon 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 sight of which Oliver began to cry very piteously, thinking, not unnaturally, that the board must have determined to kill him for some useful purpose, or they never would have begun to fatten him up in this 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 'orentice of, Oliver." "A 'prentice, sir!" said the child, trem- bling "Yes, Oliver," said Mr. Bumble. "The kind and blessed gentlemen which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own, are a-going to 'prentice you, and to set you up in life, and make a man of you, although the expense to the parish is three pound ten!—three pound ten, Oliver!—seventy shillin's!—one hundred and forty sixpences!—and all for a naughty orphan which nobody can 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 hitterly. "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's, 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 more readily 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; and behind a desk sat two old gentlemen 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 estationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk. "This is the boy, your worship," said 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-menuoned old gentleman woke up. "Oh, is this the boy ?" said the old gen tlemar "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 magistrate's 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 dotes 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?" nquired the old gentleman. "If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run away simultaneously, your worship," replied Bumble. "And this man that's to be his master. "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 villanous 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 vith an ugly leer. "I have no doubt you are, my friend," replied the old gentleman, fixing his spectacles more firmly on his nose, and look- ing about him for the inkstand. It was the critical moment of Oliver's fate. If the inkstand had been where the old gentleman thought it was, he would have dipped his pen into it and 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 of all the admonitory looks and pinches of Bumble, was regarding the very repulsive counternance 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, leaning over the desk. Oliver started at the sound,—he might be excused for doing so, for the words were kindly said, and strange sounds frighten one. He trembled violently, and burst into tears. "My boy," said the old gentleman, ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_15_Picture_0.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) Oliver escapes being bound appropriate to the his "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 in- dulge 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, and a fair pro- fit 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!" "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—I mean that 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; and Oliver Twist being uppermost "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 gay—round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry—liberal terms;"—and, 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 therein 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 is 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 New-year'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 in 'Died from exposure to the cold, and want of the common neces- saries 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 angrily. "If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymentalk, they'd have enough to do." "Very true," said the undertaker; "they vould indeed.' "Juries," said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into a passion,—"juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches." "They haven't no more philosophy or political economy about 'em than that," said the beadle, snapping his fingers con temptuously. "No more they have," acquiesced the undertaker. "I despise 'em," said the beadle, growng 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 them." "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 forchead the perspiration which his rage had engendered, fixed the cocked-hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice, "Oh!" replied the undertaker; " 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—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 then 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 in 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 ordered Mr. 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 to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness for life, 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 of 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; and, withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble's, he covered his face with both, and wept till the tears sprung out from between his thin 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 be cross to me. I feel as lief had been cut here, sir, and it was all bleeding away;" and the child beat his hand upon his heart, and looked into 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," bid Oliver dry his eyes, and be a good boy; and, once more taking his hand, walked on with him in silence. The undertaker had just put up the shutters of his shop, and was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriately dismal candie, when Mr. Bumble entered. 3 "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 he 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 full glimpse of Oliver. "Mrs. Sowerberry! will you come here a moment, my dear?" Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance. "My dear," said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, "this is the boy from the work-house 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 wasn't bigger; "he is small,—there's no denying it. But 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 down stairs, 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 deno minated "the kitchen," wherein sat a slatternly girl in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair. berry, 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 he 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 course 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, and whose heart is iron, could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected, and witnessed the horrible avidity with which he 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 him 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 up stairs; "your bed's under the counter. You won't mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose?—but it doesn't much matter whether you will or not, for you won't sleep any where else. Come; don't keep me here all night." Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress #### CHAPTER THE FIFTH. Oliver mingles with new associates, and, going to a funeral for the first time, 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 Oliver 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 into the same shape, and 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 above 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, and 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 sunk 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 laid 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. 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; and, when he began to undo the chain, the legs left off their volleys, 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. aid the voice through the key-hole. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver. "How old are yer?" inquired the voice "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 monysyllable 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 trappling hand and expend 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 Oliver see but a big charity-boy sitting on the post in front of the house, eating a slice of bread and butter, which he cut not 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 stand in need of 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 efforts 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, and, shortly afterwards, Mrs. Sowerberry appeared; and Oliver having "caught it," in fulfilment of Noah's prediction, followed that young gentleman down stairs to breakfast. "Come near the fire, Noah," said Charlotte. "I saved a nice little piece 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 every body lets him alone enough, for the matter of that. Neither his father nor mother will ever interfere with him: all his relations let him have his own way pretty well. Eh, Charlotte? He! he! he!" "Oh you guer soul!" said Charlotte. tursting 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 upon the box in the coldest corner of the room, and ate the stella pieces which had been specially re- served for him. Noah was a charity-boy, but not a work-house orphan. No chance-child was he, for he could trace his genealogy back all the way 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 borne 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 is, 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, and 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. "Nothing, my dear, nothing," said Mr. Sowerberry. "Hoh, you brute!" said Mrs. Sower- berry "Not at all, my dear," said Mr. Sowerberry, humbly. "I thought you didn't want to hear, my dear. I was only going to sav- "Öh, 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." And as Mrs. Sowerberry said this, she gave an hysterical laugh, which threatened violent consequences. "But, my dear," said Sowerberry, ". 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, and, after a short altercation of less than three quarters of an hour's duration, the permission was most graciously conceded. "It's only about young Twist, my dear," aid Mr. Sowerberry. "A very good-look- ing boy that, my dear." "He need be, for he eats enough," ob- rved 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 dear." Mr. 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 that 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 the 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 that Oliver should be at once initiated into the mysteries of the profession, 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; for, 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 space which he handed ever to save. berry. "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 pocketbook, 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; "perfectly antimonial, Mr. Sower- erry." "So it is," acquiesced the undertaker. "We only heard of them 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, off-hand." "Ah, there's promptness," said the un- dertake "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 coalheaver only a week before—sent 'em for nothing, with a blacking-bottle in, and he sends back word that she shan't take it, sir." As the flagrant atrocity presented itself to Mr. Bumble's mind in full force, he struck the counter sharply with his cane, and became flushed with indignation. "Well," said the undertaker, "I ne—ver—did ——" "Never did, sir!" ejaculated the beadle—"no, nor nobody never did; but, now she's dead, we've got to bury her, and that's the direction, and the sooner it's done, the better." Thus saying, Mr. Bumble put on his cocked-hat wrong side first, in a fever of parochial excitement, and flounced out of the shop. "Why, he was so angry, Oliver, that he forgot even to ask after you," said Mr. Sowerberry, looking after the beadle as he strode down the street. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver, who had carefully kept himself out of sight during the interview, and who was shaking from head to foot at the mere recollection of the sound of Mr. Burnble's voice. He needn't have 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 denoted without the concurrent testimony afforded by the squalid looks of the few men and women who, with folded arms and bodies half doubled, occasionally skulked like shadows along. A great many of the tenements had shop-fronts; but they were fast closed, and mouldering away: only the upper rooms being inhabited. Others, which had become insecure from age and decay, were prevented from falling into the street by the huge beams of wood which were reared against the tottering 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 that 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, and, stumbling against a door on the landing, rapped at it with his knuckles. It was opened by a young girl of thir- teen 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, and 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 towards the place, and crept involuntarily closer to his master; for, though it was covered up, the boy fell that it was a cornes. The man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly, and his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled, her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip, and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the warn—they seemed so like the rate he had geen outside "Nobody shall go near her," said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. "Keep back! d—n 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—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 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 ir 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 gushing from 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; and having unlossed the man's cravat, who still remained extended on the ground, 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 itself.—"Lord, Lord!—well, it is strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman then, should be alive and merry now, and she lying there, so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord!—to think of it;—it's as good as a play—as good as a play!" As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment, the undertaker turned to go away "Stop, stop!" said the old woman in a loud whisper. "Will she be buried to-morrow—or next day—or to-night! I laid her out, and I must walk, you know. Send me a large cloak—a good warm one, for it is bitter cold. We should have cake and wine, too, before we go! Never mind: send some bread—only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Shall we have some bread, dear!" she said eagerly, catching at the undertaker's coat, as he once more moved towards the door. "Yes, yes," said the undertaker, "of course; anything, everything." He disengaged himself from the old woman's 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; the bare coffin having been screwed down, was then hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried down stairs 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 as long as his mas- ter'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 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 set the bier down 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 hideand-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 the lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, and Sowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave; and immediately afterwards the clergyman appeared, putting on his surplice as he came along. Mr. Bumble then threshed 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 ran away again. "Now, Bill," said Sowerherry 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, 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 then fell down in a fit. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewaiting 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 THE SIXTH 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 had 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 are so essential to a finished undertaker, he had many opportunities of observing the beautiful resignation and fortitude with which some strongminded 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 or 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; and 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 ever, 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 badly 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 most material change in all his 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 hung whenever that desirable event should take place, and entered upon various other topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill- conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, none of these taunts producing the desired effect of making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still, and in this attempt did what many small wits, with far greater reputations than Noah notwithstanding, do to this day when they want to be funny; he got rather personal. "Work'us," said Noah, "how's your nother!" "She's dead," replied Oliver; "don't 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 snivelling now?" "Not you," replied Oliver, hastily brushing the tear away. "Don't think it." "No, 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 carn't be helped now, and of course yer couldn't help it then, and I'm very sorry for it, and I'm sure we all are, and pity yer very much. But yer must know, work'us, your 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 transport- ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_26_Picture_0.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) The in plucks up a spend ed, or hung, which is more likely than either, isn't it?" Crimson with fury, Oliver started up, overthrew 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, 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, and his whole person changed, as he stood glaring over the cowardly tormentor that 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 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 sidedoor, 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, and accompanied 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; and in this favourable position of affairs Noah rose from the ground, and pummelled him from behind. This was rather too violent exercise to last long; so, when they were all three 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; and 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 been all 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 came in." "Ah, 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 very audible tears and snifts. "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 occurrence 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, and 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 THE SEVENTH. Oliver continues refractory. Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused not once for breath until he reached the workhousegate. 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 pre- sented 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 ooy?" said the old pauper. "Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!" cried Noah, with well-affected dismay, and in tones so loud and agitated that they not only caught the ear of Mr. Bumble himself, who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard without his cocked-hat,—which is a very curious and remarkable circumstance, as showing that even a beadle, acted upon by 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 metaltic 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 speaking 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 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. Clay- "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 flow 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 see what's best to be done. Don't spare him, Bumble." "No, I will not, sir," replied the beadle, adjusting the wax-end which was twisted round the bottom of his cane for purposes of parochial flagellation "Tell Sowerberry not to spare him, either. They'll never do anything with him, without stripes and bruises," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "I'll take care, 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, for 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, "Come: you let me out!" replied ver, from the inside. "Do you know this here voice, Oliver?" "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 either? 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 in a profuse bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would eat; so that 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 impocent 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 his 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 further allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced kicking with a violence which rendered every other sound inaudible. Sowerberry returned at this juncture, and 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 sound box on the ear. "He called my mother names," replied Oliver, sullenly. "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 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 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 up stairs to his dismal bed. It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomy work shop 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 dogged 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, if they had roasted him alive. But, now that there were none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor, and, hiding his face in his hands, we the 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, and having gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, gently undid the fastenings of the door and looked abroad. It was a cold dark night. The stars seemed to the boy's eyes further from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind, and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees on the earth looked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the door, and, 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 rose, 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 wagons as they went out toiling up the hill; he took the same route and arriving at a footpath across the fields which he thought 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; and, 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 can 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 mustn'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 bye 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 all the struggles and sufferings of his after-life, through all the troubles and changes of many wears, he never once forgot it. ### CHAPTER THE EIGHTH. Oliver walks to London, and 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; and, 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 at the side of a milestone, and began to think for the first time, where he had better go and try to live. 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 his splendid beauty, but the light only seemed to show the boy his own lonesomeness and desolation as he sat with bleeding feet and covered with dust upon a cold doorsten. 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 how he came there. He had no heart to beg, and there he sat. He had been crouching on the step for some time, 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 ever seen. He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy\\nenough, and as dirty a juvenile as one would wish to see; but he had got about him all the airs and manners of a man. He was short of his age, with rather bowlegs, and little sharp ugly eyes. His hat was stuck on the top of his head so slightly that it threatened to fa.. If 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 halfway up his arm to get his hands out of the sleeves, apparently with the ultimate view of thrusting them into the pockets of his corduroy trousers, for there he kept them. He was altogether as roystering and swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood three feet six, or something less, in his 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 orders, eh? But," he added, noticing Oliver's look of surprise, "I suppose you don't know wot a beak is, my flash compan-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 madg'st'rate; and when you walk by a beak's order, it's not straight forerd, but always going up, and niver coming down agen. 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,—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. 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, "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 gentleman turned inta 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 the 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 con- "Yes." 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, than 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 then sat down to breakfast off 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 gentleman. "Lined?" inquired the Jew with trem- bling 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!" "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 suffication. "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 down 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 When the breakfast was cleared away, the merry old gentleman 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 the pockets, trotted up and down the room with a stick, in imitation of the manner in which old gentlemen walk about the streets every hour in the day. Sometimes he stopped at the fire-place, and sometimes at the door, making belief 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 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 accidentally, 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 gentleman felt a hand in any one of his pockets, he cried out where it was, and then the game began When this game had been played a great many times, a couple of young ladies came to see the young gentlemen, one of whom was called Bet and the other Nancy. They were 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. These visiters 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, which 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 with money to spend, by the amiable old Jew. "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," said the Jew, tapping the fire-shovel on the hearth to add force to his words; "do every thing they bid you, and take their advice in all matters, especially the Dodger's, my dear. He'll be a great man himself, and 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 do, and drew the handkerchief lightly out of it with the other. "Is it gone?" cried the Jew. "Here it is, sir," said Oliver, showing "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, followed him quietly to the table, and was soon deeply involved in his new study. ### CHAPTER THE TENTH. Oliver becomes better acquainted with the charaoters of his new associates, and purchases experience at a high price. Being a short but very important chapter in this history. For eight or ten days Oliver remained in the Jew's room, picking the marks out of the pocket-handkerchiefs, (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 day. At length he began to languish for the 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 enforce upon them the necessity of an active life by sending them supperless to bed: upon one occasion 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 Oli- ver 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 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 cau- tion and circumspection "What's the matter?" demanded Ol "Hush!" replied the Dodger. "Do you see that old cove at the book-stall?" "Ho'll do" said the Dodger "A prime plant," observed Charley Oliver looked from one to the other with the greatest surprise, but 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 The old gentleman was a very respect able-looking personage, with a powdered head and gold spectacles; dressed in a bottle-green coat with a black velvet collar, and white trousers: with a smar 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 was very possible that he fancied him self there, indeed; for it was plain, from his utter abstraction, that he saw not the book-stall, nor the street, nor the book-stall, which he was reading straight through which he was reading straight through turning over the leaves 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 this old gentleman's pocket, and draw from thence a handkerchief, which he handed to Charley Bates, and with which they both ran away round the cor- ner at full speed In one instant the whole mystery of the handkerchiefs, and the watches, and the jewels, and the Jew, rushed upon the boy's mind. He stood for a moment with the blood tingling so 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, and the very instant that 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 retired into the very first doorway round the corner. They no sooner heard the cry, and saw Oliver running, than, guessing exactly how the matter stood, they issued forth with great promptitude, and, shouting "Stop thief!" too, joined in the pursuit like good citizens. Although Oliver had been brought up by philosophers, he was not theoretically acquainted with their 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 carman his wagon; the butcher throws down his tray, the baker his basket, the milkman his pail, the errand-boy his parcels, the ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_39_Picture_1.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) Oliver amuzed at the Dodger's mode of "going to work". schoolboy his marbles, the paviour his pick-axe, the child his battledore: away they run, pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash, tearing, yelling, and 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, agony in his eye, 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 still louder shouts, and whoop and scream with joy, "Stop thief!"—Ay, stop him for God's sake, were it only in mercy! Stopped at last. A clever blow that. He's 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 he is, coming down the street."—"Make room there for the gentleman!"—"Is this the boy, 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, and made this reply to their anxious in- quiries. "Yes," said the gentleman in a benevo "Afraid!" murmured the crowd "Afraid!" murmured the crowd.