This is a modern-English version of Oliver Twist; or, The Parish Boy's Progress. Illustrated, originally written by Dickens, Charles.
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OLIVER TWIST,
Or, The Parish Boy’s Progress
By Charles Dickens
Illustrated by George Cruikshank
Original
Original
Original
CONTENTS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER I — TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN AND OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDING HIS BIRTH
Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter.
Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for various reasons I won’t name, and to which I won’t give a false name, there’s one that’s found in most towns, large or small: a workhouse. It is in this workhouse that a child was born, on a day and date I won't bother to mention, since it wouldn’t matter to the reader at this point in the story anyway; the unfortunate individual whose name is at the beginning of this chapter.
For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether the child would survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared; or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise and faithful specimen of biography, extant in the literature of any age or country.
For a long time after the parish surgeon brought it into this world of sorrow and trouble, there was a lot of uncertainty about whether the child would survive long enough to have a name. If that had been the case, it’s likely that these memoirs would never have been written; or if they had been, they would have fit into just a couple of pages and would have been the most concise and accurate example of biography, available in the literature of any time or place.
Although I am not disposed to maintain that the being born in a workhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office of respiration,—a troublesome practice, but one which custom has rendered necessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and the next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver and Nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter.
Although I’m not suggesting that being born in a workhouse is the most fortunate or desirable situation for anyone, I do believe that, in this particular case, it was the best thing that could have happened to Oliver Twist. The truth is, there was quite a bit of difficulty in getting Oliver to take on the task of breathing—a challenging practice, but one that is essential for our comfortable existence; and for a while, he lay gasping on a small flock mattress, teetering between this world and the next, with the odds clearly leaning toward the latter. Now, if, during this brief time, Oliver had been surrounded by overprotective grandmothers, worried aunts, experienced nurses, and highly knowledgeable doctors, he would undoubtedly have been killed in no time. However, since the only people around were a tipsy old woman and a parish surgeon who handled such matters on contract, Oliver and Nature battled it out. The outcome was that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and made sure to announce to the workhouse residents that a new burden had been placed on the parish by letting out a cry as loud as could reasonably be expected from a baby boy who hadn’t had the help of a voice for much longer than three minutes and a quarter.
As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, ‘Let me see the child, and die.’
As Oliver let out his first cry, the quilt that was tossed over the metal bed creaked. A young woman's pale face lifted weakly from the pillow, and she softly said, "Let me see the baby, and then I can go."
The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed’s head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him:
The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned toward the fire, warming and rubbing his hands alternately. As the young woman spoke, he stood up and walked to the head of the bed, saying with more kindness than one might expect from him:
‘Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.’
‘Oh, you shouldn't talk about dying just 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.
‘Oh bless her heart, no!’ the nurse interrupted, quickly slipping a green glass bottle into her pocket, the contents of which she had been sampling in a corner with clear enjoyment.
‘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.’
‘Oh bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen kids of her own, and all of them gone except for two, and those two working with me, she’ll understand better than to get upset like that, bless her dear heart! Just think about what it means 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.
Apparently, this comforting view of a mother’s future didn't have the intended effect. The patient shook her head and reached out her hand toward the child.
The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back—and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long.
The surgeon placed it in her arms. She passionately pressed her cold white lips against its forehead, ran her hands over its face, looked around in a panic, shuddered, collapsed—and died. They rubbed her chest, hands, and temples, but the blood had stopped for good. They spoke of hope and comfort. They had been strangers for too long.
‘It’s all over, Mrs. Thingummy!’ said the surgeon at last.
‘It’s all over, Mrs. Thingummy!’ the surgeon finally said.
‘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!’
‘Oh, poor thing, it really is!’ said the nurse, picking up the cork from the green bottle that had fallen onto the pillow as she bent down to pick up the child. ‘Poor thing!’
‘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?’
‘You don’t have to worry about sending the child to me if he cries, nurse,’ said the surgeon, putting on his gloves slowly and carefully. ‘It probably will be a hassle. Give him a little gruel if that happens.’ He put on his hat and, pausing by the bedside on his way to the door, added, ‘She was a pretty girl, too; where did she come from?’
‘She was brought here last night,’ replied the old woman, ‘by the overseer’s order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows.’
‘She was brought here last night,’ the old woman replied, ‘on the overseer’s orders. She was found lying in the street. She had walked quite a bit, as her shoes were worn out; but where she came from or where she was headed, no one knows.’
The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. ‘The old story,’ he said, shaking his head: ‘no wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good-night!’
The surgeon leaned over the body and raised the left hand. “The same 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.
The doctor walked away for dinner, and the nurse, after pouring herself another drink from the green bottle, sat down on a low chair in front of the fire and started to care for the baby.
What an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; it would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assigned him his proper station in society. But now that he was enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow in the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his place at once—a parish child—the orphan of a workhouse—the humble, half-starved drudge—to be cuffed and buffeted through the world—despised by all, and pitied by none.
What an amazing example of the impact of clothing young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket that had been his only cover, he could have been the child of a nobleman or a homeless person; it would have been difficult for the proudest stranger to determine his rightful place in society. But now that he was dressed in the old calico garments that had become yellow from use, he was labeled and classified, instantly falling into his role—a parish child—the orphan of a workhouse—the humble, half-starved laborer—ready to be pushed around in life—looked down upon by everyone, and pitied by no one.
Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to the tender mercies of church-wardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder.
Oliver cried loudly. If he had known that he was an orphan, abandoned to the kindness of church wardens and overseers, maybe he would have cried even louder.
CHAPTER II — TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST’S GROWTH, EDUCATION, AND BOARD
For the next eight or ten months, Oliver was the victim of a systematic course of treachery and deception. He was brought up by hand. The hungry and destitute situation of the infant orphan was duly reported by the workhouse authorities to the parish authorities. The parish authorities inquired with dignity of the workhouse authorities, whether there was no female then domiciled in ‘the house’ who was in a situation to impart to Oliver Twist, the consolation and nourishment of which he stood in need. The workhouse authorities replied with humility, that there was not. Upon this, the parish authorities magnanimously and humanely resolved, that Oliver should be ‘farmed,’ or, in other words, that he should be dispatched to a branch-workhouse some three miles off, where twenty or thirty other juvenile offenders against the poor-laws, rolled about the floor all day, without the inconvenience of too much food or too much clothing, under the parental superintendence of an elderly female, who received the culprits at and for the consideration of sevenpence-halfpenny per small head per week. Sevenpence-halfpenny’s worth per week is a good round diet for a child; a great deal may be got for sevenpence-halfpenny, quite enough to overload its stomach, and make it uncomfortable. The elderly female was a woman of wisdom and experience; she knew what was good for children; and she had a very accurate perception of what was good for herself. So, she appropriated the greater part of the weekly stipend to her own use, and consigned the rising parochial generation to even a shorter allowance than was originally provided for them. Thereby finding in the lowest depth a deeper still; and proving herself a very great experimental philosopher.
For the next eight to ten months, Oliver was caught in a cycle of betrayal and deceit. He was raised by hand. The needy and desperate situation of the orphaned infant was reported by the workhouse officials to the parish authorities. The parish authorities dignifiedly asked the workhouse officials if there was any woman in the facility who could provide Oliver Twist with the comfort and nourishment he desperately needed. The workhouse officials humbly replied that there wasn’t. In response, the parish authorities generously and humanely decided that Oliver should be sent to a branch workhouse about three miles away, where twenty or thirty other young offenders of the poor laws spent their days rolling around on the floor, without the burden of too much food or clothing, under the supervision of an elderly woman who took in the kids for the fee of sevenpence-halfpenny per child per week. Sevenpence-halfpenny a week is a reasonable diet for a child; a lot can be gotten for that amount, enough to make them feel stuffed and uncomfortable. The elderly woman was wise and experienced; she knew what was best for children, and she had a keen understanding of what was good for herself. So, she kept most of the weekly payment for herself and gave the kids even less than what was initially allocated to them. This way, she found a deeper low in the depths and proved to be quite the experimental philosopher.
Everybody knows the story of another experimental philosopher who had a great theory about a horse being able to live without eating, and who demonstrated it so well, that he had got his own horse down to a straw a day, and would unquestionably have rendered him a very spirited and rampacious animal on nothing at all, if he had not died, four-and-twenty hours before he was to have had his first comfortable bait of air. Unfortunately for the experimental philosophy of the female to whose protecting care Oliver Twist was delivered over, a similar result usually attended the operation of her system; for at the very moment when the child had contrived to exist upon the smallest possible portion of the weakest possible food, it did perversely happen in eight and a half cases out of ten, either that it sickened from want and cold, or fell into the fire from neglect, or got half-smothered by accident; in any one of which cases, the miserable little being was usually summoned into another world, and there gathered to the fathers it had never known in this.
Everybody knows the story of another experimental philosopher who had a great theory about a horse being able to survive without eating, and he showed it so well that he had his own horse down to just a straw a day. He would have definitely made it a very spirited and lively animal on nothing at all if the horse hadn’t died just twenty-four hours before it was supposed to enjoy its first fulfilling meal of air. Unfortunately for the experimental philosophy of the woman who was responsible for the care of Oliver Twist, a similar outcome often followed her methods; at the very moment when the child managed to survive on the smallest possible amount of the weakest possible food, it unfortunately happened in eight and a half cases out of ten that the child either got sick from hunger and cold, fell into the fire from neglect, or got half-smothered by accident. In any of these situations, the poor little being was usually called to another world, where it joined the fathers it had never known in this one.
Occasionally, when there was some more than usually interesting inquest upon a parish child who had been overlooked in turning up a bedstead, or inadvertently scalded to death when there happened to be a washing—though the latter accident was very scarce, anything approaching to a washing being of rare 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 going. The children were neat and clean to behold, when they went; and what more would the people have!
Sometimes, when there was an unusually interesting investigation into a parish child who had been overlooked while setting up a bed or accidentally scalded to death during a rare washing—though such accidents were infrequent—the jury would decide to ask difficult questions, or the parishioners would stubbornly sign a protest. But these disturbances were quickly silenced by the surgeon's evidence and the beadle's testimony; the former would always autopsy the body and find nothing inside (which was quite likely), and the latter would consistently swear to anything the parish wanted, which was very self-serving. Additionally, the board made regular visits to the farm and always sent the beadle a day in advance to announce their arrival. The children were tidy and clean when they came; and what more could the people want!
It cannot be expected that this system of farming would produce any very extraordinary or luxuriant crop. Oliver Twist’s ninth birthday found him a pale thin child, somewhat diminutive in stature, and decidedly small in circumference. But nature or inheritance had implanted a good sturdy spirit in Oliver’s breast. It had had plenty of room to expand, thanks to the spare diet of the establishment; and perhaps to this circumstance may be attributed his having any ninth birth-day at all. Be this as it may, however, it was his ninth birthday; and he was keeping it in the coal-cellar with a select party of two other young gentleman, who, after participating with him in a sound thrashing, had been locked up for atrociously presuming to be hungry, when Mrs. Mann, the good lady of the house, was unexpectedly startled by the apparition of Mr. Bumble, the beadle, striving to undo the wicket of the garden-gate.
It can't be expected that this farming system would produce anything extraordinary or lush. On Oliver Twist’s ninth birthday, he was a pale, thin child, somewhat short in height and definitely small around the middle. But nature or genetics had given Oliver a strong spirit. He had plenty of room to grow, thanks to the meager meals at the institution; and maybe that's why he even got to celebrate his ninth birthday at all. Anyway, it was his ninth birthday; and he was spending it in the coal cellar with a select group of two other young boys, who, after joining him in getting a good beating, had been locked up for the awful crime of being hungry while Mrs. Mann, the kind lady of the house, was unexpectedly startled by the sight of Mr. Bumble, the beadle, trying to unlock the garden gate.
‘Goodness gracious! Is that you, Mr. Bumble, sir?’ said Mrs. Mann, thrusting her head out of the window in well-affected ecstasies of joy. ‘(Susan, take Oliver and them two brats upstairs, and wash ‘em directly.)—My heart alive! Mr. Bumble, how glad I am to see you, sure-ly!’
‘Goodness gracious! Is that you, Mr. Bumble?’ said Mrs. Mann, leaning out of the window with feigned excitement. ‘(Susan, take Oliver and those two kids upstairs and clean them up right away.)—I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you, really!’
Now, Mr. Bumble was a fat man, and a choleric; so, instead of responding to this open-hearted salutation in a kindred spirit, he gave the little wicket a tremendous shake, and then bestowed upon it a kick which could have emanated from no leg but a beadle’s.
Now, Mr. Bumble was a chubby man, and pretty irritable; so, instead of replying to this warm greeting with a friendly spirit, he gave the small gate a huge shake, and then kicked it hard in a way that only a beadle could.
‘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.’
‘Oh my, just think about that!’ said Mrs. Mann, rushing out—since the three boys had been taken away by now—‘Can you believe I forgot the gate was locked on the inside because of those dear children! Please come in, Mr. Bumble, do come in!’
Although this invitation was accompanied with a curtsey that might have softened the heart of a church-warden, it by no means mollified the beadle.
Although this invitation came with a curtsy that could have warmed the heart of a churchwarden, it did nothing to soften the beadle.
‘Do you think this respectful or proper conduct, Mrs. Mann,’ inquired Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane, ‘to keep the parish officers a waiting at your garden-gate, when they come here upon porochial business with the porochial orphans? Are you aweer, Mrs. Mann, that you are, as I may say, a porochial delegate, and a stipendiary?’
“Do you think this is respectful or appropriate behavior, Mrs. Mann?” asked Mr. Bumble, gripping his cane. “Is it right to keep the parish officers waiting at your garden gate when they come here on parish business regarding the parish orphans? Are you aware, Mrs. Mann, that you are, so to speak, a parish delegate and a paid representative?”
‘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.
‘I’m sure, Mr. Bumble, that I was just telling a couple of the dear kids who are so fond of you that you were on your way,’ Mrs. Mann replied humbly.
Mr. Bumble had a great idea of his oratorical powers and his importance. He had displayed the one, and vindicated the other. He relaxed.
Mr. Bumble had a high opinion of his speaking skills and his significance. He had shown off the former and justified the latter. He took a break.
‘Well, well, Mrs. Mann,’ he replied in a calmer tone; ‘it may be as you say; it may be. Lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, for I come on business, and have something to say.’
‘Well, well, Mrs. Mann,’ he replied in a calmer tone; ‘you might be right; maybe you are. Please, lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, because I’m here for business and have something to discuss.’
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.
Mrs. Mann led the beadle into a small parlor with a brick floor; set a chair for him; and carefully placed his cocked hat and cane on the table in front of him. Mr. Bumble wiped the sweat from his forehead that his walk had caused, took a pleased look at the cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beadles are just men: and Mr. Bumble smiled.
‘Now don’t you be offended at what I’m a going to say,’ observed Mrs. Mann, with captivating sweetness. ‘You’ve had a long walk, you know, or I wouldn’t mention it. Now, will you take a little drop of somethink, Mr. Bumble?’
‘Now don’t take offense at what I’m about to say,’ Mrs. Mann said sweetly. ‘You’ve had a long walk, after all, or I wouldn’t bring it up. So, will you have a little drink, Mr. Bumble?’
‘Not a drop. Nor a drop,’ said Mr. Bumble, waving his right hand in a dignified, but placid manner.
‘Not a drop. Not a drop,’ said Mr. Bumble, waving his right hand in a dignified but calm 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.’
‘I think you will,’ said Mrs. Mann, who had noticed the tone of the refusal and the gesture that came with it. ‘Just a tiny bit, with some cold water and a lump of sugar.’
Mr. Bumble coughed.
Mr. Bumble coughed.
‘Now, just a leetle drop,’ said Mrs. Mann persuasively.
‘Now, just a little drop,’ said Mrs. Mann persuasively.
‘What is it?’ inquired the beadle.
‘What is it?’ asked the beadle.
‘Why, it’s what I’m obliged to keep a little of in the house, to put into the blessed infants’ Daffy, when they ain’t well, Mr. Bumble,’ replied Mrs. Mann as she opened a corner cupboard, and took down a bottle and glass. ‘It’s gin. I’ll not deceive you, Mr. B. It’s gin.’
‘Well, it’s what I have to keep a bit of in the house to mix into the poor little ones’ Daffy when they’re not feeling well, Mr. Bumble,’ Mrs. Mann said as she opened a corner cupboard and grabbed a bottle and a glass. ‘It’s gin. I won’t lie to you, Mr. B. It’s gin.’
‘Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?’ inquired Bumble, following with his eyes the interesting process of mixing.
‘Do you give the kids Daffy, Mrs. Mann?’ asked Bumble, watching intently as she mixed the ingredients.
‘Ah, bless ‘em, that I do, dear as it is,’ replied the nurse. ‘I couldn’t see ‘em suffer before my very eyes, you know sir.’
‘Ah, bless them, I really do, dear as it is,’ replied the nurse. ‘I couldn’t watch them suffer right in front of me, you know, sir.’
‘No’; said Mr. Bumble approvingly; ‘no, you could not. You are a humane woman, Mrs. Mann.’ (Here she set down the glass.) ‘I shall take a early opportunity of mentioning it to the board, Mrs. Mann.’ (He drew it towards him.) ‘You feel as a mother, Mrs. Mann.’ (He stirred the gin-and-water.) ‘I—I drink your health with cheerfulness, Mrs. Mann’; and he swallowed half of it.
‘No,’ Mr. Bumble said with approval, ‘no, you couldn't. You're a compassionate woman, Mrs. Mann.’ (Here she set down the glass.) ‘I’ll make sure to bring this up with the board, Mrs. Mann.’ (He pulled it closer.) ‘You have a mother’s instincts, Mrs. Mann.’ (He stirred the gin and water.) ‘I—I toast to your health with joy, Mrs. Mann,’ and he gulped down half of it.
‘And now about business,’ said the beadle, taking out a leathern pocket-book. ‘The child that was half-baptized Oliver Twist, is nine year old to-day.’
‘And now about business,’ said the beadle, pulling out a leather wallet. ‘The child who was half-baptized Oliver Twist is nine years old today.’
‘Bless him!’ interposed Mrs. Mann, inflaming her left eye with the corner of her apron.
‘Bless him!’ Mrs. Mann said, wiping a tear from the corner of her left eye with her apron.
‘And notwithstanding a offered reward of ten pound, which was afterwards increased to twenty pound. Notwithstanding the most superlative, and, I may say, supernat’ral exertions on the part of this parish,’ said Bumble, ‘we have never been able to discover who is his father, or what was his mother’s settlement, name, or condition.’
‘And even with a reward of ten pounds offered, which was later raised to twenty pounds, despite the extraordinary and, I could say, almost supernatural efforts from this parish,’ said Bumble, ‘we have never been able to find out who his father is, or what his mother’s name, settlement, or situation was.’
Mrs. Mann raised her hands in astonishment; but added, after a moment’s reflection, ‘How comes he to have any name at all, then?’
Mrs. Mann raised her hands in shock but added, after a moment's thought, "How does he have any name at all, then?"
The beadle drew himself up with great pride, and said, ‘I inwented it.’
The beadle straightened up with a lot of pride and said, 'I invented it.'
‘You, Mr. Bumble!’
"You, Mr. Bumble!"
‘I, Mrs. Mann. We name our fondlings in alphabetical order. The last was a S,—Swubble, I named him. This was a T,—Twist, I named him. The next one comes will be Unwin, and the next Vilkins. I have got names ready made to the end of the alphabet, and all the way through it again, when we come to Z.’
‘I, Mrs. Mann. We name our kids in alphabetical order. The last was an S,—Swubble, I named him. This one’s a T,—Twist, I named him. The next one will be Unwin, and the one after that will be Vilkins. I have names prepared all the way to the end of the alphabet, and then back through it again when we reach Z.’
‘Why, you’re quite a literary character, sir!’ said Mrs. Mann.
"Wow, you're quite the literary character, sir!" Mrs. Mann said.
‘Well, well,’ said the beadle, evidently gratified with the compliment; ‘perhaps I may be. Perhaps I may be, Mrs. Mann.’ He finished the gin-and-water, and added, ‘Oliver being now too old to remain here, the board have determined to have him back into the house. I have come out myself to take him there. So let me see him at once.’
‘Well, well,’ said the beadle, clearly pleased with the compliment; ‘maybe I will be. Maybe I will be, Mrs. Mann.’ He finished the gin-and-water and added, ‘Since Oliver is now too old to stay here, the board has decided to bring him back to the house. I’ve come myself to take him there. So let me see him right away.’
‘I’ll fetch him directly,’ said Mrs. Mann, leaving the room for that purpose. Oliver, having had by this time as much of the outer coat of dirt which encrusted his face and hands, removed, as could be scrubbed off in one washing, was led into the room by his benevolent protectress.
‘I’ll get him right away,’ said Mrs. Mann, stepping out of the room to do just that. Oliver, having had as much of the grime that covered his face and hands scrubbed off as possible in one wash, was brought into the room by his kind protector.
‘Make a bow to the gentleman, Oliver,’ said Mrs. Mann.
‘Make a bow to the gentleman, Oliver,’ said Mrs. Mann.
Oliver made a bow, which was divided between the beadle on the chair, and the cocked hat on the table.
Oliver took a bow, which was split between the beadle sitting in the chair and the cocked hat on the table.
‘Will you go along with me, Oliver?’ said Mr. Bumble, in a majestic voice.
“Will you come with me, Oliver?” asked Mr. Bumble, in a grand voice.
Oliver was about to say that he would go along with anybody with great readiness, when, glancing upward, he caught sight of Mrs. Mann, who had got behind the beadle’s chair, and was shaking her fist at him with a furious countenance. He took the hint at once, for the fist had been too often impressed upon his body not to be deeply impressed upon his recollection.
Oliver was about to say that he would happily go along with anyone when he glanced up and saw Mrs. Mann, who had moved behind the beadle’s chair, shaking her fist at him with an angry expression. He understood the message immediately, as the imprint of that fist had left a lasting mark on both his body and his memory.
‘Will she go with me?’ inquired poor Oliver.
“Will she come with me?” asked poor Oliver.
‘No, she can’t,’ replied Mr. Bumble. ‘But she’ll come and see you sometimes.’
‘No, she can’t,’ replied Mr. Bumble. ‘But she’ll come and visit you sometimes.’
This was no very great consolation to the child. Young as he was, however, he had sense enough to make a feint of feeling great regret at going away. It was no very difficult matter for the boy to call tears into his eyes. Hunger and recent ill-usage are great assistants if you want to cry; and Oliver cried very naturally indeed. Mrs. Mann gave him a thousand embraces, and what Oliver wanted a great deal more, a piece of bread and butter, less he should seem too hungry when he got to the workhouse. With the slice of bread in his hand, and the little brown-cloth parish cap on his head, Oliver was then led away by Mr. Bumble from the wretched home where one kind word or look had never lighted the gloom of his infant years. And yet he burst into an agony of childish grief, as the cottage-gate closed after him. Wretched as were the little companions in misery he was leaving behind, they were the only friends he had ever known; and a sense of his loneliness in the great wide world, sank into the child’s heart for the first time.
This didn't really comfort the child much. Even at his young age, he was smart enough to pretend to feel sad about leaving. It wasn't too hard for him to summon tears. Hunger and recent mistreatment really help if you want to cry, and Oliver cried quite naturally. Mrs. Mann showered him with a thousand hugs, and what he wanted even more—a piece of bread and butter—so he wouldn't seem too hungry when he got to the workhouse. With the slice of bread in hand and the little brown parish cap on his head, Oliver was then led away by Mr. Bumble from the miserable home where he had never received a kind word or look to lighten the darkness of his early years. Yet, he burst into an overwhelming fit of childish sorrow as the cottage gate closed behind him. As miserable as his little companions were, they were the only friends he had ever known; and a feeling of loneliness in the big, wide world settled into his heart for the first time.
Mr. Bumble walked on with long strides; little Oliver, firmly grasping his gold-laced cuff, trotted beside him, inquiring at the end of every quarter of a mile whether they were ‘nearly there.’ To these interrogations Mr. Bumble returned very brief and snappish replies; for the temporary blandness which gin-and-water awakens in some bosoms had by this time evaporated; and he was once again a beadle.
Mr. Bumble walked ahead with big strides; little Oliver, tightly holding onto his gold-embroidered sleeve, jogged alongside him, asking every quarter mile if they were "almost there." To these questions, Mr. Bumble gave short and curt answers; the momentary friendliness that gin-and-water brings out in some people had faded by now, and he was back to being just 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.
Oliver had only been inside the workhouse for about fifteen minutes, and had barely finished eating a second piece of bread when Mr. Bumble, who had left him in the care of an elderly woman, came back. He told Oliver it was a board night and that the board wanted him to appear before them immediately.
Not having a very clearly defined notion of what a live board was, Oliver was rather astounded by this intelligence, and was not quite certain whether he ought to laugh or cry. He had no time to think about the matter, however; for Mr. Bumble gave him a tap on the head, with his cane, to wake him up: and another on the back to make him lively: and bidding him to follow, conducted him into a large white-washed room, where eight or ten fat gentlemen were sitting round a table. At the top of the table, seated in an arm-chair rather higher than the rest, was a particularly fat gentleman with a very round, red face.
