Oliver Twist Page 14

  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 agonized young woman staggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a swift run, returned by the most devious and complicated route she could think of, to the domicile of the Jew.

  Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered, than he very hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat, expeditiously departed, without devoting any time to the formality of wishing the company good morning.

  "We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found," said the Jew greatly excited. "Charley, do nothing but skulk about till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear--to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; "there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!"

  With these words he pushed them from the room and, carefully double-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of concealment the box which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver. Then he hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery beneath his clothing.

  A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. "Who's there?" he cried in a shrill tone.

  "Me!" replied the voice of the Dodger, through the keyhole.

  "What now?" cried the Jew impatiently.

  "Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?" inquired the Dodger.

  "Yes," replied the Jew, "wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find him out, that's all! I shall know what to do next; never fear."

  The boy murmured a reply of intelligence, and hurried downstairs after his companions.

  "He has not peached so far," said the Jew as he pursued his occupation. "If he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth yet."

  CHAPTER XIV

  Comprising further particulars of Oliver's stay at

  Mr. Brownlow's, with the remarkable prediction which

  one Mr. Grimwig uttered concerning him when he

  went out on an errand

  OLIVER SOON RECOVERING FROM THE FAINTING-FIT INTO WHICH Mr. Brownlow's abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued, which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed.

  "Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see."

  "I see it is, ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?"

  "It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady.

  "Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am," said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it."

  "Well, well!" said the old lady, good-humouredly; "you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else."

  This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea. After tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage, which he learnt as quickly as she could teach, and at which game they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and then to go cosily to bed.

  They were happy days, those of Oliver's recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, and orderly--everybody was kind and gentle--that after the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like Heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver was told that he might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to think that they were safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger of his ever being able to wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell the truth; and Oliver had never had a new suit before.

  One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he was sitting talking to Mrs: Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr. Brownlow that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like to see him in his study, and talk to him a little while.

  "Bless us, and save us! Wash your hands, and let me part your hair nicely for you, child," said Mrs, Bedwin. "Dear heart alive! If we had known he would have asked for you, we would have put you a clean collar on, and made you as smart as sixpence!"

  Oliver did as the old lady bade him; and, although she lamented grievously, meanwhile, that there was not even time to crimp the little frill that bordered his shirt-collar, he looked so delicate and handsome, despite that important personal advantage, that she went so far as to say, looking at him with great complacency from head to foot, that she really didn't think it would have been possible, on the longest notice, to have made much difference in him for the better.

  Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door. On Mr. Brownlow calling to him to come in, he found himself in a little back room, quite full of books, with a window looking into some pleasant little gardens. There was a table drawn up before the window, at which Mr. Brownlow was seated reading. When he saw Oliver he pushed the book away from him and told him to come near the table and sit down. Oliver complied, marvelling where the people could be found to read such a great number of books as seemed to be written to make the world wiser. Which is still a marvel to more experienced people than Oliver Twist, every day of their lives.

  "There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?" said Mr. Brownlow, observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling.

  "A great number, sir," replied Oliver. "I never saw so many."

  "You shall read them, if you behave well," said the old gentleman kindly; "and you will like that, better than looking at the outsides--mat 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 quartos with a good deal of gilding about the binding.

  "Not always those," said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head, and smiling as he did so; "there are other equally heavy ones, tho
ugh 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 brickmaking to turn to."

  "Thank you, sir," said Oliver. At the earnest manner of his reply, the old gentleman laughed again and said something about a curious instinct, which Oliver, not understanding, paid no very great attention to.

  "Now," said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possible in a kinder, but at the same time in a much more serious manner, than Oliver had ever known, him assume yet, "I want you to pay great attention, my boy, to what I am going to say. I shall talk to you without any reserve, because I am sure you are as well able to understand me as many older persons would be."

  "Oh, don't tell me you are going to send me away, sir, pray!" exclaimed Oliver, alarmed at the serious tone of the old gentleman's commencement. "Don't turn me out of doors to wander in the streets again. Let me stay here, and be a servant. Don't send me back to the wretched place I came from. Have mercy upon a poor boy, sir!"

  "My dear child," said the old gentleman; moved by the warmth of Oliver's sudden appeal; "you need not be afraid of my deserting you, unless you give me cause."

  "I never, never will, sir," interposed Oliver.

  "I hope not," rejoined the old gentleman. "I do not think you ever will. I have been deceived, before, in the objects whom I have endeavoured to benefit, but I fell strongly disposed to trust you, nevertheless; and I am more interested in your behalf than I can well account for, even to myself. The persons on whom I have bestowed my dearest love, lie deep in their graves; but, although the happiness and delight of my life lie buried there too, I have not made a coffin of my heart, and sealed it up, for ever, on my best affections. Deep affliction has but strengthened and refined them."

  As the old gentleman said this in a low voice, more to himself than to his companion, and as he remained silent for a short time afterwards, Oliver sat quite still.

  "Well, well!" said the old gentleman at length, in a more cheerful tone, "I only say this, because you have a young heart; and knowing that I have suffered great pain and sorrow, you will be more careful, perhaps, not to wound me again. You say you are an orphan, without a friend in the world; all the inquiries I have been able to make, confirm the statement. Let me hear your story: where you come from, who brought you up, and how you got into the company in which I found you. Speak the truth, and you shall not be friendless while I live."