— "That's a good un." "Poor fellow!" said the gentleman, "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 fellow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for his pains; but the old gentleman, eyeing him with an expression of disgust, looked anxiously round, as if he contemplated running away himself; which it is very possible he might have attempted to do, and thus afforded another chase, had not a police officer (who is always 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," clasping his hands passionately, and looking round: "they are here somewhere." "Óh 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 gentle- man 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 upon 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, got a little a-head, and stared back at Oliver from time to time. The boys shouted in triumph, and on they went. ### CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH 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 neighbourhood 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. 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'd rather not "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 small stone cell. Here he was searched, and nothing been found upon him, locked up. This cell was in shape and size some thing like an area cellar, only not so light It was most intolerably dirty, for it wa Monday morning, and it had been tenantee since Saturday night by six drunken people. But this is nothing. In our station houses, men and women are every nigh 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 man who doubt this, compare the two. rueful as Oliver, when the key grated in the lock; and 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 thoughtfu manner, "something that touches and in terests me. Can he be innocent? He looked like— By the bye," exclaimed the old gentleman, halting very abruptly and staring up into the sky, "God 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 ante-room opening from the yard; and there, retiring into a corner, called up before his mind's eye avast 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 others that the grave had changed to ghastly trophies of death, but which the mind superior to his 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 height ened, 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 mone countenance of which Oliver's fea tures bore a trace; so he heaved a sigle over the recollections he had awakened and being, happily for himself, an absential 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 presence of the renowned Mr. Fano. 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 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 an 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 "Officer!" said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the news- paper, " who is this fellow?" "My name, sir," said the old gentleman, speaking like a gentleman, and consequently in strong contrast to Mr. Fang, —"my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable man, under the protection of the bench." Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked round the office as if in search of some person who could afford him the required information. "Officer!" said Mr. Fang, throwing the charged with ?" "He's not charged at all, your worship," replied the officer. "He appears against the boy, your worship." His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe one. "Appears against the boy, does he?" said 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 never, without actual experience, could have believed—"" "Hold your tongue, sir!" said Mr. Fang peremptorily. "I will not, sir!" replied the spirited 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 gentle- man, reddening. "Swear this person!" said Fang to the clerk. "I'll not hear another word. Swear him!" Mr. Brownlow's indignation was greatly roused; but, reflecting that he might 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 eay, sir?" "I was standing at a book-stall—" Mr. Brownlow hegan "Hold your tongue, sir!" said Mr. Fang. "Policeman!—where's the policeman! Here, swear this man. 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 Ir. Fang. "None, your worship," replied the poiceman. 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, fellow, 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 jailer coughed very loud just at the right moment, and the former dropped a heavy book on the floor; thus preventing the word from being heard— accidentally, 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 saw him running away, and expressing his hope that, if the magistrate should believe him, although not actually the thief, to be connected with 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, locking towards the bar,—"I really fear that he is very 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?" thundered Mr. Fang. "Offi- er, 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 this kind-hearted trief- taker. 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, peing brought near the bed, showed him a gentleman, 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 very much of the same opinion himself. "You feel sleepy, don't you, my dear?" aid 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—perfectly natural. 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; and the doctor, after tasting the cool stuff, and expressing a qualified approval thereof, hurried away: his boots creaking in a very important and wealthy manner as he went down stairs. Oliver dozed off again soon after this, and 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 sun- dry tumblings forward and divers moans and chokings, which, 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 deep stillness of the room were very solemn; and 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 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, and, more than all, its weary recollections of the past! It had been bright day for hours when Oliver opened his eyes; and when he did so, he felt cheerful and happy. The crisis of the disease was safely past, and he be- longed 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 down stairs into the little housekeeper's room, which belonged to her, where, having sat him up by the fireside, 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 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 to furnish an ample dinner when ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_46_Picture_0.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) Oliver recovering from the fever reduced to the regulation strength, for three hundred and fifty paupers, at the very 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 ea- gerly. "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 very pretty—so very beauti- ful," 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." 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, and had searcely swallowed the last spoonful when there came a soft tap 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 dressinggown 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 boy," said Mr. Brownlow stoutly. "Have you given him any nour snment, Bedwin!—any slops, eh! "He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir," replied Mrs. Bedwin, drawing herself up slightly, and laying a strong emphasis on the last word, to intimate that between slops, and broth well compounded, there existed no affinity or connexion whatsoever. "Ugh!" said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder; "a couple of glasses of port wine would have done him a great deal proper good, wouldn't they. Torn White -eh 25 "My name is Oliver, sir," replied the little invalid with a look of great aston ishment. "Oliver!" said Mr. Brownlow; "Ol. ver what? Oliver White,—eh? "Queer name," said the old gentleman. Company every quarter. Wot's it all about, Fagin. D—me if my neckanke-cher 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-forty, in a black velveteen coat, very soiled drab breeches, lace-up half-boots, and grey cotton stockings, which enclosed a very 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; disclosing 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-looking 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 about 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 arterwards, though; for you're fit for nothing but keeping as a curiosity of ugliness in a glass bottle, and I suppose they don't blow them large enough." 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 were 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. 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 or three glassfuls 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 fiercely round upon the Jew; but the old gentleman's shoulders were shrugged up to 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 street when he went out. "Somebody must find out what'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; and this was, that the Dodger, and Charley Bates, and Fagin, and Mr. William Sikes, happened one and all to entertain a most violent and deeprooted 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 say. 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 "jiggered" 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 that cannot bear to inflict upon a fellow-creature the pain of a direct and pointed refusal. The Jew's countenance fell, and he turned to the other young lady, who was gaily, not to say gorgeously attired, in a red gown, green boots, and yellow curl- papers. "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 try- "What do you mean by that?" said Mr. Sikes, looking up in a surly manner. "What I say, Bill," replied the lady "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 Miss Nancy in the same composed manner, "it's rayther more no than yes with me. Bill." "She'll go, Fagin," said Sikes. "No, she won't, Fagin," bawled Nancy And Mr. Sikes was right. By dint of alternate threats, promises, and bribes, the engaging female 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 very recently removed into the neighbourhood 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 the red gown, and the yellow 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 ier 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 tother one, Fagin," said Sikes; "it looks real and genivine like." "Yes, yes, my dear, so it does," said the Jew, hanging the large street-door key on the fore-finger 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 Miss 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 these 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. said the Jew, turning to his young friends and shaking his head gravely, as if in 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 Miss 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 got so much breath to spare, it would be much more wholesomely expended on the treadmill than in a musical instrument. He made no answer, being occupied in mentally bewailing the loss of the flute, which had been confiscated for the use of the county; so Miss Nancy passed on to the next cell, and knocked there. "Well," cried a faint and feeble voice. "Is there a little boy here?" inquired Miss Nancy with a preliminary sob. 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 a licence, 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, Miss 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 Miss Nancy n a distracted manner. "Why, the gentleman's got him," reblied the officer. "What gentleman? Oh, gracious heavins! what gentleman?" exclaimed 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 at 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 gait for a good swift steady 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 every thing. Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; "there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop tonight: 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, and 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 of alarm "Me!" replied the voice of the Dodger through the keyhole. "What now?" cried the Jew impa- "Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?" inquired the Dodger cautiously. "Yes," replied the Jew, "wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find him out, that's all; and I shall know what to do next, never fear." The boy murmured a reply of intelligence, and hurried down stairs 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 windpipe yet." ### CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH. 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 recovered from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's abrupt exclamation had thrown him; and 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 the 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 rone, vou see." "I see it is, ma'am," replied Oliver, with a sigh, "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, na'am," said Oliver. "I liked to see it; Lauite loved it " "Well, well!" said the old lady, goodhumouredly; "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 that Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time, and 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 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 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; and 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 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 Oliver was sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr. Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt 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 differ- ence in him for the better. Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door, and, on Mr. Brownlow calling to him to come in, 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, in 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 the binding. "Not those," said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head, and smiling as he did so; "but 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 bookseller; 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; and 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 heard him speak in 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 as well able to under- "Oh, don't tell me you are going to send me away, sir, pray!" exclaimed Oliver, alarmed by 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 do!" "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 "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 more strongly in terested in your behalf than I can well account for, even to myself. The person 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 for ever on my best affections. Deep affliction has only made them stronger; it ought, I think, for it should refine our nature." As the old gentleman said this in a low voice, more to himself than to his companion, and remained silent for a short time afterwards, Oliver sat quite still, almost afraid to breathe "Well, well," said the old gentleman at length in a more cheerful voice, "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; and all the inquiries I have been able to make confirm the statement. Let me hear your story; where you came from, who brought you up, and how you got into the company in which I found you. Speak the truth; and if I find you have committed no crime, you will never be friendless while I live." Oliver's sobs quite checked his utterance for some minutes; and just 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 doubleknock was heard at the street-door, and 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 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 down stairs, sir?" inquired Oliver. "No," replied Mr. Brownlow; "I would rather you stopped 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-plated shirt-frill stuck out from his waist-coat, 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 round on one side when he spoke, and 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 him. self the moment he made his appearance and, holding out a small piece of orange peel at arm's length, exclaimed in a growl ing, 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 cursed poorsurgeon's-friend on the staircase? I've been lamed with orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel will be my death at last. It will, sir; 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 that 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 ever 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?" he added ooking 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 that had the fever, I hope?" said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little further. "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 that had the orange! If that's not the boy, sir, that 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 mantrap!' 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. Grim- wig at length "That is the boy," replied Mr. Brownlow, nodding good-humouredly to Oliver. "How are you, boy?" said Mr. Grim- "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 down stairs, 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 Grimwig pettishly. "Don't know ?" "No, I don't know. I never see any difference in boys. I only know two sorts of boys,—mealy boys, and beef-faced boys. "And which is Oliver?" "Mealy. I know a friend who's got 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 "They are not," replied Grimwig. "He may have worse.' tiently, 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—w...at of that? Fevers are not peculiar to good people, are they? Bad people have fevers sometimes, haven't they, eh? I knew a man that was hung in Jamaica for murdering his master; he had had a fever six times; he wasn't recommended to mercy on that account. 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 any satisfactory answer, and that he had postponed any investigation into Oliver's previous history until he thought the boy was strong enough to bear it, Mr. Grimwig chuckled maliciously, and 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 ———, et cetera. All this Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous gentleman, knowing his friend's peculiarities, bore with great good humour; and 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 pres- ence "And when are you going to hear a full, true, and particular account of the life and adventures of Oliver Twist?" asked Grimwig of Mr. Brownlow, at the conclusion of the meal: looking sideways at Oliver as he resumed the subject. "To-morrow morning," replied Mr. Brownlow. "I would rather he was alone with me at the time. Come up to me tomorrow 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 dear friend." "I'll swear he is not," replied Mr. Brownlow, warmly "If he is not," said Mr. Grimwig, "I'l It grew so dark that the figures on the dial were scarcely discernible; but there the two old gentlemen continued to sit in silence, with the watch between them. ### CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH. Showing how very fond of Oliver Twist, the merry old Jew and Miss Nancy were. generally respected and esteemed of any in the whole circle of my acquaintance. But, as Mr. Brownlow was not one of these: as he obstinately persevered in doing good for its own sake, and the gratification of heart it yielded him; as no failure dispirited him, and no ingratitude in individual cases tempted him to wreak his vengeance on the whole human race, I shall not enter into any such digression in this place: and, if this be not a sufficient reason for this determination, I have a better, and, indeed, a wholly unanswerable one, already stated; which is, that it forms no part of my original intention se to do. In the obscure parlour of a low publichouse, situate 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 police would have hesitated for one instant 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, and, having given it a good hearty shake, retired, growling, under a form: thereby just escaping the pewter measure which Mr. Sikes levelled at his boad. "You would, would you!" said Sikes, seizing the poker in one hand, and de- ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_61_Picture_1.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) Elever channed by his affectionate friends 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, can't I?" replied Sikes. "I wonder whether they can hear it," said Nancy. "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 fellows!" 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 miles off, or not walking at all, for all the good it would do me. Come on, will you, 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-frequence and dirty ways, for a full half-hour, meeting very few people, for it now rained heavily, and those they did meet 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; and, the dog running forward as if conscious that there was no further occasion of his keeping on guard, stopped before the door of a shop which was closed and apparently untenanted for the house was in a ruinous condition, and upon the door was nailed a board in timating that it was to let, which looked as if it had hung there for many years. "All right," said Sikes, looking cau tiously 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; upon which Mr. Sikes seized the terrified boy by the col lar with very little ceremony, and all three were quickly inside the house. The passage was perfectly dark, and 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 rought he had heard before. "Is the old 'un here?" asked the robber. "Yes," replied the voice; "and prezious 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 that 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 doc. Look after your legs if ou do, that's all." "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, bearing 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 humorous 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. ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_64_Picture_0.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) Clever's the hope by Jugen and the house "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 can't bear it. With this irrepressible ebullition of mirth, Master Bates laid himself flat on the floor, and kicked convulsively for five minutes in an ecstacy of facctious 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, rifling his pockets with steady assiduity. "Look at his togs, Fagin!" said Charley, putting the light so close to Oliver's new jacket as nearly to set him on fire. "Look at his togs!—superfine cloth, and the heavy-swell cut! Oh, my eye, what 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 this, 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 or 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 Sikes, putting on his hat with a determined air,— "mine and Nancy's, that is,—I'll take the boy back again" the boy back again." The Jew started, and Oliver started too, though from a very different cause, for he hoped the dispute might really end in his being taken back. "Come, hand it over, will you?" said Sikes. "This is hardly fair, Bill; hardly fair, s it, Nancy?" inquired the Jew. "Fair, or not fair," retorted Sikes, "hand it 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; and if not you can sell em." "They're very pretty," said Charles Bates, who with certain grimaces had been affecting to read one of the volumes in question; "beautiful writing, isn't it, Oliver?" and 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 ecstacy 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 that 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 the energy of passionate grief, Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jew's feet, and beat his hands together in per- fect 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 took him in at all, and they'll ask no questions arter him, fear they should be obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged. He's safe cnuigh." Oliver had looked from one to the other while these words were being spoken, as ing 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 genteel 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 changed places with them we passed so near tonight, 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 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 nave, it's your living! "Ah, 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 phrensy, 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 disturb ance over; but neither he, nor Sikes, nor the dog, nor the boys, seemed to consider it in any other light than a common occurrence incidental to business. "It's the worst of having to do with women," said the Jew, replacing the 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 to-morrow, 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. "Pull 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; and 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 soon fell sound asleep. ### CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH 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 melo-dramas, to present the tragic and the comic scenes in as regular alternation as the layers of red do want for something, now? Why, you little wretch—" "Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop!" said the beadle, raising his hand with a show of authority. "Like what, sir; eh?" "I should like," faltered the child, "if somebody that can write, would put a few words down for me on a piece of paper, and fold it up, and seal it, and keep it for me after I am laid in the ground." "Why, what does the boy mean?" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, on whom the earnest manner and wan aspect of the child had made some impression, accustomed as he was to such things. "What do you mean, sir?" "I should like," said the child, "to leave my dear love to poor Oliver Twist, and to let him know how often I have sat by myself and cried to think of his wandering about in the dark nights with no body 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 lived to be a man, and grew 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 has de- moralised 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 gentlemen 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 pompously. "There; take him away. I can't open the sight of him." Dick was immediately taken away, and locked up in the coal-cellar; and Mr Bumble shortly afterwards took himself At six o'clock next morning, Mr. Bumbie 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, having experienced no other crosses by 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 mantel-piece, he drew his chair to the fire, and, with sundry moral reflections on the too-prevalent sin of discontent and complaining, he then composed himself comfortably to read the paper. The very first paragraph upon which Mr. Bumble's eyes rested, was the follow- ing 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 may 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 on the mantel-piece. "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 1874,848111.1 ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_73_Picture_1.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) Questro. Buter appliane a fregel me ber wanty Nolly," said the Dodger, as the Jew was heard unlocking the door above, "if you don't take fogles 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-hankechers 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! he understands the cathechism 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 pro- ficiency. 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 acquirements. 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 wecks 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 mortal long hard-working days, and that he 'wished he might be busted if he wasn'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, and, after some more jokes on the same subject, exchanged a few short whispers with Fa- gin, 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;) accordingly Miss Betsy 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 bottor facilings In short, the wily old Jew had the boy in his toils; and, 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, was now slowly instilling into his soul the poison which he hoped would blacken it and change its hue for ever. ### CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH. 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 neighbourhood 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 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 dirty streets which about in that class and descely populate. ed quarter. The Jew was evidently too familiar with the ground he traversed, however, 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, and, having exchanged a few muttered words with the person who opened the door, walked up stairs. A dog growled as he touched the handle of a door, and a man's voice demanded who was there. "Only me, Bill; only me, my dear," "Bring in your body," said Sike 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. "An! 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, however, 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 any more about it, for it was a cold night, and no mistake. Miss Nancy prefixed to the word "cold" another adjective, derived from the name of an unpleasant instrument of death, which, as the word is seldom mentioned to ears polite in any other form than as a substantive, I have omitted in this chronicle. "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 left 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; and 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 emptied it, 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 curiosity, for he had seen it often before, but in a restless and suspicious manner which was 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 mantelpiece. "There," said Sikes, smacking his lips. "Now I'm ready." "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. What 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. D—n your eyes! 