Not having a clear idea of what a live board was, Oliver was quite shocked by this information and wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. He didn't have time to think about it, though, because Mr. Bumble gave him a tap on the head with his cane to wake him up and another on the back to get him moving. Telling him to follow, he led Oliver into a large, whitewashed room where eight or ten plump gentlemen were sitting around a table. At the head of the table, sitting in an armchair slightly higher than the others, was a particularly chubby 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.
‘Bow to the board,’ said Bumble. Oliver wiped away a couple of tears that were still in his eyes; and seeing no board but the table, thankfully bowed to that.
‘What’s your name, boy?’ said the gentleman in the high chair.
‘What’s your name, kid?’ asked the man in the high chair.
Oliver was frightened at the sight of so many gentlemen, which made him tremble: and the beadle gave him another tap behind, which made him cry. These two causes made him answer in a very low and hesitating voice; whereupon a gentleman in a white waistcoat said he was a fool. Which was a capital way of raising his spirits, and putting him quite at his ease.
Oliver was scared at the sight of so many gentlemen, which made him shake; and the beadle gave him another poke from behind, which made him cry. These two things made him respond in a very quiet and uncertain voice; then a gentleman in a white waistcoat called him a fool. That was a great way to boost his spirits and help him feel more comfortable.
‘Boy,’ said the gentleman in the high chair, ‘listen to me. You know you’re an orphan, I suppose?’
‘Boy,’ said the man in the high chair, ‘listen to me. You know you’re an orphan, right?’
‘What’s that, sir?’ inquired poor Oliver.
‘What’s that, sir?’ asked poor Oliver.
‘The boy is a fool—I thought he was,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
‘The boy is an idiot—I thought he was,’ said the man in the white vest.
‘Hush!’ said the gentleman who had spoken first. ‘You know you’ve got no father or mother, and that you were brought up by the parish, don’t you?’
‘Hush!’ said the gentleman who had spoken first. ‘You know you don’t have a father or mother, and that you were raised by the parish, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Oliver, weeping bitterly.
‘Yeah, sure,’ replied Oliver, crying hard.
‘What are you crying for?’ inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. And to be sure it was very extraordinary. What could the boy be crying for?
‘What are you crying for?’ asked the man in the white waistcoat. And it was indeed quite strange. What could the boy be crying about?
‘I hope you say your prayers every night,’ said another gentleman in a gruff voice; ‘and pray for the people who feed you, and take care of you—like a Christian.’
‘I hope you say your prayers every night,’ said another man in a rough voice; ‘and pray for the people who feed you and take care of you—like a decent person.’
‘Yes, sir,’ stammered the boy. The gentleman who spoke last was unconsciously right. It would have been very like a Christian, and a marvellously good Christian too, if Oliver had prayed for the people who fed and took care of him. But he hadn’t, because nobody had taught him.
‘Yes, sir,’ stammered the boy. The man who spoke last was unknowingly correct. It would have been very much like a true Christian, and a remarkably good one too, if Oliver had prayed for the people who fed and took care of him. But he hadn’t, because no one had taught him.
‘Well! You have come here to be educated, and taught a useful trade,’ said the red-faced gentleman in the high chair.
‘Well! You've come here to get an education and learn a useful trade,’ said the red-faced man in the big chair.
‘So you’ll begin to pick oakum to-morrow morning at six o’clock,’ added the surly one in the white waistcoat.
‘So you’ll start picking oakum tomorrow morning at six o’clock,’ added the grumpy guy in the white vest.
For the combination of both these blessings in the one simple process of picking oakum, Oliver bowed low by the direction of the beadle, and was then hurried away to a large ward; where, on a rough, hard bed, he sobbed himself to sleep. What a novel illustration of the tender laws of England! They let the paupers go to sleep!
For the combination of both these blessings in the one simple process of picking oakum, Oliver bowed low at the beadle's direction and was then quickly taken to a large room; where, on a rough, hard bed, he cried himself to sleep. What a striking example of the kind laws of England! They allow the poor to sleep!
Poor Oliver! He little thought, as he lay sleeping in happy unconsciousness of all around him, that the board had that very day arrived at a decision which would exercise the most material influence over all his future fortunes. But they had. And this was it:
Poor Oliver! He had no idea, as he lay sleeping soundly and unaware of everything around him, that the board had decided that very day on something that would greatly affect his future. But they had. And this was it:
The members of this board were very sage, deep, philosophical men; and when they came to turn their attention to the workhouse, they found out at once, what ordinary folks would never have discovered—the poor people liked it! It was a regular place of public entertainment for the poorer classes; a tavern where there was nothing to pay; a public breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper all the year round; a brick and mortar elysium, where it was all play and no work. ‘Oho!’ said the board, looking very knowing; ‘we are the fellows to set this to rights; we’ll stop it all, in no time.’ So, they established the rule, that all poor people should have the alternative (for they would compel nobody, not they), of being starved by a gradual process in the house, or by a quick one out of it. With this view, they contracted with the water-works to lay on an unlimited supply of water; and with a corn-factor to supply periodically small quantities of oatmeal; and issued three meals of thin gruel a day, with an onion twice a week, and half a roll of Sundays. They made a great many other wise and humane regulations, having reference to the ladies, which it is not necessary to repeat; kindly undertook to divorce poor married people, in consequence of the great expense of a suit in Doctors’ Commons; and, instead of compelling a man to support his family, as they had theretofore done, took his family away from him, and made him a bachelor! There is no saying how many applicants for relief, under these last two heads, might have started up in all classes of society, if it had not been coupled with the workhouse; but the board were long-headed men, and had provided for this difficulty. The relief was inseparable from the workhouse and the gruel; and that frightened people.
The members of this board were very wise, thoughtful, philosophical men; and when they focused on the workhouse, they quickly realized what ordinary people would never have figured out—the poor actually liked it! It was like a community entertainment spot for the lower classes; a tavern where there was no bill; a place that offered free breakfast, lunch, dinner, and tea year-round; a brick-and-mortar paradise, where it was all fun and no work. “Oh!” said the board, looking quite knowledgeable; “we're the ones to fix this; we'll put a stop to it in no time.” So, they made a rule that all poor people should have the choice (since they wouldn’t force anyone, of course) of being gradually starved inside the house or quickly outside of it. With this in mind, they contracted with the waterworks to provide an unlimited supply of water and with a grain supplier to deliver small amounts of oatmeal regularly; they served three meals of thin gruel a day, with an onion twice a week, and half a roll on Sundays. They established many other wise and humane rules concerning the women, which I don't need to go into; they even took it upon themselves to divorce poor married couples, owing to the high cost of a lawsuit in Doctors' Commons; and instead of making a man support his family, as they had done before, they took his family away and turned him into a bachelor! It's hard to say how many people might have applied for help under these last two conditions across all levels of society if it hadn’t been linked to the workhouse; but the board was astute and had planned for this issue. The relief was tied to the workhouse and the gruel, and that scared people off.
For the first six months after Oliver Twist was removed, the system was in full operation. It was rather expensive at first, in consequence of the increase in the undertaker’s bill, and the necessity of taking in the clothes of all the paupers, which fluttered loosely on their wasted, shrunken forms, after a week or two’s gruel. But the number of workhouse inmates got thin as well as the paupers; and the board were in ecstasies.
For the first six months after Oliver Twist was taken away, the system was running at full capacity. Initially, it was quite costly due to the rising undertaker's fees and the need to provide clothes for all the poor people, who appeared to hang loosely on their frail, shriveled bodies after a week or two of gruel. However, the number of inmates in the workhouse decreased just like the number of poor people, and the board was thrilled.
The room in which the boys were fed, was a large stone hall, with a copper at one end: out of which the master, dressed in an apron for the purpose, and assisted by one or two women, ladled the gruel at mealtimes. Of this festive composition each boy had one porringer, and no more—except on occasions of great public rejoicing, when he had two ounces and a quarter of bread besides.
The room where the boys were fed was a large stone hall, with a copper pot at one end: from which the master, dressed in an apron for the occasion, and helped by one or two women, served the gruel at mealtimes. Each boy received one bowl of this special mix, and no more—except during big public celebrations, when he got two ounces and a quarter of bread in addition.
The bowls never wanted washing. The boys polished them with their spoons till they shone again; and when they had performed this operation (which never took very long, the spoons being nearly as large as the bowls), they would sit staring at the copper, with such eager eyes, as if they could have devoured the very bricks of which it was composed; employing themselves, meanwhile, in sucking their fingers most assiduously, with the view of catching up any stray splashes of gruel that might have been cast thereon. Boys have generally excellent appetites. Oliver Twist and his companions suffered the tortures of slow starvation for three months: at last they got so voracious and wild with hunger, that one boy, who was tall for his age, and hadn’t been used to that sort of thing (for his father had kept a small cook-shop), hinted darkly to his companions, that unless he had another basin of gruel per diem, he was afraid he might some night happen to eat the boy who slept next him, who happened to be a weakly youth of tender age. He had a wild, hungry eye; and they implicitly believed him. A council was held; lots were cast who should walk up to the master after supper that evening, and ask for more; and it fell to Oliver Twist.
The bowls didn’t need washing. The boys polished them with their spoons until they shone again; and once they did this (which didn’t take long since the spoons were almost as big as the bowls), they would sit staring at the copper with such eager eyes, as if they could devour the very bricks it was made of; meanwhile, they busied themselves sucking their fingers diligently, trying to catch any stray splashes of gruel that might have landed on them. Boys usually have great appetites. Oliver Twist and his friends endured the agonies of slow starvation for three months: eventually, they became so ravenous and wild with hunger that one boy, who was tall for his age and wasn’t used to that kind of life (his father had run a small cook-shop), ominously hinted to his friends that unless he got another bowl of gruel each day, he was afraid he might end up eating the boy sleeping next to him, who was a frail kid of tender age. He had a wild, hungry look in his eyes; and they believed him without question. A meeting was held; they drew lots to decide who should go up to the master after dinner that evening and ask for more, and it fell to Oliver Twist.
The evening arrived; the boys took their places. The master, in his cook’s uniform, stationed himself at the copper; his pauper assistants ranged themselves behind him; the gruel was served out; and a long grace was said over the short commons. The gruel disappeared; the boys whispered each other, and winked at Oliver; while his next neighbors nudged him. Child as he was, he was desperate with hunger, and reckless with misery. He rose from the table; and advancing to the master, basin and spoon in hand, said: somewhat alarmed at his own temerity:
The evening came; the boys took their seats. The master, wearing his cook’s uniform, positioned himself at the copper; his poor assistants lined up behind him. The gruel was served, and a long prayer was said over the meager meal. The gruel vanished quickly; the boys whispered to each other and winked at Oliver, while his neighbors nudged him. Even though he was just a child, he was desperate with hunger and overwhelmed with misery. He stood up from the table and approached the master, holding the basin and spoon, saying: somewhat nervous about his own boldness:
‘Please, sir, I want some more.’
‘Please, sir, I’d like some more.’
The master was a fat, healthy man; but he turned very pale. He gazed in stupefied astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then clung for support to the copper. The assistants were paralysed with wonder; the boys with fear.
The master was a big, healthy guy, but he turned very pale. He stared in shocked disbelief at the little rebel for a few seconds, then grabbed onto the copper for support. The assistants were frozen in awe; the boys were scared.
‘What!’ said the master at length, in a faint voice.
‘What!’ the master said finally, in a weak voice.
‘Please, sir,’ replied Oliver, ‘I want some more.’
‘Please, sir,’ Oliver replied, ‘I’d like some more.’
Original
The master aimed a blow at Oliver’s head with the ladle; pinioned him in his arm; and shrieked aloud for the beadle.
The master swung a ladle at Oliver’s head, pinned him with his arm, and shouted loudly 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,
The board was sitting in serious discussion when Mr. Bumble burst into the room, full of excitement, and spoke to the man in the big chair,
‘Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! Oliver Twist has asked for more!’
‘Mr. Limbkins, I’m really sorry, sir! Oliver Twist has asked for more!’
There was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance.
There was a collective reaction. Fear was visible on every face.
‘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?’
‘For more!’ said Mr. Limbkins. ‘Calm down, Bumble, and answer me clearly. Am I right in thinking that he asked for more after he had finished the supper given by the menu?’
‘He did, sir,’ replied Bumble.
"He did, sir," Bumble replied.
‘That boy will be hung,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. ‘I know that boy will be hung.’
‘That boy is going to be hanged,’ said the man in the white waistcoat. ‘I know that boy is going to be hanged.’
Nobody controverted the prophetic gentleman’s opinion. An animated discussion took place. Oliver was ordered into instant confinement; and a bill was next morning pasted on the outside of the gate, offering a reward of five pounds to anybody who would take Oliver Twist off the hands of the parish. In other words, five pounds and Oliver Twist were offered to any man or woman who wanted an apprentice to any trade, business, or calling.
Nobody disagreed with the prophetic gentleman’s opinion. A lively debate followed. Oliver was immediately put in confinement; and the next morning, a notice was posted on the gate, offering a reward of five pounds to anyone who would take Oliver Twist off the parish's hands. In other words, five pounds and Oliver Twist were offered to any man or woman looking for an apprentice in any trade, business, or profession.
‘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.’
‘I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,’ said the guy in the white waistcoat, as he knocked on the gate and
As I purpose to show in the sequel whether the white waistcoated gentleman was right or not, I should perhaps mar the interest of this narrative (supposing it to possess any at all), if I ventured to hint just yet, whether the life of Oliver Twist had this violent termination or no.
As I plan to show later whether the guy in the white waistcoat was right or not, I might spoil the interest of this story (if it has any at all) if I suggest just yet whether Oliver Twist's life ended violently or not.
CHAPTER III — RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE WHICH WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN A SINECURE
For a week after the commission of the impious and profane offence of asking for more, Oliver remained a close prisoner in the dark and solitary room to which he had been consigned by the wisdom and mercy of the board. It appears, at first sight not unreasonable to suppose, that, if he had entertained a becoming feeling of respect for the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat, he would have established that sage individual’s prophetic character, once and for ever, by tying one end of his pocket-handkerchief to a hook in the wall, and attaching himself to the other. To the performance of this feat, however, there was one obstacle: namely, that pocket-handkerchiefs being decided articles of luxury, had been, for all future times and ages, removed from the noses of paupers by the express order of the board, in council assembled: solemnly given and pronounced under their hands and seals. There was a still greater obstacle in Oliver’s youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly all day; and, when the long, dismal night came on, spread his little hands before his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in the corner, tried to sleep: ever and anon waking with a start and tremble, and drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even its cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom and loneliness which surrounded him.
For a week after the unforgivable act of asking for more, Oliver remained locked up in the dark and lonely room where the board had decided to keep him, supposedly for his own good. At first glance, it might seem logical to think that if he had respected the warning from the man in the white waistcoat, he would have proven that man's prophetic nature by tying one end of his handkerchief to a hook on the wall and the other around himself. However, there was one major problem: handkerchiefs were considered a luxury item and had been permanently taken away from the noses of the poor by the board's official decision, clearly stated and sealed. An even bigger issue was Oliver's youth and innocence. He only wept bitterly all day; and when the long, dreary night fell, he covered his eyes with his little hands to block out the darkness, curling up in a corner, trying to sleep. He would wake up frequently with a start and a shudder, pulling himself closer and closer to the wall, as if even its cold, hard surface could protect him from the darkness and loneliness that 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 from being denied the advantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, a general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein inserted by authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist: whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the very Devil himself.
Let it not be assumed by the critics of 'the system' that, during his time in isolation, Oliver was denied exercise, social interaction, or the comfort of religious support. As for exercise, it was chilly outside, and he was allowed to wash every morning under the pump in a stone yard, with Mr. Bumble present to make sure he didn’t catch cold, while also giving him a tingling sensation with repeated hits of the cane. Regarding social interaction, he was taken to the dining hall every other day, where the boys ate, and there he was publicly punished as a warning to others. Far from being deprived of religious support, he was thrown into the same room every evening during prayers, where he could listen to the general supplication from the boys, which included a specific clause, added by the board’s authority, asking to be made good, virtuous, content, and obedient, and to be protected from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist, who the supplication clearly stated was under the exclusive influence and protection of wicked powers and directly from the very Devil himself.
It chanced one morning, while Oliver’s affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield’s most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.
One morning, while Oliver was in a fortunate and comfortable situation, Mr. Gamfield, the chimney sweep, strolled down the High Street, deeply pondering how to cover his overdue rent, which his landlord was starting to demand. Even Mr. Gamfield's most optimistic calculations couldn’t get him within five pounds of what he needed. In a sort of frantic calculation, he was alternately hitting his head and his donkey when he passed the workhouse and saw the sign on the gate.
‘Wo—o!’ said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey.
‘Whoa!’ said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey.
The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward.
The donkey was lost in thought, probably wondering if he would get a couple of cabbage stalks after he finished off the two sacks of soot in the little cart. So, without paying attention to the command, he kept walking.
Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey’s. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill.
Mr. Gamfield let out a loud curse directed at the donkey in general, but especially aimed at its eyes. He ran after it and delivered a hard hit to its head, which would have damaged any skull except for a donkey's. Then, gripping the bridle, he gave its jaw a quick twist to remind it that it wasn't in charge. With that, he turned the donkey around. He then struck it on the head once more, just to daze it until it returned to its senses. Once he had everything sorted out, he walked up to the gate to read the sign.
The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the document; for five pounds was just the sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves. So, he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
The guy in the white vest was standing at the gate with his hands behind his back after sharing some deep thoughts in the meeting room. After seeing the little argument between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled happily when Mr. Gamfield came over to read the bill because he realized that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the kind of master Oliver Twist needed. Mr. Gamfield smiled too as he read the document; five pounds was exactly the amount he had been hoping for, and as for the boy attached to it, Mr. Gamfield, knowing the workhouse's menu, figured he would be a nice little fit, just perfect for the register stoves. So, he read through the bill again from start to finish, and then, tipping his fur cap as a sign of respect, addressed the gentleman in the white vest.
‘This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to ‘prentis,’ said Mr. Gamfield.
‘This boy here, sir, that the parish wants to apprentice,’ said Mr. Gamfield.
‘Ay, my man,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile. ‘What of him?’
‘Yeah, my man,’ said the guy in the white waistcoat, with a patronizing smile. ‘What about him?’
‘If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good ‘spectable chimbley-sweepin’ bisness,’ said Mr. Gamfield, ‘I wants a ‘prentis, and I am ready to take him.’
‘If the parish wants him to learn a nice trade, in a respectable chimney-sweeping business,’ said Mr. Gamfield, ‘I need an apprentice, and I’m ready to take him.’
‘Walk in,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him.
‘Come on in,’ said the guy in the white vest. Mr. Gamfield, hanging back to give the donkey another smack on the head and a quick twist of the jaw as a warning not to run off while he was gone, then followed the guy in the white vest into the room where Oliver had first seen him.
‘It’s a nasty trade,’ said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish.
‘It’s a terrible business,’ said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had repeated his request.
‘Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now,’ said another gentleman.
‘Young boys have been trapped in chimneys before,’ said another gentleman.
‘That’s acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make ‘em come down again,’ said Gamfield; ‘that’s all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke ain’t o’ no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only sinds him to sleep, and that’s wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen’l’men, and there’s nothink like a good hot blaze to make ‘em come down vith a run. It’s humane too, gen’l’men, acause, even if they’ve stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes ‘em struggle to hextricate theirselves.’
"That’s because they dampened the straw before they lit it in the chimney to get them to come down again," said Gamfield. "That’s all smoke and no fire; whereas smoke isn’t useful at all for making a boy come down because it just sends him to sleep, which is what he enjoys. Boys are very stubborn and very lazy, gentlemen, and there’s nothing like a good hot fire to make them come down running. It’s humane too, gentlemen, because even if they’re stuck in the chimney, roasting their feet makes them try to get themselves free."
The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words ‘saving of expenditure,’ ‘looked well in the accounts,’ ‘have a printed report published,’ were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis.
The guy in the white vest looked quite entertained by this explanation; however, he quickly stopped laughing after a glance from Mr. Limbkins. The board then started talking among themselves for a few minutes, but they were whispering so quietly that only phrases like 'saving on expenses,' 'looked good in the reports,' and 'have a printed report published' could be heard. These words were only overheard because they were said so often and emphasized strongly.
At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said:
At last, the whispering stopped; and the board members, having taken their seats again and returned to their serious demeanor, Mr. Limbkins said:
‘We have considered your proposition, and we don’t approve of it.’
‘We have reviewed your proposal, and we do not approve of it.’
‘Not at all,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
‘Not at all,’ said the guy in the white vest.
‘Decidedly not,’ added the other members.
‘Definitely not,’ added the other members.
As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the board had, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table.
As Mr. Gamfield happened to have the slight reputation of having beaten three or four boys to death already, he thought that the board might, in some strange way, believe this irrelevant detail should affect their decisions. This was very unlike how they usually operated, but since he didn't want to bring the rumor back to life, he fiddled with his cap and slowly walked away from the table.
‘So you won’t let me have him, gen’l’men?’ said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near the door.
‘So you won’t let me have him, gentlemen?’ 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.’
‘No,’ replied Mr. Limbkins; ‘at least, since this is a messy situation, we believe you should accept something lower than the premium we proposed.’
Mr. Gamfield’s countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he returned to the table, and said,
Mr. Gamfield's expression lit up as he quickly walked back to the table and said,
‘What’ll you give, gen’l’men? Come! Don’t be too hard on a poor man. What’ll you give?’
‘What will you give, gentlemen? Come on! Don’t be too hard on a poor guy. What will you give?’
‘I should say, three pound ten was plenty,’ said Mr. Limbkins.
"I would say, three pounds ten is more than enough," said Mr. Limbkins.
‘Ten shillings too much,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
‘Ten shillings too much,’ said the man in the white vest.
‘Come!’ said Gamfield; ‘say four pound, gen’l’men. Say four pound, and you’ve got rid of him for good and all. There!’
‘Come on!’ said Gamfield; ‘let’s say four pounds, gentlemen. Just say four pounds, and you’re free of him for good. There!’
‘Three pound ten,’ repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly.
‘Three pounds ten,’ repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly.
‘Come! I’ll split the diff’erence, gen’l’men,’ urged Gamfield. ‘Three pound fifteen.’
‘Come on! I'll meet you halfway, gentlemen,’ urged Gamfield. ‘Three hundred and fifteen pounds.’
‘Not a farthing more,’ was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins.
‘Not a penny more,’ was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins.
‘You’re desperate hard upon me, gen’l’men,’ said Gamfield, wavering.
‘You’re really putting a lot of pressure on me, gentlemen,’ said Gamfield, hesitating.
‘Pooh! pooh! nonsense!’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. ‘He’d be cheap with nothing at all, as a premium. Take him, you silly fellow! He’s just the boy for you. He wants the stick, now and then: it’ll do him good; and his board needn’t come very expensive, for he hasn’t been overfed since he was born. Ha! ha! ha!’
‘Pooh! Pooh! Nonsense!’ said the guy in the white vest. ‘He’d be a bargain with nothing at all as a bonus. Just take him, you foolish guy! He’s exactly the kid for you. He needs the stick every now and then; it’ll be good for him, and his food won't cost much because he hasn’t been overfed since he was born. Ha! Ha! Ha!’
Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table, and, observing a smile on all of them, gradually broke into a smile himself. The bargain was made. Mr. Bumble, was at once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to be conveyed before the magistrate, for signature and approval, that very afternoon.
Mr. Gamfield gave a sly look at the faces around the table, and, seeing smiles on all of them, gradually started smiling himself. The deal was done. Mr. Bumble was immediately told that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to be brought before the magistrate for signature and approval that very afternoon.
In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his excessive astonishment, was released from bondage, and ordered to put himself into a clean shirt. He had hardly achieved this very unusual gymnastic performance, when Mr. Bumble brought him, with his own hands, a basin of gruel, and the holiday allowance of two ounces and a quarter of bread. At this tremendous sight, Oliver began to cry very piteously: thinking, not 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 that way.
In line with this decision, little Oliver was, to his great surprise, freed from his imprisonment and instructed to put on a clean shirt. He had barely managed this unusual task when Mr. Bumble personally delivered a bowl of gruel and his holiday ration of two ounces and a quarter of bread. At this staggering sight, Oliver started to cry very sadly, thinking, quite understandably, that the board must have decided to kill him for some practical reason, or they wouldn't have started to fatten him up like this.
‘Don’t make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food and be thankful,’ said Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity. ‘You’re a going to be made a ‘prentice of, Oliver.’
‘Don’t get your eyes all red, Oliver, just eat your food and be grateful,’ said Mr. Bumble, with a tone of grandiosity. ‘You’re going to be made an apprentice, Oliver.’
‘A prentice, sir!’ said the child, trembling.
‘An apprentice, sir!’ said the child, shaking.
‘Yes, Oliver,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘The kind and blessed gentleman which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own: are a going to ‘prentice’ you: and to set you up in life, and make a man of you: although the expense to the parish is three pound ten!—three pound ten, Oliver!—seventy shillins—one hundred and forty sixpences!—and all for a naughty orphan which nobody can’t love.’
‘Yes, Oliver,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘The kind and generous gentleman who is like many parents to you, Oliver, since you have none of your own, is going to take you on as an apprentice: and to help you get started in life and become a man: even though it costs the parish three pounds ten!—three pounds ten, Oliver!—seventy shillings—one hundred and forty-six pence!—and all for a naughty orphan that nobody loves.’