  Oliver's sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; when he was on the point of beginning to relate how he had been brought up at the farm, and carried to the workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a peculiarly impatient little double-knock was heard at the street-door, and the servant, running up-stairs announced Mr. Grimwig.

  "Is he coming up?" inquired Mr. Brownlow.

  "Yes, sir," replied the servant. "He asked if there were any muffins in the house; and, when I told him yes, he said he had come to tea."

  Mr. Brownlow smiled and, turning to Oliver, said that Mr. Grimwig was an old friend of his, and he must not mind his being a little rough in his manners; for he was a worthy creature at bottom, as he had reason to know.

  "Shall I go downstairs, sir?" inquired Oliver.

  "No," replied Mr. Brownlow, "I would rather you remained here."

  At this moment there walked into the room, supporting himself by a thick stick, a stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, who was dressed in a blue coat, striped waistcoat, nankeen breeches and gaiters, and a broad-brimmed white hat, with the sides turned up with green. A very small-plaited shirt frill stuck out from his waistcoat; and a very long steel watch-chain, with nothing but a key at the end, dangled loosely below it. The ends of his white neckerchief were twisted into a ball about the size of an orange; the variety of shapes into which his countenance was twisted, defy description. He had a manner of screwing his head on one side when he spoke, and of looking out of the corners of his eyes at the same time, which irresistibly reminded the beholder of a parrot. In this attitude he fixed himself the moment he made his appearance, and, holding out a small piece of orange-peel at arm's length, exclaimed, in a growling, discontented voice,

  "Look here! do you see this! Isn't it a most wonderful and extraordinary thing that can't call at a man's house but I find a piece of this poor surgeon's-friend on the staircase? I've been lamed with orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel will be my death 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 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!" looking at Oliver, and retreating a pace or two.

  "This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about," said Mr. Brownlow.

  Oliver bowed.

  "You don't mean to say that's the boy who had.the fever, I hope?" said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little more. "Wait a minute! Don't speak! Stop--" continued Mr. Grimwig, abruptly, losing all dread of the fever in his triumph at the discovery; "that's the boy who had the orange! If that's not the boy, sir, who had the orange, and threw this bit of peel upon the staircase, I'll eat my head, and his too."

  "No, no, he has not had one," said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. "Come! Put down your hat; and speak to my young friend."

  "I feel strongly on this subject, sir," said the irritable old gentleman, drawing off his gloves. "There's always more or less orange-peel on the pavement in our street; and I know it's put there by the surgeon's boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit last night, and feel against my garden railings; directly she got up I saw her look towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime light. 'Don't go to him,' I called out of the window, 'He's an assassin! A man-trap!' So he is. If he is not--" Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick, which was always understood, by his friends, to imply the customary offer whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down and, opening a double eyeglass, which he wore attached to a broad black ribbon, took a view of Oliver, who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured and bowed again.

  "That's the boy, is it?" said Mr. Grimwig, at length.

  "That is the boy," replied Mr. Brownlow.

  "How are you, boy?" said Mr. Grimwig.

  "A great deal better, thank you, sir," replied Oliver.

  Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea, which, as he did not half like the visitor's manner, he was very happy to do.

  "He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?" inquired Mr. Brownlow.

  "I don't know," replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly.

  "Don't know?"

  "No. I don't know. I never see any difference in boys. I only know two sorts of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys."

  "And which is Oliver?"

  "Mealy. I know a fri
end who has a beef-faced boy--a fine boy, they call him--with a round head; and red cheeks, and glaring eyes: a horrid boy, with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes, with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I know him! The wretch!"

  "Come," said Mr. Brownlow, "these are not the characteristics of young Oliver Twist, so he needn't excite your wrath."

  "They are not," replied Mr. Grimwig. "He may have worse."

  Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently, which appeared to afford Mr. Grimwig the most exquisite delight.

  "He may have worse, I say," repeated Mr. Grimwig. "Where does he come from? Who is he? What is he? He has had a fever. What of that? Fevers are not peculiar to good-people, are they? Bad people have fevers sometimes, haven't they, eh? I knew a man who was hung in Jamaica for murdering his master. He had had a fever six times; he wasn't recommended to mercy on that account. Pooh! nonsense!"

  Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr. Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver's appearance and manner were unusually prepossessing; but he had a strong appetite for contradiction, sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the orange-peel; and, inwardly determining that no man should dictate to him whether a boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved, from the first, to oppose his friend. When Mr. Brownlow admitted that on no one point of inquiry could he yet return a satisfactory answer, and that he had postponed any investigation into Oliver's previous history until he thought the boy was strong enough to bear it, Mr. Grimwig chuckled maliciously. And he demanded, with a sneer, whether the housekeeper was in the habit of counting the plate at night, because, if she didn't find a tablespoon or two missing some sunshiny morning, why, he would be content to--and so forth.

  All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous gentleman, knowing his friend's peculiarities, bore with great good humour; as Mr. Grimwig, at tea, was graciously pleased to express his entire approval of the muffins, matters went on very smoothly; and Oliver, who made one of the party, began to feel more at his ease than he had yet done in the fierce old gentleman's presence.