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, upon reflection he drowned 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 dears, such plate!" said the Jew, rubbing his hands, and elevating his eyebrows in a rapture of anticipation. "Not to be done at all!" echoed the low 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 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 into a line." the Jew, softening as the other grew heated, "that neither of the two men in "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 lew incredulously. "Think what women 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 "He should have tried mustachies and a pair of military trousers, my dear," said the Jew after a few moments' reflection. "So he did," rejoined Sikes, "and they warn't of no more use than the other plant." The Jew looked very blank at this information, and, after ruminating for some minutes with his chin sunk on his breast, raised his head, and said with a deep sight 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 A long silence ensued, during which the Jew was plunged in deep thought, with his face wrinkled into an expression of villany perfectly demoniacal. Sikes eyed him furtively from time to time; and 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 ifty shiners extra if it's safely done from the outside ?" "Yes," said the Jew, suddenly rousing himself as if from a trance. "Is it a hargain ?" inquired Sikes "Yes, my dear, yes," rejoined the Jew grasping the other's hand, his eyes glistening, and every muscle in his face work ing 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 I were over the garden-wall the night afore last, sounding the panels of the doors 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, yes," said the Jew, bending his head forward, with his eyes almost start- ing 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, biting his lip. "Is there no help wanted but yours and Toby's?" "None," said Sikes, "'cept a centrebit and a boy; the first we've both get; the second you must find us." "A boy!" exclaimed the Jew. "Oh! then it is a panel, eh? "Never mind wet it is!" replied Sikes; "I want a boy, and he mustn'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 have not,) we shouldn't have a half-a-dozen boys left in the whole trade in a year or two." "No more we should," acquiesced the Jew, who had been considering during this speech, and had only caught the last entence. "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 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 at very composedry. 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, and Sikes locked 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, "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'raps 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 exclanations of "Keep the game a-going!" "Never say die!" and the like, which seemed at once 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 Miss Nancy with a laugh, "tell Bill at once about Oliver!" "Ah! 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!" "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 "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 hread; besides, the others are all too big." "Well, he is just the size I want," said "And will do every thing you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself,—that is, if you only frighten him enough" "Frighten him?" cchoed Sikes. "It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when 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, groned down stairs. "Always the way," muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homewards. "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! The man against the child, for a bag of gold!" Beguling 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 ascended the stairs. "Hours ago," replied the Dodger, 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 THE TWENTIETH. Wherein Oliver 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 ones had been removed. At first he was pleased with the discovery, hoping it might be the forerunner of his release; but such thoughts were quickly dispelled on his sitting down to breakfast alone 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 Oli- ver 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 Oliver'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 he 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, sir!" replied Oliver soft The Jew walked to the door, looking over his shoulder at the boy as he went, and, suddenly stopping, called him by his name. Oliver looked up; the Jew, pointing to the candle, motioned to 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. Whatever 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 leant 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 a change very severely. He remained lost in thought for some minutes, and then, with a heavy sigh, snuffed the cand, taking up the book which the Jew had left with him, beran to read. He turned over the leaves carelessly at tracted his attention, 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 make the blood run cold; of secret murders that had been committed by the lonely wayside, and 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 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 vivid and real, 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 murmurs by the spirits of the dead. In a paroxysm of fear the boy closed the book and thrust it from him. Then, falling upon his knees, he prayed Heaven to spare him from such deeds, and rather to will that he should die at once, than be reserved for crimes so fearful and appalling. By degrees he grew more calm, and besought, in a low and broken voice, that he might be rescued from his present dangers: and 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 all this." "Has anything happened?" asked Oliver. "Can I help you? I will if I can; I will indeed." She rocked herself to and fro, and then, wringing her hands violently, caught her throat, and, uttering a gurgling sound, struggled and gasped for breath. "Nancy!" cried Oliver, greatly alarm- ed. "What is it?" The girl burst into a fit of loud laughter, beating her hands upon her knees, and her feet upon the ground, meanwhile; 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 the girl, 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?" said Oliver recoiling. "What for?" echoed the girl, raising her eyes, and averting them again the moment they encountered the boy's face. "Oh! no harm." "I don't believe it." said Oliver, who ad 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 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, trembling. "Well," said the robber, grasping Oliver's wrist tightly, and putting the barrel so close to his temple that they touched, at which moment the boy could not repress a shriek; "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 ef- fect Mr Sikes continued. "As near as I know, there isn't anybody as would be asking very partickler arter you, if you was disposed of; so I needn't take this devil-and-all of trouble to explain matters to you if it warn't for your own good. D'ye hear?" "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 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 but. And now that he's thoroughly up spoore afore starting In pursuance of this request, Nancy quickly laid the cloth, and, disappearing for a few minutes, presently returned with a pot of porter and a dish of sheeps' heads, which gave occasion to several pleasant witticisms on the part of Mr. Sikes, founded upon the singular coincidence of "jemmies" being a cant name common to them and an ingenious implement much used in his profession. Indeed, the worthy gentleman, stimulated perhaps by the immediate prospect of being in active service, was in great spirits and good-humour; in proof whereof it may be here remarked, that he humorously drank all the beer at a draught, and did not utter, on a rough calculation, more than fourscore 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 upon 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 anyiety be 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, while 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 windowpanes, 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 t is." Oliver was not long in making his toilet; and, having taken some breakfast, replied to a surly inquiry from Sikes, by saving that he was quite ready. Nancy, scarcely looking at the ooy, threw him a handkerchief to tie round his throat, and 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 the pistol in a side-pocket of his great-coat, clasped it firmly in his, and, exchanging a fare-well with Nancy, led him way. Oliver turned round 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 THE TWENTY-FIRST. The expedition. Ir 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, for large pools of water had collected in the road, and the kennels were overflowing. There was a faint glimmering of the coming day in the sky, but it rather aggravated than relieved the gloom of the scene, the sombre light only serving to pale that which the street-lamps afforded, without shedding any warmer or brighter tints upon the wet housetops and dreary streets. There appeared to be nobody stirring in that quarter of the town, for the windows of the houses were all closely shut, and the streets through which they passed 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, and now and then a stage-coach covered with mud, rattled briskly by, the driver bestowing, as he passed, an 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 de grees other shops began to be unclosed and a few scattered people were met with. Then came straggling groups of labourer going to their work; then men and wo men with fish-baskets on their heads donkey-carts laden with vegetables, chaise carts filled with live-stock or whole car cases of meat, milk-women with pails and 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; and, when they threaded the streets between Shoreditci and Smithfield, it had swelled into a roar of sound and bustle. It was as light as it was likely to be till night set in again und the busy morning of half the London population had begun Turning down Sun-street and Crownstreet, 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 surprise and amazement. It was market-morning. The ground was covered nearly ankle-deep with filth and mire; and a thick steam perpetually rising from the reeking bodies of the cattle, and mingling with the fog, which seemed to rest upon the chimney-tops, hung heavily above. All the pens in the centre of the large area, and as many temporary ones as could be crowded into the vacant space, were filled with sheep; and, 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 dense mass; the whistling of drovers, the barking of dogs, the bellowing and plunging of beasts, the bleating of sheep, and 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 din that resounded from every corner of the market; and the unwashed, unshaven, squalid, and dirty figures constantly running to and fro, and bursting in and out of the throng, rendered it a stunning and bewildering scene which quite confounded the senses. Mr. Sikes, dragging Oliver after him, elbowed his way through the thickest of the crowd, and bestowed very little attention upon 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, surlily, looking up at the clock of St. Andrew's church, "hard upon seven! you must sto out. Come, don't lag behind already, Lazy, logs!" Mr. Sikes accompanied this speech with a fierce jerk at his little companion's wrist; and Oliver, quickening his pace into a kind of trot, between a fast walk and a run, kept up with the rapid strides of the housebreaker as well as he could. They kept on 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: when, seeing "Hounslow" written upon it, he asked the driver, with as much civility as he ing done so, 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 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 which 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. 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 solemn 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, and, taking Oliver by the hand, they once again walked on They turned into no house & Shipperton, 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 till they were close upon the bridge, and then turned suddenly down a bank upon the left. "The water!" thought Oliver, turning sick with fear. "He has brought me to this length place to repude year?" 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. It was dark, dismantled, and to all appearance uninhabited. Sikes, with Oliver's hand still in his softly approached the low porch, and raised the latch. The door yielded to his pressure; and they passed in together. #### CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND. The Burglary. "Hallo!" cried a loud, hoarse voice, directly they had 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; and wake up first, if convenient." The speaker appeared to throw a bootjack, 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 "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 tho- 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 officia- ting 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 witing posture, and demanded who "The boy-only the boy!" replied Sikes, drawing a chair towards the fire. "Wud of Bister Fagid's lads," ex claimed 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 fortun' to him." "There—there's enough of that!" interposed Sikes impatiently; and, stooping over his recumbent 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 cat 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, scarcely 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 "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 sur- ly 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 sbort nap. Oliver retained his stool by the fire; and Barncy, 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 upon the fire. Oliver fell into a heavy doze, imagining himself straying alone through 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's 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; while Barney, opening a cuploard, 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 "I've got 'em." replied Sikes. "Crape, keys, centre-bit, 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 that 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; and 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 polody 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 interval from some bed-room window, and the lioarse barking of dogs occasionally broke the silence of the night; but there was nobody abroad, and 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, wellnigh 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 sunk 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 upon 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; and, after some delay and some assistance from Toby, the shutter to which he had referred It was a little lattice window, about five feet and a half above the ground, at the back of the bouse, belonging to a ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_90_Picture_1.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) The Burylary. 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. Sikes'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 ten 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 a gold pitchfork on 'em, which is the old lady's arms." "Keep quiet, can't you!" replied Sikes with a savage look. "The room door is open, is it?" "Wide," replied 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; and then 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 Oliver 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;" and 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 They listened intently "Nothing," said Sikes, releasing hi 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 up stairs from the hall and alarm the family. Filled with this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthily. "Come back!" suddenly cried Sikes loud. "Back! back!" Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and 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 shaw here. They 've him Ouck! Dampation how the how 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. "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 e. Mr. Bumble?" said the matron, sipping her tea. "When, indeed, ma'am!" rejoined Mr. Bumble. "Why, here's one man that, in consideration 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 'ein, 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 con- 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 God!' 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 'cm away again, 'you won't get anything else here.'—'Then I'll die in the streets!' says the vagrant.—'Oh no, you wo'nt,' says our overseer." "Ha! ha!—that was very good!—so like Mr. Grannet, wasn't it?" interposed the matron. "Well. Mr. Bumble?" "Well, ma'am," rejoined the beadle, he went away, and 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,—properly managed, ma'am,—is the porochial safe-guard. 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 eases 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, stooping 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 afternoon,—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 the top of a chest of drawers, folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped, put it earefully 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 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 1 Mr. Doughla instantance 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 headle at that moment The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crums 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. Bumlule slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, "I mean to say this, ma'am, that any eat or kitten that could live with you, ma'am, and not be fond of its home, must be an ass. ma'am." "Oh, Mr. Bumble!" remonstrated Mrs Corney "It's no use disguising facts, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity, that 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 inflicted 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 be- tween 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 as 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 the 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,—whatever they were, it unfortunately happened, as has twice before been 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, 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- nearted, 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 crums off his knees, wiped his lips, and deliberately kissed the matron. "Mr. Bumble," eried that discreet lady in a whisper, for the fright was so great that she 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. ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_95_Picture_1.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) Mi. Bumble and Mis Cincy taking lit. 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, The attendant did as she was bidden, shaking her head meanwhile to intimate that the woman would not die so easily; and, having done so, 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 perfectly 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 mes senger "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 firs "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 hrs 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 wax-work. My old eyes have seen them,—ay, and these 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 then, 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 ere soon enough for us all." "Hold your fongue, 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, and 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 sick woman had raised herself upright and was stretching her arms to wards them "Who's that?" she cried in a hollow "Hush, hush!" said one of the women stooping over her,—"lie down, lie down!" "I'll never he down agam alive!" saud 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 bed-side 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 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 lad 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 impa- ient 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 it!" "Stole what, for God's sake!" cried 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!" eagerly over the woman as she fell back. Go on, go on—yes—what of it? Who was the mother ?--when was it ?" "She charged 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!—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 disgraced to hear its poor young mother named. 'And oh, my God!' 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 ma- tron. "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, and, clutching the coverlet with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed. \* \* \* \* \* \* "Stone dead!" said one of the old wo men, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened. "And nothing to tell, after all," rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away The two crones were to all appearance too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, and were left alone hovering about the body. ### CHAPTER THE THIRD, 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 upon 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 com- 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 took in extremely good part, merely requesting his friend to be "blowed," or to insert his hand 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 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 matter or 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 Artful and dum." "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, thankee, 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 morn- ng to win against the Dodger." "Morning!" said Charles Bates; "you must put your boots on over night, and have a telescope at each eye, and a operaglass 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 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 hink 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 merrygo-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 till his laugh was over, when he resumed his former position and began another. Jew, winking at Mister 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'll 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," re plied 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," re plied 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 up stairs. The bell rang again with some impatience while the party were in darkness. After a short pause, the Dodger re-appeared, 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 "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 to retire, 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 shawl which had concealed the lower portion of his face, and disclosed—all haggard, unwashed, and unshaven,—the features of flash Toby Crackit. "How are you, Fagey?" said the 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, Fagey," 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 ——! 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 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 with irrepressible excitement. It was all of no use. Toby continued to eat with the utmost outward indifference until he could eat no more; and then, or dering the Dodger out, closed the door, mixed a glass of spirits and water, and composed himself for talking. "First and foremost, Fagey," said To by. "Yes, ves!" interposed the Jew, draw- ing up his chair Mr. Crackit stopped to take a draugh of spirits and water, and to declare that the gin was excellent; and then placing his feet against the low mantelpiece, so as to bring his boots to about the level of his eye, quietly resumed. "First and foremost, Fagey," said the "What!" screamed the Jew, starting "Why, you don't mean to say ——" pegan Tohy, 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?" "I know it," replied the Jew, tearing a 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. D—me! the whole country was awake, and the dogs upon us!" "The boy!" gasped the Jew. "Bill had him on his back, and scudded like the wind. We stopped to take him again 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 of 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 THE FOURTH. 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. Looking hastily round, as if uncertain whither he had been hurrying, he paused for a few moments, and turned away in quite an opposite direction to that in which he had before proceeded. Avoiding as much as 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, there 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 handkerchies of all sizes and patterns,—for here reside the traders who purchase them from pickpockets. Hundreds of these handkerchies 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 go as strangely as they came. Here the clothesman, the shoe-vamper, and the ragmerchant display their goods as signboards to the petty thief; and 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, nod-ded 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 warchouse-door. "Why, the sight of you, Mister Fagin, would cure the hoptalmy!" said this respectable trader, in acknowledgment of the Jew's inquiry after his health. "The neighbourhood was a little too hot, Lively!" said Fagin, elevating his eyebrows, and crossing his hands upon his shoulders "Well! I've heerd that complaint of it once or twice before," replied the trader, "but it soon cools down again; don't you find it so?" Fagin nodded in the affirmative, and, pointing in the direction of Saffron Hill, 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 on. I don't think your friend's there." "Sikes is not, I suppose?" inquired the "Non istwentus, as the lawyers say," replied the little man, shaking his head, and looking amazing sly. "Have you got anything in my line to-night?" " Nothing to-night," said the Jew, turn- ing 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 drain 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 tip-toe, 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 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 same public-house in which Mr. Sikes and his dog have already figured. Merely making a sign to a man in the bar, Fagin walked straight up stairs, 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 gaslights, 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 being injured by the flaring of the lamps; and the place was so full of dense tobacco-smoke, that as first it was scarcely possible to discern anything further. By degrees, however, as some of it cleared away through the open door, an assemblage of heads, as 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; so Fagin crept softly up-stairs, and entered it without any previous ceremony. The girl was alone, lying with her head upon the table, and her hair straggling over it. Jew coolly, "or perhaps she is only mise- rable." The old man turned to close the door as he made this reflection, and the noise thus occasioned roused the girl. She eyed his crafty face narrowly as she inquired whether there was any news, and listened to his recital of Toby Crackit's story. When it was concluded, she sunk 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 this silence, the Jew looked restlessly about the room, as if to assure himself that there were no appearance 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 concilie- tory tone. "And where should you think Bill was now, my dear; eh?" The girl mouned out some scarcely intelligible reply, that she could not tell; and seemed, from the half-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, girl." "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'll 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 that 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 in- oluntarily. "What is it!" pursued Fagin, mad with rage. "This! 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 got the power to, to-" Panting for breath, the old man stammered for a word, and in that one instant checked the torrent of his wrath, and changed the whole of his demeanour. A moment before, his clenched hands had grasped the air, his eyes had dilated, and his face had grown livid with passion; but now he shrunk into a chair, and, cowering together, trembled with the apprehension of having himself disclosed some hidden villany. After a short silence he ventured to look round at his companion, and 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, and 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, he's pretty sure to, for he's worth two of him any time." "And about what I was saying, my dear?" observed the Jew, keeping his glistening eye steadily upon her. "You must say it all over again if it's any thing 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 fully confirmed. Miss Nancy, indeed, was not exempt from a failing which was very common among the Jew's female pupils, and in which in their tender years they were rather encouraged than checked. Her disordered appearance, and a wholesome perfume of Geneva which pervaded the apartment, affording strong confirmatory evidence of the justice of the Jew's supposition; and when, after indulging in the temporary display of violence above described, she subsided, first into dullness, and afterwards into a compound of feelings, under the influence of which she shed tears one minute, and in the next gave utterance to various exclamations of "Never say die!" and divers calculations as to what might be the amount of the odds so long as a lady or gentleman were 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 accomplished his two-fold object of imparting to the girl what he had that night heard, and ascertaining with his own eyes that Sikes had not returned, Mr. Fagin again turned his face home- ward, leaving his young friend asleep with her head upon the table. It was within an hour of midnight, and 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 ound. "Is that-" ly. "I have been lingering here these two hours. Where the devil have you been?" 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 upon 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, and remarked 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 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: I hate this!" "Shut the door," whispered Fagin from the end of the passage. As he spoke, it closed with a loud noise. Thinking begets thinking; and, as there were no sounds of Mrs. Corney's approach, it occurred to Mr. Bumble that it would be an innocent and virtuous way of spending the time, if he were further to allay his curiosity by a cursory glance at the interior of Mrs. Corney's chest of drawers. Having listened at the key-hole 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 newspaper sprinkled 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 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 fire-side, and covering her eyes with one hand, placed the the two was her beard. 