As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, after delivering this address in an awful voice, the tears rolled down the poor child’s face, and he sobbed bitterly.
As Mr. Bumble stopped to catch his breath after delivering this speech in a terrible voice, tears streamed down the poor child's face, and he cried hard.
‘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.
‘Come on,’ said Mr. Bumble, a bit less self-important, as he enjoyed seeing the impact his speech had made; ‘Come on, Oliver! Wipe your eyes with the sleeves of your jacket, and don’t cry into your gruel; that’s a silly thing to do, Oliver.’ It definitely was, since there was already plenty of water in it.
On their way to the magistrate, Mr. Bumble instructed Oliver that all he would have to do, would be to look very happy, and say, when the gentleman asked him if he wanted to be apprenticed, that he should like it very much indeed; both of which injunctions Oliver promised to obey: the rather as Mr. Bumble threw in a gentle hint, that if he failed in either particular, there was no telling what would be done to him. When they arrived at the office, he was shut up in a little room by himself, and admonished by Mr. Bumble to stay there, until he came back to fetch him.
On their way to the magistrate, Mr. Bumble told Oliver that all he needed to do was look really happy and say, when asked if he wanted to be apprenticed, that he would like it very much. Oliver promised to follow these instructions, especially since Mr. Bumble hinted that if he messed up in any way, there was no telling what might happen to him. When they got to the office, Mr. Bumble put Oliver in a small room by himself and told him to stay there until he returned to get 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:
There the boy stayed, with a racing heart, for half an hour. After that time, Mr. Bumble stuck his head in, without his fancy 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!’
‘Now, Oliver, my dear, go to the gentleman.’ As Mr. Bumble said this, he put on a serious and intimidating expression, and added, in a quiet voice, ‘Remember what I told you, you cheeky little rascal!’
Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble’s face at this somewhat contradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his offering any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an adjoining room: the door of which was open. It was a large room, with a great window. Behind a desk, sat two old gentleman with powdered heads: one of whom was reading the newspaper; while the other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr. Limbkins was standing in front of the desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about.
Oliver stared innocently at Mr. Bumble, confused by his contradictory way of speaking. However, Mr. Bumble quickly led him into an adjacent room, the door to which was open. It was a big room with a large window. Behind a desk sat two old men with powdered hair: one was reading the newspaper, while the other, wearing tortoise-shell glasses, was studying a small piece of parchment in front of him. Mr. Limbkins stood at one side of the desk, while Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face, stood on the other; meanwhile, two or three burly-looking men in tall boots lounged around.
The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.
The old man with the glasses slowly fell asleep over the small piece of parchment, and there was a brief pause after Mr. Bumble had placed Oliver in front of the desk.
‘This is the boy, your worship,’ said Mr. Bumble.
'This is the boy, your honor,' said Mr. Bumble.
The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up.
The old man reading the newspaper looked up for a moment and tugged at the sleeve of the other old man; as a result, the second old man woke up.
‘Oh, is this the boy?’ said the old gentleman.
‘Oh, is this the kid?’ said the old man.
‘This is him, sir,’ replied Mr. Bumble. ‘Bow to the magistrate, my dear.’
‘This is him, sir,’ Mr. Bumble replied. ‘Bow to the magistrate, my dear.’
Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates’ powder, whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that account.
Oliver woke up and made his best bow. He had been thinking, while staring at the magistrates’ powdered wigs, whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and whether they were considered boards because of it.
‘Well,’ said the old gentleman, ‘I suppose he’s fond of chimney-sweeping?’
‘Well,’ said the old man, ‘I guess he likes chimney-sweeping?’
‘He doats on it, your worship,’ replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn’t.
‘He really loves it, your worship,’ replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch, to suggest that he should keep quiet about not liking it.
‘And he will be a sweep, will he?’ inquired the old gentleman.
‘So he will be a chimney sweep, huh?’ asked the old gentleman.
‘If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he’d run away simultaneous, your worship,’ replied Bumble.
‘If we were to tie him to any other job tomorrow, he’d run away right away, your honor,’ replied Bumble.
‘And this man that’s to be his master—you, sir—you’ll treat him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing, will you?’ said the old gentleman.
‘And this man who's going to be his master—you, sir—you’ll take good care of him, feed him, and do all that kind of stuff, right?’ said the old gentleman.
‘When I says I will, I means I will,’ replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly.
‘When I say I will, I mean I will,’ replied Mr. Gamfield stubbornly.
‘You’re a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest, open-hearted man,’ said the old gentleman: turning his spectacles in the direction of the candidate for Oliver’s premium, whose villainous countenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty. But the magistrate was half blind and half childish, so he couldn’t reasonably be expected to discern what other people did.
‘You’re quite blunt, my friend, but you seem like an honest, warm-hearted man,’ said the old gentleman, adjusting his glasses to look at the candidate for Oliver’s premium, whose face was a clear sign of cruelty. However, the magistrate was partly blind and somewhat naive, so it wasn't fair to expect him to see what others did.
‘I hope I am, sir,’ said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer.
“I hope I am, sir,” Mr. Gamfield said with a nasty grin.
‘I have no doubt you are, my friend,’ replied the old gentleman: fixing his spectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about him for the inkstand.
“I have no doubt you are, my friend,” replied the old gentleman, adjusting his glasses more securely on his nose and looking around 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 all the admonitory looks and pinches of Bumble, was regarding the repulsive countenance of his future master, with a mingled expression of horror and fear, too palpable to be mistaken, even by a half-blind magistrate.
It was the turning point of Oliver’s life. If the ink stand had been where the old gentleman thought it was, he would have dipped his pen in it, signed the contract, and Oliver would have been quickly taken away. But since it was right in front of him, he naturally searched his desk for it, without success; and during his search, he happened to look straight ahead and met the pale, terrified face of Oliver Twist, who, despite all the stern looks and pinches from Bumble, was staring at the disgusting face of his future master with a mix of horror and fear that was clear enough to be seen, 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.
The old man paused, set down his pen, and glanced from Oliver to Mr. Limbkins, who tried to take snuff with a cheerful and relaxed demeanor.
‘My boy!’ said the old gentleman, ‘you look pale and alarmed. What is the matter?’
‘My boy!’ said the old man, ‘you look pale and scared. What’s wrong?’
‘Stand a little away from him, Beadle,’ said the other magistrate: laying aside the paper, and leaning forward with an expression of interest. ‘Now, boy, tell us what’s the matter: don’t be afraid.’
‘Step back a bit from him, Beadle,’ said the other magistrate, putting down the paper and leaning in with a look of interest. ‘Alright, kid, tell us what’s going on: don’t be scared.’
Oliver fell on his knees, and clasping his hands together, prayed that they would order him back to the dark room—that they would starve him—beat him—kill him if they pleased—rather than send him away with that dreadful man.
Oliver fell to his knees, and joining his hands together, prayed that they would send him back to the dark room—that they would starve him—beat him—kill him if they wanted—rather than let him go with that awful man.
Original
‘Well!’ said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most impressive solemnity. ‘Well! of all the artful and designing orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest.’
‘Well!’ said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with great seriousness. ‘Well! of all the clever and scheming orphans I’ve ever seen, Oliver, you are one of the most shameless.’
‘Hold your tongue, Beadle,’ said the second old gentleman, when Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective.
“Be quiet, Beadle,” said the second old gentleman, after Mr. Bumble had expressed this complicated adjective.
‘I beg your worship’s pardon,’ said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of having heard aright. ‘Did your worship speak to me?’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mr. Bumble, unable to believe he had heard correctly. ‘Did you speak to me?’
‘Yes. Hold your tongue.’
"Yes. Be quiet."
Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold his tongue! A moral revolution!
Mr. Bumble was completely stunned. A beadle told to keep quiet! A moral revolution!
The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his companion, he nodded significantly.
The old man in the tortoiseshell glasses looked at his companion and nodded meaningfully.
‘We refuse to sanction these indentures,’ said the old gentleman: tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke.
‘We refuse to approve these indentures,’ said the old gentleman, tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke.
‘I hope,’ stammered Mr. Limbkins: ‘I hope the magistrates will not form the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any improper conduct, on the unsupported testimony of a child.’
‘I hope,’ stammered Mr. Limbkins, ‘I hope the magistrates won’t think that the authorities have done anything wrong based solely on the unverified word of a child.’
‘The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the matter,’ said the second old gentleman sharply. ‘Take the boy back to the workhouse, and treat him kindly. He seems to want it.’
‘The magistrates don’t need to give any opinion on this issue,’ said the second old gentleman sharply. ‘Take the boy back to the workhouse and treat him well. He seems to need it.’
That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally opposite description.
That same evening, the guy in the white waistcoat confidently stated that not only would Oliver be hanged, but he would also be drawn and quartered as a bonus. Mr. Bumble shook his head with a somber air and said he hoped things would turn out well for him; to which Mr. Gamfield responded that he hoped Oliver would come to him instead. Although he usually agreed with the beadle on many things, this seemed to be a wish of completely different nature.
The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was again To Let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him.
The next morning, the public was once again informed that Oliver Twist was up for grabs, and that five pounds would be paid to anyone who would take him in.
CHAPTER IV — OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE
In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay.
In affluent families, when a young man can’t secure a promising future—whether through inheritance, expectation, or other means—it’s common practice to send him off to sea. Inspired by such a practical and beneficial tradition, the board discussed the possibility of shipping Oliver Twist off on a small trading vessel to a rough port. They thought this was the best solution for him, as it was likely the captain would either beat him to death in a playful manner one day after dinner or seriously injure him with an iron bar; both of these activities are well-known to be popular and common pastimes among gentlemen of that kind. The more the board considered the situation from this perspective, the more benefits of this approach became apparent. Ultimately, they concluded that the only effective way to take care of Oliver was to send him to sea without hesitation.
Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker.
Mr. Bumble had been sent out to make some initial inquiries to find a captain who needed a cabin boy with no connections. He was on his way back to the workhouse to share what he learned when he ran into none other than Mr. Sowerberry, the local undertaker, at the gate.
Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand.
Mr. Sowerberry was a tall, thin man with big joints, dressed in a worn-out black suit, patched cotton stockings of the same color, and matching shoes. His face wasn't naturally meant for smiling, but he often showed a sense of humor related to his job. He walked with a spring in his step, and his face showed a hidden cheerfulness as he approached Mr. Bumble and shook his hand warmly.
‘I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble,’ said the undertaker.
‘I have assessed the two women who died last night, Mr. Bumble,’ said the undertaker.
‘You’ll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,’ said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. ‘I say you’ll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,’ repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane.
"You'll strike it rich, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he pushed his thumb and forefinger into the offered snuff-box of the undertaker, which was a clever little design of a patent coffin. "I tell you, you'll strike it rich, Mr. Sowerberry," Mr. Bumble said again, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder in a friendly way with his cane.
‘Think so?’ said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. ‘The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble.’
‘Really think so?’ said the undertaker, his tone half agreeing and half questioning the likelihood of it happening. ‘The prices set by the board are quite low, Mr. Bumble.’
‘So are the coffins,’ replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in.
'So are the coffins,' replied the beadle, with about as much of a laugh as a high-ranking official should allow himself.
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.’
Mr. Sowerberry found this very amusing, as he rightly should have, and he laughed for a long time without stopping. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he finally said, "there's no denying that since the new feeding system started, the coffins are a bit narrower and shallower than they used to be; but we need to make some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned wood is pricey, sir, and all the iron handles come by canal from Birmingham."
‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Bumble, ‘every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable.’
‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Bumble, ‘every job has its downsides. A reasonable profit is definitely acceptable.’
‘Of course, of course,’ replied the undertaker; ‘and if I don’t get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see—he! he! he!’
‘Of course, of course,’ replied the undertaker; ‘and if I don’t make a profit on this or that specific item, well, I make it up in the long run, you see—ha! ha! ha!’
‘Just so,’ said Mr. Bumble.
"Exactly," said Mr. Bumble.
‘Though I must say,’ continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: ‘though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one’s calculation makes a great hole in one’s profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir.’
‘However, I have to say,’ the undertaker continued, picking up where the beadle had left off, ‘that I face one major disadvantage: all the heavier people tend to go quickly. Those who were better off and have paid their dues for years are the first to go when they arrive in the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that being off by just three or four inches makes a significant dent in one’s profits: especially when you have a family to support, sir.’
As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme.
As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the justified anger of a wronged man; and since Mr. Bumble felt that it somewhat implied a criticism of the parish's reputation, the latter decided it was best to change the topic. With Oliver Twist at the forefront of his thoughts, he made him the focus of the conversation.
‘By the bye,’ said Mr. Bumble, ‘you don’t know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial ‘prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?’ As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words ‘five pounds’: which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size.
‘By the way,’ said Mr. Bumble, ‘do you happen to know anyone who wants a boy? A local apprentice who is currently just dead weight; a burden, as I might say, around the local neck? Generous terms, Mr. Sowerberry, generous terms?’ As Mr. Bumble spoke, he lifted his cane to the sign above him and gave three sharp taps on the words ‘five pounds’: which were printed there in huge Roman letters.
‘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.’
‘Wow!’ said the undertaker, grabbing Mr. Bumble by the fancy edge of his official coat. ‘That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. You know—oh my, what a really elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before.’
‘Yes, I think it rather pretty,’ said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. ‘The die is the same as the porochial seal—the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on Newyear’s morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight.’
‘Yeah, I think it’s pretty nice,’ said the beadle, looking down proudly at the large brass buttons on his coat. ‘The design is the same as the parish seal—the Good Samaritan helping the sick and injured man. The board gave it to me on New Year’s morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I remember putting it on for the first time to go to the inquest for that struggling tradesman who died in a doorway at midnight.’
‘I recollect,’ said the undertaker. ‘The jury brought it in, “Died from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life,” didn’t they?’
‘I remember,’ said the undertaker. ‘The jury said it was “Death by exposure to the cold, and lack of basic necessities,” right?’
Mr. Bumble nodded.
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—’
‘And they gave it a special verdict, I think,’ said the undertaker, ‘by adding some words to say that if the relieving officer had—’
‘Tush! Foolery!’ interposed the beadle. ‘If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they’d have enough to do.’
‘Come on! That’s ridiculous!’ interrupted the beadle. ‘If the board listened to all the nonsense that clueless jurors say, they’d be overwhelmed.’
‘Very true,’ said the undertaker; ‘they would indeed.’
‘Very true,’ said the undertaker; ‘they really would.’
‘Juries,’ said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into a passion: ‘juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches.’
‘Juries,’ said Mr. Bumble, gripping his cane tightly, as he usually did when getting worked up: ‘juries are uneducated, rude, lowly wretches.’
‘So they are,’ said the undertaker.
‘So they are,’ said the funeral director.
‘They haven’t no more philosophy nor political economy about ‘em than that,’ said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously.
‘They don’t have any more philosophy or political economy than that,’ said the beadle, snapping his fingers dismissively.
‘No more they have,’ acquiesced the undertaker.
‘They don’t have any more,’ agreed the undertaker.
‘I despise ‘em,’ said the beadle, growing very red in the face.
"I can't stand them," said the beadle, turning very red in the face.
‘So do I,’ rejoined the undertaker.
‘So do I,’ said the undertaker.
‘And I only wish we’d a jury of the independent sort, in the house for a week or two,’ said the beadle; ‘the rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for ‘em.’
‘And I only wish we had a jury of independent people here for a week or two,’ said the beadle; ‘the rules and regulations of the board would quickly bring them down to reality.’
‘Let ‘em alone for that,’ replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer.
‘Let them be for that,’ replied the undertaker. As he said this, he smiled approvingly to calm the growing anger of the upset parish officer.
Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered; fixed the cocked hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice:
Mr. Bumble took off his top hat, pulled a handkerchief from inside it, wiped the sweat from his forehead caused by his anger, put his hat back on, and turned to the undertaker, speaking in a calmer voice:
‘Well; what about the boy?’
“Okay, what about the boy?”
‘Oh!’ replied the undertaker; ‘why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a good deal towards the poor’s rates.’
‘Oh!’ replied the undertaker; ‘well, you know, Mr. Bumble, I contribute a significant amount to the poor’s rates.’
‘Hem!’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘Well?’
“Excuse me!” said Mr. Bumble. “What’s up?”
‘Well,’ replied the undertaker, ‘I was thinking that if I pay so much towards ‘em, I’ve a right to get as much out of ‘em as I can, Mr. Bumble; and so—I think I’ll take the boy myself.’
‘Well,’ replied the undertaker, ‘I was thinking that if I pay so much for them, I have a right to get as much out of them as I can, Mr. Bumble; and so—I think I’ll take the boy myself.’
Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him into the building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five minutes; and it was arranged that Oliver should go to him that evening ‘upon liking’—a phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon a short trial, that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too much food into him, he shall have him for a term of years, to do what he likes with.
Mr. Bumble grabbed the undertaker by the arm and led him into the building. Mr. Sowerberry was in a meeting with the board for five minutes, and they decided that Oliver should go to him that evening "on approval"—a term that means, in the case of a parish apprentice, if the master finds that he can get enough work out of a boy without having to feed him too much, he can keep him for a certain number of years to do whatever he wants 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. Bumble to remove him forthwith.
When little Oliver was brought before ‘the gentlemen’ that evening and told he was going to become a general house-boy for a coffin maker that night, and that if he complained about it or ever returned to the parish, he would be sent to sea to either drown or get killed—whichever happened first—he showed barely any emotion. They all agreed to label him a tough young troublemaker and told Mr. Bumble to take him away immediately.
Now, although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they were rather out, in this particular instance. The simple fact was, that Oliver, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather too much; and was in a fair way of being reduced, for life, to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness by the ill usage he had received. He heard the news of his destination, in perfect silence; and, having had his luggage put into his hand—which was not very difficult to carry, inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits of a brown paper parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep—he pulled his cap over his eyes; and once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble’s coat cuff, was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering.
Now, while it was totally understandable for the board to feel a strong sense of righteous shock and horror at even the slightest signs of insensitivity from anyone, they were way off in this particular case. The simple truth was that Oliver, instead of lacking feelings, actually had too many; and he was on the verge of being permanently pushed into a state of brutal numbness and gloom because of the mistreatment he had endured. He heard the news of his destination without saying a word, and after having his small amount of luggage—just a brown paper parcel about half a foot square and three inches deep—put into his hand, he pulled his cap down over his eyes. Once again holding onto Mr. Bumble’s coat cuff, he was led away by that important figure to a new place 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.
For a while, Mr. Bumble pulled Oliver along without saying anything; the beadle held his head up high, just like beadle should: and since it was a windy day, little Oliver was completely wrapped up in the flaps of Mr. Bumble’s coat as they blew open, showing off his stylish waistcoat and drab knee-breeches. As they got closer to their destination, Mr. Bumble decided it was wise to look down and make sure the boy was presentable for his new master: which he did, with a suitable and fancy air of friendly authority.
‘Oliver!’ said Mr. Bumble.
"Oliver!" Mr. Bumble said.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice.
‘Yes, sir,’ Oliver replied in a quiet, shaky voice.
‘Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir.’
‘Take that cap off your eyes and lift your head up, sir.’
Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once; and passed the back of his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another. The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble’s he covered his face with both; and wept until the tears sprung out from between his chin and bony fingers.
Although Oliver did what he was told right away and quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, he still had a tear in his eyes when he looked up at his guide. As Mr. Bumble stared at him sternly, a tear rolled down his cheek. Then another tear fell, and another. The child tried really hard to hold it back, but he couldn't. Pulling his other hand away from Mr. Bumble, he covered his face with both hands and cried until tears streamed out from between his chin and bony fingers.
‘Well!’ exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity. ‘Well! Of all the ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the—’
‘Well!’ shouted Mr. Bumble, stopping suddenly and giving his little charge a look of intense hatred. ‘Well! Of all the most ungrateful and worst-behaved boys I’ve ever seen, 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—’
‘No, no, sir,’ cried Oliver, gripping the hand that held the familiar cane; ‘no, no, sir; I promise I’ll be good, really, I will! I’m just a very little boy, sir; and it’s so—so—’
‘So what?’ inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement.
“So what?” asked Mr. Bumble in disbelief.
‘So lonely, sir! So very lonely!’ cried the child. ‘Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don’t, don’t pray be cross to me!’ The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion’s face, with tears of real agony.
‘So lonely, sir! So very lonely!’ cried the child. ‘Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, please don’t be angry with me!’ The child pressed his hand against his heart and looked into his companion’s face, tears of genuine pain in his eyes.
Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver’s piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about ‘that troublesome cough,’ bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence.
Mr. Bumble looked at Oliver’s sad and helpless expression, a bit surprised, for a few seconds; cleared his throat a few times in a raspy way; and after mumbling something about ‘that annoying cough,’ told Oliver to dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then, once again taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence.
The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.
The undertaker, who had just closed the shutters of his shop, was jotting down some notes in his day-book by the flickering light of a suitably gloomy candle when Mr. Bumble walked in.
‘Aha!’ said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; ‘is that you, Bumble?’
‘Aha!’ said the undertaker, looking up from the book and pausing in the middle of a word. ‘Is that you, Bumble?’
‘No one else, Mr. Sowerberry,’ replied the beadle. ‘Here! I’ve brought the boy.’ Oliver made a bow.
‘No one else, Mr. Sowerberry,’ said the beadle. ‘Here! I’ve brought the boy.’ Oliver bowed.
‘Oh! that’s the boy, is it?’ said the undertaker: raising the candle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. ‘Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?’
‘Oh! So that's the boy, huh?’ said the undertaker, raising the candle above his head to get a better look at Oliver. ‘Mrs. Sowerberry, could you please come over here for 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.
Mrs. Sowerberry stepped out of a small room behind the shop, revealing the figure of a short, thin, tightly-wound woman, with a clever and sly expression.
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, ‘this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of.’ Oliver bowed again.
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Sowerberry politely, ‘this is the boy from the workhouse that I mentioned to you.’ Oliver bowed once more.
‘Dear me!’ said the undertaker’s wife, ‘he’s very small.’
‘Oh dear!’ said the undertaker’s wife, ‘he's really tiny.’
‘Why, he is rather small,’ replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he was no bigger; ‘he is small. There’s no denying it. But he’ll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry—he’ll grow.’
‘Why, he is pretty small,’ replied Mr. Bumble, looking at Oliver as if it were his fault for not being bigger; ‘he is small. There’s no denying that. But he’ll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry—he’ll grow.’
‘Ah! I dare say he will,’ replied the lady pettishly, ‘on our victuals and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more to keep, than they’re worth. However, men always think they know best. There! Get downstairs, little bag o’ bones.’ With this, the undertaker’s wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark: forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated ‘kitchen’; wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair.
“Ah! I’m sure he will,” replied the lady irritably, “with our food and drinks. I don’t see how we can save anything with parish children, not at all; they always end up costing more to raise than they’re worth. But men always think they know best. There! Get downstairs, you little bag of bones.” With that, the undertaker’s wife opened a side door and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a damp, dark stone cell, which served as the anteroom to the coal cellar, and was called the ‘kitchen’; in there sat a messy girl with worn-out shoes and tattered blue stockings.
‘Here, Charlotte,’ said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, ‘give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip. He hasn’t come home since the morning, so he may go without ‘em. I dare say the boy isn’t too dainty to eat ‘em—are you, boy?’
‘Here, Charlotte,’ said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, ‘give this boy some of the cold leftovers that were set aside for Trip. He hasn’t come home since the morning, so he might as well go without them. I bet the boy isn’t picky enough to refuse them—are you, boy?’
Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him.
Oliver, whose eyes had lit up at the mention of meat, and who was shaking with eagerness to eat it, replied no; and a plate of rough, broken food was placed in front of him.
I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected. I wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine. There is only one thing I should like better; and that would be to see the Philosopher making the same sort of meal himself, with the same relish.
I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose food and drink make him feel sick; whose blood is cold, whose heart is hard as iron; could have seen Oliver Twist grabbing the fancy food that the dog ignored. I wish he could have witnessed the terrible hunger with which Oliver ripped the pieces apart with the wild intensity of starvation. There’s only one thing I would prefer more; and that would be to see the philosopher enjoying the same kind of meal himself, with the same enthusiasm.
‘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?’
‘Well,’ said the undertaker’s wife, when Oliver had finished his supper, which she had watched in silent horror, filled with dread about his future appetite: ‘are you done?’
There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the affirmative.
There was nothing to eat nearby, so Oliver answered yes.
‘Then come with me,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry: taking up a dim and dirty lamp, and leading the way upstairs; ‘your bed’s under the counter. You don’t mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose? But it doesn’t much matter whether you do or don’t, for you can’t sleep anywhere else. Come; don’t keep me here all night!’
‘Then come with me,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry, picking up a dim and dirty lamp and leading the way upstairs. ‘Your bed’s under the counter. I assume you don’t mind sleeping among the coffins? But it really doesn’t matter if you do or don’t, since you can’t sleep anywhere else. Come on; don’t keep me here all night!’
Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress.
Oliver didn't hesitate any longer and quietly followed his new mistress.
CHAPTER V — OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR THE FIRST TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTER’S BUSINESS
Oliver, being left to himself in the undertaker’s shop, set the lamp down on a workman’s bench, and gazed timidly about him with a feeling of awe and dread, which many people a good deal older than he will be at no loss to understand. An unfinished coffin on black tressels, which stood in the middle of the shop, looked so gloomy and death-like that a cold tremble came over him, every time his eyes wandered in the direction of the dismal object: from which he almost expected to see some frightful form slowly rear its head, to drive him mad with terror. Against the wall were ranged, in regular array, a long row of elm boards cut in the same shape: looking in the dim light, like high-shouldered ghosts with their hands in their breeches pockets. Coffin-plates, elm-chips, bright-headed nails, and shreds of black cloth, lay scattered on the floor; and the wall behind the counter was ornamented with a lively representation of two mutes in very stiff neckcloths, on duty at a large private door, with a hearse drawn by four black steeds, approaching in the distance. The shop was close and hot. The atmosphere seemed tainted with the smell of coffins. The recess beneath the counter in which his flock mattress was thrust, looked like a grave.
Oliver, left alone in the undertaker’s shop, set the lamp down on a workbench and looked around nervously, feeling a mix of awe and fear that many people older than him would definitely understand. An unfinished coffin on black trestles in the middle of the shop appeared so gloomy and death-like that a chill ran through him every time he glanced at the grim sight. He almost expected to see some terrifying figure slowly rise from it, driving him mad with fear. Against the wall, a long row of elm boards, all cut in the same shape, stood neatly arranged, looking in the dim light like ghostly figures with their arms crossed. Coffin plates, wood shavings, shiny-headed nails, and bits of black cloth were scattered on the floor, and the wall behind the counter displayed a lively image of two mutes in very stiff neckties standing at a large private door, with a hearse pulled by four black horses approaching in the distance. The shop was stuffy and warm, and the air felt tainted with the scent of coffins. The space under the counter where his flock mattress was shoved looked like a grave.
Nor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He was alone in a strange place; and we all know how chilled and desolate the best of us will sometimes feel in such a situation. The boy had no friends to care for, or to care for him. The regret of no recent separation was fresh in his mind; the absence of no loved and well-remembered face sank heavily into his heart.
Nor were these the only gloomy feelings weighing down Oliver. He was alone in an unfamiliar place, and we all know how cold and lonely even the best of us can feel in such a situation. The boy had no friends to care about or to care for him. There was no recent goodbye to regret or any loved and familiar face missing, which weighed heavily on his heart.
But his heart was heavy, notwithstanding; and he wished, as he crept into his narrow bed, that that were his coffin, and that he could be lain in a calm and lasting sleep in the churchyard ground, with the tall grass waving gently above his head, and the sound of the old deep bell to soothe him in his sleep.
But his heart was heavy, nonetheless; and as he crawled into his small bed, he wished it were his coffin, and that he could be laid to rest in a peaceful and eternal sleep in the graveyard, with the tall grass gently swaying above him, and the sound of the old deep bell to comfort him in his dreams.
Oliver was awakened in the morning, by a loud kicking at the outside of the shop-door: which, before he could huddle on his clothes, was repeated, in an angry and impetuous manner, about twenty-five times. When he began to undo the chain, the legs desisted, and a voice began.
Oliver was jolted awake in the morning by a loud pounding on the outside of the shop door. Before he could throw on his clothes, it happened again, angrily and forcefully, about twenty-five times. When he started to unbolt the chain, the kicking stopped, and a voice picked up instead.
‘Open the door, will yer?’ cried the voice which belonged to the legs which had kicked at the door.
‘Open the door, will you?’ shouted the voice that belonged to the legs that had kicked the door.
‘I will, directly, sir,’ replied Oliver: undoing the chain, and turning the key.
‘I will, right away, sir,’ replied Oliver, unlocking the chain and turning the key.
‘I suppose yer the new boy, ain’t yer?’ said the voice through the key-hole.
'I guess you're the new kid, right?' said the voice through the keyhole.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Oliver.
"Sure thing, sir," replied Oliver.
‘How old are yer?’ inquired the voice.
‘How old are you?’ asked the voice.
‘Ten, sir,’ replied Oliver.
"Ten, sir," Oliver replied.
‘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.
‘Then I’ll beat you up when I get in,’ said the voice; ‘just wait and see if I don’t, you little brat!’ And after making this friendly promise, the voice started to whistle.
Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the very expressive monosyllable just recorded bears reference, to entertain the smallest doubt that the owner of the voice, whoever he might be, would redeem his pledge, most honourably. He drew back the bolts with a trembling hand, and opened the door.
Oliver had gone through the process referred to by that very telling one-syllable word so many times that he had no doubt the owner of the voice, whoever it was, would honor his promise, without fail. He pulled back the bolts with shaking hands and opened the door.
For a second or two, Oliver glanced up the street, and down the street, and over the way: impressed with the belief that the unknown, who had addressed him through the key-hole, had walked a few paces off, to warm himself; for nobody did he see but a big charity-boy, sitting on a post in front of the house, eating a slice of bread and butter: which he cut into wedges, the size of his mouth, with a clasp-knife, and then consumed with great dexterity.
For a moment, Oliver looked up and down the street, and across the way, convinced that the stranger who had spoken to him through the keyhole had walked a short distance away to warm up; because the only person he saw was a large charity boy, sitting on a post in front of the house, eating a slice of bread and butter. He cut it into pieces the size of his mouth with a pocket knife and then ate it with impressive skill.
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Oliver at length: seeing that no other visitor made his appearance; ‘did you knock?’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Oliver said after a moment, noticing that no one else had arrived; ‘did you knock?’
‘I kicked,’ replied the charity-boy.
“I kicked,” replied the kid.
‘Did you want a coffin, sir?’ inquired Oliver, innocently.
‘Did you want a coffin, sir?’ Oliver asked, innocent as ever.
At this, the charity-boy looked monstrous fierce; and said that Oliver would want one before long, if he cut jokes with his superiors in that way.
At this, the charity boy looked extremely angry and said that Oliver would need one soon if he joked around with his superiors like that.
‘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.
‘You don’t know who I am, I guess, Work’us?’ said the charity-boy, continuing: climbing down from the top of the post, meanwhile, with serious intent.
‘No, sir,’ rejoined Oliver.
“No, sir,” replied 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.
‘I’m Mister Noah Claypole,’ said the charity boy, ‘and you’re beneath me. Open the shutters, you lazy young punk!’ With that, Mr. Claypole gave Oliver a kick and walked into the shop with a pretentious air, which he thought made him look great. It's hard for a big-headed, small-eyed kid with a clumsy build and a serious face to look dignified at any time; but it’s even tougher when he also has a red nose and yellow pants.
Oliver, having taken down the shutters, and broken a pane of glass in his effort to stagger away beneath the weight of the first one to a small court at the side of the house in which they were kept during the day, was graciously assisted by Noah: who having consoled him with the assurance that ‘he’d catch it,’ condescended to help him. Mr. Sowerberry came down soon after. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Sowerberry appeared. Oliver having ‘caught it,’ in fulfilment of Noah’s prediction, followed that young gentleman down the stairs to breakfast.
Oliver, having taken down the shutters and accidentally broken a pane of glass while trying to stagger away with the first one to a small courtyard next to the house where they kept them during the day, was kindly helped by Noah, who reassured him that “he’d get in trouble” and then offered to assist him. Mr. Sowerberry came down a little while later. Soon after that, Mrs. Sowerberry showed up. After Oliver had indeed “gotten in trouble,” just as Noah had predicted, he followed that young man down the stairs to breakfast.
‘Come near the fire, Noah,’ said Charlotte. ‘I saved a nice little bit of bacon for you from master’s breakfast. Oliver, shut that door at Mister Noah’s back, and take them bits that I’ve put out on the cover of the bread-pan. There’s your tea; take it away to that box, and drink it there, and make haste, for they’ll want you to mind the shop. D’ye hear?’
‘Come closer to the fire, Noah,’ said Charlotte. ‘I saved a nice piece of bacon for you from the master’s breakfast. Oliver, shut that door behind Mister Noah, and grab those bits I’ve set on top of the bread pan. There’s your tea; take it over to that box, and drink it there, and hurry up, because they’ll need you to watch the shop. Do you hear?’
‘D’ye hear, Work’us?’ said Noah Claypole.
‘Hey, do you hear, Work’us?’ said Noah Claypole.
‘Lor, Noah!’ said Charlotte, ‘what a rum creature you are! Why don’t you let the boy alone?’
‘Wow, Noah!’ said Charlotte, ‘what a strange person you are! Why don’t you just leave the boy alone?’
‘Let him alone!’ said Noah. ‘Why everybody lets him alone enough, for the matter of that. Neither his father nor his mother will ever interfere with him. All his relations let him have his own way pretty well. Eh, Charlotte? He! he! he!’
‘Leave him alone!’ said Noah. ‘Everyone pretty much leaves him alone anyway. Neither his dad nor his mom ever gets involved with him. All his relatives let him do what he wants for the most part. Right, Charlotte? Ha! Ha! Ha!’
‘Oh, you queer soul!’ said Charlotte, bursting into a hearty laugh, in which she was joined by Noah; after which they both looked scornfully at poor Oliver Twist, as he sat shivering on the box in the coldest corner of the room, and ate the stale pieces which had been specially reserved for him.
‘Oh, you oddball!’ Charlotte exclaimed, breaking into a big laugh, which Noah joined in on; after that, they both looked down at poor Oliver Twist with disdain as he sat trembling on the box in the coldest corner of the room, eating the stale pieces that had been set aside just for him.
Noah was a charity-boy, but not a workhouse orphan. No chance-child was he, for he could trace his genealogy all the way back to his parents, who lived hard by; his mother being a washerwoman, and his father a drunken soldier, discharged with a wooden leg, and a diurnal pension of twopence-halfpenny and an unstateable fraction. The shop-boys in the neighbourhood had long been in the habit of branding Noah in the public streets, with the ignominious epithets of ‘leathers,’ ‘charity,’ and the like; and Noah had bourne them without reply. But, now that fortune had cast in his way a nameless orphan, at whom even the meanest could point the finger of scorn, he retorted on him with interest. This affords charming food for contemplation. It shows us what a beautiful thing human nature may be made to be; and how impartially the same amiable qualities are developed in the finest lord and the dirtiest charity-boy.
Noah was a charity kid, but he wasn't an orphan from the workhouse. He wasn't a chance child; he could trace his family history back to his parents, who lived nearby. His mother was a washerwoman, and his father was a drunken soldier, discharged with a wooden leg and a daily pension of two and a half pennies plus a little bit extra. The shop boys in the neighborhood had long been used to humiliating Noah in the streets, calling him names like ‘leathers,’ ‘charity,’ and others; and Noah had taken it without saying a word. But now that luck had brought him a nameless orphan, someone even the lowest could ridicule, he shot back with a vengeance. This provides a great point for thought. It shows us how beautiful human nature can be and how the same admirable qualities can emerge in both the wealthiest lord and the poorest charity kid.
Oliver had been sojourning at the undertaker’s some three weeks or a month. Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry—the shop being shut up—were taking their supper in the little back-parlour, when Mr. Sowerberry, after several deferential glances at his wife, said,
Oliver had been staying at the undertaker’s for about three weeks or a month. Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry—the shop being closed—were having their dinner in the small back parlor when Mr. Sowerberry, after several respectful looks 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.
‘My dear—’ He was about to say more; but, Mrs. Sowerberry looking up, with a particularly unfavorable expression, he stopped abruptly.
‘Well,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry, sharply.
“Okay,” said Mrs. Sowerberry, sharply.
‘Nothing, my dear, nothing,’ said Mr. Sowerberry.
‘Nothing, my dear, nothing,’ said Mr. Sowerberry.
‘Ugh, you brute!’ said Mrs. Sowerberry.
‘Ugh, you beast!’ said Mrs. Sowerberry.
‘Not at all, my dear,’ said Mr. Sowerberry humbly. ‘I thought you didn’t want to hear, my dear. I was only going to say—’
‘Not at all, my dear,’ said Mr. Sowerberry humbly. ‘I thought you didn’t want to hear, my dear. I was only going to say—’
‘Oh, don’t tell me what you were going to say,’ interposed Mrs. Sowerberry. ‘I am nobody; don’t consult me, pray. I don’t want to intrude upon your secrets.’ As Mrs. Sowerberry said this, she gave an hysterical laugh, which threatened violent consequences.
‘Oh, don’t tell me what you were going to say,’ Mrs. Sowerberry interrupted. ‘I’m nobody; please don’t consult me. I don’t want to intrude on your secrets.’ As Mrs. Sowerberry said this, she let out a hysterical laugh, suggesting it could lead to trouble.
‘But, my dear,’ said Sowerberry, ‘I want to ask your advice.’
‘But, my dear,’ said Sowerberry, ‘I want to get your opinion.’
‘No, no, don’t ask mine,’ replied Mrs. Sowerberry, in an affecting manner: ‘ask somebody else’s.’ Here, there was another hysterical laugh, which frightened Mr. Sowerberry very much. This is a very common and much-approved matrimonial course of treatment, which is often very effective. It at once reduced Mr. Sowerberry to begging, as a special favour, to be allowed to say what Mrs. Sowerberry was most curious to hear. After a short duration, the permission was most graciously conceded.
‘No, no, don’t ask me,’ Mrs. Sowerberry replied, with a dramatic tone: ‘ask someone else.’ At this, there was another hysterical laugh that really scared Mr. Sowerberry. This is a very typical and widely accepted approach in marriages, and it often works quite well. It instantly had Mr. Sowerberry begging, as a special favor, to be allowed to share what Mrs. Sowerberry was most eager to hear. After a brief moment, the permission was graciously granted.
‘It’s only about young Twist, my dear,’ said Mr. Sowerberry. ‘A very good-looking boy, that, my dear.’
‘It’s just about young Twist, my dear,’ said Mr. Sowerberry. ‘A very attractive boy, that, my dear.’
‘He need be, for he eats enough,’ observed the lady.
"He needs to be, since he eats enough," the lady remarked.
‘There’s an expression of melancholy in his face, my dear,’ resumed Mr. Sowerberry, ‘which is very interesting. He would make a delightful mute, my love.’
‘There’s a look of sadness on his face, my dear,’ continued Mr. Sowerberry, ‘which is quite intriguing. He would be a wonderful mute, my love.’
Mrs. Sowerberry looked up with an expression of considerable wonderment. Mr. Sowerberry remarked it and, without allowing time for any observation on the good lady’s part, proceeded.
Mrs. Sowerberry looked up with a look of great surprise. Mr. Sowerberry noticed it and, without giving her a chance to say anything, continued.
‘I don’t mean a regular mute to attend grown-up people, my dear, but only for children’s practice. It would be very new to have a mute in proportion, my dear. You may depend upon it, it would have a superb effect.’
‘I don’t mean a regular mute for adults, my dear, but just for the kids’ practice. It would be something completely new to have a mute in proportion, my dear. You can count on it, it would have an amazing effect.’
Mrs. Sowerberry, who had a good deal of taste in the undertaking way, was much struck by the novelty of this idea; but, as it would have been compromising her dignity to have said so, under existing circumstances, she merely inquired, with much sharpness, why such an obvious suggestion had not presented itself to her husband’s mind before? Mr. Sowerberry rightly construed this, as an acquiescence in his proposition; it was speedily determined, therefore, that Oliver should be at once initiated into the mysteries of the trade; and, with this view, that he should accompany his master on the very next occasion of his services being required.
Mrs. Sowerberry, who had a good sense of style in the funeral business, was very impressed by the originality of this idea; however, since it would have been beneath her dignity to openly admit it, given the circumstances, she sharply asked why such an obvious suggestion hadn't occurred to her husband before. Mr. Sowerberry correctly understood this as agreement with his proposal; it was quickly decided, therefore, that Oliver should be introduced to the ins and outs of the trade right away and that he should go along with his master the next time his services were needed.
The occasion was not long in coming. Half an hour after breakfast next morning, Mr. Bumble entered the shop; and supporting his cane against the counter, drew forth his large leathern pocket-book: from which he selected a small scrap of paper, which he handed over to Sowerberry.
The moment didn’t take long to arrive. Half an hour after breakfast the next morning, Mr. Bumble walked into the shop; resting his cane against the counter, he pulled out his big leather wallet. From it, he picked a small piece of paper and handed it to Sowerberry.
‘Aha!’ said the undertaker, glancing over it with a lively countenance; ‘an order for a coffin, eh?’
‘Aha!’ said the undertaker, looking it over with a cheerful expression; ‘an order for a coffin, huh?’
‘For a coffin first, and a porochial funeral afterwards,’ replied Mr. Bumble, fastening the strap of the leathern pocket-book: which, like himself, was very corpulent.
‘For a coffin first, and a local funeral afterwards,’ replied Mr. Bumble, fastening the strap of the leather wallet, which, like him, was quite bulky.
‘Bayton,’ said the undertaker, looking from the scrap of paper to Mr. Bumble. ‘I never heard the name before.’
‘Bayton,’ said the undertaker, glancing from the note to Mr. Bumble. ‘I’ve never heard that name before.’
Bumble shook his head, as he replied, ‘Obstinate people, Mr. Sowerberry; very obstinate. Proud, too, I’m afraid, sir.’
Bumble shook his head as he replied, “Stubborn people, Mr. Sowerberry; very stubborn. Proud, too, I’m afraid, sir.”
‘Proud, eh?’ exclaimed Mr. Sowerberry with a sneer. ‘Come, that’s too much.’
‘Proud, huh?’ Mr. Sowerberry scoffed. ‘Come on, that’s a bit much.’
‘Oh, it’s sickening,’ replied the beadle. ‘Antimonial, Mr. Sowerberry!’
‘Oh, it’s disgusting,’ replied the beadle. ‘Antimonial, Mr. Sowerberry!’
‘So it is,’ acquiesced the undertaker.
‘So it is,’ agreed the undertaker.
‘We only heard of the family the night before last,’ said the beadle; ‘and we shouldn’t have known anything about them, then, only a woman who lodges in the same house made an application to the porochial committee for them to send the porochial surgeon to see a woman as was very bad. He had gone out to dinner; but his ‘prentice (which is a very clever lad) sent ‘em some medicine in a blacking-bottle, offhand.’
‘We only heard about the family the night before last,’ said the beadle; ‘and we wouldn’t have known anything about them then either, if it hadn’t been for a woman who lives in the same house making a request to the local committee for them to send the local doctor to check on a woman who was really ill. He had gone out to dinner; but his apprentice (who is a very bright kid) sent them some medicine in a blacking-bottle, just like that.’
‘Ah, there’s promptness,’ said the undertaker.
‘Ah, there’s punctuality,’ said the undertaker.
‘Promptness, indeed!’ replied the beadle. ‘But what’s the consequence; what’s the ungrateful behaviour of these rebels, sir? Why, the husband sends back word that the medicine won’t suit his wife’s complaint, and so she shan’t take it—says she shan’t take it, sir! Good, strong, wholesome medicine, as was given with great success to two Irish labourers and a coal-heaver, only a week before—sent ‘em for nothing, with a blackin’-bottle in,—and he sends back word that she shan’t take it, sir!’
‘Promptness, indeed!’ replied the beadle. ‘But what’s the result; what’s the ungrateful behavior of these rebels, sir? Well, the husband sends back word that the medicine won’t help his wife’s condition, and so she won’t take it—says she won’t take it, sir! Good, strong, effective medicine, which was given with great success to two Irish laborers and a coal worker, just a week before—sent them for nothing, with a blacking bottle in,—and he sends back word that she won’t take it, sir!’
As the atrocity presented itself to Mr. Bumble’s mind in full force, he struck the counter sharply with his cane, and became flushed with indignation.
As the horror hit Mr. Bumble hard, he slammed his cane against the counter and flushed with anger.
‘Well,’ said the undertaker, ‘I ne—ver—did—’
‘Well,’ said the undertaker, ‘I never 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.’
‘Never did, sir!’ exclaimed the beadle. ‘No, and no one ever has; but now that she’s dead, we have to bury her; and that’s the order; and the sooner it gets 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.
Thus saying, Mr. Bumble put on his top hat backward in a frenzy of local excitement and stormed 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.
‘He was so angry, Oliver, that he even forgot to ask about you!’ said Mr. Sowerberry, watching the beadle as he walked down the street.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Oliver, who had carefully kept himself out of sight, during the interview; and who was shaking from head to foot at the mere recollection of the sound of Mr. Bumble’s voice.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Oliver, who had made sure to stay out of sight during the meeting, and who was trembling all over at just the thought of Mr. Bumble’s voice.
He needn’t haven taken the trouble to shrink from Mr. Bumble’s glance, however; for that functionary, on whom the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat had made a very strong impression, thought that now the undertaker had got Oliver upon trial the subject was better avoided, until such time as he should be firmly bound for seven years, and all danger of his being returned upon the hands of the parish should be thus effectually and legally overcome.
He didn’t need to bother avoiding Mr. Bumble’s gaze, though; because that official, who had been very affected by the prediction of the man in the white waistcoat, thought it was better to steer clear of the subject now that the undertaker had Oliver on trial. He believed it was best to wait until Oliver was securely bound for seven years, ensuring that all risk of him being returned to the parish would be completely and legally dealt with.
‘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.
‘Well,’ said Mr. Sowerberry, grabbing his hat, ‘the sooner we finish this job, the better. Noah, keep an eye on the shop. Oliver, put on your cap and come with me.’ Oliver complied and followed his boss on his work assignment.
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 along. A great many of the tenements had shop-fronts; but these were fast closed, and mouldering away; only the upper rooms being inhabited. Some houses which had become insecure from age and decay, were prevented from falling into the street, by huge beams of wood reared against the walls, and firmly planted in the road; but even these crazy dens seemed to have been selected as the nightly haunts of some houseless wretches, for many of the rough boards which supplied the place of door and window, were wrenched from their positions, to afford an aperture wide enough for the passage of a human body. The kennel was stagnant and filthy. The very rats, which here and there lay putrefying in its rottenness, were hideous with famine.
They continued walking for a while through the busiest and most populated part of the town, then turned down a narrow street that was dirtier and more miserable than any they had seen before. They stopped to look for the house they were searching for. The houses on either side were tall and large but very old, inhabited by the poorest people. Their shabby appearance made it clear, without the added evidence from the squalid looks of the few men and women who, arms crossed and hunched over, occasionally slinked by. Many of the buildings had storefronts, but these were all closed and falling apart; only the upper floors were occupied. Some houses had become unstable due to age and decay, propped up by large wooden beams against the walls, firmly planted in the ground. Yet even these dilapidated places seemed to attract homeless people at night, as many of the rough boards that served as doors and windows had been pried loose to create openings wide enough for someone to pass through. The gutter was stagnant and filthy. Even the rats, found lying dead in its filth, looked grotesque from starvation.
There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver and his master stopped; so, groping his way cautiously through the dark passage, and bidding Oliver keep close to him and not be afraid the undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight of stairs. Stumbling against a door on the landing, he rapped at it with his knuckles.
There was no knocker or doorbell at the open door where Oliver and his master paused; so, cautiously feeling his way through the dark hallway, and telling Oliver to stay close and not be scared, the undertaker climbed to the top of the first set of stairs. Accidentally bumping into a door on the landing, he knocked on it with his knuckles.
It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker at once saw enough of what the room contained, to know it was the apartment to which he had been directed. He stepped in; Oliver followed him.
It was opened by a girl around thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker immediately recognized enough of what the room held to know it was the place he had been told to go. He stepped inside; Oliver followed him.
There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically, over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door, there lay upon the ground, something covered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward the place, and crept involuntarily closer to his master; for though it was covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse.
There was no fire in the room, but a man was crouching mechanically over the empty stove. An old woman had also pulled a low stool up to the cold hearth and was sitting beside him. Some ragged children were in another corner, and in a small nook opposite the door, something covered with an old blanket lay on the ground. Oliver shuddered as he glanced toward the spot and instinctively inched closer to his master; for even though it was covered, the boy sensed that it was a corpse.
The man’s face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly; his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman’s face was wrinkled; her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside.
The man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were gray; his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled; her two remaining teeth stuck out over her bottom lip; and her eyes were bright and sharp. Oliver was scared to look at either her or the man. They reminded him so much of the rats he had seen outside.
‘Nobody shall go near her,’ said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. ‘Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you’ve a life to lose!’
‘No one should go near her,’ the man said, jumping up angrily as the undertaker moved closer. ‘Step back! Damn it, step back, if you value your life!’
‘Nonsense, my good man,’ said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. ‘Nonsense!’
‘That’s ridiculous, my good man,’ said the undertaker, who was quite familiar with misery in all its forms. ‘Nonsense!’
‘I tell you,’ said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor,—‘I tell you I won’t have her put into the ground. She couldn’t rest there. The worms would worry her—not eat her—she is so worn away.’
‘I’m telling you,’ the man said, clenching his hands and stomping angrily on the floor, ‘I won’t have her buried. She couldn’t rest there. The worms would bother her—not eat her—she’s so frail.’
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.
The undertaker didn’t respond to the ranting; instead, he pulled out a tape from his pocket and knelt down for a moment beside the body.
‘Ah!’ said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of the dead woman; ‘kneel down, kneel down—kneel round her, every one of you, and mark my words! I say she was starved to death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her; and then her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark—in the dark! She couldn’t even see her children’s faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I came back, she was dying; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they starved her to death. I swear it before the God that saw it! They starved her!’ He twined his hands in his hair; and, with a loud scream, rolled grovelling upon the floor: his eyes fixed, and the foam covering his lips.