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 "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 adv. shuddering. "Then don't think of it, ma'am," re- "I can't help it," whimpered the lady. Mr. Bumble soothingly. "A little of the "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, alling 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," explained 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. Cor- ney. "Very much so indeed, ma'anı" said the beadle. As he spoke, he drew a chain beside the matron, and tenderly inquired what had happened to distress her. "Nothing," replied Mrs. Corney. "am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur." "Not weak, ma'am," retorted Mr. Bun ble, 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. Nothing was said on either side for a minute or two afterwards; and 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 apron-string, round which it gradually became entwined "We are all weak creeturs," said Mr. Bumble. Mrs. Corney sighed. "Don't sigh, Mrs. Corney," said Mr. Bumble. "I can't help it," said Mrs. Corney; and she sighed again "This is a very comfortable room, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, looking round. "Another room and this, ma'am, would be a complete thing." "It would be too much for one," mur mured the lady. "But not for two, ma'am," rejoined Mr. Bumble in soft accents. "Eh, Mrs. Cor- nev ?" Mrs. Corney drooped her head when the beadle said this, and 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 allow you coals, don't they, Mrs. Corney?" affectionately inquired the beadle, 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 a angel you are!" The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She sunk 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 fas- cinator ?" "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\\nup. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this opens! What a opportunity for a joining of hearts and housekeeping!" "The little word?" said Mr. Bun Corney ? "Ye-ye-yes!" sighed out the ma tron. "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 round 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 satis factorily arranged, the contract was solemnly ratified in another tea-cup-full 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, sip- ping 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," aid 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 nastily. "If I thought it was," continued Mr. Bumble,—"if I thought 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 sounded as no 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. ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_110_Picture_1.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) 11 the the a su appoint with the man to a sent 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, and the table was strewed with bread and butter, plates and glasses, a pewter-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 ether; 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; and 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. "Ain't ver fond of ovsters?" "Not over-much," replied Charlotte. "I like to see you eat 'em, Noah dear, better than eating them 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, na i ii kiss yer. "What!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, pursting into the room. "Say that again, ir." Charlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face in her apron; while 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 vile, 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, lubbering. "She's always a-kissing of me, whether I like it or not." "Oh, Noah!" cried Charlotte reproach- fully. "Yer are, yer know yer are!" retorted Noah. "She's always a-doing 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 down stairs, ma'am! Noah, you shut up the shop, and 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 an 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 inquiries after young Oliver Twist and ascertain whether he be still lying in the ditch where Toby Crackit left him. talking to them. Then he was alone with Sikes plodding on as they had done the previous day, and as shadowy people passed them by, he felt the robber's grasp upon his wrist. Suddenly he started back at the report of fire-arms, and there rose into the air loud cries and shouts; lights gleamed before his eyes, and all was noise and tumult as some unseen hand bore him hurriedly away. Through all these rapid visions there ran an undefined, uneasy, consciousness of pain which wearied and tormented him incessantly. Thus he staggered on, creeping almost mechanically between the bars of gates, or through hedge-gaps as they came in his way, until he reached a road; and 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. Seeing 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 no drew nearer to this house, a feeling came 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 same 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, where could he fly to? 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; and 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 hearers (but especially the cook and housemaid, who were of the party) listened with breathless interest. "It was about half-past two," said Mr. Giles, "or I wouldn't swear that it might n't have been a little nearer three, when I woke up, and turning round in my 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. "I 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 OOK. "A kind of 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 un- nitigated horror. "I tossed off the clothes," said Giles, throwing away the table-cloth, and lookAllery Constants ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_115_Picture_1.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) Oliver Invist at . W. " haylier down. ing hard at the cook and housemaid, "got softly out of bed, drew on a pair of-" "Ladies present, Mr. Giles," murmur- ed the tinker. "—Of shoes, sir," said Giles, turning upon him, and laying great emphasis on the word, "seized the loaded pistol that always goes up stairs with the plate-basket, and walked on tip-toes 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 under any alarm." " Tital C' 1 "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 house- maid. "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. But we, being men, took a dark lantern that was standing on Brittle's hob, and groped our way down stairs 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 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 capitulated on these terms; and the party being somewhat re-assured by the discovery (made on throwing open the shutters) that it was now broad day, took their way up stairs with the dogs in front, and the two women, who were afraid to stop below, bringing 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 masterstroke 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, and the group peeping timorously over each other's shoulder, 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 back ground. "What's the matter with the \_\_eh! \_\_Why \_\_ Brittles \_\_ look here \_\_ Brittles, who had got behind the door to open it, no sooner saw Oliver, than he uttered a loud cry of recognition. Mr. Giles seizing the boy by one leg and one arm—fortunately not the broken limbulged him straight into the hall, and deposited him at full length on the floor thereof. "Here he is!" bawled Giles, calling in a great state of 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 up stairs 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 hung. 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 "I'm here, miss," replied Mr. Giles. "Don't be frightened, miss; I ain't much\\ninjured. He did n't make a very desperate resistance, miss; I was soon too many for him." "Hush!" replied the young lady; you frighten my aunt almost as much as the thieves did. Is the poor creature severely 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. "Would n't you like to come and look at him, miss, i you like to come and look at him, miss, there's a good man!" rejoined the young lady. "Wait quietly With a footstep as soft and gentle as the voice, the speaker tripped away, and soon returned with the direction that the wounded person was to be carried carefully up stairs 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?" said 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, if it is only 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 up stairs with the care and solicitude of a woman. ### CHAPTER THE SEVENTH Has an introductory account of the inmates of the house to which Oliver resorted, and relates what they thought of him. 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 sideboard 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 waistcoat, 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 bygone 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, and her eyes, of which age had dimmed but little of their brightness, attentively fixed 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 sup- posed 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 entwined with the best sympathies and affections of our nature. She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table, and chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead, and threw into one beaming look such a gush of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her. The elder lady smiled; but her heart was full, and she brushed away a tear as she did so. "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 "Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attendant. And seeing, by-the-by, 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 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 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, or I myself and my assistant would have been delighted, or anybody: I'm sure, under such circumstances; dear, dear—so unexpected—in the silence of night too!" The doctor seemed especially 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 house-breaking way to transact business at noon, and to make an appointment by the two penny post a day or two previous "And you, Miss Rose," said the doc- "Oh! very much so, indeed," said Rose, interrupting him; "but there is a poor creature up stairs whom aunt wishes you to see." "Ah! to be sure," replied the doctor, so there is. That was your handy- work, 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 though: it was no loke 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 could n't have believed it." Talking all the way, he followed Mr. Giles up stairs; and while he is going up stairs 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 bed-room bell was rung very often, and the servants ran up and down stairs perpetually, from which towers it was justly concluded that something important was going on above. At ength he returned; and in reply to an anxious inquiry after his patient, looked very mysterious, and closed the door care. fully "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 this thief?" 'No," rejoined the old lady. " 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 "You did, did you. Then confound and damn your ——slow coaches down here; that's all," said the doctor, walking away. ### CHAPTER THE EIGHTH Involves a critical position. "Wno'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 that 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 greatcoat, who walked in without saying anything more, and wiped his shoes on the mat as coally 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 minding the prad. Have you got a coach'us here that you could put it up in for five or ten min- utes?" 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 your in private if you please ?" This was addressed to Mr. Losberne, who now made his appearance; and 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, and, being desired to sit down, put his hat upon the floor, and, taking a chair, motioned 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 forced 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 looking very knowing meanwhile, and occasionally exchanging a nod. "I can't say for certain till I see the place, of course," said Blathers; "but my opinion at once is,—I do n't mind committing myself to that extent,—that this was n't done by a vokel—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 talking of?" 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 it is," re- narked 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 did n'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 to see the place where the thieves made their attempt first I suppose?" "Certainly," rejoined Mr. Blathers. "We had better inspect the premises first, and examine the servants arter wards. 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 melo-dramatic representation of their share in the previous night's adventures, which they performed some six times over, contradicting 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 knottlest 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 do n'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 credit it, surely?" interrupted Rose in haste. "I believe it, strange as it is, and perhaps may be an old fool for doing so," rejoined the doctor; "but I don't think it is exactly the tale for a practised police officer, nevertheless." "Why not?" demanded Rose. "Because, my pretty cross-examiner," replied the doctor, "because, viewed with their eyes, there are so many ugly points about it; he can only prove the parts that look bad, and none of those that look well. Confound the fellows, they will have the why and the wherefore, and 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-office on a charge of picking a gentleman's pocket, and is 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 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 that 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 crimi- nate 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, invariably, 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 from with even greater rapidity than be- fore. "The more I think of it," said the doctor, "the more I see that it will occasion endless trouble and difficulty to put these men into 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! why did they send for these eople ? "Why, indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Maylie. "I would not have had them here "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, that's all! The object is a good one, and that must be the excuse. The boy has strong symptoms of fever upon him, and is in no capitities to be talked to any more that's one comfort. We must make the best of it we can; and, if bad's the best, it's 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 compassioned their ignorance, but had a contempt for the doctor's "when the servants is in it." "Nobcdy 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 under tone. "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 up stairs at once, if you please." "Perhaps they will take something to drink first, Mrs. Maylie?" said the doctor, his face brightening up as if some new thought had occurred to him "Oh! to be sure!" exclaimed Rose, ly, if you will.' "Why, thank you, Miss!" said Blathers, drawing his coat-sleeve across his mouth: "it's dry work this sort of duty. Anything that's handy, Miss; do n't put yourself out of the way on our accounts." "What shall it be?" asked the doctor, board. "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 dector 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, as- sisting 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, and Conkey had n't any more to lo with it than I had." "Get out!" retorted Mr. Blathers: "I know better. Do you mind that time 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 any body would have been down upon," said Blathers. "This here Conkey Chick weed——" "Conkey means Nosey, ma'am," inter- osed Duff. "Of course the lady knows that, do n't she?" demanded Mr. Blathers. "Always interrupting you are, partner. This here Conkey Chickweed, Miss, kept a publichouse over Battle-bridge way, and had a cellar where a good many young lords went to see cockfighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a wery intellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I've seen 'em off'en. He warn't one of the family at that time; and one night he was robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas-bag, that was stole out of his bedroom in the dead of night by a tall man with a black patch over his eye, who had concealed himself under the bed, and, after committing the robbery, jumped slap out of window, which was only a story high. He was wery quick about it. But Conkey was quick, too, for he was woke by the noise, and, darting out of bed, 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 subscrip- "It was a remarkable occurrence, but he warn't to be seen nowhere, so they went back to the public-house, and 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 could n't help shutting 'em to ease 'em a minute, and the wery moment he did so, he hears Chickweed 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 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 snuff-box, said, 'Chickweed, I've found out who's 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 ever have found it out if he had n't been so precious anxious to keep up appearances, that's more!" 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 up stairs." "If you please, sir," returned Mr. Blathers. And, 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, and, in fact, without seeming to recollect where he was, or what ad been passing. "This," said Mr. Losberne, speaking softly, but with great vehemence notwithstanding, "this is the lad, who, being accidentally wounded by a spring-gun in some boyish trespass on Mr. What-d'yecall-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, and the bewildered butler gazed from them towards Oliver, and from Oliver towards Mr. Losberne, with a most ludicrous mixture of fear and perplexity. ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_126_Picture_0.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) Oberer weiled on by the . M. Mire Kanners. The hump-backed man stared as if in excess of amazement and indignation; and, 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 pair, you ridiculous old vampire?" said the irritable doctor. "What do you want then?" demanded the hunchback fiercely. "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 have n't lived here mad, and all alone, for five-and-twenty years, to be scared by you. You shall pay for this." And so saying, the misshapen little demon set up a hideous yell, and danced upon the ground as if frantic with rage. "Stupid enough, this," muttered the doctor to himself: "the boy must have made a mistake. There; put that in your pocket, and shut yourself up again." With these words he flung the hunchback 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 frenzied rage. 'I am an ass!" said the doctor after a long silence. "Did you know that before, Oliver?" " No. sir. "Then do n'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 upon these impulses, and it might have Now the fact was, that the excellent doctor had never acted upon anything else but impulse all through his life; and it was no bad compliment to the nature of the impulses which governed him, that so far from being involved in any peculiar troubles or misfortunes, he had the warmest respect and esteem of all who 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 straight-forward 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 cre- 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?" in quired 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, sir.' 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?" do you know !" The servant did not know; but would go and enquire. 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 backwards. "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, a friend of Mr. Brownlow's. all went together." "Then turn towards home again," said Losberne to the driver, "and don't stop to bait the horse 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 house on fire, or run away. No; home again straight!" And, in ohedience to the doctor's first 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 upon what they had done for him, and bewailing their cruel separation. 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 he was an impostor and 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 the Jew's cupidity to the banker's, and leaving Giles and another servant in care of the house, they departed for a cottage some distance in the country, and took Oliver with them It was a lovely spot to which they repaired, and Oliver, whose days had been spent among squalid crowds, and in the midst of noise and brawling, seemed to enter upon a new existence there. The rose and honey-suckle clumg to the ### CHAPTER THE TENTH. Wherein the happiness of Oliver and his friends experiences a sudden check. Spring flew swiftly by, and summer came; and 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 out 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, and 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 to those about him, (though they do in the feelings of a great many people,) and he was still the same gentle, attached, affectionate creature, that he had been when pain and suffering had wasted his strength, and he was dependent for every slight attention and comfort on those who tended him. One beautiful night 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 was fatigued, and 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 her sob as if she were weeping. "Rose, my dear?" said the elder lady. Rose made no reply, but played a little quicker, as though the sound had roused her from some painful thoughts. "Rose, my love!" cried Mrs. Maylie, rising hastily, and bending over her. "What is this? Your face is bathed 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 so low tonight, and——" "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; "at least, I shall be better presently. Close the window, pray." Oliver hastened to comply with the request; and the young lady, making an effort to recover her cheerfulness, strove to play some livelier tune. But her fingers dropped powerless on the keys, and, 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 elder lady, folding her arms about her, "I never saw you hus 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 yet it was changed, and there was an anxious haggard look about that 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, and assured them that she felt certain she would wake in the morning quite well. "I hope, ma'am," said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie returned, "that nothing serious is the matter. Miss Maylie doesn't look well to-night, but——" 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 nappy with her for some years—too happy, perhaps, and it may be time that I should meet with some misfortune; but I hope it is not this." "What misfortune, ma'am?" inquired Oliver. "The heavy blow," said the old lady, almost inarticulately, "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. Maylie, "and will be worse, I am sure. My dear, dear Rose! Oh, what should I do without her!" The lady sank beneath her desponding thoughts, and 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 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. God will never let her die vet ' "Hush!" said Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand on Oliver's head. "You think like a child, poor boy; and although what you say may be natural, it is wrong. But you teach me my duty notwithstanding. I had forgotten it for a moment, Oliver, and I hope I may be pardoned, for I am old, and have seen enough of illness and death to know the pain they leave to those behind. 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 rather than sorrow, for Heaven is just, and such things teach us impressively that there is a far brighter world than this, and that the passage to it is speedy. God's will be done! but I love her, and He alone knows how well!" Oliver was surprised to see that as Mrs. Maylie said these words she checked her lamentations as though by one struggle, and, drawing herself up as she spoke, became quite 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 ever ready and collected, performing all the duties which devolved upon her steadily, and, to all external appearance, even cheerfully. But he was young, and did not know what strong minds are capable of under trying circumstances. How should he, indeed, when their possessors so seldom know themselves? An anxious night ensued, and 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 foot-path across the fields, and thence despatched by an express on horseback straight to Chertsey. The people at the inn will undertake to do this, and I can trust 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 him mechanically. Oliver glanced at it, and saw that it was directed to Harry Maylie, Esquire, at some 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. Mayle, taking it back. "I will wait till 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 into 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 emerged 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 was a white bank, and a red brewery, and a yellow town-hall; and in one corner a large house with all the wood about it painted green, before which was the sign of "The George," to which he hastened directly it caught his eye. Oliver spoke to a postboy who was dozing under the gateway, and who, after hearing what he wanted, referred him to the hostler; 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, and was leaning against a pump by the stabledoor, picking his teeth with a silver tooth- pick. This gentleman walked with much deliberation to 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 marketplace, was out of the town, and galloping along the turnpike-road in a couple of minutes. It was something to feel certain that assistance was sent for, and that no time had been lost. Oliver hurried up the innyard with a somewhat lighter heart, and was turning out of the gateway when he accidentally stumbled against a tall man wrapped in a cloak, who was at that moment coming out at 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 did n't see you were coming." "Death!" mutter id the man to himself, glaring at the boy with his large dark eyes. "Who'd have thought it! Grind him to ashes! he'd start up from a marble coffin to come in my way!" "I am sorry, sir," stammered Oliver, confused by the strange man's wild look. "I hope I have not hurt you?" "Rot his bones!" 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 him in a night. Curses light upon your head, and black death upon your heart, you imp! What are you doing here?" The man shook his fist, and gnashed his teeth, as he uttered these words incoherently, and advancing towards Oliver as if with the intention of aiming a blow at him, fell violently on the ground, writhing and foaming, in a fit. Oliver gazed for a moment at the fearful 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 me- morv Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse, and before midnight 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 ecovered." How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and, stealing out with noise-less 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 ut tered, 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! The suspense, the fearful acute suspense, of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love is trembling in the palance—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; and the sinking of soul and spirit which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces,—what tortures can equal these, and what reflections or efforts 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, and 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 at 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 church-yard, and, sitting down on one of the green mounds. wept 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 never wrapped the young and graceful form within 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, and they wore 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 originity, and the birds sang on. Oliver turned homewards, thinking on the many kindnesses he had received from the young lady, and wishing that the time could come over 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, for every death carries with it 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, that such recollections are among the bitterest we can have. There is no remorse so deep as that which is unavailing; if we would be spared its tortures, let us remember this in time. When he reached home, Mrs. Maylie was sitting in the little parlour. Oliver's heart sank at sight of her, for she had never left the bedside of her niece, and he trembled to think what change could have driven her away. He learnt that she had fallen into a deep sleep, from which she would waken again either to receive and life or to hid them forewell. and die They sat, listening, and afraid to speak, for hours. The untasted meal was removed; and, 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, and they both involuntarily darted towards the door as Mr. Losberne entered. "What of Rose?" cried the old lady. "Tell me at once. I can bear it; any- 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!" gasped Mrs. Maylie. "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 trica exchange that night-cap for some more appropriate covering, or we shall be taken for madmen.' Mr. Giles, reminded of his unbecoming costume, snatched off and pocketed his night-cap, and substituted a hat of grave and sober shape which he took out of the chaise. This done, the postboy drove off, and 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 demeanour singularly easy and prepossessing. Notwithstanding the differences between youth and age, he bore so strong a likeness to the old lady, that Oliver would have had no great difficulty in inagining their relationship, even 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, and the meeting did not take place without great emotion on both sides. "Oh, mother," whispered the young "I did write," replied Mrs. Maylie but, on reflection, I determined to keep back the letter until I had heard Mr. Los- "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, or I been happy 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 well deserves the best and purest love that 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 areak her heart, I should not feel my task to difficult of performance, or have to encounter so many struggles in my own bo- som, 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 so much a boy as not to know my own mind, or to mistake the impulses of my own soul!" "I think, my dear fellow," 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, ambitious young man has a wife on whose name 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 and torture of knowing that he does so." "Mother," said the young man impatiently, "he would be a mere 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 undisguised 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, or view, or 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 warm feelings 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,—"I have considered for years,—considered almost 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 anxiously. "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 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 Rose. God bless you!" "I shall see you again to-night?" said the young man eagerly. "By and by," replied the lady, "when leave Rose." "You will tell her I am here?" said "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 that;" 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 en couraged 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 maliciously. "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 so well. 