‘Ah!’ the man cried, breaking down in tears and dropping to his knees at the feet of the dead woman. ‘Kneel down, kneel down—everyone kneel around her, and listen to me! I say she was starved to death. I never realized how bad it was until the fever hit her; then I could see her bones sticking out through her skin. There was no fire or candle; she died in the dark—in the dark! She couldn’t even see her children's faces, even though we could hear her gasping their names. I begged for her in the streets, and they locked me up. When I got back, she was dying; and all the compassion in my heart has dried up, because they starved her to death. I swear it before the God who saw it! They starved her!’ He tangled his hands in his hair and, with a loud scream, collapsed on the floor, his eyes wide and foam covering his lips.
The terrified children cried bitterly; but the old woman, who had hitherto remained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that passed, menaced them into silence. Having unloosened the cravat of the man who still remained extended on the ground, she tottered towards the undertaker.
The scared children cried hard; but the old woman, who had been completely still as if she couldn’t hear anything going on, threatened them into silence. After loosening the tie of the man who was still lying on the ground, she wobbled over to the undertaker.
‘She was my daughter,’ said the old woman, nodding her head in the direction of the corpse; and speaking with an idiotic leer, more ghastly than even the presence of death in such a place. ‘Lord, Lord! Well, it is strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman then, should be alive and merry now, and she lying there: so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord!—to think of it; it’s as good as a play—as good as a play!’
‘She was my daughter,’ said the old woman, nodding her head toward the corpse; and speaking with a silly grin, more horrifying than even the sight of death in such a place. ‘Oh my God! Well, it is strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman back then, should be alive and cheerful now, and she lying there: so cold and stiff! Oh my God!—to think of it; it’s just like a play—just like a play!’
As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment, the undertaker turned to go away.
As the miserable creature muttered and laughed in her ugly delight, the undertaker turned to leave.
‘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.
‘Stop, stop!’ said the old woman in a loud whisper. ‘Will she be buried tomorrow, or the next day, or tonight? I prepared her body; and I need to walk, you know. Send me a large cloak: a nice warm one: because it’s freezing. We should also have cake and wine before we leave! Never mind; just send some bread—only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Should we get some bread, dear?’ she said eagerly, grabbing at the undertaker’s coat as he moved toward the door again.
‘Yes, yes,’ said the undertaker, ‘of course. Anything you like!’ He disengaged himself from the old woman’s grasp; and, drawing Oliver after him, hurried away.
‘Yeah, sure,’ said the undertaker, ‘of course. Whatever you want!’ He pulled away from the old woman’s hold and, taking Oliver with him, rushed off.
The next day, (the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half-quartern loaf and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself,) Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode; where Mr. Bumble had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An old black cloak had been thrown over the rags of the old woman and the man; and the bare coffin having been screwed down, was hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried into the street.
The next day, after Mr. Bumble himself had dropped off a half-loaf of bread and some cheese for the family, Oliver and his master went back to their grim home. Mr. Bumble was already there with four workers from the workhouse who were there to help carry the bodies. An old black cloak had been draped over the old woman's and the man's ragged clothes. Once the bare coffin was secured, it was lifted onto the shoulders of the bearers and taken out 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!’
‘Now, you need to put your best foot forward, old lady!’ whispered Sowerberry in the old woman’s ear; ‘we're running a bit late, and we can’t keep the clergyman waiting. Move on, guys—go as fast as you want!’
Thus directed, the bearers trotted on under their light burden; and the two mourners kept as near them, as they could. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked at a good smart pace in front; and Oliver, whose legs were not so long as his master’s, ran by the side.
Thus instructed, the bearers trotted on under their light load; and the two mourners stayed as close to them as possible. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked briskly ahead, and Oliver, whose legs were shorter than his master’s, ran alongside.
There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Sowerberry had anticipated, however; for when they reached the obscure corner of the churchyard in which the nettles grew, and where the parish graves were made, the clergyman had not arrived; and the clerk, who was sitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means improbable that it might be an hour or so, before he came. So, they put the bier on the brink of the grave; and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp clay, with a cold rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys whom the spectacle had attracted into the churchyard played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements by jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the paper.
There wasn't as much need to rush as Mr. Sowerberry had thought, though; when they arrived at the hidden corner of the churchyard where the nettles grew and the parish graves were located, the clergyman still hadn't shown up. The clerk, who was sitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed to think it wouldn't be surprising if it took an hour or so for him to arrive. So, they placed the bier at the edge of the grave, and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp soil, with a light rain falling, while the ragged boys drawn to the scene played a loud game of hide-and-seek among the tombstones or entertained themselves by jumping back and forth over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and Bumble, being good friends with the clerk, sat by the fire with him and read the newspaper.
At length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, and Sowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave. Immediately afterwards, the clergyman appeared: putting on his surplice as he came along. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the burial service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplice to the clerk, and walked away again.
At last, after a little more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, Sowerberry, and the clerk were seen rushing toward the grave. Shortly after, the clergyman showed up, putting on his robe as he walked. Mr. Bumble then punished a boy or two to maintain appearances, and the reverend, having read as much of the burial service as could fit into four minutes, handed his robe to the clerk and left again.
‘Now, Bill!’ said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. ‘Fill up!’
‘Now, Bill!’ said Sowerberry to the grave digger. ‘Fill it 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.
It wasn't very hard at all because the grave was so full that the top coffin was just a few feet below the surface. The grave digger shoveled in the dirt, packed it down loosely with his feet, hoisted his spade onto his shoulder, and walked away, followed by the boys, who grumbled loudly about the fun ending so quickly.
‘Come, my good fellow!’ said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. ‘They want to shut up the yard.’
‘Come on, my good man!’ said Bumble, tapping the guy on the back. ‘They want to close off the yard.’
The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the grave side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces; and fell down in a swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off), to pay him any attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him; and when he came to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed on their different ways.
The man who hadn’t moved at all since he took his place by the graveside suddenly jerked, lifted his head, stared at the person who spoke to him, walked forward a few steps, and then collapsed in a faint. The crazy old woman was too busy crying over the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off) to notice him; so they splashed a can of cold water on him, and when he came to, they helped him out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and went their separate ways.
‘Well, Oliver,’ said Sowerberry, as they walked home, ‘how do you like it?’
‘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.’
‘Pretty well, thank you, sir,’ Oliver replied, hesitating a lot. ‘Not so much, sir.’
‘Ah, you’ll get used to it in time, Oliver,’ said Sowerberry. ‘Nothing when you are used to it, my boy.’
‘Ah, you’ll get used to it eventually, Oliver,’ said Sowerberry. ‘It’s nothing once 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.
Oliver wondered to himself if it had taken a really long time for Mr. Sowerberry to get used to it. But he figured it was better not to ask, so he walked back to the shop, thinking about everything he had seen and heard.
CHAPTER VI — OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND RATHER ASTONISHES HIM
The month’s trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a nice sickly season just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins were looking up; and, in the course of a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great deal of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry’s ingenious speculation, exceeded even his most sanguine hopes. The oldest inhabitants recollected no period at which measles had been so prevalent, or so fatal to infant existence; and many were the mournful processions which little Oliver headed, in a hat-band reaching down to his knees, to the indescribable admiration and emotion of all the mothers in the town. As Oliver accompanied his master in most of his adult expeditions too, in order that he might acquire that equanimity of demeanour and full command of nerve which was essential to a finished undertaker, he had many opportunities of observing the beautiful resignation and fortitude with which some strong-minded people bear their trials and losses.
The month’s trial over, Oliver was officially apprenticed. It was a nice, sickly season at this time. In business terms, coffins were on the rise; and, over the next few weeks, Oliver gained a lot of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry’s clever venture exceeded even his most optimistic hopes. The oldest residents remembered no time when measles had been so widespread or so deadly to infants; and many were the sorrowful processions that little Oliver led, with a hatband reaching down to his knees, drawing indescribable admiration and emotion from all the mothers in town. Since Oliver also accompanied his master on most of his adult outings, in order to develop the calm demeanor and complete nerve control essential for a skilled undertaker, he had many chances to witness the beautiful acceptance and strength with which some strong-minded people cope with their trials and losses.
For instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich old lady or gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number of nephews and nieces, who had been perfectly inconsolable during the previous illness, and whose grief had been wholly irrepressible even on the most public occasions, they would be as happy among themselves as need be—quite cheerful and contented—conversing together with as much freedom and gaiety, as if nothing whatever had happened to disturb them. Husbands, too, bore the loss of their wives with the most heroic calmness. Wives, again, put on weeds for their husbands, as if, so far from grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds to render it as becoming and attractive as possible. It was observable, too, that ladies and gentlemen who were in passions of anguish during the ceremony of interment, recovered almost as soon as they reached home, and became quite composed before the tea-drinking was over. All this was very pleasant and improving to see; and Oliver beheld it with great admiration.
For example, when Sowerberry got a request to bury some wealthy old lady or gentleman, surrounded by plenty of nephews and nieces who had been completely heartbroken during the person's illness and whose grief was totally uncontrollable even in public, they would be as happy as could be among themselves—quite cheerful and content—chatting with each other as if nothing had happened to upset them. Husbands also dealt with the loss of their wives with remarkable calmness. Wives, on the other hand, wore mourning clothes for their husbands, as if, far from mourning in sorrowful attire, they had decided to make it as stylish and appealing as possible. It was also noticeable that men and women who were in deep anguish during the burial ceremony calmed down almost immediately after getting home and were completely composed by the time tea was served. All of this was quite pleasant and impressive to witness, and Oliver watched it with great admiration.
That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good people, I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm with any degree of confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for many months he continued meekly to submit to the domination and ill-treatment of Noah Claypole: who used him far worse than before, now that his jealousy was roused by seeing the new boy promoted to the black stick and hatband, while he, the old one, remained stationary in the muffin-cap and leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, because Noah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry was disposed to be his friend; so, between these three on one side, and a glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as comfortable as the hungry pig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain department of a brewery.
That Oliver Twist was made to accept his situation by the example of these good people, I can’t say for sure, even though I’m his biographer; but I can clearly state that for many months he continued to quietly endure the control and mistreatment of Noah Claypole, who treated him even worse than before, now that his jealousy was provoked by seeing the new boy promoted to the black stick and hatband, while he, the older one, remained stuck in the muffin-cap and leathers. Charlotte mistreated him because Noah did, and Mrs. Sowerberry was definitely against him because Mr. Sowerberry was inclined to be his friend. So, between these three on one side and an overload of funerals on the other, Oliver wasn’t exactly as comfortable as the hungry pig shut up, by mistake, in the grain department of a brewery.
And now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver’s history; for I have to record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance, but which indirectly produced a material change in all his future prospects and proceedings.
And now, I reach a very important moment in Oliver's story; because I need to describe an action, which may seem minor and insignificant at first, but which indirectly led to a significant change in all his future opportunities and actions.
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.
One day, Oliver and Noah went down to the kitchen at dinner time to feast on a small piece of mutton—a pound and a half from the worst part of the neck—when Charlotte was called away for a moment. During this brief period, Noah Claypole, feeling hungry and mean, thought he couldn’t possibly spend his time on anything better than bothering and teasing young Oliver Twist.
Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the table-cloth; and pulled Oliver’s hair; and twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion that he was a ‘sneak’; and furthermore announced his intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever that desirable event should take place; and entered upon various topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this day, when they want to be funny. He got rather personal.
Intent on this innocent fun, Noah put his feet on the tablecloth; pulled Oliver’s hair; tugged at his ears; and called him a ‘sneak’; and even announced that he planned to come and watch him get hanged, whenever that exciting event might happen; and started discussing various annoying topics, like the spiteful and ill-tempered charity boy he was. But when Noah made Oliver cry, he tried to be even funnier; and in his attempt, he did what many people still do today when they want to be humorous. He got a little too personal.
‘Work’us,’ said Noah, ‘how’s your mother?’
'Work'us,' Noah said, 'how's your mom?'
‘She’s dead,’ replied Oliver; ‘don’t you say anything about her to me!’
"She's dead," Oliver replied. "Don't say anything about her to me!"
Oliver’s colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge.
Oliver's face flushed as he said this; he breathed rapidly; and there was a strange movement of his mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought was a sign that he was about to burst into tears. Believing this, he pressed on.
‘What did she die of, Work’us?’ said Noah.
‘What did she die from, 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!’
‘Some of our old nurses told me about a broken heart,’ replied Oliver, more like he was talking to himself than answering Noah. ‘I think I know what it must be like to die from that!’
‘Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work’us,’ said Noah, as a tear rolled down Oliver’s cheek. ‘What’s set you a snivelling now?’
‘Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work’us,’ said Noah, as a tear rolled down Oliver’s cheek. ‘What’s got you crying now?’
‘Not you,’ replied Oliver, sharply. ‘There; that’s enough. Don’t say anything more to me about her; you’d better not!’
‘Not you,’ Oliver replied 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.
‘Better not!’ Noah exclaimed. ‘Well! Better not! Work’us, don’t be rude. Your mother, too! She was a great woman! Oh, my!’ And with that, Noah nodded his head expressively and scrunched up as much of his small red nose as he could for the occasion.
‘Yer know, Work’us,’ continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver’s silence, and speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity: of all tones the most annoying: ‘Yer know, Work’us, it can’t be helped now; and of course yer couldn’t help it then; and I am very sorry for it; and I’m sure we all are, and pity yer very much. But yer must know, Work’us, yer mother was a regular right-down bad ‘un.’
'You know, Workus,' continued Noah, encouraged by Oliver's silence, speaking in a mocking tone of pretend sympathy, which is the most irritating tone of all, 'You know, Workus, there's nothing that can be done about it now; and of course you couldn't do anything about it then; and I'm really sorry about it; and I'm sure we all are, and we feel very sorry for you. But you have to understand, Workus, your mother was a real piece of work.'
‘What did you say?’ inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly.
‘What did you say?’ Oliver asked, looking up very quickly.
‘A regular right-down bad ‘un, Work’us,’ replied Noah, coolly. ‘And it’s a great deal better, Work’us, that she died when she did, or else she’d have been hard labouring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung; which is more likely than either, isn’t it?’
‘A real piece of work, Work’us,’ replied Noah, calmly. ‘And it’s a lot better, Work’us, that she died when she did, or else she’d have ended up doing hard time in Bridewell, or sent away, or hanged; which is more likely than either, right?’
Crimson with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the chair and table; seized Noah by the throat; shook him, in the violence of his rage, till his teeth chattered in his head; and collecting his whole force into one heavy blow, felled him to the ground.
Crimson with fury, Oliver jumped up; knocked over the chair and table; grabbed Noah by the throat; shook him, in the intensity of his rage, until his teeth rattled in his head; and putting all his strength into one powerful punch, took him down to the ground.
A minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet child, mild, dejected creature that harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused at last; the cruel insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire. His breast heaved; his attitude was erect; his eye bright and vivid; his whole person changed, as he stood glaring over the cowardly tormentor who now lay crouching at his feet; and defied him with an energy he had never known before.
A moment ago, the boy had seemed like the quiet, gentle child that harsh treatment had turned him into. But now, his spirit was finally awakened; the cruel insult to his deceased mother had ignited a fire within him. His chest heaved; he stood tall; his eyes were bright and alive; his whole demeanor shifted as he glared down at the cowardly tormentor who now cowered at his feet, confronting him with a strength he had never felt before.
‘He’ll murder me!’ blubbered Noah. ‘Charlotte! missis! Here’s the new boy a murdering of me! Help! help! Oliver’s gone mad! Char—lotte!’
‘He’s going to kill me!’ cried Noah. ‘Charlotte! Missis! Here’s the new boy trying to murder me! Help! Help! Oliver’s gone crazy! Char—lotte!’
Noah’s shouts were responded to, by a loud scream from Charlotte, and a louder from Mrs. Sowerberry; the former of whom rushed into the kitchen by a side-door, while the latter paused on the staircase till she was quite certain that it was consistent with the preservation of human life, to come further down.
Noah’s shouts were answered by a loud scream from Charlotte and an even louder one from Mrs. Sowerberry; Charlotte rushed into the kitchen through a side door, while Mrs. Sowerberry hesitated on the stairs until she was sure it was safe to come down further.
Original
‘Oh, you little wretch!’ screamed Charlotte: seizing Oliver with her utmost force, which was about equal to that of a moderately strong man in particularly good training. ‘Oh, you little un-grate-ful, mur-de-rous, hor-rid villain!’ And between every syllable, Charlotte gave Oliver a blow with all her might: accompanying it with a scream, for the benefit of society.
‘Oh, you little brat!’ yelled Charlotte, grabbing Oliver with all her strength, which was about the same as a moderately fit man's. ‘Oh, you little ungrateful, murderous, horrible villain!’ And with every word, Charlotte hit Oliver as hard as she could, screaming for the sake of everyone around.
Charlotte’s fist was by no means a light one; but, lest it should not be effectual in calming Oliver’s wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry plunged into the kitchen, and assisted to hold him with one hand, while she scratched his face with the other. In this favourable position of affairs, Noah rose from the ground, and pommelled him behind.
Charlotte's punch was definitely not weak; but, to make sure it would calm Oliver down, Mrs. Sowerberry rushed into the kitchen and helped hold him with one hand while scratching his face with the other. In this advantageous situation, Noah got up from the ground and started hitting him from behind.
This was rather too violent exercise to last long. When they were all wearied out, and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged Oliver, struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and there locked him up. This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a chair, and burst into tears.
This was way too intense of an exercise to keep going for long. When they were all exhausted and could no longer tear or hit, they dragged Oliver—still fighting and yelling, but undeterred—into the dust cellar and locked him inside. Once that was done, Mrs. Sowerberry collapsed into a chair and began to cry.
‘Bless her, she’s going off!’ said Charlotte. ‘A glass of water, Noah, dear. Make haste!’
‘Oh no, she’s leaving!’ said Charlotte. ‘A glass of water, Noah, hurry up!’
‘Oh! Charlotte,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry: speaking as well as she could, through a deficiency of breath, and a sufficiency of cold water, which Noah had poured over her head and shoulders. ‘Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy we have not all been murdered in our beds!’
‘Oh! Charlotte,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry, speaking as best she could through her shortness of breath and the cold water that Noah had splashed over her head and shoulders. ‘Oh! Charlotte, thank goodness we haven’t all been killed in our sleep!’
‘Ah! mercy indeed, ma’am,’ was the reply. I only hope this’ll teach master not to have any more of these dreadful creatures, that are born to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah! He was all but killed, ma’am, when I come in.’
‘Ah! Mercy, really, ma’am,’ was the response. I just hope this teaches the master not to keep any more of these terrible creatures, who are destined to be murderers and robbers from the moment they’re born. Poor Noah! He was nearly killed, ma’am, when I arrived.’
‘Poor fellow!’ said Mrs. Sowerberry: looking piteously on the charity-boy.
‘Poor guy!’ Mrs. Sowerberry said, looking sadly at the charity boy.
Noah, whose top waistcoat-button might have been somewhere on a level with the crown of Oliver’s head, rubbed his eyes with the inside of his wrists while this commiseration was bestowed upon him, and performed some affecting tears and sniffs.
Noah, whose top waistcoat button was probably about even with the crown of Oliver's head, rubbed his eyes with the inside of his wrists while this sympathy was given to him, and put on some dramatic tears and sniffs.
‘What’s to be done!’ exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. ‘Your master’s not at home; there’s not a man in the house, and he’ll kick that door down in ten minutes.’ Oliver’s vigorous plunges against the bit of timber in question, rendered this occurance highly probable.
‘What are we going to do!’ exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. ‘Your master isn’t home; there’s not a man in the house, and he’ll kick that door down in ten minutes.’ Oliver’s strong pushes against the piece of wood in question made this seem very likely.
‘Dear, dear! I don’t know, ma’am,’ said Charlotte, ‘unless we send for the police-officers.’
‘Oh dear! I don't know, ma'am,’ said Charlotte, ‘unless we call the police.’
‘Or the millingtary,’ suggested Mr. Claypole.
‘Or the military,’ suggested Mr. Claypole.
‘No, no,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry: bethinking herself of Oliver’s old friend. ‘Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly, and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap! Make haste! You can hold a knife to that black eye, as you run along. It’ll keep the swelling down.’
‘No, no,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry, remembering Oliver’s old friend. ‘Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here right away, and don’t waste a second; forget your cap! Hurry! You can press a knife against that shiner while you run. It’ll help with the swelling.’
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.
Noah stopped without saying anything, then took off at full speed; it really shocked the people out for a walk to see a charity kid racing through the streets wildly, with no cap on his head and a pocketknife in his hand.
CHAPTER VII — OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY
Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused not once for breath, until he reached the workhouse-gate. Having rested here, for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an imposing show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and presented such a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times, started back in astonishment.
Noah Claypole ran through the streets as fast as he could, not stopping even once for breath, until he got to the workhouse gate. After pausing for a minute to gather a dramatic burst of sobs and a convincing display of tears and fear, he knocked loudly on the wicket. He made such a sad face when the old pauper opened it that even the pauper, who normally only saw sad faces around him, was taken aback in surprise.
‘Why, what’s the matter with the boy!’ said the old pauper.
‘What’s wrong with the kid?’ said the old beggar.
‘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 a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal dignity.
‘Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!’ yelled Noah, pretending to be really upset; and his voice was so loud and frantic that it not only grabbed Mr. Bumble's attention, who was nearby, but it also startled him enough that he ran into the yard without his cocked hat—which is a pretty strange and notable thing to see: it shows that even a beadle, when hit by a sudden and strong impulse, can experience a brief moment of losing their composure and forgetting about their own dignity.
‘Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!’ said Noah: ‘Oliver, sir,—Oliver has—’
‘Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!’ Noah said, ‘Oliver, sir—Oliver has—’
‘What? What?’ interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes. ‘Not run away; he hasn’t run away, has he, Noah?’
‘What? What?’ interrupted Mr. Bumble, his eyes shining with excitement. ‘He hasn’t run away, has he, Noah?’
‘No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he’s turned wicious,’ replied Noah. ‘He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is! Such agony, please, sir!’ And here, Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture.
‘No, sir, no. He didn’t run away, sir, but he’s gone vicious,’ replied Noah. ‘He tried to kill me, sir; then he tried to kill Charlotte; and then the missus. Oh! what awful pain it is! Such agony, please, sir!’ And here, Noah squirmed and twisted his body into all sorts of eel-like positions; making it clear to Mr. Bumble that, due to the violent and bloody attack by Oliver Twist, he had suffered serious internal injuries and was currently experiencing the worst pain.
When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid.
When Noah saw that the information he shared completely stunned Mr. Bumble, he made it even more impactful by complaining about his terrible wounds ten times louder than before; and when he noticed a man in a white vest walking across the yard, he became even more dramatic in his cries of distress, wisely thinking it was very important to catch the attention and spark the outrage of the man in question.
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?
The gentleman quickly became aware of the situation; he had barely taken three steps when he turned around angrily and asked what that young mutt was barking about, and why Mr. Bumble didn't do something to make those vocal outbursts an involuntary reaction instead?
‘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.’
‘It’s a poor boy from the free school, sir,’ replied Mr. Bumble, ‘who has been almost killed—all but killed, 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!’
‘By Jove!’ the man in the white waistcoat exclaimed, coming to a halt. ‘I knew it! I had a strange feeling from the very beginning that that bold young savage would end up being hanged!’
‘He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant,’ said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness.
‘He has also tried, sir, to kill the female servant,’ said Mr. Bumble, his face extremely pale.
‘And his missis,’ interposed Mr. Claypole.
‘And his wife,’ interjected Mr. Claypole.
‘And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?’ added Mr. Bumble.
‘And his master, too, I think you mentioned, Noah?’ added Mr. Bumble.
‘No! he’s out, or he would have murdered him,’ replied Noah. ‘He said he wanted to.’
‘No! He’s out, or he would have killed him,’ replied Noah. ‘He said he wanted to.’
‘Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?’ inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
‘Oh! He wanted to, did he, my boy?’ asked the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Noah. ‘And please, sir, missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him—‘cause master’s out.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Noah. ‘And please, sir, Mrs. wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare some time to come up there right away and give him a beating—because the 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.’
‘Of course, my boy; of course,’ said the man in the white vest, smiling kindly and patting Noah’s head, which was about three inches taller than his own. ‘You’re a good boy—a really good boy. Here’s a penny for you. Bumble, please take your cane and go over to Sowerberry’s to see what’s the best thing to do. Don’t hold back on him, Bumble.’
‘No, I will not, sir,’ replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner’s satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker’s shop.
‘No, I won’t, sir,’ replied the beadle. And after Mr. Bumble adjusted his cocked hat and cane to his satisfaction, he and Noah Claypole hurried over to the undertaker’s shop.
Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished vigour, at the cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity as related by Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley, before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude; and, then, applying his mouth to the keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone:
Here, the situation hadn't improved at all. Sowerberry hadn't come back yet, and Oliver kept kicking the cellar door with fresh energy. The stories about his aggression told by Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte were so shocking that Mr. Bumble thought it wise to negotiate before opening the door. To prepare for this, he kicked the outside as a warm-up, then leaned close to the keyhole and said in a deep, serious voice:
‘Oliver!’
‘Oliver!’
‘Come; you let me out!’ replied Oliver, from the inside.
‘Come on; let me out!’ replied Oliver from the inside.
‘Do you know this here voice, Oliver?’ said Mr. Bumble.
‘Do you recognize this voice, Oliver?’ said Mr. Bumble.
‘Yes,’ replied Oliver.
'Yeah,' Oliver replied.
‘Ain’t you afraid of it, sir? Ain’t you a-trembling while I speak, sir?’ said Mr. Bumble.
‘Aren’t you afraid of it, sir? Aren’t you trembling while I speak, sir?’ said Mr. Bumble.
‘No!’ replied Oliver, boldly.
“No!” Oliver replied, 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.
An answer so different from what he had expected to get, and was usually given, shocked Mr. Bumble quite a bit. He stepped back from the keyhole, straightened up to his full height, and looked from one of the three bystanders to another in silent amazement.
‘Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry.
‘Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be crazy,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry.
‘No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you.’
'No guy in his right mind would dare to talk to you like that.'
‘It’s not Madness, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Bumble, after a few moments of deep meditation. ‘It’s Meat.’
‘It’s not madness, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Bumble, after a few moments of deep thought. ‘It’s meat.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry.
"What's happening?" exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry.
‘Meat, ma’am, meat,’ replied Bumble, with stern emphasis. ‘You’ve over-fed him, ma’am. You’ve raised a artificial soul and spirit in him, ma’am unbecoming a person of his condition: as the board, Mrs. Sowerberry, who are practical philosophers, will tell you. What have paupers to do with soul or spirit? It’s quite enough that we let ‘em have live bodies. If you had kept the boy on gruel, ma’am, this would never have happened.’
‘Meat, ma'am, meat,’ Bumble replied sternly. ‘You’ve overfed him, ma'am. You’ve created an artificial soul and spirit in him, ma'am, which doesn't suit someone of his status: as the board, Mrs. Sowerberry, who are practical philosophers, will tell you. What do paupers have to do with soul or spirit? It's more than enough that we allow them to 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!’
‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry, piously looking up at the kitchen ceiling: ‘this is what happens when you're too generous!’
The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver, had consisted of a profuse bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would eat; so there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in her voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble’s heavy accusation. Of which, to do her justice, she was wholly innocent, in thought, word, or deed.
The generosity of Mrs. Sowerberry towards Oliver was basically giving him all the leftover scraps that nobody else wanted to eat; so she showed a lot of humility and dedication by willingly accepting Mr. Bumble’s harsh blame. To be fair to her, she was completely innocent in her thoughts, words, and actions.
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth again; ‘the only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to leave him in the cellar for a day or so, till he’s a little starved down; and then to take him out, and keep him on gruel all through the apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family. Excitable natures, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor said, that that mother of his made her way here, against difficulties and pain that would have killed any well-disposed woman, weeks before.’
‘Ah!’ Mr. Bumble said when the lady looked down again. ‘The only thing we can do now, that I know of, is to leave him in the cellar for a day or so until he's a bit starved; then we'll take him out and keep him on gruel throughout the apprenticeship. He comes from a bad family. Excitable personalities, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse and the doctor said that his mother made her way here despite hardships and pain that would have killed any decent woman weeks before.’
At this point of Mr. Bumble’s discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to know that some allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced kicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible. Sowerberry returned at this juncture. Oliver’s offence having been explained to him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprentice out, by the collar.
At this point in Mr. Bumble’s speech, Oliver, barely catching enough to realize that his mother was being mentioned, started kicking again with such force that nothing else could be heard. Sowerberry came back at that moment. After explaining Oliver’s offense to him, with all the embellishments the ladies believed would truly anger him, he quickly unlocked the cellar door and yanked his defiant 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.
Oliver's clothes were ripped from the beating he had taken; his face was bruised and scratched, and his hair was disheveled across his forehead. The angry flush still lingered, though, and when he was pulled from his confinement, he glared defiantly at Noah and appeared completely unfazed.
‘Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain’t you?’ said Sowerberry; giving Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear.
‘Now, you’re a nice young guy, aren’t you?’ said Sowerberry, giving Oliver a shake and a smack on the ear.
‘He called my mother names,’ replied Oliver.
‘He insulted my mom,’ replied Oliver.
‘Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?’ said Mrs. Sowerberry. ‘She deserved what he said, and worse.’
‘Well, so what if he did, you little ungrateful brat?’ said Mrs. Sowerberry. ‘She deserved what he said, and even more.’
‘She didn’t’ said Oliver.
"She didn't," said Oliver.
‘She did,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry.
"She did," Mrs. Sowerberry said.
‘It’s a lie!’ said Oliver.
"That's a lie!" said Oliver.
Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears.
Mrs. Sowerberry started crying hysterically.
This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been, according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went—it was not very extensive—kindly disposed towards the boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps, because his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no resource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. Bumble’s subsequent application of the parochial cane, rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day, he was shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of bread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means complimentary to the memory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed.
This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry with no choice. If he had hesitated for even a moment to punish Oliver severely, it would be clear to any experienced reader that he would have been seen as a brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting person, a poor imitation of a man, and a variety of other unpleasant descriptors far too many to list in this chapter. To be fair, he was, in his limited way—not that it was very extensive—somewhat kind to the boy; maybe because it benefited him to be, or maybe because his wife was so disapproving of him. However, the flood of tears left him without any options; so he quickly gave Oliver a beating, which even satisfied Mrs. Sowerberry, making Mr. Bumble’s later use of the parochial cane rather pointless. For the rest of the day, Oliver was confined to the back kitchen, alone with a pump and a slice of bread; later that night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making several unflattering comments outside the door about his mother, peeked into the room, and amid the taunts and gestures from Noah and Charlotte, sent him upstairs to his miserable bed.
It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day’s treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he had borne the lash without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they had roasted him alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his hands, wept such tears as, God send for the credit of our nature, few so young may ever have cause to pour out before him!
It wasn't until he found himself alone in the quiet and dark workshop of the undertaker that Oliver allowed the emotions awakened by the day's mistreatment to surface, which one might expect from a mere child. He had endured their mockery with a look of disdain; he had taken the beating without a sound because he felt a pride swelling in his heart that would have stifled a scream to the end, even if they had burned him alive. But now, when no one was there to see or hear him, he dropped to his knees on the floor and, hiding his face in his hands, cried tears that, we hope for the sake of our humanity, few so young should ever have to shed before Him!
For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, he gently undid the fastenings of the door, and looked abroad.
For a long time, Oliver stayed still in this position. The candle was flickering low in the holder when he finally got to his feet. After carefully looking around and listening closely, he quietly unlatched the door and peeked outside.
It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy’s eyes, farther from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind; and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground, looked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the door. Having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat himself down upon a bench, to wait for morning.
It was a cold, dark night. The stars looked further away from the earth than the boy had ever seen them before; there was no wind, and the gloomy shadows cast by the trees on the ground appeared grave and lifeless because of the stillness. He quietly closed the door again. Using the fading light of the candle, he tied up the few pieces of clothing he had in a handkerchief and sat down on a bench to wait for morning.
With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look around—one moment’s pause of hesitation—he had closed it behind him, and was in the open street.
With the first hint of light that slipped through the gaps in the shutters, Oliver got up and unlatched the door again. He took a quick glance around—just a brief moment of hesitation—then he shut it behind him and stepped out into the street.
He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly.
He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain where to go.
He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across the fields: which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the road; struck into it, and walked quickly on.
He remembered seeing the wagons as they left, struggling up the hill. He took the same path and, after arriving at a footpath through the fields—which he knew would eventually lead back to the road—he turned onto it and walked quickly ahead.
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.
Along the same path, Oliver clearly remembered walking next to Mr. Bumble when he first took him to the workhouse from the farm. His route went right by the cottage. His heart raced at the thought of this, and he almost decided to turn back. However, he had already come a long way and turning back would waste a lot of time. Plus, it was still early, so there was little chance of being seen; so he kept walking.
He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child was weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him, before he went; for, though younger than himself, he had been his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and starved, and shut up together, many and many a time.
He arrived at the house. No one inside seemed to be awake at that early hour. Oliver paused and looked into the garden. A child was weeding one of the small flower beds; when Oliver stopped, the child looked up with his pale face and revealed the features of one of his old friends. Oliver felt happy to see him before he left; even though he was younger, he had been his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, starved, and confined together countless times.
‘Hush, Dick!’ said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his thin arm between the rails to greet him. ‘Is any one up?’
‘Hush, Dick!’ Oliver said as the boy ran to the gate and reached his thin arm through the rails to greet him. ‘Is anyone awake?’
‘Nobody but me,’ replied the child.
‘No one but me,’ replied the child.
‘You musn’t say you saw me, Dick,’ said Oliver. ‘I am running away. They beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune, some long way off. I don’t know where. How pale you are!’
‘You can’t say you saw me, Dick,’ said Oliver. ‘I’m running away. They beat and mistreat me, Dick; and I’m going to find my fortune, somewhere far away. I don’t know where. You look so pale!’
‘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!’
‘I heard the doctor tell them I was dying,’ the child said with a weak smile. ‘I’m really happy to see you, dear; but keep going, don’t stop!’
‘Yes, yes, I will, to say good-b’ye to you,’ replied Oliver. ‘I shall see you again, Dick. I know I shall! You will be well and happy!’
‘Yes, yes, I will, to say goodbye to you,’ replied Oliver. ‘I’ll see you again, Dick. I know I will! You’ll 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!’
‘I hope so,’ replied the child. ‘After I’m dead, but not before. I know the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much about Heaven, and Angels, and kind faces that I never see when I’m awake. Kiss me,’ said the child, climbing up the low gate and throwing his little arms around Oliver’s neck. ‘Goodbye, dear! God bless you!’
The blessing was from a young child’s lips, but it was the first that Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the struggles and sufferings, and troubles and changes, of his after life, he never once forgot it.
The blessing came from the lips of a young child, but it was the first one that Oliver had ever heard spoken over him; and despite the struggles, sufferings, troubles, and changes in his later life, he never forgot it.
CHAPTER VIII — OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON. HE ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD A STRANGE SORT OF YOUNG GENTLEMAN
Oliver reached the stile at which the by-path terminated; and once more gained the high-road. It was eight o’clock now. Though he was nearly five miles away from the town, he ran, and hid behind the hedges, by turns, till noon: fearing that he might be pursued and overtaken. Then he sat down to rest by the side of the milestone, and began to think, for the first time, where he had better go and try to live.
Oliver reached the point where the side path ended and got back onto the main road. It was eight o’clock now. Even though he was almost five miles away from town, he ran and hid behind the hedges at intervals until noon, worried that he might be chased and caught. Then he sat down to rest next to the milestone and started to think, for the first time, about where he should go to try to survive.
The stone by which he was seated, bore, in large characters, an intimation that it was just seventy miles from that spot to London. The name awakened a new train of ideas in the boy’s mind.
The stone he was sitting on had, in big letters, a sign that said it was exactly seventy miles from there to London. The name triggered a new set of thoughts in the boy’s mind.
London!—that great place!—nobody—not even Mr. Bumble—could ever find him there! He had often heard the old men in the workhouse, too, say that no lad of spirit need want in London; and that there were ways of living in that vast city, which those who had been bred up in country parts had no idea of. It was the very place for a homeless boy, who must die in the streets unless some one helped him. As these things passed through his thoughts, he jumped upon his feet, and again walked forward.
London!—that amazing place!—no one—not even Mr. Bumble—could ever find him there! He had often heard the old men in the workhouse say that any spirited boy wouldn't go hungry in London; and that there were ways to survive in that huge city that those raised in the countryside couldn’t even imagine. It was the perfect place for a homeless boy who would die in the streets if no one helped him. As these thoughts crossed his mind, he jumped to his feet and continued walking forward.
He had diminished the distance between himself and London by full four miles more, before he recollected how much he must undergo ere he could hope to reach his place of destination. As this consideration forced itself upon him, he slackened his pace a little, and meditated upon his means of getting there. He had a crust of bread, a coarse shirt, and two pairs of stockings, in his bundle. He had a penny too—a gift of Sowerberry’s after some funeral in which he had acquitted himself more than ordinarily well—in his pocket. ‘A clean shirt,’ thought Oliver, ‘is a very comfortable thing; and so are two pairs of darned stockings; and so is a penny; but they are small helps to a sixty-five miles’ walk in winter time.’ But Oliver’s thoughts, like those of most other people, although they were extremely ready and active to point out his difficulties, were wholly at a loss to suggest any feasible mode of surmounting them; so, after a good deal of thinking to no particular purpose, he changed his little bundle over to the other shoulder, and trudged on.
He had reduced the distance between himself and London by a full four miles before he remembered how much he would have to endure before he could hope to reach his destination. This thought made him slow down a bit and consider how to get there. In his bag, he had a piece of bread, a rough shirt, and two pairs of stockings. He also had a penny in his pocket—a gift from Sowerberry after he did particularly well at a funeral. “A clean shirt,” Oliver thought, “is really nice; so are two pairs of patched stockings; and so is a penny; but they don’t help much for a sixty-five-mile walk in winter.” But Oliver’s mind, like most people’s, was quick to point out his problems but couldn’t come up with any practical solutions to solve them. So, after thinking for a while without any real purpose, he switched his little bundle to the other shoulder and kept walking.
Oliver walked twenty miles that day; and all that time tasted nothing but the crust of dry bread, and a few draughts of water, which he begged at the cottage-doors by the road-side. When the night came, he turned into a meadow; and, creeping close under a hay-rick, determined to lie there, till morning. He felt frightened at first, for the wind moaned dismally over the empty fields: and he was cold and hungry, and more alone than he had ever felt before. Being very tired with his walk, however, he soon fell asleep and forgot his troubles.
Oliver walked twenty miles that day, and during that time, he only had some dry bread and a few sips of water that he begged for at the cottage doors along the road. When night fell, he found a meadow and crawled under a haystack, deciding to stay there until morning. At first, he felt scared because the wind howled sadly over the empty fields, and he was cold, hungry, and more alone than he had ever felt before. However, since he was very tired from his walk, he soon fell asleep and forgot his worries.
He felt cold and stiff, when he got up next morning, and so hungry that he was obliged to exchange the penny for a small loaf, in the very first village through which he passed. He had walked no more than twelve miles, when night closed in again. His feet were sore, and his legs so weak that they trembled beneath him. Another night passed in the bleak damp air, made him worse; when he set forward on his journey next morning he could hardly crawl along.
He felt cold and stiff when he got up the next morning, and so hungry that he had to trade his penny for a small loaf in the first village he came across. He walked only about twelve miles before night fell again. His feet were sore, and his legs were so weak that they trembled beneath him. Another night spent in the damp, chilly air made him feel worse; when he started on his journey the next morning, he could hardly crawl along.
He waited at the bottom of a steep hill till a stage-coach came up, and then begged of the outside passengers; but there were very few who took any notice of him: and even those told him to wait till they got to the top of the hill, and then let them see how far he could run for a halfpenny. Poor Oliver tried to keep up with the coach a little way, but was unable to do it, by reason of his fatigue and sore feet. When the outsides saw this, they put their halfpence back into their pockets again, declaring that he was an idle young dog, and didn’t deserve anything; and the coach rattled away and left only a cloud of dust behind.
He waited at the bottom of a steep hill until a stagecoach came up, and then he begged the passengers sitting outside for some help. However, very few paid him any attention, and even those who did told him to wait until they reached the top of the hill, then they would see how far he could run for a halfpenny. Poor Oliver tried to keep up with the coach for a little while, but he couldn't manage it because he was too tired and his feet hurt. When the people sitting outside noticed this, they put their coins back in their pockets, claiming he was a lazy young boy who didn't deserve anything, and the coach drove off, leaving only a cloud of dust behind.
In some villages, large painted boards were fixed up: warning all persons who begged within the district, that they would be sent to jail. This frightened Oliver very much, and made him glad to get out of those villages with all possible expedition. In others, he would stand about the inn-yards, and look mournfully at every one who passed: a proceeding which generally terminated in the landlady’s ordering one of the post-boys who were lounging about, to drive that strange boy out of the place, for she was sure he had come to steal something. If he begged at a farmer’s house, ten to one but they threatened to set the dog on him; and when he showed his nose in a shop, they talked about the beadle—which brought Oliver’s heart into his mouth,—very often the only thing he had there, for many hours together.
In some villages, large painted signs were put up, warning everyone that begging in the area would get them sent to jail. This scared Oliver a lot and made him eager to leave those villages as quickly as possible. In others, he would hang around the inn yards and look sadly at everyone who passed by, which usually ended with the landlady telling one of the post-boys lounging around to chase that strange boy away because she was sure he was there to steal something. If he asked for food at a farmer's house, there was a good chance they’d threaten to let the dog loose on him; and when he showed his face in a shop, they talked about the beadle—which made Oliver's heart race—often the only thing he had in his stomach for many hours at a time.
In fact, if it had not been for a good-hearted turnpike-man, and a benevolent old lady, Oliver’s troubles would have been shortened by the very same process which had put an end to his mother’s; in other words, he would most assuredly have fallen dead upon the king’s highway. But the turnpike-man gave him a meal of bread and cheese; and the old lady, who had a shipwrecked grandson wandering barefoot in some distant part of the earth, took pity upon the poor orphan, and gave him what little she could afford—and more—with such kind and gentle words, and such tears of sympathy and compassion, that they sank deeper into Oliver’s soul, than all the sufferings he had ever undergone.
Actually, if it hadn’t been for a kind-hearted toll booth worker and a caring old lady, Oliver’s troubles would have ended in the same way as his mother’s; in other words, he likely would have died right there on the side of the road. But the toll booth worker gave him a meal of bread and cheese, and the old lady, who had a grandson lost at sea in some far-off place, took pity on the poor orphan and gave him what little she could spare—and more—with such kind and gentle words, and such tears of sympathy and compassion, that they touched Oliver’s heart more deeply than all the pain he had ever experienced.
Early on the seventh morning after he had left his native place, Oliver limped slowly into the little town of Barnet. The window-shutters were closed; the street was empty; not a soul had awakened to the business of the day. The sun was rising in all its splendid beauty; but the light only served to show the boy his own lonesomeness and desolation, as he sat, with bleeding feet and covered with dust, upon a door-step.
Early on the seventh morning after he had left his hometown, Oliver limped slowly into the small town of Barnet. The window shutters were closed; the street was empty; not a single person had woken up to start the day. The sun was rising in all its beautiful glory, but the light only made the boy more aware of his loneliness and despair as he sat, with bleeding feet and covered in dust, on a doorstep.
By degrees, the shutters were opened; the window-blinds were drawn up; and people began passing to and fro. Some few stopped to gaze at Oliver for a moment or two, or turned round to stare at him as they hurried by; but none relieved him, or troubled themselves to inquire how he came there. He had no heart to beg. And there he sat.
Gradually, the shutters were opened; the window blinds were pulled up; and people started walking back and forth. A few stopped to look at Oliver for a moment or two, or glanced back at him as they rushed past; but none offered him help or bothered to ask how he ended up there. He didn’t have the courage to beg. And there he sat.
He had been crouching on the step for some time: wondering at the great number of public-houses (every other house in Barnet was a tavern, large or small), gazing listlessly at the coaches as they passed through, and thinking how strange it seemed that they could do, with ease, in a few hours, what it had taken him a whole week of courage and determination beyond his years to accomplish: when he was roused by observing that a boy, who had passed him carelessly some minutes before, had returned, and was now surveying him most earnestly from the opposite side of the way. He took little heed of this at first; but the boy remained in the same attitude of close observation so long, that Oliver raised his head, and returned his steady look. Upon this, the boy crossed over; and walking close up to Oliver, said,
He had been crouching on the step for a while, wondering about the numerous pubs (every other building in Barnet was a tavern, big or small), staring blankly at the coaches that passed by, and thinking about how odd it was that they could do in just a few hours what had taken him a whole week of courage and determination beyond his years to achieve. He was brought back to reality when he noticed that a boy, who had walked past him without a second glance a few minutes earlier, had come back and was now watching him intently from across the street. At first, he paid little attention to this, but the boy stayed in the same position, observing him for so long that Oliver finally lifted his head and met his gaze. Seeing this, the boy crossed the street, walked right up to Oliver, and said,
‘Hullo, my covey! What’s the row?’
‘Hey, my crew! What’s going on?’
The boy who addressed this inquiry to the young wayfarer, was about his own age: but one of the queerest looking boys that Oliver had even seen. He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and as dirty a juvenile as one would wish to see; but he had about him all the airs and manners of a man. He was short of his age: with rather bow-legs, and little, sharp, ugly eyes. His hat was stuck on the top of his head so lightly, that it threatened to fall off every moment—and would have done so, very often, if the wearer had not had a knack of every now and then giving his head a sudden twitch, which brought it back to its old place again. He wore a man’s coat, which reached nearly to his heels. He had turned the cuffs back, half-way up his arm, to get his hands out of the sleeves: apparently with the 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 four feet six, or something less, in the bluchers.
The boy who asked this question to the young traveler was about the same age, but he was one of the strangest-looking boys Oliver had ever seen. He had a snub nose, a flat brow, and an average, dirty face—almost as dirty as you could imagine a kid to be—but he carried himself with all the airs and attitudes of an adult. He was shorter for his age, with somewhat bow legs and small, sharp, ugly eyes. His hat was perched on the top of his head so loosely that it seemed like it could fall off any moment—and it would have too, if he didn’t have a habit of suddenly jerking his head to keep it in place. He wore an adult's coat that hung almost to his heels. He had rolled the cuffs back halfway up his arms to get his hands out of the sleeves, probably so he could stuff his hands into the pockets of his corduroy pants; that’s where they were. Overall, he was as loud and arrogant a young gentleman as anyone could be at four feet six inches—or maybe even a bit shorter—in those bluchers.
‘Hullo, my covey! What’s the row?’ said this strange young gentleman to Oliver.
‘Hey there, my crew! What’s going on?’ said this unusual young man 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.’
‘I’m really hungry and tired,’ Oliver replied, tears welling in his eyes as he spoke. ‘I’ve walked a long way. I’ve been walking for seven days.’
‘Walking for sivin days!’ said the young gentleman. ‘Oh, I see. Beak’s order, eh? But,’ he added, noticing Oliver’s look of surprise, ‘I suppose you don’t know what a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on.’
‘Walking for seven days!’ said the young gentleman. ‘Oh, I get it. Beak’s order, right? But,’ he added, noticing Oliver’s look of surprise, ‘I guess you don’t know what a beak is, my flashy companion.’
Oliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird’s mouth described by the term in question.
Oliver casually replied that he had always heard a bird's mouth referred to by that term.
‘My eyes, how green!’ exclaimed the young gentleman. ‘Why, a beak’s a madgst’rate; and when you walk by a beak’s order, it’s not straight for’erd, but always agoing up, and niver a coming down agin. Was you never on the mill?’
‘My eyes, how green!’ exclaimed the young gentleman. ‘Well, a beak’s a magistrate; and when you walk by a beak’s order, it’s not straight forward, but always going up, and never comes down again. Have you never been on the mill?’
‘What mill?’ inquired Oliver.
"What mill?" Oliver asked.
‘What mill! Why, the mill—the mill as takes up so little room that it’ll work inside a Stone Jug; and always goes better when the wind’s low with people, than when it’s high; acos then they can’t get workmen. But come,’ said the young gentleman; ‘you want grub, and you shall have it. I’m at low-water-mark myself—only one bob and a magpie; but, as far as it goes, I’ll fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There! Now then! ‘Morrice!’
‘What a mill! I mean, the mill—it’s so compact that it can fit inside a Stone Jug; and it operates better when there are fewer people around, rather than when it’s crowded; because then they can’t find workers. But come on,’ said the young man; ‘you need food, and you’ll get it. I’m a bit strapped myself—just one pound and a bit of change; but as much as I can, I’ll chip in. Get up on your feet. There! Alright! ‘Morrice!’
Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent chandler’s shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham and a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, ‘a fourpenny bran!’ the ham being kept clean and preserved from dust, by the ingenious expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a portion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentlman turned into a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at his new friend’s bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention.
Helping Oliver to his feet, the young man took him to a nearby convenience store, where he bought enough pre-cooked ham and a half-quartern loaf, or as he put it, 'a fourpenny bran!' The ham was kept clean and protected from dust by cleverly making a hole in the bread and stuffing the ham inside. Carrying the bread under his arm, the young man entered a small pub and led the way to a back room. There, a pot of beer was brought in at the request of the mysterious boy; and Oliver, encouraged by his new friend, enjoyed a long and hearty meal, during which the strange boy watched him closely from time to time.
‘Going to London?’ said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.
‘Going to London?’ asked the strange boy, when Oliver had finally finished.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes.’
‘Got any lodgings?’
"Do you have any places to stay?"
‘No.’
‘No.’
‘Money?’
‘Cash?’
‘No.’
'No.'
The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go.
The weird boy whistled and shoved his hands into his pockets as far as the oversized coat sleeves would allow.
‘Do you live in London?’ inquired Oliver.
“Do you live in London?” Oliver asked.
‘Yes. I do, when I’m at home,’ replied the boy. ‘I suppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don’t you?’
‘Yes. I do, when I’m at home,’ replied the boy. ‘I guess you need a place to sleep tonight, don’t you?’