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 majestic mystery which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attempted robbery, to deposit in the local savings bank the sum of twenty-five pounds for his sole use and benefit. At this the two women servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles would begin to be quite proud now; whereunto Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, "No, no"—and that if they observed at any time 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 so much in need. Oliver rose next morning in better heart, and went about his nsual early 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 and fragrance. The melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang for days past over every object, beautiful as they all were, was dispelled as though 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 exercises 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 reflected from their own jaundiced eyes and hearts. The real hues are delicate, and require a clearer vision. It is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note 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, however, 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 sum- mer 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 and surely recovering. Nor did Oliver's time hang heavy upon 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 occurrence. The little room in which he was accustomed to sit when busy at his books was on the ground-floor, at the back of the house. It was quite a cottage-room, with a lattice-window, around which were clusters of jessamine and honey-suckle, 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 is no disparagement to the authors, whoever they may have been, to say that gradually and by slow degrees he fell asleen. 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 as it pleases. 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 even if we dream, 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 necome so strangely blended that it is afterwards almost a matter of impossibility to separate the two. Nor is this the most striking phenomenon incidental to such a state. It is an ascertained 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, and 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 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 him, sure enough. Come away." "He!" the other man seemed to answer; "could I mistake him, think you? If a crowd of devils 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 should know, if there wasn't a mark above it, that he lay buried there. Wither his flesh, I should!" The man seemed to say this with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver awoke with the fear and started up. Good God! what was that which sent the blood tingling to his heart, and deprived him of voice or 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 heside him, white with rage, or fear, or both, were the scowling features of the very man who had accosted him at 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, and then, leaping from the window into the garden, called loudly for help. ### CHAPTER THE TWELFTH 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 "That" raplied Olive "That," replied Oliver, pointing out the course the men had taken. "I missed them all 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 ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_141_Picture_0.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) works and the fin: "Drive on!" he cried, "hard, fast, full gallop. Nothing short of flying will keep pace with me to-day." "Holloa!" cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great hurry, and shouting to the postilion, "something very far short of flying will keep pace with me. Do you hear?" Jingling and clattering till distance rendered its noise inaudible, and its rapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound its way along the road almost hidden in a cloud of dust, now wholly disappearing, and now becoming visible again, as intervening objects of 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. l 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 THE FOURTEENTH, In which the reader, if he or she resort to the fifth chapter of this second book, will perceive a con- 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, and 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 wideskirted, 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, acquire 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 cocked hat and gold lace, what are they? Men,—mere men. Dignity, and even holiness too, sometimes, are more questions of coat and waistcoat than some people imarine. than some people imagine Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney, and was master of the workhouse. Another beadle had come into power, and 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 reflection, "for six tea-spoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a milk-pot, with a small quantity of second-hand furniter, 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 Mr. Bumble turned and encountered the face of his interesting companion, 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 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, and if it fails with her my power is gone." Whether an exceedingly small expansion of eye is 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 thereat, which sounded as though it were genuine. On hearing this most unexpected sound, Mr. Bumble looked first incredulous, and afterwards annazed. 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 agoing 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. Bum- ble, with ineflable contempt "I said the word, ma'am," observed Mr. Bumble. "The prerogative of a man is to command." "And what's the prerogative of a wo- relict of Mr. Corney deceased. "To obey, ma'am," thundered Mr. Bumble. "Your late unfort'nate 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 water-proof. 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, pleased and exalted him. He eyed his good lady with looks of great satisfaction, and begged in an encouraging manner that she would cry her hardest, the exercise being looked upon by the faculty as strongly conducive to health. "It opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises the eyes, and softens down the temper." said Mr. Bumble: "so crv awav." 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 do 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 troubles some 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 tight 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 off, 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, and picking up his hat, looked towards the door, "Are you going?" demanded Mrs. 3umble. "Certainly, my dear, certainly," rejoined Mr. Bumble, making a quicker motion towards the door. "I did n'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, ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_148_Picture_0.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) . M. Bumble degraded in the eyes of the Taupers. 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 im- portance. 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 observed before, and most 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 an expression of quiet sarcasm playing about his mouth, "or you would have known my name. You don't know it and I should recommend you not to inquire." "I meant no harm, young man," ob- "And have done none," said the Another silence succeeded this short lialogue, which was again broken by the stranger "I have seen you before, I think," said ne. "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 is head. "It was in that character I w 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 have 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 lead again, as much as to say he found he had not mistaken his man; then range he 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, andlord!" said the stranger, drily. The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a steaming jorum, of which the first gulph brought the water into Mr. Bumble's eves. "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, and do n't ask you to give it for nothing, 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 clinking of the money should be heard without; and when Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins to see that they were genuine, and 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." means?" 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 impatiently; "I speak of one, a meek-looking, pale-faced hound, 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 was n't a obsti- nater 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 very 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 any way." "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, observ- ed that it was no great matter, and rose as if to depart 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 plainy showing that all his fears (whatever hey were) were aroused afresh by the intelligence "Only through me," rejoined Mr. Bumile. "To morrow" rejoined Rumble "At nine in the evening," said the stranger, producing a scrap of paper, and writing down an obscure address, by the water-side, upon it, in characters that betrayed his agitation, "at nine in the evening, bring her to me there. I need n't tell you to be secret, for it's your inter- With these words he led the way to the door, after stopping to pay for the liquor that had been drunk; and shortly remarking that their roads were different 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. "Who's that!" 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 strong nastily away. ### BOOK THE THIRD. ### CHAPTER THE FIRST. Containing an account of what passed between Mr. and Mrs. Bumble and Monks at their nocturnal interview. It was a dull, close, overcast summer evening, when 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, as 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 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 foot-prints. They went on in profound silence; every now and then Mr. Bumble relaxed his pace, and turned his head round, as if to make sure that his helpmate was following, and, discovering that she was close at his heels, 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 and desperate 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, and 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 dis- played 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 em- ployed. 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, and which 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 beneath, while the remainder, tottering and bending over the dark stream, seemed but 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 own. "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, 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. ood ladv. 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 farther with the enterprise just then, when he was prevented by the appearance of Monks, who opened a small door, near which they stood, and beckoned them inwards. "Come!" he cried impatiently, stamp ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_155_Picture_0.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) The evidence destroyed: len 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, and 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, recoil- ing at the very notion. Monks drew the little packet from his breast, into which he had hurriedly thrust it, and tying it firmly 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 looked into each other's faces, "There!" said Monks, closing the trapdoor, 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 vour wife. "You may depend on 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, and 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, and bidding him go first, and bear the light, returned to the chamber he had just quitted. #### CHAPTER THE SECOND. Introduces some respectable characters with whom the reader is already acquainted, and shows how Monks and the Jew laid their worthy heads together. Ir was about two hours earlier 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, when 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 upon 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 moveables as spare clothes and linen, bespoke a state of extreme poverty, while the meagre and attenuated condition of ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_158_Picture_0.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) . w. Jugen and his puful name ing Same. Mr. Sikes himself would have fully confirmed these symptoms if they had stood in 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 recognizing 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 upon her awkwardness, 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 10w ?" "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. "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 girl's whining again!" "It's nothing," said the girl, throwing herself into a chair. "Don't you seem to mind me, and 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 the Jew, looking in. "Lend a hand to the girl, can't you?" replied Sikes impatiently, "and 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 proceeding 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 newcomers, in some astonishment at their un looked-for appearance. "It's all very well," said Mr. Sikes; but I must have some blunt from you tonight." "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 the Jew, holding up his "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 the Jew with a sigh, "I'll send the Artful round pres- ently." "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, the Jew 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 eighteenpence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes, sullenly remarking that if he couldn't get any more he must be content with that, Nancy prepared to accompany him home, while the Dodger and Master Bates put the eatables in the cupboard. The Jew then, taking leave of his affectionate friend, returned homewards, 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. and time they arrived at the Jew'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 heavily, and, inquiring after Sikes, took up his hat to go. "Has nobody been, Toby?" asked the Jew. "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, and 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 a little finger. "Wot a rum chap you are, Tom," said Master Bates, highly amused by this de- claration "Not a bit of it," replied Mr. Chitling: "am I, Fagin?" "A very clever fellow, my dear," said the Jew, patting him on the shoulder, and winking to his other pupils. "And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell, ın't he, Fagin?" asked Tom "No doubt at all of that, my dear," replied the Jew. "And it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance, an't it, Fagin?" pursued Tom. "Very much so indeed, my dear," replied the Jew. "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," replied the Jew; "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 soci again opened; the housebreaker 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 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, away. When one reached the more wealthy quarter of the town, the streets were comparatively deserted, and here her headlong progress seemed to excite a 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 the 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 smartlydressed 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, pray?" "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 rirl. "I must see the lady." "Come," said the man, pushing her towards the door, "none of this! Take ourself off, will you?" "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 any body here," she said, look ing 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 other of the servants was looking on, and who stepped forward to interfere, "Take it up for her Joe, can't you?" aid 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 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 up stairs, and 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 became still more so when the man returned, and said the young woman was to walk up stairs. "It's no good being proper in this world," said the first housemaid "Brass can do better than the gold what The third contented herself with wondering "what ladies were made of;" and the fourth took the first in a quartette of "Shameful!" with which the Dianas con- 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 retired. The girl's life had been squandered in the streets, and the most noisone 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 misera- ble 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 one 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 all outward 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, and then bending them on the ground, 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 recognition." without reason either." "I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you," replied Rose. "Do not think of it; but 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: "you distress me. If you are in poverty or affliction, I shall be truly happy to relieve you if I can,—I shall indeed. Sit down." "Let me stand, lady," said the girl, still weeping, "and do not speak so kindly till you know me better. It is growing late Is—is—that door shut?" "Yes," said Rose, recoiling a few steps, 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, the Jew'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 death-bed." "I pity you!" said Rose in a broken "God 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 "I never heard the name," said Rose. "Then he goes by some other amongst\\nus," rejoined the girl, "which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put in your house on the night of the robbery, 1—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 now— "—That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidentally 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." "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 up stairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow should 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 now, he'd rather have had it the other way; for, what a game it would have been to have brought down the boast of the father's will, by driving 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 strangers 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, clasp- "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 carnest." "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 colours? If you repeat this information to a gentleman whom I can summon in one 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 wish to 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 of them all that I can't leave; no — not even to be saved from the life I am lead- ing 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 the 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, "Is it possible," cried Rose, "that for such a man as this you can resign every future hope, and the certainty of immediate research. It is medianes?" "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 as 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 should be I believe, if I knew that I was to die by his hand at last." 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 "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 Rosc. "I do not seek to know where these dreadful people live, but where you will 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 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, every thing to fill them. When such as me, who have no certain roof but the coffin-lid, 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 parents, home, and friends filled once, or 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, wav- ing 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 tonight than I ever did before, and it would be something not to die in the same 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 bore more the semblance of a rapid dream than an actual occurrence, sank into a chair, and endeavoured to collect her wandering thoughts. ### CHAPTER THE FOURTH, Containing fresh discoveries, and showing that surprises, like misfortunes, seldom come alone. HER situation was indeed one of no common trial and difficulty, for 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 only proposed remaining in London 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 restrong the journey without exciting suspicion? 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 the 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 reasons. 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, and 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, and, after communing with herself next day, arrived at the desperate conclusion of consulting Harry Maylie. "If it be painful to him," she thought, "to come back here, how painful will it 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—a great deal better." And here Rose dropped the pen and turned away, as though the very paper which was to be her messenger should not see her She had taken up the same pen and laid it down fifty times, and had considered and re-considered the very first line of her letter without writing the first word, when Oliver, who had been walking 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?" "What makes you look so flurried?" asked Rose, advancing to meet him. "Speak to me, Oliver. "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 all the truth!" "I never thought you had told us anything but the truth, dear," said Rose, cothing 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 paper, "here it is; here's where he lives—I'm going there directly. Oh, dear me, dear me! what sha!! 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, and 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 a little more than five minutes they were on their way to Craven Street. When they arrived there Rose left Oliver in the coach under pretence of preparing the old gentleman to receive him, and sending up her card by the servant, requested to see Mr. Brownlow on very pressing business. The servant soon returned to beg that she would walk up stairs, and, following him into an upper room, Miss Maylie was presented to an 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 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, prav." "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, and Mr. Grimwig, who had made one very stiff bow, and risen from his chair, made 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. "May ask his name?" "Oliver Twist you knew him as," re- plied 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 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 hat about themselves in the fullness 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 the most 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 is 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 inten- tions, 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 she 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 mean time, we re- main perfectly quiet, and keep these matters secret even from Oliver himself." Although Mr. Losberne 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 ten years, though whether that is a recommendation or not, you must determine yourselves." "I have no objections 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. 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 whom 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 that I make this request with good reason, for I might otherwise excite hopes destined never to be realized, 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 THE FIFTH. An old acquaintance of Oliver's exhibiting decided marks of genius, becomes a public character in the metropolis. Upon the very same 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 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 figures to whom it is difficult to assign any precise age,—looking as they do, when they are yet boys, like under-grown men, and when they are almost men, like over-grown 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 hand-kerchief, 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 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 lazy- bones ver ar, Charlotte." "It's a heavy load, I can tell you," said the female, coming up almost breath less 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 further?" asked the woman, resting herself on a bank, and looking up, with the perspiration streaming from her face. "Much further! 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 miles off at least," said the woman despondingly. "Never mind whether they're two miles 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 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, you may thank your stars I've got a head on: for if we hadn't gone at first the wrong road on purpose, and come back across country, you'd have been locked up hard and fast a week ago, my lady, and serve you right for being a fool." "I know I am't as cunning as you are," replied Charlotte; "but don't put all the blane 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," re- joined 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 utter innocence of any theft, and greatly facilitate his chances of escape. Of course he entered at this juncture into no explanation of his motives, and they walked on very loving- ly together. In pursuance of his 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 number 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 slipping into the kennel to embrace at a glance the whole external character of some small public houses, and 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 if 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 spoken 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's opening his eyes so wide; but as he had discarded the coat, and badge, and wore a short smockfrock 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 house," re- "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. "I'b dot certaid you cad," said Barney 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 ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_177_Picture_0.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) The in a prose saller lower hand with a very the couldn't sell it for a great deal in the "When could I see him?" asked Noah doubtfully. "To-morrow morning," replied the "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 Fa- gın. "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 the Jew. "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 the Jew. "There's a good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels and running round the cor- ner." "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 the Jew, laying his hand on Noah's knee. "The kinchin lay." "What's that?" demanded Mr. Clay- oole. "The kinchins, my dear," said the Jew, "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,—and then knock'em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there was nothing else the matter but a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!" "Ha! ha!" roared Mr. Claypole, kickng up his legs in an ecstasy. "Lor, 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 BattleBridge and neighbourhoods like that, where they re always going errands, and \\nupset 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 the Jew, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded assent, "What name shall I tell my good friend?" "Mr. Bolter," replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such an 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, Char- "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 the Jew. "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; and 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 appreciates the dignity of a special appointment on the kin chin lay in London and its vicinity. 