‘I do, indeed,’ answered Oliver. ‘I have not slept under a roof since I left the country.’
‘I really do,’ replied Oliver. ‘I haven’t slept under a roof since I left the countryside.’
‘Don’t fret your eyelids on that score,’ said the young gentleman. ‘I’ve got to be in London to-night; and I know a ‘spectable old gentleman as lives there, wot’ll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change—that is, if any genelman he knows interduces you. And don’t he know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ said the young man. ‘I need to be in London tonight, and I know a respectable old gentleman who lives there. He’ll give you a place to stay for free and won’t ask for any payment—assuming someone he knows introduces you. And doesn’t he know me? Oh, no! Not at all! Definitely not!’
The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments of discourse were playfully ironical; and finished the beer as he did so.
The young man smiled, suggesting that his last comments were playfully sarcastic, and finished his beer as he did so.
This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted; especially as it was immediately followed up, by the assurance that the old gentleman referred to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a comfortable place, without loss of time. This led to a more friendly and confidential dialogue; from which Oliver discovered that his friend’s name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a peculiar pet and protege of the elderly gentleman before mentioned.
This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to resist, especially since it was quickly followed by the assurance that the old gentleman mentioned would surely find Oliver a comfortable place right away. This led to a more friendly and open conversation, during which Oliver learned that his friend’s name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a unique favorite and protege of the elderly gentleman previously mentioned.
Mr. Dawkin’s appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the comforts which his patron’s interest obtained for those whom he took under his protection; but, as he had a rather flightly and dissolute mode of conversing, and furthermore avowed that among his intimate friends he was better known by the sobriquet of ‘The Artful Dodger,’ Oliver concluded that, being of a dissipated and careless turn, the moral precepts of his benefactor had hitherto been thrown away upon him. Under this impression, he secretly resolved to cultivate the good opinion of the old gentleman as quickly as possible; and, if he found the Dodger incorrigible, as he more than half suspected he should, to decline the honour of his farther acquaintance.
Mr. Dawkin's appearance didn't suggest much in favor of the comforts that his patron's influence provided to the people he looked after. However, he had a rather flashy and reckless way of talking and openly admitted that among his close friends, he was better known as 'The Artful Dodger.' Oliver figured that since he seemed to have a careless and indulgent personality, the moral lessons from his benefactor had likely been wasted on him. With this in mind, he secretly decided to win over the old gentleman's good opinion as quickly as he could; and if he found the Dodger to be unchangeable, as he suspected he would, he planned to distance himself from further friendship.
As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it was nearly eleven o’clock when they reached the turnpike at Islington. They crossed from the Angel into St. John’s Road; struck down the small street which terminates at Sadler’s Wells Theatre; through Exmouth Street and Coppice Row; down the little court by the side of the workhouse; across the classic ground which once bore the name of Hockley-in-the-Hole; thence into Little Saffron Hill; and so into Saffron Hill the Great: along which the Dodger scudded at a rapid pace, directing Oliver to follow close at his heels.
As John Dawkins protested against them entering London before dark, it was almost eleven o'clock when they arrived at the tollgate in Islington. They crossed from the Angel into St. John's Road, headed down the small street that ends at Sadler's Wells Theatre, moved through Exmouth Street and Coppice Row, went down the narrow alley beside the workhouse, crossed the historic ground once known as Hockley-in-the-Hole, then into Little Saffron Hill, and finally into the larger Saffron Hill: along which the Dodger hurried quickly, telling Oliver to stay close behind him.
Although Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping sight of his leader, he could not help bestowing a few hasty glances on either side of the way, as he passed along. A dirtier or more wretched place he had never seen. The street was very narrow and muddy, and the air was impregnated with filthy odours.
Although Oliver had plenty to focus on while keeping an eye on his leader, he couldn’t help throwing a few quick glances to each side as he walked by. He had never seen a place more dirty or miserable. The street was extremely narrow and muddy, and the air was filled with disgusting smells.
There were a good many small shops; but the only stock in trade appeared to be heaps of children, who, even at that time of night, were crawling in and out at the doors, or screaming from the inside. The sole places that seemed to prosper amid the general blight of the place, were the public-houses; and in them, the lowest orders of Irish were wrangling with might and main. Covered ways and yards, which here and there diverged from the main street, disclosed little knots of houses, where drunken men and women were positively wallowing in filth; and from several of the door-ways, great ill-looking fellows were cautiously emerging, bound, to all appearance, on no very well-disposed or harmless errands.
There were plenty of little shops, but the main thing they seemed to have was a bunch of kids running in and out of the doors or yelling from inside, even at that late hour. The only businesses that seemed to thrive amid the overall decay of the area were the pubs, where the roughest members of the Irish community were arguing fiercely. Covered walkways and yards that branched off from the main street revealed small clusters of houses where drunk men and women were rolling around in filth. From several doorways, some shady-looking guys were cautiously stepping out, looking like they were up to no good.
Oliver was just considering whether he hadn’t better run away, when they reached the bottom of the hill. His conductor, catching him by the arm, pushed open the door of a house near Field Lane; and drawing him into the passage, closed it behind them.
Oliver was thinking about whether he should just run away when they got to the bottom of the hill. His guide grabbed him by the arm, opened the door of a house near Field Lane, and pulled him into the hallway, closing the door behind them.
‘Now, then!’ cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle from the Dodger.
‘Alright!’ shouted a voice from below, responding to a whistle from the Dodger.
‘Plummy and slam!’ was the reply.
‘Plummy and slam!’ was the reply.
This seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right; for the light of a feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the remote end of the passage; and a man’s face peeped out, from where a balustrade of the old kitchen staircase had been broken away.
This seemed to be some sort of password or signal that everything was okay; because the light from a dim candle flickered on the wall at the far end of the hallway; and a man's face appeared from where a section of the old kitchen staircase railing was missing.
‘There’s two on you,’ said the man, thrusting the candle farther out, and shielding his eyes with his hand. ‘Who’s the t’other one?’
‘There are two of you,’ said the man, extending the candle further out and shielding his eyes with his hand. ‘Who’s the other one?’
‘A new pal,’ replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward.
“A new friend,” replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward.
‘Where did he come from?’
"Where did he come from?"
‘Greenland. Is Fagin upstairs?’
‘Greenland. Is Fagin up?’
‘Yes, he’s a sortin’ the wipes. Up with you!’ The candle was drawn back, and the face disappeared.
‘Yes, he’s sorting the wipes. Get on with it!’ The candle was pulled back, and the face vanished.
Oliver, groping his way with one hand, and having the other firmly grasped by his companion, ascended with much difficulty the dark and broken stairs: which his conductor mounted with an ease and expedition that showed he was well acquainted with them.
Oliver, feeling his way with one hand while his other hand was tightly held by his companion, struggled to climb the dark and uneven stairs. His guide moved up them with a ease and speed that clearly showed he knew them well.
He threw open the door of a back-room, and drew Oliver in after him.
He burst into a back room and pulled Oliver in after him.
The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black with age and dirt. There was a deal table before the fire: upon which were a candle, stuck in a ginger-beer bottle, two or three pewter pots, a loaf and butter, and a plate. In a frying-pan, which was on the fire, and which was secured to the mantelshelf by a string, some sausages were cooking; and standing over them, with a toasting-fork in his hand, was a very old shrivelled Jew, whose villainous-looking and repulsive face was obscured by a quantity of matted red hair. He was dressed in a greasy flannel gown, with his throat bare; and seemed to be dividing his attention between the frying-pan and the clothes-horse, over which a great number of silk handkerchiefs were hanging. Several rough beds made of old sacks, were huddled side by side on the floor. Seated round the table were four or five boys, none older than the Dodger, smoking long clay pipes, and drinking spirits with the air of middle-aged men. These all crowded about their associate as he whispered a few words to the Jew; and then turned round and grinned at Oliver. So did the Jew himself, toasting-fork in hand.
The walls and ceiling of the room were completely black with age and grime. There was a deal table in front of the fire, on which sat a candle stuck in a ginger-beer bottle, a few pewter pots, a loaf of bread, some butter, and a plate. In a frying pan on the fire, secured to the mantel by a string, some sausages were cooking; and standing over them, holding a toasting fork, was a very old, shriveled man, who looked like a villain and had a repulsive face obscured by a mass of tangled red hair. He wore a greasy flannel gown with his throat exposed and seemed to be split between keeping an eye on the frying pan and the clothes-horse, which was draped with many silk handkerchiefs. Several rough beds made of old sacks were crammed next to each other on the floor. Seated around the table were four or five boys, all no older than the Dodger, smoking long clay pipes and sipping spirits as if they were middle-aged men. They all gathered around their friend as he whispered a few words to the old man, then turned and grinned at Oliver. The old man did the same, toasting fork in hand.
‘This is him, Fagin,’ said Jack Dawkins; ‘my friend Oliver Twist.’
‘This is him, Fagin,’ said Jack Dawkins; ‘my friend Oliver Twist.’
The Jew grinned; and, making a low obeisance to Oliver, took him by the hand, and hoped he should have the honour of his intimate acquaintance. Upon this, the young gentleman with the pipes came round him, and shook both his hands very hard—especially the one in which he held his little bundle. One young gentleman was very anxious to hang up his cap for him; and another was so obliging as to put his hands in his pockets, in order that, as he was very tired, he might not have the trouble of emptying them, himself, when he went to bed. These civilities would probably be extended much farther, but for a liberal exercise of the Jew’s toasting-fork on the heads and shoulders of the affectionate youths who offered them.
The Jew smiled and, bowing low to Oliver, took his hand and expressed hope for a close friendship. At this, the young guy with the pipes came over and shook both his hands vigorously—especially the one holding his small bundle. One young man eagerly offered to hang up his cap for him, while another kindly put his hands in his pockets so that, since he was very tired, he wouldn’t have to empty them himself when he went to bed. These friendly gestures might have gone even further, if not for the Jew’s liberal use of his toasting fork on the heads and shoulders of the well-meaning youths who offered them.
‘We are very glad to see you, Oliver, very,’ said the Jew. ‘Dodger, take off the sausages; and draw a tub near the fire for Oliver. Ah, you’re a-staring at the pocket-handkerchiefs! eh, my dear. There are a good many of ‘em, ain’t there? We’ve just looked ‘em out, ready for the wash; that’s all, Oliver; that’s all. Ha! ha! ha!’
‘We’re really happy to see you, Oliver, truly,’ said the Jew. ‘Dodger, take the sausages off; and bring a tub closer to the fire for Oliver. Ah, you’re staring at the pocket-handkerchiefs! Right, my dear? There are quite a few of them, aren’t there? We just got them sorted, ready for the wash; that’s all, Oliver; that’s all. Ha! ha! ha!’
The latter part of this speech, was hailed by a boisterous shout from all the hopeful pupils of the merry old gentleman. In the midst of which they went to supper.
The latter part of this speech was met with loud cheers from all the eager students of the cheerful old man. In the middle of this, they went to have supper.
Oliver ate his share, and the Jew then mixed him a glass of hot gin-and-water: telling him he must drink it off directly, because another gentleman wanted the tumbler. Oliver did as he was desired. Immediately afterwards he felt himself gently lifted on to one of the sacks; and then he sunk into a deep sleep.
Oliver had his drink, and the Jew then prepared a glass of hot gin and water for him, insisting that he finish it quickly because another customer was waiting for the glass. Oliver complied. Right after that, he felt himself being gently placed on one of the sacks, and then he fell into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER IX — CONTAINING FURTHER PARTICULARS CONCERNING THE PLEASANT OLD GENTLEMAN, AND HIS HOPEFUL PUPILS
It was late next morning when Oliver awoke, from a sound, long sleep. There was no other person in the room but the old Jew, who was boiling some coffee in a saucepan for breakfast, and whistling softly to himself as he stirred it round and round, with an iron spoon. He would stop every now and then to listen when there was the least noise below: and when he had satisfied himself, he would go on whistling and stirring again, as before.
It was late the next morning when Oliver woke up from a deep, long sleep. There was no one else in the room except for the old man, who was boiling some coffee in a saucepan for breakfast, quietly whistling to himself as he stirred it with an iron spoon. He would pause now and then to listen for any sound coming from below, and once he felt assured, he would start whistling and stirring again, just like before.
Although Oliver had roused himself from sleep, he was not thoroughly awake. There is a drowsy state, between sleeping and waking, when you dream more in five minutes with your eyes half open, and yourself half conscious of everything that is passing around you, than you would in five nights with your eyes fast closed, and your senses wrapt in perfect unconsciousness. At such time, a mortal knows just enough of what his mind is doing, to form some glimmering conception of its mighty powers, its bounding from earth and spurning time and space, when freed from the restraint of its corporeal associate.
Although Oliver had woken up, he wasn't fully alert. There's a hazy state between sleeping and waking, where you can dream more in five minutes with your eyes half open and a faint awareness of everything happening around you than you would in five nights with your eyes shut tight and completely unaware. During this time, a person knows just enough about what their mind is doing to get a sense of its immense abilities, transcending earthly bounds and disregarding time and space when it's unchained from the limits of the body.
Oliver was precisely in this condition. He saw the Jew with his half-closed eyes; heard his low whistling; and recognised the sound of the spoon grating against the saucepan’s sides: and yet the self-same senses were mentally engaged, at the same time, in busy action with almost everybody he had ever known.
Oliver was exactly in this state. He saw the man with his half-closed eyes, heard his soft whistling, and recognized the sound of the spoon scraping against the sides of the saucepan; yet, at the same time, his mind was occupied with thoughts of almost everyone he had ever known.
When the coffee was done, the Jew drew the saucepan to the hob. Standing, then in an irresolute attitude for a few minutes, as if he did not well know how to employ himself, he turned round and looked at Oliver, and called him by his name. He did not answer, and was to all appearances asleep.
When the coffee was ready, the Jew pulled the saucepan to the stove. Standing there in a thoughtful pose for a few minutes, as if he wasn't sure what to do with himself, he turned around, looked at Oliver, and called out his name. Oliver didn’t reply and seemed to be asleep.
After satisfying himself upon this head, the Jew stepped gently to the door: which he fastened. He then drew forth: as it seemed to Oliver, from some trap in the floor: a small box, which he placed carefully on the table. His eyes glistened as he raised the lid, and looked in. Dragging an old chair to the table, he sat down; and took from it a magnificent gold watch, sparkling with jewels.
After making sure everything was secure, the Jew quietly moved to the door and locked it. Then he pulled out, as it appeared to Oliver, from some hidden compartment in the floor, a small box that he placed carefully on the table. His eyes sparkled as he lifted the lid and peeked inside. He dragged an old chair to the table, sat down, and took out a stunning gold watch, adorned with jewels.
‘Aha!’ said the Jew, shrugging up his shoulders, and distorting every feature with a hideous grin. ‘Clever dogs! Clever dogs! Staunch to the last! Never told the old parson where they were. Never poached upon old Fagin! And why should they? It wouldn’t have loosened the knot, or kept the drop up, a minute longer. No, no, no! Fine fellows! Fine fellows!’
‘Aha!’ said the Jew, shrugging his shoulders and twisting his face into a grotesque grin. ‘Clever dogs! Clever dogs! Loyal to the end! Never told the old parson where they were. Never betrayed old Fagin! And why should they? It wouldn’t have changed anything, or delayed the inevitable, for even a minute longer. No, no, no! Great guys! Great guys!’
With these, and other muttered reflections of the like nature, the Jew once more deposited the watch in its place of safety. At least half a dozen more were severally drawn forth from the same box, and surveyed with equal pleasure; besides rings, brooches, bracelets, and other articles of jewellery, of such magnificent materials, and costly workmanship, that Oliver had no idea, even of their names.
With these, and other muttered thoughts like this, the Jew carefully put the watch back in its safe place. At least six more items were taken out of the same box and admired with the same delight; there were also rings, brooches, bracelets, and other pieces of jewelry made with such amazing materials and expensive craftsmanship that Oliver couldn’t even guess their names.
Having replaced these trinkets, the Jew took out another: so small that it lay in the palm of his hand. There seemed to be some very minute inscription on it; for the Jew laid it flat upon the table, and shading it with his hand, pored over it, long and earnestly. At length he put it down, as if despairing of success; and, leaning back in his chair, muttered:
Having replaced these trinkets, the Jew took out another one: so small that it fit in the palm of his hand. It looked like there was a tiny inscription on it; he laid it flat on the table, shaded it with his hand, and stared at it for a long time, concentrating hard. Finally, he put it down, seeming to give up, and leaned back in his chair, muttering:
‘What a fine thing capital punishment is! Dead men never repent; dead men never bring awkward stories to light. Ah, it’s a fine thing for the trade! Five of ‘em strung up in a row, and none left to play booty, or turn white-livered!’
‘What a great thing capital punishment is! Dead men never regret; dead men never expose embarrassing stories. Ah, it’s excellent for business! Five of them hanging in a row, and none left to cause trouble or act cowardly!’
As the Jew uttered these words, his bright dark eyes, which had been staring vacantly before him, fell on Oliver’s face; the boy’s eyes were fixed on his in mute curiousity; and although the recognition was only for an instant—for the briefest space of time that can possibly be conceived—it was enough to show the old man that he had been observed.
As the Jew said these words, his bright dark eyes, which had been staring blankly ahead, landed on Oliver’s face; the boy’s eyes were locked onto his in silent curiosity; and even though the recognition lasted only a moment—for the shortest time imaginable—it was enough for the old man to realize that he had been noticed.
He closed the lid of the box with a loud crash; and, laying his hand on a bread knife which was on the table, started furiously up. He trembled very much though; for, even in his terror, Oliver could see that the knife quivered in the air.
He slammed the lid of the box shut with a loud bang and, reaching for a bread knife that was on the table, jumped up angrily. He was shaking a lot, though, because even in his fear, Oliver could see that the knife was trembling in the air.
‘What’s that?’ said the Jew. ‘What do you watch me for? Why are you awake? What have you seen? Speak out, boy! Quick—quick! for your life.
‘What’s going on?’ said the Jew. ‘Why are you watching me? Why are you awake? What have you seen? Speak up, kid! Hurry—hurry! for your life.
‘I wasn’t able to sleep any longer, sir,’ replied Oliver, meekly. ‘I am very sorry if I have disturbed you, sir.’
‘I couldn't sleep any longer, sir,’ replied Oliver, softly. ‘I'm really sorry if I disturbed you, sir.’
‘You were not awake an hour ago?’ said the Jew, scowling fiercely on the boy.
‘You weren't awake an hour ago?’ said the Jew, glaring fiercely at the boy.
‘No! No, indeed!’ replied Oliver.
‘No! Not at all!’ replied Oliver.
‘Are you sure?’ cried the Jew: with a still fiercer look than before: and a threatening attitude.
‘Are you sure?’ shouted the Jew, with an even fiercer look than before and a menacing stance.
‘Upon my word I was not, sir,’ replied Oliver, earnestly. ‘I was not, indeed, sir.’
‘I swear I wasn’t, sir,’ Oliver replied earnestly. ‘I really wasn’t, sir.’
‘Tush, tush, my dear!’ said the Jew, abruptly resuming his old manner, and playing with the knife a little, before he laid it down; as if to induce the belief that he had caught it up, in mere sport. ‘Of course I know that, my dear. I only tried to frighten you. You’re a brave boy. Ha! ha! you’re a brave boy, Oliver.’ The Jew rubbed his hands with a chuckle, but glanced uneasily at the box, notwithstanding.
‘Come on, my dear!’ said the Jew, quickly going back to his old demeanor and fiddling with the knife a bit before putting it down, as if to suggest he just picked it up for fun. ‘Of course I know that, my dear. I was just trying to scare you. You’re a brave boy. Ha! ha! you’re a brave boy, Oliver.’ The Jew rubbed his hands with a chuckle but still looked nervously at the box.
‘Did you see any of these pretty things, my dear?’ said the Jew, laying his hand upon it after a short pause.
‘Did you see any of these lovely things, my dear?’ said the Jew, placing his hand on it after a brief pause.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Oliver.
"Sure thing, sir," replied Oliver.
‘Ah!’ said the Jew, turning rather pale. ‘They—they’re mine, Oliver; my little property. All I have to live upon, in my old age. The folks call me a miser, my dear. Only a miser; that’s all.’
‘Ah!’ said the Jew, turning a bit pale. ‘They—they’re mine, Oliver; my little possessions. All I have to live on in my old age. People call me a miser, my dear. Just a miser; that’s all.’
Oliver thought the old gentleman must be a decided miser to live in such a dirty place, with so many watches; but, thinking that perhaps his fondness for the Dodger and the other boys, cost him a good deal of money, he only cast a deferential look at the Jew, and asked if he might get up.
Oliver thought the old man must be a real miser to live in such a dirty place, with so many watches; but, considering that his fondness for the Dodger and the other boys probably cost him a lot of money, he just gave a respectful glance at the Jew and asked if he could get up.
‘Certainly, my dear, certainly,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘Stay. There’s a pitcher of water in the corner by the door. Bring it here; and I’ll give you a basin to wash in, my dear.’
‘Of course, my dear, of course,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘Wait a moment. There’s a pitcher of water in the corner by the door. Bring it here, and I’ll get you a basin to wash in, my dear.’
Oliver got up; walked across the room; and stooped for an instant to raise the pitcher. When he turned his head, the box was gone.
Oliver got up, walked across the room, and bent down for a moment to pick up the pitcher. When he turned his head, the box was gone.
He had scarcely washed himself, and made everything tidy, by emptying the basin out of the window, agreeably to the Jew’s directions, when the Dodger returned: accompanied by a very sprightly young friend, whom Oliver had seen smoking on the previous night, and who was now formally introduced to him as Charley Bates. The four sat down, to breakfast, on the coffee, and some hot rolls and ham which the Dodger had brought home in the crown of his hat.
He had just finished washing up and tidying everything, dumping the water out the window as the Jew had told him, when the Dodger came back with a lively young friend Oliver recognized from the night before, who was now properly introduced as Charley Bates. The four of them sat down for breakfast, enjoying coffee with the hot rolls and ham that the Dodger had brought back 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?’
‘Well,’ said the Jew, looking slyly at Oliver and speaking to the Dodger, ‘I hope you’ve all been busy this morning, my dears?’
‘Hard,’ replied the Dodger.
"That's tough," replied the Dodger.
‘As nails,’ added Charley Bates.
“As tough as nails,” added Charley Bates.
‘Good boys, good boys!’ said the Jew. ‘What have you got, Dodger?’
‘Good boys, good boys!’ said the Jew. ‘What do you have, Dodger?’
‘A couple of pocket-books,’ replied that young gentlman.
‘A couple of small notebooks,’ replied that young gentleman.
‘Lined?’ inquired the Jew, with eagerness.
‘Lined?’ asked the Jewish man, eagerly.
‘Pretty well,’ replied the Dodger, producing two pocket-books; one green, and the other red.
‘Pretty good,’ replied the Dodger, pulling out two wallets; 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?’
‘Not as heavy as they could be,’ said the Jew, after examining the insides closely; ‘but very neat and well-made. Clever craftsman, isn’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.
‘Definitely, sir,’ said Oliver. At this, Mr. Charles Bates burst out laughing; much to Oliver's surprise, who saw nothing funny in what had just happened.
‘And what have you got, my dear?’ said Fagin to Charley Bates.
‘So, what do you have, my dear?’ Fagin asked Charley Bates.
‘Wipes,’ replied Master Bates; at the same time producing four pocket-handkerchiefs.
‘Wipes,’ replied Master Bates, while pulling out four pocket handkerchiefs.
‘Well,’ said the Jew, inspecting them closely; ‘they’re very good ones, very. You haven’t marked them well, though, Charley; so the marks shall be picked out with a needle, and we’ll teach Oliver how to do it. Shall us, Oliver, eh? Ha! ha! ha!’
‘Well,’ said the Jew, looking them over carefully; ‘they’re really good ones, very good. You didn’t mark them well, though, Charley; so we’ll use a needle to pick out the marks, and we’ll teach Oliver how to do it. Sound good, Oliver, huh? Ha! ha! ha!’
‘If you please, sir,’ said Oliver.
‘If you don’t mind, 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.
‘You’d love to be able to make pocket handkerchiefs as easily as Charley Bates, wouldn’t you, my dear?’ said the Jew.
‘Very much, indeed, if you’ll teach me, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘Absolutely, if you’ll teach me, sir,’ replied Oliver.
Master Bates saw something so exquisitely ludicrous in this reply, that he burst into another laugh; which laugh, meeting the coffee he was drinking, and carrying it down some wrong channel, very nearly terminated in his premature suffocation.
Master Bates found something so ridiculously funny in this response that he burst into another laugh; and as the laugh mixed with the coffee he was drinking, it almost caused him to choke.
‘He is so jolly green!’ said Charley when he recovered, as an apology to the company for his unpolite behaviour.
‘He's so jolly green!’ Charley said when he got himself together, apologizing to the group for his rude behavior.
The Dodger said nothing, but he smoothed Oliver’s hair over his eyes, and said he’d know better, by and by; upon which the old gentleman, observing Oliver’s colour mounting, changed the subject by asking whether there had been much of a crowd at the execution that morning? This made him wonder more and more; for it was plain from the replies of the two boys that they had both been there; and Oliver naturally wondered how they could possibly have found time to be so very industrious.