15 "No, no," replied Fagin, "not so bac as that. Not quite so bad." "Wanted," interposed the Jew. "Yes "Very particular ?" inquired Mr. Bol ter. "No," replied the Jew, "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 today, 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 ver think so?" said Mr. Bolter. "I'm doubtful about it," replied the Jew, 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 yer 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 under- stand 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?" asked the Jew with trembling lips. "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 sneezebox! I never thought he'd ha' done it under a gold watch, chain, and seals, at the lowest. Oh, why did'nt 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 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 "Then what do you talk of?" replied the Jew 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 indictment; 'cause nobody will never know half of what he was. How will he stand in the Newgate Calendar? P'r'aps not be there at all. Oh, my eye, my eye, wot a blow it is!" "Ha! ha!" cried the Jew 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. Isn't it beautiful?" Mr. Bolter nodded assent, and the Jew, 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 the Jew "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, inhe 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?" he will!" "Ah to be sure so be will" reported "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! 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 the Jew 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 Fa- gin. "Let me think." "Shall I go?" asked Charley "Not for the world," replied the Jew. "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 do not mean to go yourself, I suppose?" said Charley, with a humorous leer. That wouldn't quite fit," replied Fa- gin, 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 "Mind!" interposed Charley. "What "Really nothing my dear," said Fa- gin, turning to Mr. Bolter, "really no- thing." "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 isn't." "Wot department has he got, Fagin?" inquired Master Bates, surveying Noah's lanky 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 n 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 been 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 the Jew, 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 wagoner'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 curiosity; 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 to-kens 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 yard take the door up the steps on the right-hand 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 institute. 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 inanimate 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, whom 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, 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 least disperse of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the strength of the str ere disgraceful sitivation for. "Hold your tongue, will you?" said the the Dodger. "Where are my privileges?" "You'll get your privileges soon\\nenough," retorted the jailer, "and pepper "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 gentleman in the city, and as I'm 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 p'raps there won't be an action for damage against those as kept me 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 old 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 ic request. "Silence there!" cried the jailer. "What is this!" inquired one of the "A pick-pocketing case, your worship." "Has that boy ever been here be- "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 state- 15 \* ment. "Werry 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 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 it on his own countenance. For this reason he took the Dodger into custody as soon as he could get near him, and the said 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 ac- "Have you anything to ask this wit- ess, boy ?" said the magistrate. "I wouldn't abase myself by descending to hold any 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 address yourself to me, my "I never see such an out-and-out young wagabone, your worship," observed the officer with a grin. "Do you mean to "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 werry numerous and respectable circle of acquaintance, as'll make them beaks wish they'd never been born, or that they'd got their footman 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!" interosed 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 wos 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 him- self a glorious reputation ### CHAPTER THE SEVENTH. The time arrives for Nancy to redeem her pledge to Rose Maylie. She fails. Noah Claypole is employed by Fagin on a secret mission. 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 worked 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 suspicions; and vile as those schemes were, desperate as were their originators, and bitter as were her feelings towards the Jew, 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 dis- closure should bring him within the iron grasp he had so long eluded, and he should fall at last—richly as he merited such a fate—by her hand. But these were the mere wanderings of a mind unable wholly to detach itself from old companions and associations, though enabled to fix itself steadily on one object, 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 encompassed her: and what more could she do? She was resolved. Though every mental struggle 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 others she laughed without merriment, and was noisy without cause or meaning. At others—often within 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 course of discussion by her companions. It was Sunday night, and the hell 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, intently. 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 the Jew, "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." The Jew 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 the Jew, venturing to pat him on the shoulder, "It does me good to hear you." " Does you go "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the Jew, 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 makes you nervous, Bill—reminds you of being nabbed, does it?" said the Jew, determined not to be offended. "Reminds me of being nabbed by the Devil," returned Sikes. "Not by a trap. 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?" returned Sikes. "Where are you going?" "I say, not far." "And I say where?" retorted Sikes in a loud voice. "Do you hear me?" "I don't know where," replied the "Then I do," said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where "I'm not well. I told you that before," rejoined the girl. "I want a breath of air." "Put your head out of the window and take it there," 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 "You'll drive me to 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 moment—this instant." " No,"-roared Sikes "Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It'll be better for him. Do you hear me?" said Nancy, stamping her foot upon the ground. "Hear you!" repeated Sikes, turning round in his chair, to confront her. "Ay, 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're 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 the Jew. "Phew!" said the housebreaker, wiping the perspiration from his face. "Wot a precious strange gal that is!" "You may say that, Bill," replied the Jew thoughtfully. "You may say that." "Wot did she take it into her head to go out to-night for, do you think?" asked Sikes. "Come; you should know her better than me—wot does it mean?" "Obstinacy, woman's obstinacy, I sup- pose, my dear," replied the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "Well, I suppose it is," growled Sikes. "I thought I had tamed her, but she's as "Worse," said the Jew 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," replied the Jew. "I'll let her a little blood without troubling the doctor, if she's took that way again," said Sikes. The Jew 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 black-hearted wolf as you are, kept yourself aloof," said Sikes. "We was very 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 upon his companion The Jew 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 lear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good night. He paused when he reached the 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. There, show him a light." Nancy followed the old man down stairs with the candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his fingers on his lip, and drawing close to the girl, said in a whisper— " What is it, Nancy dear?" "What do you mean?" replied the "The reason of all this," replied Fagin. "If he"—he pointed with his skinny forefinger up the stairs—" is so hard with you (he's a brute, Nance, a brute beast,) "Well!" said the girl, as ragin paused with his mouth almost touching her ear, and his eyes looking into hers. "No matter just now," said the Jew, "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—of old." "I know you well," replied the girl, without manifesting the least emotion. " Good night." She shrunk back as Fagin offered to lay his hand on her, but said good night again in a steady voice, and, answering his parting look with a nod of intelligence, closed the door between them. ragm walked towards his own house, 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, 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 a 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 (so 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 the Jew 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 the 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 the Jew as he crept homewards, "can I increase my influence with her? What new power can I ac- uire ?" 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 I shall 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 villain, and went on his way, burying his bony hands in the folds of his tattered garment, and wrenching them tightly in his grasp, as though there were a hated enemy crushed with every motion of his fingers. He rose 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 as- sault upon the breakfast, "Bolter," said the Jew, drawing up a chair, and seating himself opposite. "Mor- ris 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 can get on better when I talk," said Noah, cutting a signed to him to climb up and observe the person in the adjoining room. "Is that the woman?" he asked The Law podded type? "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 into the required position, and speaking to the girl, caused her to raise her face. "I see her now," cried the spy "Plainly?" asked the Jew. "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 breath 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. "Noah." Noah exchanged a look with Fagin, "To the left," whispered the lad. "Take the left hand, and keep on 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 THE EIGHTH. 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, ac- commodated 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, where 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 by on the opposite pavement; and 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 whereon to lay their head. They stood there in silence, neither speaking nor spoken to by any one who passed A mist hung over the river, deepening the 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 the bridge, and the thickly scattered spircs of churches above, were nearly all hidden from the sight. The girl had taken a few restless turns to and fro—closely watched, meanwhile, by her hidden observer—when the heavy bell of Saint Paul's tolled for the death of another day. Midnight had come upon the crowded city. The palace, the night-cellar, the jail, the mad-house, the cham- ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_190_Picture_1.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) · he · Henry "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 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 ady 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 ain'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 with the world as takes the smiles off, turn with no less regularity to the darkest side of heaven. Between the Mussulman and the Pharisee, commend me to the former." These words appeared to be addressed to the younger lady, and were perhaps uttered with the view of affording Nancy time to recover herself. The gentleman shortly afterwards addressed himself to her. "You were not here last Sunday night," he said "I couldn't come," replied Nancy, "I was kept by force." "By whom?" "Bill — him that I told the young "You were not suspected of holding any communication with anybody on the subject which has brought us here tonight, I hope?" asked the old gentleman anxiously. "No," replied the girl shaking her head. "It's not very easy for me to leave him unless he knows why; I couldn't have seen the lady when I did, but that I gave him a drink of laudanum before I came away." "Did he awake before you returned ? rejoined the gentleman. "No, and neither he nor any of them "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 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 purpose to extort the secret, whatever it may be, from the fears of this man Monks. But if—if—" said the gentleman, "he cannot be secured, or, if secured, he cannot be acted upon as we wish, you must deliver up the Jew." "Fagin!" cried the girl, recoiling. 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 me to deal with him." "What if he turns against the others?" "I promise you 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 will go Scot free." "And if it is not?" suggested the girl. "Then," pursued the gentleman, "this Jew shall not be brought to justice withow your consent. In such a case I could show you reasons, I think, which would\\ninduce you to yield it" "Have I the lady's promise for that?" "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 so brought to bear upon him that he could never even guess." "I have been a har and among hars from a little child," said the girl, after another interval of silence, "but I will take your words." After receiving an assurance from both, that she might safely do so, she 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 a few moments for the purpose of recalling his features and appearance 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 this alone. His face is dark like his hair and eyes; but, 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 heard her to proceed "Part of this," said the girl, "I've 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 "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 extreme surprise, and for a few moments they were so still that the listener could distinctly hear them breathe 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 though—it may not be the same." As he expressed himself to this effect, with assumed carelessness, he took a step or two nearer Noah, as he could tell from the distinctness with which he heard him utter—" 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 misspent, 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 to you. Before the dawn of morning, before this river wakes to the fresh glimpse of daylight, you shall be placed as entirely beyond the reach of your former associates, and leave as utter an absence of all traces 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 gentle- man. "No, sir, I do not," replied the girl after a short struggle. "I am chained to my old life, and 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 sometime ago, I should have laughed it off. But"—she said, looking hastily round—"this fear comes over me again. I must go home." "Home!" replied 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 ave." "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 me 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, 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 handkerehief—anything that I can keep as having belonged to you, sweet lady. There, bless you, God bless you. Good night, 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 rose, and with feeble and tottering steps ascended to 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 walk, 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, the spy darted away at his utmost speed, and made for the Jew's house as fast as his legs would carry him. ### CHAPTER THE NINTH ### Fatal Consequences. Ir was nearly two hours before daybreak—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 sound appears to slumber, and profligacy and riot have staggered home to dream—it was at this still and silent hour that the Jew sat watching in his old lair with face so distorted and pale, and eyes so red and bloodshot, 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 righ hand was raised to his lips, and as, acsorbed in thought, he bit 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, then brought them back again to the candle, which, with 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, hattred of the girl who had dared to palter with strangers, an 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, that following upon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot through the brain of Fagin, as every evil thought and blackest purpose lay working at his heart. He sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to take the smallest heed of time, until his quick ear seemed to be attracted by a footstep in the street. "At last," muttered the Jew, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. "At last." The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept up stairs 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 it; 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 house-breaker 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? Speak, will vou? The Jew 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 he Jew, drawing his chair nearer, "will make you worse than me. "Ay?" returned the robber, with an incredulous air. "Tell away. Look sharp, or Nance will think I'm lost." ty well settled that in her own mind al- ready." 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 lying 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 the Jew, was to beach—blow upon us all—first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with 'em \\nin the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they might know \\nus 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, ear-wigged 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 \\ninterested 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 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 the Jew, almost in a yell. "I, that know so much, and could hang so many besides your- self!" "I don't know," replied Sikes, clenching his teeth, and turning white at the mere suggestion. "I'd do something in the jail that'd 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 wagon 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 again 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 wetching for her Dill? "Wot d've mean ?" asked Sikes, draw- ing back. The Jew made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting position. 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; iust for him to hear."—said the Jew. pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly, "That about Nancy," said the Jew, 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." 6\* 7 "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—to tell her what house it was we meet at and go to, which she did—and where it would 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. Didn't she ?" cried the Jew, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching is head. "That's just what it was." "What did they say about last Sun day ?" demanded the Jew. "About last Sunday!" replied Noah considering; "why I told you that be fore." "Again—tell it again," cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sike, 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?" interrupted the Jew riumphantly. "Tell him that." "Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them "What more of him?" cried the Jew. "What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him "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 landanum." "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 the Jew, 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, Hoar me sneak a word " rejoined Jew, 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 the Jew 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!" cried 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 light enough for what 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, "1—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; and every word on said was heard 5 "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 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 let her, 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 THE TENTH The flight of Sikes. Or all bad deeds that, under cover of the darkness, had been committed within wide London's bounds since night hung over it, that was the workt. 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 hate, 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 upwards, 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, no more—but such flesh and such blood! He struck a light, kindled a fire, and thrust the club into it. There was human 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 backwards towards the door, dragging the dog with him, lest he should carry out new evidences of the crime into the streets. He shut it 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 cur- tain 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 ra- oldly 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 footpath across the fields, skirted Carn Wood, and came out on Hampstead Heath. Traversing the hollow by the Vale of Health, 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 had already traversed—then wandering up and down in fields, and lying on ditches' banks to rest, and starting up to make for some other spot and do the same, and ramble on again. Where could he go to, 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 his 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 a bit or drop, though he had tasted no food for many hours; and once more he lingered on the heath uncertain where 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 to Hatfield. shaped his course to Hatneid. It was nine o'clock at night when the man quite tired out, and the dog limning 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 guarded them to the spot. There was a fire in the taproom, and some country labourers were drinking before it. They made room for the stranger, but he sat down in the farthest corner, and eat and drank alone, or rather with his dog, to whom he cast a morsel of food from time to time. The conversation of the men assembled here turned upon the neighbouring land and farmers, and when these 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 years 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-corner. This was an antic fellow, half pedlar and half mountebank, who travelled about the country on foot to vend hones, strops, razors, washballs, harness-paste, medicines 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 cambric, cloth, crape, stuff, carpet, merino, muslin, bombazeen, or woollen stuff. Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains, awater-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains, and stains—all comes 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 sne's cured at once—for it's poison. If a gentleman wants to prove his, 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 vender observing this, increased in "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 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 pounds a year for each of the children, and a premium of fifty for twins. One penny a square, two half-pence are all the same, and four farthings is received with joy. One penny a square. Wine-stains, fruit-stains, pitch-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 "Ha!" cried Sikes, starting up, "give "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 stair 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. 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 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. 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 turned 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, and bustle. It was like new life to him. He darted onward—straight, headlong, dashing through brier and brake, and leaping gate and fence, as inadly as the 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 hot beams. The apertures where doors and windows stood an hour ago, disclosed a chaos of raging fire; walls rocked and crumbled into the burning well; the molten lead and iron poured down 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 spouting 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 black- ened ruins remained This mad excitement over, there re- turned with tenfold 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, unresolved and undecided, and oppressed with the fear of another soli- tary night. Suddenly he took the desperate resolu- ion of going back to London. "There's somebody to speak to there, at all events," he thought. "A good hiding place, too. They'll never expect to nab me there, after this country scent. Why can't I lay by for a week or so, and forcing blunt from Fagin, get abroad to France? Damme, I'll risk it." He acted upon this impulse 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 descriptions 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 handberghief as he went. The animal looked up into his master's face while these preparations were making, and, whether his instinct apprehended something of their purpose, or the robber's sidelong glance at him was sterner than ordinary, skulked a little further 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. ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_201_Picture_1.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) Tices altempling to destroy his day. "Do you hear me call? Come here," cried Sikes, whistling. 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, stamping on the ground. The dog wagged his tail, but moved not. Sikes made a running noose, and called him again. The dog advanced, retreated, paused an instant, turned, 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 he resumed his journey. ### CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH. 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 to the old gentleman as if for instructions. "He knows the alternative," said Mr. Brownlow. "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?"—ask ed 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 the instant I 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. "These 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 upon 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, 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 ords, but wavered still. "You will be prompt," said Mr. Brownlow. "A word from me, and the alternative is gone for ever." Still the man hesitated. "I have not the inclination to parley further," said Mr. Brownlow, "and as I advocate the dearest interests of others, I have not the right." "Is there-" demanded Monks with a laitering "None: emphatically 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 "This is pretty treatment, sir," said Monks, throwing down his hat and cloak, "from my father's oldest friend." "It was 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 sister's death-bed, when he was yet a boy, on the morning that would—but Heaven willed it 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 fill my heart, and even the sight of you brings with it old thoughts of him—it is all these things that move me 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 her's, 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 bye and bye. I know that of the wretched marriage, into which family pride and the most sordid and narrowest of all ambition forced your unnappy father, when a mere boy, you were the sone and most unnatural issue," returned Mr. Brownlow. "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 you know al ready" "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 cease 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 that 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, in evident confusion. "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 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 that 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 wanderings, had repaired, and where he had taken up his abode. Acquaintance, intimacy, friendship, fast followed 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 on the floor; seeing this he immediately re- sumed- "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, untried girl" "Your tale is of the longest," observed "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 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 point 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, 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," interposed Monks, in a tone to appear incredulous, but savouring more of disagreeable sur- "He came to me, and left with me among 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 in his hasty journey. He was worn by anxiety and remorse almost to a shadow, talked in a wild and distracted strain of ruin and dishonour worked by him, 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. 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 not use the term the world would use, for harshness or favour are now alike to him—of his guilty love; resolved, if my fears were realized, that erring child should find one heart and home open to shelter and compassionate her. The family had left that part a week before; they had called in such trifling debts as were outstanding, discharged them, and left the place by night. Why or whither, none could 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—" "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 aught 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 the 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 will not tell you that he was snared away before I knew his history——" "Why not?" asked Monks, hastily 66 T 122 "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 this 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 connexion, which child was born, and accidentally encountered by you, when your suspicions were first awakened by his resemblance to his father. You repaired to the place of his birth. There existed proofs—proofs long suppressed—of his birth and parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your own words to your accomplice the Jew, 'the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river,' and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin. Unworthy son, coward, har—you, who hold your councils with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night—you, whose plots and wiles have hurled 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 vie, and profligacy festered, till they found a vent in a hideous disease which has made your face an index even to your mind—you, Edward Leeford, do you brave me still!" "No, no, no," returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges. "Every word," cried the old 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—know 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! "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. Brown- "Yes, yes," replied the other. "His dog has been seen lurking about some old haunt, and there seems little doubt that his master either is, or will be there under cover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in every direction. I have spoken to the men who are charged with his capture, and they tell me he can never escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by government tonight." "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 turned 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." "The Jew," said Mr. Browniow. "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! is your only hope of safety." They left the room, and the door "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 villany, which, by these lights, became plain as day. Write, and appoint the evening after tomorrow, at seven, for the meeting. We shall be down there a few hours before, but shall require rest, and 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 THE TWELFTH The pursuit and escape. NEAR to that part of the Thames on which the church of Rotherhithe abuts, where the buildings on the banks are direct, and the vessels on the river blackest with the dust of colliers, and the smoke of close-built, low-roofed houses, there exists at the present day, the filthiest, the strangest, the most extraordinary of the many localities that are hidden in London, wholly unknown by name to the great mass of its inhabitants. To reach this place, the visiter has to penetrate through a maze of close, narrow, and muddy streets, thronged by the roughest and poorest of water-side people, and devoted to the traffic they may be supposed to occasion. The cheapest and least delicate provisions are heaped in the shops, the coarsest and commonest articles of wearing apparel dangle at the salesman's door, and stream from the house parapet and windows. Jostling with unemployed labourers of the lowest class, ballast-heavers, coal-whippers, brazen women, ragged children, and the very raff and refuse of the river, he makes his way with difficulty along, assailed by offensive sights and smells from the narrow alleys which branch off on the right and left, and deafened by the clash of ponderous wagons that bear great piles of merchandise from the stacks of warehouses that rise from every corner. Arriving at length in streets remoter and less-frequented than those through which he had passed, he walks beneath tottering house-fronts projecting over the pavement, dismantled walls that seem to totter as he passes, chimneys half crushed, half hesitating to fall, windows guarded by rusty iron bars, that time and dust have almost eaten away, and every imaginable sign of desolation and neglect. In such a neighbourhood, beyond Dock-head, in the Borough of Southwark, stands Jacob's Island, surrounded by a muddy ditch six or eight feet deep, and fifteen or twenty wide, when the tide is in, once called Mill Pond, but known in these days as Folly Ditch. It is a creek or inlet from the Thames, and can always be filled up at high water by opening the sluices at the head mills from which it took its old name. At such times, a stranger, looking from one of the wooden bridges thrown across it at Mill Lane, will see the inhabitants of the houses on either side lowering from their back doors and windows, buckets, jars, domestic utensils of all kinds, in which to haul the water up; and when his eye is turned from these operations to the houses themselves, his utmost astonishment will be excited by the scene before him. Crazy wooden galleries, common to the backs of half-a-dozen houses, with holes from which to look upon the sluice beneath; windows broken and patched, with poles thrust out on which to dry linen that is never there; rooms so small, so filthy, so confined, that the air would seem too tainted even for the dirt and squalor which they shelter; wooden chambers thrusting themselves out above the mud, and threatening to fall into it—as some have done; dirt-besmeared walls and decaying foundations; every repulsive lineament of poverty, every loathsome indication of filth, rot, and garbage—all these ornament the banks of Folly Ditch. In Jacob's Island the warehouses are roofless and empty, the walls are crumbling down, the windows are windows no more, the doors are falling into the street, the chimneys are blackened, but they yield no smoke. Thirty or forty years ago, before losses and chancery suits came upon it, it was a thriving place; but now it is a desolate island indeed. The houses have no owners; they are broken open and entered upon by those who have the courage, and there they live and there they die. They must have powerful motives for a secret residence, or be reduced to a destitute condition indeed who seek a refuse in Jacob's Lebard. In an upper room of one of the houses—a detached house of a fair size—ruinous in other respects, but strongly defended at door and window, of which the back commanded the ditch, in manner already described, there were assembled three men, who, regarding each other every now then with looks expressive of perplexity and expectation, sat for some time in profound and gloomy silence. One of these was Toby Crackit, another Mr. Chitling, and the third a robber of fifty years, whose nose had been almost beaten in in some old scuffle, and whose face bore a frightful scar, which might probably be traced back to the same occasion. This man was a returned transport, and his name was Kags. "I wish," said Toby, turning to Mr. Chitling, "that you had picked out some other crib when the two old ones got too warm, and not come here, my fine feller." "Why didn't you, blunder-head?" said "Well, I thought you'd have been a little more glad to see me than this," replied Mr. Chitling with a melancholy air. "Why lookee, young gentleman," said Toby, "when a man keeps himself so very ex-clusive, as I have done, and by that means has a snug house over his head, with nobody prying and smelling about it, it's rather a startling thing to have the honour of a wisit from a young gentleman (however respectable and pleasant a person he may be to play cards with at conveniency) circumstanced as you are." "Especially when the exclusive young man has got a friend stopping with him, that's arrived sooner than was expected, from foreign parts, and too modest to want to be presented to the Judges on his return." added Mr. Kars. There was a short silence, after which Toby Crackit, seeming to abandon as hopeless, any further effort to maintain his usual devil-may-care swagger, turned to Chitling and said. "When was Fagin took, then?" "Just at dinner time—two o'clock this afternoon," was the reply. "Charley and I made our lucky up the washer's chimney, and Bolter got into the empty waterbutt, head downwards, but his legs were so precious long that they stuck out at the top, and so they took him too," " And Bet ?" "Poor Bet! she went to see the body to speak to who it was," replied Chitling, his countenance falling more and more, "and went off mad, screaming and raving and beating her head against the boards, so they put a strait weskut on her and took her to the hospital—and there she is" "Wot's come of young Bates?" de- nanded Kags. "He hung about, not to come over here afore dark, but he'll be here soon," replied Chitling. "There's no where else to go to now, for the people at the Cripples are all in custody, and the bar of the under his hat. He drew them slowly off —blanched face, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, beard of three days' growth, wasted flesh, short thick breath—it was the very ghost of Sikes. He laid his hand upon a chair which stood in the middle of the room, but shuddering as he was about to drop into it, and seeming to glance over his shoulder, dragged it back close to the wall—as close as it would go—ground it against it—and sat down. Not a word had been exchanged. He looked from one to another in silence. If an eye was furtively raised and met his, it was instantly averted. When his hollow voice broke silence, they all three started. They had never heard its tones before. "How came that dog here ?" he asked. "Alone. Three hours ago." "To-night's paper says that Fagin's taken. Is it true, or a lie?" "Quite true." They were silent again. "Damn you all," said Sikes, passing his hand across his forehead. "Have you nothing to say to me?" There was an uneasy movement among them, but nobody spoke. "You, that keep this house," said Sikes, turning his face to Crackit; "do you mean to sell me, or to let me be here till this hunt is over?" "You must stop here, if you think it safe," returned the person addressed, after some hesitation Sikes carried his eyes slowly up the wall behind him, rather trying to turn his head than actually doing it, and said, "Is it—the body—is it buried?" They shook their heads. "Why isn't it?" said the man, in the same glance behind him. "Wot do they keep such ugly things as that above the ground for?—who's that knocking?" Crackit intimated by a motion of his hand, as he left the room, that there was nothing to fear, and directly came back with Charley Bates behind him. Sikes sat opposite the door, so that the moment the boy entered the room he encountered his figure. "Toby," said the boy, falling back as Sikes turned his eyes towards him, "why aidn't you tell me this down stairs?" There had been something so tremendous in the shrinking off of the three, that the wretched man was willing to propitate even this lad. Accordingly he nod-ded, and made as though he would shake hands with him. "Let me go into some other room," said the boy, retreating still further. "Why, Charley," said Sikes, stepping forward, "Don't you—don't you know me?" "Don't come nearer me," answered the boy, still retreating, and looking with horror in his eyes upon the murderer's face. "You monster!" The man stepped half-way, and they looked at each other, but Sikes's eye sunk gradually to the ground. "Witness you three," cried the boy, shaking his clenched fist, and becoming more and more excited as he spoke. "Witness you three—I'm not afraid of him—if they come here after him, I'll give him up; I will. I tell you out at once; he may kill me for it, if he likes, or if he dares, but if I'm here I'll give him up. I'd give him up if he was to be boiled alive. Murder! Help! If there's the pluck of a man among you three, you'll help me. Murder! Help! Down with him." Pouring out these cries, and accompanying them with violent gesticulations, the boy actually threw himself single-handed upon the strong man, and in the intensity of his energy, and the suddenness of the surprise, brought him heavily to the ground. The three spectators seemed quite transfixed and stupefied. They offered no interference, and the boy and man rolled on the ground together, the former, heedless of the blows that showered upon him, wrenching his hand tighter and tighter in the garments about the murderer's breast, and never ceasing to call for help with all his might. The contest, however, was too unequal to last long. Sikes had him down, and his knee was on his throat, when Crackit pulled him back with a look of alarm, and pointed to the window. There were lights gleaming below, voices in loud and earnest conversation, the tramp of hurried footsteps—endless they seemed in number—crossing the nearest wooden bridge. One man on horseback seemed to be among the crowd, for there was the noise of hoofs rattling on the uneven pavement; the gleam of light increased, the footsteps came more thickly and noisily on. Then came a loud knocking at the door, and then a hoarse murmur from such a multitude of angry voices as would have made the boldest quail. "Help!" shricked the boy, in a voice that rent the air. "He's here; he's here. Break down the door! "They have him now," cried a man on the nearest bridge. "Hurrah!" The crowd grew light with uncovered heads, and again the shout uprose. "I promise fifty pounds," cried an old gentleman from the same quarter; "fifty pounds to the man who takes him alive. I will remain here till he comes to ask me for it." There was another roar. At this moment the word was passed among the crowd that the door was forced at last, and that he who had first called for the ladder had mounted into the room. The stream abruptly turned as this intelligence ran from mouth to mouth, and the people at the windows seeing those upon the bridges pouring back, quitted their stations, and running into the street, joined the concourse that now thronged pellmell to the spot they had left, each man crushing and striving with his neighbour, and all panting with impatience to get near the door and look upon the criminal, as the officers brought him out. The cries and shricks of those who were pressed almost to suffocation, or trampled down and trodden under foot in the confusion, were dreadful: the narrow ways were completely blocked up; and at this time, between the rush of some to regain the space in front of the house, and the unavailing struggles of others to extricate themselves from the mass, the immediate attention was distracted from the murderer, although the universal eagerness for his capture was, if possible, increased. The man had shrunk down, thoroughly quelled by the ferocity of the crowd and the impossibility of escape, but seeing this sudden change with no less rapidity than it occurred, he sprang upon his feet, determined to make one last effort for his life by dropping into the ditch, and at the risk of being stifled, endeavouring to creep away in the darkness and confusion. Roused into new strength and energy, and stimulated by the noise within the house, which announced that an entrance had really been effected, he set his foot against the stack of chimneys, fastened one end of the rope tightly and firmly round it, and with the other made a strong running noose by the aid of his hands and teeth almost in a second. He could let himself down by the cord to within a less distance of the ground than his own height, and had his knife ready in his hand to cut it then and drop. At the very instant that he brought the cop over his head previous to slipping it beneath his arm-pits, and when the old gentleman before mentioned (who had clung so tight to the railings of the bridge as to resist the force of the crowd, and retain his position) earnestly warned those about him that the man was about to lower himself down—at that very instant the murderer, looking behind him on the roof, threw his arms above his head, and uttered a vell of terror. "The eyes again!" he cried, in an unearthly screech. Staggering as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbled over the parapet: the noose was at his neck; it ran up with his weight tight as a bow-string, and swift as the arrow it speeds. He fell for five-and-thirty feet. There was a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion of the limbs, and there he hung, with the open knife clenched in his stiffening hand. The old chimney quivered with the shock, but it stood it bravely. The murderer swung lifeless against the wall, and the boy, thrusting aside the dangling body, which obscured his view, called to the people to come and take him out for God's sake. A dog, which had lain concealed till now, ran backwards and forwards on the parapet with a dismal howl, and, collecting himself for a spring, jumped for the dead man's shoulders. Missing his aim, he fell into the ditch, turning completely over as he went, and striking his head against a stone, dashed out his brains. ### CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH Affording an explanation of more mysteries than one, and comprehending a proposal of marriage, with no word of settlement or pin-money. The events narrated in the last chapter were yet but two days old, when Oliver found himself at three o'clock in the afternoon, in a travelling carriage rolling fast towards his native town. Mrs. Maylie and Rose, and Mrs. Bedwin and the good Doctor, were with him, and Mr. Brownlow followed in a post-chaise, accompanied by one other person, whose name had not been mentioned. They had not talked much upon the way, for Oliver was in a flutter of agitation and uncertainty, which deprived him of the power of collecting his thoughts, and almost of speech, and appeared to have scarcely less effect on his companions, who shared it in at least an equal degree. He and the two ladies had been ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_212_Picture_0.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) The Firt Chance they were present conversed apart. Once Mrs. Maylie was called away, and after being absent for nearly an hour, returned with eyes swollen with weeping. All these things made Rose and Oliver, who were not in any new secrets, nervous and uncomfortable. They sat wondering in silence, or, if they exchanged a few words, spoke in whispers, as if they were afraid to hear the sound of their own voices. At length, when nine o'clock had come, and they began to think they were to hear no more that night, Mr. Losberne and Mr. Grimwig entered the room, followed by Mr. Brownlow and a man whom Oliver almost shrieked with surprise to see; for they told him it was his brother, and it was the same man he had met at the market-town, and seen looking in with Fagin at the window of his little room. He cast a look of hate, which even then he could not dissemble, at the astonished boy, and sat down near the door. Mr. Brownlow, who had papers in his hand, walked to a table, near which Rose and Oliver were seated. "This is a painful task," said he. "But these declarations, which have been signed in London before many gentlemen, must be in substance repeated here. I would have spared you the degradation, but we must have them from your own lips before we part, and you know why." "Go on," said the person addressed turning away his face. "Quick. I have done enough. Don't keep me here." "This child," said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his hand upon his head, "is your half-brother, the illegitimate son of your father, and my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving him birth." "Yes," said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy, the beating of whose heart he might have heard. "That is their hastard child " "The term you use, said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, "is a reproach to those who long since passed beyond the feeble censure of this world. It reflects true disgrace on no one living except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this town?" "In the workhouse of this town," was the sullen reply. "You have the story there." He pointed emphatically to the papers as he spoke "I must have it here, too," said Mr. Brownlow, looking round upon the list-eners. Listen, then," returned Monks. "His father being taken ill at Rome, as you know, was joined by his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long separated, who went from Paris, and took me with her—to look after his property for what I know, for she had no great affection for him, nor he for her. He knew nothing of us, for his senses were gone; and he slumbered on till next day, when he died. Among the papers in his desk, were two dated on the night his illness first came on, directed to yourself, and enclosed in a few short lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of the package that it was not to be forwarded till he was dead. One of these papers was a letter to this girl Agnes, and the other a will." "What of the letter?" asked Mr. Brownlow. "The letter! a sheet of paper crossed and crossed again with a penitent confession, and prayers to God to help her. He had palmed a tale upon the girl, that some secret mystery—to be explained one day—prevented his marrying her just then, and so she had gone on, trusting patiently to him, until she trusted too far, and lost what none could give her back. She was at that time within a few months of her confinement. He told her all he had meant to do to hide her shame if he had lived, and prayed her, if he died, not to curse his memory, or think the consequences of their sin would be visited on her or their young child; for all the guilt was his. He reminded her of the day he had given her the little locket and the ring with her christian name engraved upon it, and a blank left for that which he hoped one day to have bestowed upon her—prayed her yet to keep it, and wear it next her heart, as she had done before—and then ran on wildly in the same words over and over again, as if he had gone distracted—as I believe he had." "The will," said Mr. Brownlow, as Oliver's tears fell fast. "I will go on to that. The will was in the same spirit. He talked of miseries, which his wife had brought upon him, of the rebellious disposition, vice, malice, and premature bad passions of you, his only son, who had been trained to hate him, and left you and your mother each an annuity of eight hundred pounds. The bulk of his property he divided into two equal portions—one for Agnes Fleming, and the other for their child, if it should be born alive and ever come of age. If it was a girl, it was to come into the money unconditionally; but if a box only on one stime. lation, that in his minority he should never have stained his name with any public act of dishonour, meanness, cowardice, or wrong. He did this, he said, to mark his confidence in the mother, and his conviction—only strengthened by approaching death—that the child would share her gentle heart and noble nature. If he was disappointed in this expectation, then the money was to come to you, for then, and not till then, when both children were equal, would he recognise your prior claim upon his purse, who had none upon his heart, but had, from an infant, repulsed him with coldness and aversion." "My mother," said Monks in a louder tone, "did what a woman should have done—she burnt this will. The letter never reached its destination, but that and other proofs she kept, in case they ever tried to lie away the blot. The girl's father had the truth from her, with every aggravation that her violent hate—I love her for it now—could add. Goaded by shame and dishonour, he fled with his children into a remote corner of Wales, changing his very name, that his friends might never know of his retreat; and here, no great while afterwards, he was found dead in his bed. The girl had left her home in secret some weeks before; he had searched for her on foot in every town and village near, and it was on the night that he returned home, assured that she had destroyed herself, to hide her shame and his, that his old heart broke." There was a short silence here, until narrative. "Years after this," he said, "this man's —Edward Leeford's—mother came to me. He had left her when only eighteen; robbed her of jewels and money; gambled, squandered, forged, and fled to London, where, for two years, he had associated with the lowest outcasts. She was sinking under a painful and incurable disease, and wished to recover him before she died. Enquiries were set on foot; strict searches made—unavailing for a long time—but ultimately successful—and he went back with her to France." "There she died," said Monks, "after a lingering illness; and on her death-bed she bequeathed these secrets to me, together with her unquenchable and deadly hatred of all whom they involved, though she need not have left me that, for I had inherited it long before. She would not believe that the girl had destroyed herself and the child too, but was filled with the impression that a male child had been born, and was alive. I swore to her, if ever it crossed my path, to hunt it down; never to let it rest, to pursue it with the bitterest and most unrelenting animosity; to vent upon it the hatred that I deeply felt; and to spit upon the empty vaunt of that insulting will by dragging it, if I could, to the very gallows' foot. She was right. He came in my way at last; I began well, and, but for babbling drabs, I would have finished as I began; I would, I would!" As the villain folded his arms tight together, and muttered curses on himself in the impotence of baffled malice, Mr. Brownlow turned to the terrified group beside him, and explained that the Jew, who had been his old accomplice and confidant, had a large reward for keeping Oliver ensnared, of which some part was to be given up in the event of his being rescued, and that a dispute on this head had led to their visit to the country-house for the purpose of identifying him. "The locket and ring?" said Mr. Brown- ow, turning to Monks. "I bought them from the man and woman I told you of, who stole them from the corpse," answered Monks, without raising his eyes... "You know what became of them." Mr. Brownlow merely nodded to Mr. Grimwig, who, disappearing with great alacrity, shortly returned, pushing in Mrs. Bumble, and dragging her unwilling consort after him "Do my hi's deceive me!" cried Mr. Bumble, with ill-feigned enthusiasm, "or is that little Oliver! Oh, O-li-ver, if you know'd how I've been grieving for you!" "Hold your tongue, fool," murmured Mrs. Bumble. "Isn't natur natur, Mrs. Bumble?" remonstrated the work-house master. "Can't I be suffered to feel—I as brought him up porochially—when I see him a setting here among ladies and gentlemen of the very affablest description! I always loved that boy as if he'd been my—my—my own grandfather," said Mr. Bumble, halting for an appropriate comparison. "Master Oliver, my dear, you remember the blessed gentleman in the white waistcoat? Ah! he went to heaven last week in a oak coffin with plated handles, Oliver." "Come, sir," said Mr. Grimwig, tartly, 'suppress your feelings." "I will do my endeavours, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "How do you do, sir l hope you are very well." clue by which his friends or relatives could be traced—the child was taken by some wretched cottagers, who reared it as their own." "Go on," said Mr. Brownlow, signing to Mrs. Maylie to approach, "go on." "You couldn't find the spot to which these people had repaired," said Monks; "but where friendship fails, hatred will often force a way. My mother found it, after a year of cunning search—ay, and found the child." "She took it, did she?" "No. The people were poor, and began to sicken—at least the man did—of their fine humanity, so she left it with them, giving them a small present of money, which would not last long, and promising more, which she never meant to send. She didn't quite rely, however, on their discontent and poverty for the child's unhappiness, but told the history of the sister's shame (with such alterations as suited her), bade them take good heed of the child, for she came of bad blood, and told them she was illegitimate, and sure to go wrong one time or other. The circumstances countenanced all this; the people believed it, and there the child dragged on an existence miserable enough to satisfy us, until a widow, residing then at Chester, saw the girl by chance—pitied her, and took her home. There was some cursed spell against us; for, in spite of all our efforts, she remained there and was happy; I lost sight of her two or three years ago, and saw her no more until a few months back." "Do you see her now?" "Yes, leaning on your arm." "But not the less my niece," cried Mrs. Maylie, folding the fainting girl in her arms; "not the less my dearest child. I wouldn't lose her now for all the treasures of the world—my sweet companion—my own dear girl." "The only friend I ever had," cried Rose, clinging to her; "the kindest, best of friends. My heart will burst—I can- not, cannot bear all this.' "You have borne more, and been, through all, the best and gentlest creature that ever shed happiness on every one she knew," said Mrs. Maylie, embracing her tenderly. "Come, come, my love, remember who this is who waits to clasp you in his arms. Poor child! see here—look, look, my dear." "Not aunt," cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck; "I'll never call her aunt—sister, my own dear sister, that something taught my heart to love so dearly from the first. Rose, dear, darling Rose." Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged, in the long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother were gained and lost in that one moment. Joy and grief were mingled in the cup, but there were no bitter tears, for even grief itself arose so softened, and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemn pleasure and lost all character of pain. They were a long, long time alone. A soft tap at the door at length announced that some one was without. Oliver opened it, glided away, and gave place to Harry Mayne. "I know it all," he said, taking a seat beside the lovely girl. "Dear Rose, I "I am not "I am not here by accident," he added, after a lengthened silence, "nor have I heard all this to-night, for I knew it yesterday—only yesterday. Do you guess that I have come here to remind you of a promise?" "Stay," said Rose. "You do know all?' "All. You gave me leave at any time within a year to renew the subject of our last discourse." "I did." "Not to press you to alter your determination," pursued the young man, "but to hear you reject it if you would. I was to lay whatever of station or fortune I might possess at your feet; and if you still adhered to your former determination, I pledged myself by no word or act to seek to change it." "The same reasons which influenced me then, will influence me now," said Rose firmly. "If I ever owed a strict and rigid duty to her whose goodness saved me from a life of indigence and suffering, when should I ever feel it as I do to-night? It is a struggle," said Rose, "but one I am proud to make; it is a pang, but one my heart shall bear." "The disclosure of to-night," Harry egan. "The disclosure of to-night," replied Rose softly, "leaves me in the same position with reference to you, as that in which I stood before." "You harden your heart against me. Rose," urged her lover. "Oh Harry, Harry," said the young lady, bursting into tears. "I wish I could, and spare myself this pain." "Then why inflict it on yourself?" said Harry, taking her hand. "Think, dear Rose, what you have heard to-night." "And what have I heard? what have I heard?" cried Rose. "That a sense of his deep disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned all—there; we have said enough, Harry, we have said enough." "Not yet, not yet," said the young man, detaining her as she rose. "My hopes, my wishes, prospects, feelings, every thought in life—except my love for you—have undergone a change. I offer you now no distinction among a buslling crowd, no mingling with a world of malice and detraction, where the blood is called into honest cheeks by aught but real disgrace and shame; but a home—a heart and home—yes, dearest Rose, and those, and those alone, are all I have to offer." "What does this mean?" faltered the young lady. "It means but this—that when I left you last, I left you with the firm determination to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me; resolved that if my world could not be yours, I would make yours mine; that no pride of birth should curl the lip at you, for I would turn from it. This I have done. Those who have shrunk from me because of this, have shrunk from you and proved you so far right. Such power and patronage—such relatives of influence and rank, as smiled upon me then, look coldly now, but there are smiling friends and waving trees in England's richest county, and by one village church—mine, Rose, my own—there stands a rustic dwelling, which you can make me prouder of than all the hopes I have renounced, increased a thousand-fold. This is my rank and station now, and here I lay it down." "It's a trying thing waiting supper for lovers," said Mr. Grimwig, waking up, and pulling his pocket-handkerchief from Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together,) could offer a word in extenuation. "I had serious thoughts of eating my head off to-night," said Mr. Grimwig, "for I began to think I should get nothing else. I'll take the liberty, if you'll allow me, of saluting the bride that is to be." Mr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into effect upon the blushing girl, and the example being contagious, was followed both by the Doctor and Mr. Brownlow. Some people affirm that Harry Maylie had been observed to set it originally in a dark room adjoining; but the best authorities consider this downright scandal, he being young and a clergyman. "Oliver, my child," said Mrs. Maylie, "where have you been? and why do you look so sad? There are tears stealing down your face at this moment. What is the matter?" It is a world of disappointment—often to hopes we most cherish, and hopes that do our nature the greatest honour. Poor Dick was dead! ### CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH The Jew's last night alive. The court was paved from floor to roof with human faces. Inquisitive and eager eyes peered from every inch of space; from the rail before the dock, away into the sharpest angle of the smallest corner in the galleries. All looks were fixed upon one man—the Jew. Before him and behind, above, below, on the right and on the left—he seemed to stand surrounded by a firmament all bright with gleaming eyes. He stood there in all this glare of living light, with one hand resting on the wooden slab before him, the other held to his ear, and his head thrust forward to enable him to catch with greater distinctness every word that fell from the presiding judge, who was delivering his charge to the jury. At times he turned his eyes upon them to observe the effect of the slightest feather-weight in his favour; and when the points against him were stated with terrible distinctness, looked towards his counsel in mute appeal that he would even then urge something in his behalf. Beyond these manifestations of anxiety, he stirred not hand or foot. He had scarcely moved since the trial began, and now that the judge ceased to speak, he still remained in the same strained attitude of close attention, with his gaze bent on him as though he listened still. A slight bustle in the court recalled him to himself, and looking round, he saw that the jurymen had turned together to consider of their verdict. As his eyes wandered to the gallery, he could see the people rising above each other to see his face: some hastily applying their glasses to their eyes, and others whispering their neighbours with looks expressive of abhorrence. A few there were who seemed unmindful of him, and looked only to the jury in impatient wonder how they could delay, but in no one face—not even among the women, of whom there were many there—could be read the faintest sympathy with him, or any feeling but one of all-absorbing interest that he should be condemned. As he saw all this in one bewildered glance, the death-like stillness came again, and, looking back, he saw that the jurymen had turned towards the judge. Husli They only sought permission to retire. He looked wistfully into their faces one by one when they passed out, as though to see which way the greater number bent; but that was fruitless. The jailer touched him on the shoulder. He followed mechanically to the end of the dock, and sat down on a chair. The man pointed it out, or he would not have seen it. He looked up into the gallery again. Some of the people were eating, and some fanning themselves with handker-chiefs, for the crowded place was very hot. There was one young man sketching his face in a little note-book. He wondered whether it was like, and looked on when the artist broke his pencil-point, and made another with his knife, as any idle spectator might have done. In the same way, when he turned his eyes towards the judge, his mind began to busy itself with the fashion of his dress, and about its cost, and how he put it on. There was an old fat gentleman on the bench, too, who had gone out some half an hour before, and now came back. He wondered within himself whether this man had been to get his dinner, what he had had, and where he had had it, and pursued this train of careless thought until some new object caught his eye and roused another. Not that all this time his mind was for an instant free from one oppressive overwhelming sense of the grave that opened at his feet; it was ever present to him, but in a vague and general way, and he could not fix his thoughts upon it. Thus, even while he trembled and turned burning hot at the idea of speedy death, he fell to count or the iron spikes before him, and wo, or ig how the head of one had been proken off, and whether they would mend it, or leave it as it was. Then he thought of all the horrors of the gallows and the scaffold, and stopped to watch a man sprinkling the floor to cool it, and then went on to think again. At length there was a cry of silence, and a breathless look from all towards the door. The jury returned, and passed him close. He could glean nothing from their faces; they might as well have been of stone. Perfect stillness ensued—not a rustle—not a breath—Guilty! The building rang with a tremendous shout, and another, and another, and then it echoed deep loud groans, that gathered strength as they swelled out, like angry thunder. It was a peal of joy from the populace outside greeting the news that he would die on Monday. The noise subsided, and he was asked if he had anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon him. He had resumed his listening attitude, and looked intently at his questioner while the demand was made; but it was twice repeated before he seemed to hear it, and then he only muttered that he was an old man—an old man—an old man—and so dropping into a whisper, was silent again. The judge assumed the black cap, and the prisoner still stood with the same air and gesture. A woman in the gallery uttered some exclamation, called forth by this dread solemnity; he looked hastily up, as if angry at the interruption, and bent forward yet more attentively. The address was solemn and impressive—the sentence fearful to hear; but he stood like a marble figure, without the motion of a nerve. His haggard face was still bent forward, his under-jaw hanging down, and his eyes staring out before him, when the jailer put his hand upon his arm, and beckoned him away. He gazed stupidly about him for an in- stant, and obeyed. They led him through a paved room under the court, where some prisoners were waiting until their turn came, and others were talking to their friends, who crowded round a grate which looked into the open yard. There was nobody there to speak to him; but, as he passed, the prisoners fell back to render him more visible to the people who were clinging to the bars, and they assailed him with opprobrious names, and screeched and hissed. He shook his fist, and would have spat upon them, but his conductors hurried him on through a gloomy passage, lighted by a few dim lamps, into the interior of the prison. Here he was searched, that he might not have about him the means of anticipating the law; this ceremony performed, they led him to one of the condemned cells, and left him there—alone. He sat down on a stone bench opposite the door, which served for seat and bedstead, and casting his bloodshot eyes upon the ground, tried to collect his thoughts. After awhile he began to remember a few disjointed fragments of what the judge had said, though it had seemed to him at the time that he could not hear a word. These gradually fell into their proper places, and, by degrees, suggested more, so that in a little time he had the whole almost as it was delivered. To be hanged by the neck till he was dead—that was the end. To be hanged by the neck till he was dead. As it came on very dark, he began to think of all the men he had known who had died upon the scaffold—some of them through his means. They rose up in such quick succession that he could hardly count them. He had seen some of them die—and joked too, because they died with prayers upon their lips. With what a rattling noise the drop went down; and how suddenly they changed from strong and vigorous men to dangling heaps of clothes! Some of them might have inhabited that very cell—sat upon that very spot. It was very dark; why did'nt they bring a light? The cell had been built for many years—scores of men must have passed their last hours there—it was like sitting in a vault strewn with dead bodies—the cap, the noose,—the pinioned arms—the faces that he knew even beneath that hideous veil—Light, light! At length, when his hands were raw with beating against the heavy door and walls, two men appeared, one bearing a candle which he thrust into an iron candlestick fixed against the wall, and the other dragging in a mattress on which to pass the night; for the prisoner was to Then came night—dark, dismal, silent night. Other wretches are glad to hear the church-clocks strike, for they tell of life and coming day. To the Jew they brought despair. The boom of every iron bell came laden with the one deep hollow sound—death. What availed the noise and bust of cheerful morning, which penetrated even there, to him? It was whother form of knell, with mockery added to the warning. The day passed off—day, there was no day; it was gone as soon as come—and night came on again; night so long, and yet so short; long in its dreadful silence, and short in its fleeting hours. One time he raved and blasphemed, and at another howled and tore his hair. Venerable men of his own persuasion had come to pray beside him, but he had driven them away with curses. They renewed their charitable efforts, and he beat them off. Saturday night! he had only one night more to live. And as he thought of this, the day broke—Sunday. It was not until the night of this last awful day, that a withering sense of his helpless, desperate state came in its full intensity upon his blighted soul; not that he had ever held any defined or positive hopes of mercy, but that he had never been able to consider more than the dim probability of dying so soon. He had spoken little to either of the two men who relieved each other in their attendance upon him, and they, for their parts, made no effort to rouse his attention. He had sat there awake, but dreaming. Now he started up every minute, and with gasping mouth and burning skin hurried to and fro in such a paroxysm of fear and wrath that even they—used to such sights—recoiled from him with horror. He grew so terrible at last in all the tortures of his evil conscience, that one man could not bear to sit there, eyeing him alone, and so the two kept watch together. He cowered down upon his stone bed, and thought of the past. He had been wounded with some missiles from the crowd on the day of his capture, and his head was bandaged with a linen cloth. His red hair hung down upon his bloodless face; his beard was torn and twisted into knots; his eyes shone with a terrible light; his unwashed flesh crackled with the fever that burnt him up. Eight—nine—ten. If it was not a trick to frighten him, and those were the real hours treading on each others' heels, where would he be when they came round again! Eleven. Another struck ere the voice of the hour before had ceased to vibrate. At eight he would be the only mourner in his own Those dreadful walls of Newgate, which have hidden so much misery and such unspeakable anguish—not only from the eyes, but too often and too long from the thoughts of men, never held so dread a spectacle as that. The few who lingered as they passed, and wondered what the man was doing who was to be hanged to-morrow, would have slept but ill that night, if they could have seen him then. ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_221_Picture_0.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) Fagin in the condemned Cell. ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_222_Picture_0.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) From early in the evening until midnight, little groups of two or three presented themselves at the lodge-gate, and inquired with anxious faces whether any reprieve had been received. These being answered in the negative, communicated the welcome intelligence to others in the street, who pointed out to one another the door from which he must come out, and showed where the scaffold would be built, and, walking with unwilling steps away, turned back to conjure up the scene. By degrees they fell off one by one; and for an hour, in the dead of night, the street was left to solitude and darkness. The space before the prison was cleared, and a few strong barriers, painted black, had been already thrown across the road to break the pressure of the expected crowd, when Mr. Brownlow and Oliver appeared at the wicket, and presented an order of admission to the prison, signed by one of the sheriffs. They were immediately admitted into the lodge. "Is the young gentleman to come too, sir?" said the man whose duty it was to conduct them. "It's not a sight for chil- dren, sir." "It is not indeed, my friend," rejoined Mr. Brownlow, "but my business with this man is intimately connected with him, and as this child has seen him in the full career of his success and villany, I think it better—even at the cost of some pain and fear—that he should see him now." These few words had been said apart, so as to be inaudible to Oliver. The man touched his hat, and, glancing at him with some curiosity, opened another gate opposite to that at which they had entered, and led them on, through dark and wind- ing ways, towards the cells "This," said the man, stopping in a gloomy passage where a couple of workmen were making some preparations in profound silence—"This is the place he passes through. If you step this way, you can see the door he grees out at." He led them into a store-kitchen, fitted with coppers for dressing the prison food, and pointed to a door. There was an open grating above it, through which came the sound of men's voices, mingled with the noise of hammering and the throwing down of boards. They were putting up the scaffold. From this place they passed through several strong gates, opened by other turnkeys, from the inner side, and having crossed an open yard, ascended a flight of narrow steps and came into a passage with a row of strong doors on the left hand. Motioning them to remain where they were, the turnkey knocked at one of these with his bunch of keys. The two attendants, after a little whispering, came out into the passage, stretching themselves, as if glad of the temporary relief, and motioned the visiters to follow the jailer into the cell. They did so. The condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himself from side to side, with a countenance more like that of a snared beast than the face of a man. His mind was evidently wandering to his old life, for he continued to mutter, without seeming conscious of their presence otherwise than as a part of his vision. "Good boy, Charley—well done," he mumbled—"Oliver too—ha, ha, ha,—Oliver too—quite the gentleman now—quite the—take that boy away to bed." The jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver, and whispering him not to be alarmed, looked on without speaking. He has been the—the somehow the cause of all this. It's worth the money to bring him up to it—Bolter's throat, Bill, never mind the girl. Bolter's throat as deep as you can cut. Saw his head off." "That's me!" cried the Jew, falling instantly into precisely the same attitude of listening that he had assumed upon his trial. "An old man, my lord: a very old. old, man." "Here," said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his breast to keep him down. "Here's somebody wants to see you, to ask you some questions, I suppose. Fagin, Fagin, are you a man?" "I shan't be one long," replied the Jew, looking up with a face retaining no human expression but rage and terror, "Strike them all dead; what right have they to butcher me?' As he spoke, he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow, and, shrinking to the furthest corner of the seat, demanded to know what they wanted there. "Steady," said the turnkey, still holding him down. "Now, sir, tell him what you want—quick, if you please, for he grows worse as the time gets on." "You have some papers," said Mr. Brownlow, advancing, "which were placed in your hands for better security, by a man caned Monks. "It's all a lie together," replied the "For the love of God," said Mr. Brown- low solemnly, "do not say that now, upon, the very verge of death; but tell me where they are. You know that Sikes is dead, that Monks has confessed, that there is no hope of any further gain. Where are those papers?" "Oliver," cried the Jew, beckoning to him. "Here, here. Let me whisper to 70u." "I am not afraid," said Oliver in a low voice, as he relinquished Mr. Brownlow's hand. "The papers," said the Jew, drawing him towards him, "are in a canvas bag, in a hole a little way up the chimney in the top front-room. I want to talk to you, my dear, I want to talk to you." "Yes, yes," returned Oliver. "Let me say a prayer. Do. Let me say one prayer; say only one upon your knees with me; and we will talk till morning." "Outside—outside," replied the Jew, pushing the boy before him towards the door, and looking vacantly over his head. "Say I've gone to sleep—they'll believe you. You can get me out if you take me so. Now then, now then." "Oh! God forgive this wretched man!" "That's right, that's right," said the Jew; "that'il help us on. This door first. If I shake and tremble as we pass the gallows, don't you mind, but hurry on. Now, now, now." "Have you nothing else to ask him, sir ?" inquired the turnkey. "No other question, replied Mr. Brownlow. "If I hoped we could recal him to a sense of his real position——" "Nothing will do that, sir," replied the man, shaking his head. "You had better leave him." The door of the cell opened, and the attendants returned. "Press on, press on," cried the Jew. "Softly, but not so slow. Faster, faster." The man laid hands upon him, and disengaging Oliver from his grasp, held him back. He writhed and struggled with the power of desperation, and sent up shriek upon shriek that penetrated even those massive walls, and rung in their ears until they reached the open yard. It was some time before they left the prison, for Oliver nearly swooned after this frightful scene, and was so weak that for an hour or more he had not the strength to walk. Day was dawning when they again emerged. A great multitude had already assembled. The windows were filled with people, smoking and playing cards, to beguile the time; the crowd were pushing, quarrelling and joking. Every thing told of life and animation, but one dark cluster of objects in the very centre of all—the black stage, the cross beam, the rope, and all the hideous apparatus of death. ### CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH, And Last. The fortunes of those who have figured in this tale are nearly closed, and what little remains to their historian to relate, is told in few and simple words Before three months had passed, Rose Fleming and Harry Maylie were married in the village church which was henceforth to be the scene of the young clergyman's labours; on the same day they entered into possession of their new and hanny home Mrs. Maylie took up her abode with her son and daughter-in-law, to enjoy during the tranquil remainder of her days the greatest felicity that age and worth can know—the contemplation of the hap piness of those on whom the warmest affections and tenderest cares of a well- It appeared on a full and careful investigation, that if the wreck of property remaining in the custody of Monks (which had never prospered in his hands or those of his mother,) were equally divided between himself and Oliver, it would yield to each little more than three thousand pounds. By the provisions of his father's will, Oliver would have been entitled to the whole; but Mr. Brownlow, unwilling to deprive the elder son of the opportunity of retrieving his former vices, and pursuing an honest career, proposed this mode of distribution, to which his young charge most joyfully acceded. Monks, still bearing that assumed name, retired with his portion to a distant part of the New World, where, having quickly squandered it, he once more fell into his old courses, and after undergoing a long confinement for some fresh act of fraud and knavery, at length sunk under an attack of his old disorder, and Mr. Brownlow adopted Oliver as his own son, and removing with him and the old housekeeper to within a mile of the parsonage-house where his dear friends resided, gratified the only remaining wish of Oliver's warm and earnest heart, and thus linked together a little society whose ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_225_Picture_0.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) Rese Maylie and Cliver! condition approached as nearly to one of perfect happiness as can ever be known in this changing world. Soon after the marriage of the young people, the worthy doctor returned to Chertsey, where, bereft of the presence of his old friends, he would have been discontented, if his temperament had admitted of such a feeling, and would have turned quite feverish if he had known how. For two or three months, he contented himself with hinting that he feared the air began to disagree with him; and then, finding that the place really was to him no longer what it had been before, settled his business on his assistant, took a bachelor's cottage just outside the village of which his young friend was pastor, and instantaneously recovered. Here he took to gardening, planting, fishing, carpentering, and various other pursuits, of a similar kind, all undertaken with his characteristic impetuosity; and in each and all he has since become famous throughout the neighbourhood as a most professed eartherity. profound authority. Before his removal, he had managed to contract a strong friendship for Mr. Grimwig, which that eccentric gentleman cordially reciprocated. He is accordingly visited by him a great many times in the course of the year; and on all such occasions, Mr. Grimwig plants, fishes, and carpenters with great ardour, doing every thing in a very singular and unprecedented manner, but always maintaining, with his favourite asseveration, that his mode is the right one. On Sundays, he never fails to criticise the sermon to the young clergyman's face, always informing Mr. Losberne, in strict confidence, afterwards, that he considers it an excellent performance, but thinks it it as well not to say so. It is a standing and very favourite joke for Mr. Brownlow, to rally him on his old prophecy concerning Oliver, and to remind him of the night on which they sat with the watch between them, waiting his return; but Mr. Grimwig contends that he was right in the main, and in proof thereof remarks, that Oliver did not come back, after all, which always calls forth a laugh on his side, and increases his good humour. Mr. Noah Claypole receiving a free pardon from the crown, in consequence of being admitted approver against the Jew, and considering his profession not altogether so safe a one as he could wish, was for some little time at a loss for the means of a livelihood, not burthened with too much work. After some consideration, he went into business as an informer, in which calling he realizes a genteel subsistence. His plan is to walk out once a week during church-time, attended by Charlotte, in respectable attire. The lady faints away at the doors of charitable publicans, and the gentleman, being accommodated with three pennyworth of brandy to restore her, lays an information next day, and pockets half the penalty. Sometimes, Mr. Claypole faints himself, but the result is the same. Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, deprived of their situations, were gradually reduced to great indigence and misery, and finally became paupers in that very same workhouse in which they had once lorded it over others. Mr. Bumble has been heard to say, that in this reverse and degradation, he has not even spirits to be thankful for being separated from his wife. As to Mr. Giles and Brittles, they still remain in their old posts, although the former is bald, and the last-named boy quite grey. They sleep at the parsonage, but divide their attention so equally between its immates and Oliver, and Mr. Brownlow, and Mr. Losberne, that to this day the villagers have never been able to discover to what establish- ment they properly belong. Master Charles Bates, appalled by Sikes's crime, fell into a train of reflection whether an honest life was not, after all, the best. Arriving at the conclusion that it certainly was, he turned his back upon the scenes of his past life, resolved to amend it in some new sphere of action. He struggled hard, and suffered much for some time; but, having a contented disposition and a good purpose, succeeded in the end, and from being a farmer's drudge and a carrier's lad, is now the merriest young grazier in all Northamptonshire. And now, the hand that traces these words, falters as it approaches the conclusion of its task, and would weave, for a little longer space, the thread of these adventures. I would fain linger yet with a few of those among whom I have so long moved, and share their happiness by endeavouring to depict it. I would show Rose Maylie in all the bloom and grace of early womanhood, shedding upon her secluded path in life such soft and gentle light as fell on all who trod it with her, and shone into their hearts. I would paint her the life and joy of the fireside circle, and the evening summer group; I would follow her through the sultry fields at noon, and hear the low tones of her sweet voice in the moonlit evening walk; I would watch her in all her goodness and charity abroad, and the smiling, untiring discharge of domestic duties at home; I would paint her and her dead sister's child, happy in their mutual love, and passing whole hours together in picturing the friends whom they had so sadly lost; I would summon before me once again those joyous little faces that clustered round her knee, and listen to their merry prattle; I would recall the tones of that clear merry laugh, and conjure up the sympathising tear that glistened in that soft blue eye. These, and a thousand looks and smiles, and turns of thought and speech—I would fain recall them, every one. How Mr. Brownlow went on from day to day filling the mind of his adopted child with stores of knowledge, and becoming attached to him more and more as his nature developed itself, and showed the thriving seeds of all he could wish nim to become—how he traced in him new traits of his early friend, that awakened in his own bosom old remembrances, melancholy, and yet sweet and soothing—how the two orphans, tried by adversity, remembered its lessons in mercy to others, and mutual love, and fervent thanks to Him who had protected and preserved them—these are all matters which need not to be told; for I have said that they were truly happy, and without strong affection and humanity of heart, and gratitude to that Being whose code is mercy, and whose great attribute is benevolence to all things that breathe, true happiness can never be attained. Within the altar of the old village church stands a white marble tablet, which bears as yet but one word, 'Agnes.' There is no coffin in that tomb, and may it be many, many years, before another name is placed above it! But if the spirits of the dead ever come back to earth, to visit spots hallowed by the love—the love beyond the grave—of those whom they knew in life, I do believe that the shade of that poor girl often hovers about that solemn nook—ay, though it is a church, and she was weak and erring. THE END. ![](https://samisdat.in/user/pages/03.books/1839%20-%20Oliver%20Twist/read/_page_228_Picture_0.jpeg?g-1351ebf7) --- ## Navigation - Parent: [Oliver Twist (1839) by Charles Dickens](https://samisdat.in/books/oliver-twist-1839.md)