The Dodger didn’t say anything, but he brushed Oliver’s hair out of his eyes and mentioned that he’d understand better later. The old gentleman, noticing Oliver’s face getting red, switched topics by asking if there had been a big crowd at the execution that morning. This made Oliver even more curious because it was clear from the boys' answers that they had both attended, and Oliver couldn’t figure out how they had managed to be so busy.
When the breakfast was cleared away; the merry old gentlman and the two boys played at a very curious and uncommon game, which was performed in this way. The merry old gentleman, placing a snuff-box in one pocket of his trousers, a note-case in the other, and a watch in his waistcoat pocket, with a guard-chain round his neck, and sticking a mock diamond pin in his shirt: buttoned his coat tight round him, and putting his spectacle-case and handkerchief in his pockets, trotted up and down the room with a stick, in imitation of the manner in which old gentlemen walk about the streets any hour in the day. Sometimes he stopped at the fire-place, and sometimes at the door, making believe that he was staring with all his might into shop-windows. At such times, he would look constantly round him, for fear of thieves, and would keep slapping all his pockets in turn, to see that he hadn’t lost anything, in such a very funny and natural manner, that Oliver laughed till the tears ran down his face. All this time, the two boys followed him closely about: getting out of his sight, so nimbly, every time he turned round, that it was impossible to follow their motions. At last, the Dodger trod upon his toes, or ran upon his boot accidently, while Charley Bates stumbled up against him behind; and in that one moment they took from him, with the most extraordinary rapidity, snuff-box, note-case, watch-guard, chain, shirt-pin, pocket-handkerchief, even the spectacle-case. If the old gentlman felt a hand in any one of his pockets, he cried out where it was; and then the game began all over again.
Once breakfast was cleared, the cheerful old gentleman and the two boys played a really odd and unique game that went like this. The cheerful old gentleman put a snuff-box in one pocket of his trousers, a wallet in the other, a watch in his waistcoat pocket, a chain around his neck, and stuck a fake diamond pin in his shirt. He buttoned his coat tightly and, with his glasses case and handkerchief tucked away, trotted around the room with a stick, mimicking how old men stroll through the streets at any time of day. Sometimes he would stop by the fireplace and sometimes at the door, pretending he was staring hard into shop windows. During these moments, he would constantly look around, afraid of thieves, and keep slapping his pockets in turn to check if he hadn't lost anything, in such a funny and natural way that Oliver laughed until tears streamed down his face. All this time, the two boys followed closely behind him, darting out of his sight so quickly each time he turned around that it was impossible to track their movements. Finally, the Dodger stepped on his toes or accidentally bumped into his boot while Charley Bates stumbled against him from behind; and in that split second, they snatched his snuff-box, wallet, watch-chain, shirt-pin, pocket handkerchief, and even his glasses case with incredible speed. If the old gentleman felt a hand in any of his pockets, he would shout where it was, and then the game would start all over again.
When this game had been played a great many times, a couple of young ladies called to see the young gentleman; one of whom was named Bet, and the other Nancy. They wore a good deal of hair, not very neatly turned up behind, and were rather untidy about the shoes and stockings. They were not exactly pretty, perhaps; but they had a great deal of colour in their faces, and looked quite stout and hearty. Being remarkably free and agreeable in their manners, Oliver thought them very nice girls indeed. As there is no doubt they were.
When this game had been played many times, two young women came to visit the young man; one was named Bet, and the other Nancy. They had a lot of hair, not very neatly styled in the back, and they were somewhat careless about their shoes and stockings. They weren't exactly beautiful, perhaps, but they had a lot of color in their faces and looked quite healthy and sturdy. Being very friendly and easygoing, Oliver thought they were really nice girls. And there's no doubt they were.
The visitors stopped a long time. Spirits were produced, in consequence of one of the young ladies complaining of a coldness in her inside; and the conversation took a very convivial and improving turn. At length, Charley Bates expressed his opinion that it was time to pad the hoof. This, it occurred to Oliver, must be French for going out; for directly afterwards, the Dodger, and Charley, and the two young ladies, went away together, having been kindly furnished by the amiable old Jew with money to spend.
The visitors stayed for quite a while. They had some drinks because one of the young ladies mentioned feeling a chill inside her. The conversation became lively and enjoyable. Eventually, Charley Bates said it was time to hit the road. Oliver thought this must be French for going out; soon after, the Dodger, Charley, and the two young ladies left together, having been generously given money to spend by the nice old Jew.
‘There, my dear,’ said Fagin. ‘That’s a pleasant life, isn’t it? They have gone out for the day.’
‘There, my dear,’ said Fagin. ‘That’s a nice life, isn’t it? They’ve gone out for the day.’
‘Have they done work, sir?’ inquired Oliver.
'Have they finished the work, sir?' Oliver asked.
‘Yes,’ said the Jew; ‘that is, unless they should unexpectedly come across any, when they are out; and they won’t neglect it, if they do, my dear, depend upon it. Make ‘em your models, my dear. Make ‘em your models,’ tapping the fire-shovel on the hearth to add force to his words; ‘do everything they bid you, and take their advice in all matters—especially the Dodger’s, my dear. He’ll be a great man himself, and will make you one too, if you take pattern by him.—Is my handkerchief hanging out of my pocket, my dear?’ said the Jew, stopping short.
‘Yes,’ said the Jew; ‘unless they unexpectedly come across any while they're out. And if they do, they won’t ignore it, trust me, my dear. Make them your role models, my dear. Make them your role models,’ he said, tapping the fire-shovel on the hearth to emphasize his point; ‘do everything they tell you to, and follow their advice in all matters—especially the Dodger’s, my dear. He’s going to be a big deal someday, and he’ll help make you one too if you follow his lead.—Is my handkerchief hanging out of my pocket, my dear?’ said the Jew, suddenly stopping.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Oliver.
"Yes, sir," Oliver replied.
‘See if you can take it out, without my feeling it; as you saw them do, when we were at play this morning.’
‘See if you can get it out without me noticing, like you saw them do when we were playing this morning.’
Oliver held up the bottom of the pocket with one hand, as he had seen the Dodger hold it, and drew the handkerchief lightly out of it with the other.
Oliver lifted the bottom of the pocket with one hand, just like he had seen the Dodger do, and gently pulled the handkerchief out with the other.
‘Is it gone?’ cried the Jew.
‘Is it gone?’ the Jew shouted.
‘Here it is, sir,’ said Oliver, showing it in his hand.
‘Here it is, sir,’ Oliver said, holding it in his hand.
‘You’re a clever boy, my dear,’ said the playful old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head approvingly. ‘I never saw a sharper lad. Here’s a shilling for you. If you go on, in this way, you’ll be the greatest man of the time. And now come here, and I’ll show you how to take the marks out of the handkerchiefs.’
‘You’re a smart kid, my dear,’ said the playful old man, giving Oliver an approving pat on the head. ‘I’ve never seen a sharper boy. Here’s a shilling for you. If you keep this up, you’ll be the greatest person of your time. Now come here, and I’ll show you how to get the stains out of the handkerchiefs.’
Oliver wondered what picking the old gentleman’s pocket in play, had to do with his chances of being a great man. But, thinking that the Jew, being so much his senior, must know best, he followed him quietly to the table, and was soon deeply involved in his new study.
Oliver wondered what picking the old gentleman’s pocket during a game had to do with his chances of becoming a great man. But, thinking that the Jew, being much older, must know better, he quietly followed him to the table and quickly got absorbed in his new study.
CHAPTER X — OLIVER BECOMES BETTER ACQUAINTED WITH THE CHARACTERS OF HIS NEW ASSOCIATES; AND PURCHASES EXPERIENCE AT A HIGH PRICE. BEING A SHORT, BUT VERY IMPORTANT CHAPTER, IN THIS HISTORY
For many days, Oliver remained in the Jew’s room, picking the marks out of the pocket-handkerchief, (of which a great number were brought home,) and sometimes taking part in the game already described: which the two boys and the Jew played, regularly, every morning. At length, he began to languish for fresh air, and took many occasions of earnestly entreating the old gentleman to allow him to go out to work with his two companions.
For many days, Oliver stayed in the Jew’s room, picking the marks out of the pocket-handkerchief, (which a lot of them brought home,) and sometimes joining the game already mentioned: that the two boys and the Jew played every morning without fail. Eventually, he started to yearn for fresh air and often begged the old man to let him go out to work with his two friends.
Oliver was rendered the more anxious to be actively employed, by what he had seen of the stern morality of the old gentleman’s character. Whenever the Dodger or Charley Bates came home at night, empty-handed, he would expatiate with great vehemence on the misery of idle and lazy habits; and would enforce upon them the necessity of an active life, by sending them supperless to bed. On one occasion, indeed, he even went so far as to knock them both down a flight of stairs; but this was carrying out his virtuous precepts to an unusual extent.
Oliver felt even more anxious to keep busy because of what he had seen of the old gentleman's strict sense of morality. Whenever the Dodger or Charley Bates came home at night without any money, he would passionately lecture them about the misery of being idle and lazy. He emphasized the importance of an active life by making them go to bed without dinner. On one occasion, he even went so far as to push them both down a flight of stairs; but that was taking his moral teachings a bit too far.
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.
Finally, one morning, Oliver got the permission he had been eagerly waiting for. There hadn't been any handkerchiefs to work on for two or three days, and the dinners had been pretty scarce. Maybe these were reasons for the old gentleman agreeing; but whether they were or not, he told Oliver he could go and put him under the joint care 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 three boys headed out; the Dodger with his coat sleeves rolled up and his hat tilted, as usual; Master Bates strolling with his hands in his pockets; and Oliver in between them, curious about where they were going and what kind of work he'd be taught first.
The pace at which they went, was such a very lazy, ill-looking saunter, that Oliver soon began to think his companions were going to deceive the old gentleman, by not going to work at all. The Dodger had a vicious propensity, too, of pulling the caps from the heads of small boys and tossing them down areas; while Charley Bates exhibited some very loose notions concerning the rights of property, by pilfering divers apples and onions from the stalls at the kennel sides, and thrusting them into pockets which were so surprisingly capacious, that they seemed to undermine his whole suit of clothes in every direction. These things looked so bad, that Oliver was on the point of declaring his intention of seeking his way back, in the best way he could; when his thoughts were suddenly directed into another channel, by a very mysterious change of behaviour on the part of the Dodger.
The way they were moving was such a lazy, sketchy stroll that Oliver quickly started to think his friends were planning to trick the old man by not working at all. The Dodger had a nasty habit of snatching caps off little boys' heads and tossing them down into the areas, while Charley Bates had some pretty loose ideas about property rights, stealing various apples and onions from the stalls by the kennel and stuffing them into pockets that were so surprisingly big they seemed to be putting his whole outfit at risk. These behaviors looked so bad that Oliver was about to say he’d make his way back however he could when he suddenly noticed a strange change in the Dodger’s behavior.
They were just emerging from a narrow court not far from the open square in Clerkenwell, which is yet called, by some strange perversion of terms, ‘The Green’: when the Dodger made a sudden stop; and, laying his finger on his lip, drew his companions back again, with the greatest caution and circumspection.
They were just coming out of a narrow alley close to the open square in Clerkenwell, which is still oddly referred to as ‘The Green’: when the Dodger suddenly stopped; and, putting his finger to his lips, pulled his friends back again, being extremely careful and watchful.
‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Oliver.
"What's wrong?" demanded Oliver.
‘Hush!’ replied the Dodger. ‘Do you see that old cove at the book-stall?’
‘Quiet!’ replied the Dodger. ‘Do you see that old guy at the bookstand?’
‘The old gentleman over the way?’ said Oliver. ‘Yes, I see him.’
‘Is that the old guy across the street?’ asked Oliver. ‘Yeah, I see him.’
‘He’ll do,’ said the Dodger.
"He's good enough," said the Dodger.
‘A prime plant,’ observed Master Charley Bates.
“A prime plant,” noted Master Charley Bates.
Oliver looked from one to the other, with the greatest surprise; but he was not permitted to make any inquiries; for the two boys walked stealthily across the road, and slunk close behind the old gentleman towards whom his attention had been directed. Oliver walked a few paces after them; and, not knowing whether to advance or retire, stood looking on in silent amazement.
Oliver looked from one to the other, completely surprised; but he wasn’t allowed to ask any questions because the two boys quietly crossed the road and crept up behind the old gentleman he had been watching. Oliver took a few steps after them, not sure whether to go forward or back, and stood there in silent amazement.
The old gentleman was a very respectable-looking personage, with a powdered head and gold spectacles. He was dressed in a bottle-green coat with a black velvet collar; wore white trousers; and carried a smart bamboo cane under his arm. He had taken up a book from the stall, and there he stood, reading away, as hard as if he were in his elbow-chair, in his own study. It is very possible that he fancied himself there, indeed; for it was plain, from his abstraction, that he saw not the book-stall, nor the street, nor the boys, nor, in short, anything but the book itself: which he was reading straight through: turning over the leaf when he got to the bottom of a page, beginning at the top line of the next one, and going regularly on, with the greatest interest and eagerness.
The old man looked very respectable, with a powdered wig and gold glasses. He wore a dark green coat with a black velvet collar, white trousers, and carried a stylish bamboo cane under his arm. He had picked up a book from the stall and stood there, completely absorbed in reading, as if he were in his armchair at home. It's very possible that he thought he was there, too; because it was clear from his focus that he was oblivious to the bookstall, the street, the boys, or really anything other than the book in front of him: he was reading it cover to cover, turning the page when he reached the bottom, starting at the top line of the next page, and continuing on with great interest and eagerness.
Original
What was Oliver’s horror and alarm as he stood a few paces off, looking on with his eyelids as wide open as they would possibly go, to see the Dodger plunge his hand into the old gentleman’s pocket, and draw from thence a handkerchief! To see him hand the same to Charley Bates; and finally to behold them, both running away round the corner at full speed!
What was Oliver's shock and fear as he stood a few steps away, staring with his eyes as wide open as they could go, to watch the Dodger stick his hand into the old man's pocket and pull out a handkerchief! To see him hand it to Charley Bates; and finally to watch them both sprint away around the corner at full speed!
In an instant the whole mystery of the hankerchiefs, and the watches, and the jewels, and the Jew, rushed upon the boy’s mind.
In a flash, the entire mystery of the handkerchiefs, the watches, the jewels, and the Jew flooded the boy's mind.
He stood, for a moment, with the blood so tingling through all his veins from terror, that he felt as if he were in a burning fire; then, confused and frightened, he took to his heels; and, not knowing what he did, made off as fast as he could lay his feet to the ground.
He stood there for a moment, his blood racing with terror, making him feel like he was in a burning fire; then, confused and scared, he took off running, not knowing where he was going, moving as fast as his legs could carry him.
This was all done in a minute’s space. In the very instant when Oliver began to run, the old gentleman, putting his hand to his pocket, and missing his handkerchief, turned sharp round. Seeing the boy scudding away at such a rapid pace, he very naturally concluded him to be the depredator; and shouting ‘Stop thief!’ with all his might, made off after him, book in hand.
This all happened in a minute. The moment Oliver started to run, the old gentleman, reaching into his pocket and realizing his handkerchief was gone, turned around quickly. Seeing the boy sprinting away so fast, he naturally assumed he was the thief and yelled, "Stop thief!" at the top of his lungs, chasing after him with his 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.
But the old man wasn't the only one shouting for help. The Dodger and Master Bates, not wanting to draw public attention by running down the street, had simply stepped into the nearest doorway around the corner. As soon as they heard the shout and saw Oliver running, they quickly figured out what was going on and rushed out; joining in the chase like decent citizens, they shouted "Stop thief!" too.
Although Oliver had been brought up by philosophers, he was not theoretically acquainted with the beautiful axiom that self-preservation is the first law of nature. If he had been, perhaps he would have been prepared for this. Not being prepared, however, it alarmed him the more; so away he went like the wind, with the old gentleman and the two boys roaring and shouting behind him.
Although Oliver had been raised by thinkers, he wasn't really aware of the idea that self-preservation is the most basic law of nature. If he had known this, maybe he would have been ready for it. But since he wasn't prepared, it scared him even more; so off he ran like the wind, with the old man and the two boys yelling and shouting after him.
‘Stop thief! Stop thief!’ There is a magic in the sound. The tradesman leaves his counter, and the car-man his waggon; the butcher throws down his tray; the baker his basket; the milkman his pail; the errand-boy his parcels; the school-boy his marbles; the paviour his pickaxe; the child his battledore. Away they run, pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash: tearing, yelling, screaming, knocking down the passengers as they turn the corners, rousing up the dogs, and astonishing the fowls: and streets, squares, and courts, re-echo with the sound.
‘Stop thief! Stop thief!’ There’s something magical about that cry. The shopkeeper leaves his counter, and the delivery driver jumps off his wagon; the butcher drops his tray; the baker his basket; the milkman his pail; the errand boy his packages; the schoolboy his marbles; the road worker his pickaxe; the child his shuttlecock. They all dash away, rushing and tumbling, creating chaos: running, shouting, screaming, knocking over pedestrians as they turn corners, stirring up dogs, and startling the birds: and the streets, squares, and alleyways echo with the commotion.
‘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!’ The shout is echoed by a hundred voices, and the crowd grows at every corner. They dash away, splashing through the mud, and clattering along the sidewalks: windows fly open, people rush out, and the mob pushes forward. A whole audience abandons Punch right in the middle of the action, and, joining the rushing crowd, adds to the noise, giving new energy to the shout, ‘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 eyes; large drops of perspiration streaming down his face; strains every nerve to make head upon his pursuers; and as they follow on his track, and gain upon him every instant, they hail his decreasing strength with joy. ‘Stop thief!’ Ay, stop him for God’s sake, were it only in mercy!
‘Stop thief! Stop thief!’ There’s a deep instinct in people for hunting something. One desperate, breathless child, panting with exhaustion; fear in his eyes; agony on his face; large beads of sweat rolling down; pushes himself to outpace his pursuers. As they close in on him bit by bit, they celebrate his dwindling strength. ‘Stop thief!’ Yes, stop him for God’s sake, even if it’s just to give him mercy!
Stopped at last! A clever blow. He is down upon the pavement; and the crowd eagerly gather round him: each new comer, jostling and struggling with the others to catch a glimpse. ‘Stand aside!’ ‘Give him a little air!’ ‘Nonsense! he don’t deserve it.’ ‘Where’s the gentleman?’ ‘Here his is, coming down the street.’ ‘Make room there for the gentleman!’ ‘Is this the boy, sir!’ ‘Yes.’
Stopped at last! A smart hit. He’s on the ground; and the crowd eagerly gathers around him: each newcomer pushing and shoving to get a better look. ‘Step back!’ ‘Give him some space!’ ‘Come on! He doesn’t deserve it.’ ‘Where’s the gentleman?’ ‘Here he comes, walking down the street.’ ‘Make way for the gentleman!’ ‘Is this the boy, sir?’ ‘Yes.’
Oliver lay, covered with mud and dust, and bleeding from the mouth, looking wildly round upon the heap of faces that surrounded him, when the old gentleman was officiously dragged and pushed into the circle by the foremost of the pursuers.
Oliver lay there, covered in mud and dust, bleeding from his mouth, looking around frantically at the crowd of faces surrounding him, when the old gentleman was forcefully pulled into the circle by the leading pursuer.
‘Yes,’ said the gentleman, ‘I am afraid it is the boy.’
‘Yes,’ said the man, ‘I’m afraid it’s the boy.’
‘Afraid!’ murmured the crowd. ‘That’s a good ‘un!’
‘Afraid!’ the crowd whispered. ‘That’s a good one!’
‘Poor fellow!’ said the gentleman, ‘he has hurt himself.’
‘Poor guy!’ said the gentleman, ‘he’s hurt himself.’
‘I did that, sir,’ said a great lubberly fellow, stepping forward; ‘and preciously I cut my knuckle agin’ his mouth. I stopped him, sir.’
‘I did that, sir,’ said a big, clumsy guy, stepping forward; ‘and I really scraped my knuckle on 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 dislike, look anxiously round, as if he contemplated running away himself: which it is very possible he might have attempted to do, and thus have afforded another chase, had not a police officer (who is generally the last person to arrive in such cases) at that moment made his way through the crowd, and seized Oliver by the collar.
The guy tipped his hat with a grin, hoping to get something for his trouble; however, the old man, looking at him with a look of disdain, glanced around nervously, as if he was thinking about running away himself. It's entirely possible he might have tried to do just that, leading to yet another chase, if a police officer (who’s usually the last to show up in these situations) hadn’t just then pushed his way through the crowd and grabbed Oliver by the collar.
‘Come, get up,’ said the man, roughly.
‘Come on, get up,’ the man said gruffly.
‘It wasn’t me indeed, sir. Indeed, indeed, it was two other boys,’ said Oliver, clasping his hands passionately, and looking round. ‘They are here somewhere.’
‘It really wasn’t me, sir. Honestly, it was two other boys,’ said Oliver, clasping his hands fervently and looking around. ‘They’re here somewhere.’
‘Oh no, they ain’t,’ said the officer. He meant this to be ironical, but it was true besides; for the Dodger and Charley Bates had filed off down the first convenient court they came to.
‘Oh no, they aren’t,’ said the officer. He meant this to be ironic, but it was true too; for the Dodger and Charley Bates had slipped down the first convenient alley they found.
‘Come, get up!’
"Hey, get up!"
‘Don’t hurt him,’ said the old gentleman, compassionately.
‘Don’t hurt him,’ said the old man, sympathetically.
‘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?’
‘Oh no, I won’t hurt him,’ said the officer, ripping his jacket halfway off his back to prove it. ‘Come on, I know you; this won’t work. Are you going to stand on your own two feet, you little troublemaker?’
Oliver, who could hardly stand, made a shift to raise himself on his feet, and was at once lugged along the streets by the jacket-collar, at a rapid pace. The gentleman walked on with them by the officer’s side; and as many of the crowd as could achieve the feat, got a little ahead, and stared back at Oliver from time to time. The boys shouted in triumph; and on they went.
Oliver, who could barely stand, made an effort to get to his feet and was immediately dragged through the streets by the collar of his jacket at a fast pace. The gentleman walked alongside them with the officer, and many people in the crowd who could manage it moved ahead a bit, glancing back at Oliver every now and then. The boys cheered with excitement, and off they went.
CHAPTER XI — TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE; AND FURNISHES A SLIGHT SPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE
The offence had been committed within the district, and indeed in the immediate neighborhood of, a very notorious metropolitan police office. The crowd had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two or three streets, and down a place called Mutton Hill, when he was led beneath a low archway, and up a dirty court, into this dispensary of summary justice, by the back way. It was a small paved yard into which they turned; and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of whiskers on his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand.
The crime had happened in the area, and actually right near a well-known police station. The crowd only had the chance to follow Oliver for a couple of streets and down a spot called Mutton Hill before he was taken through a low archway, up a filthy alley, and into this makeshift justice center through the back entrance. They entered a small paved yard where they ran into a heavyset man with a bushy mustache and a bunch of keys in his hand.
‘What’s the matter now?’ said the man carelessly.
‘What’s going on now?’ said the man casually.
‘A young fogle-hunter,’ replied the man who had Oliver in charge.
‘A young fogle-hunter,’ replied the man who was in charge of Oliver.
‘Are you the party that’s been robbed, sir?’ inquired the man with the keys.
“Are you the one who got robbed, sir?” asked the man with the keys.
‘Yes, I am,’ replied the old gentleman; ‘but I am not sure that this boy actually took the handkerchief. I—I would rather not press the case.’
‘Yes, I am,’ replied the old gentleman; ‘but I’m not certain that this boy actually took the handkerchief. I—I would prefer not to pursue the case.’
‘Must go before the magistrate now, sir,’ replied the man. ‘His worship will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows!’
‘We've got to see the magistrate now, sir,’ the man replied. ‘He'll be free in half a minute. Now, young troublemaker!’
This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was searched; and nothing being found upon him, locked up.
This was an invitation for Oliver to go through a door that he unlocked as he spoke, which led into a stone cell. He was searched here; and since nothing was found on him, he was locked up.
This cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar, only not so light. It was most intolerably dirty; for it was Monday morning; and it had been tenanted by six drunken people, who had been locked up, elsewhere, since Saturday night. But this is little. In our station-houses, men and women are every night confined on the most trivial charges—the word is worth noting—in dungeons, compared with which, those in Newgate, occupied by the most atrocious felons, tried, found guilty, and under sentence of death, are palaces. Let any one who doubts this, compare the two.
This cell was roughly the size and shape of a basement, but it was much dimmer. It was extremely filthy because it was Monday morning, and it had been occupied by six drunk people who had been locked up somewhere else since Saturday night. But that's not the main point. In our jails, both men and women are held every night on the most minor charges—the term is worth noting—in conditions that make those at Newgate, where the most dangerous criminals are held, look like luxury accommodations. Anyone who doubts this should compare the two.
The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key grated in the lock. He turned with a sigh to the book, which had been the innocent cause of all this disturbance.
The old man looked nearly as regretful as Oliver when the key scraped in the lock. He sighed and turned to the book, which had been the unwitting cause of all this chaos.
‘There is something in that boy’s face,’ said the old gentleman to himself as he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the cover of the book, in a thoughtful manner; ‘something that touches and interests me. Can he be innocent? He looked like—Bye the bye,’ exclaimed the old gentleman, halting very abruptly, and staring up into the sky, ‘Bless my soul!—where have I seen something like that look before?’
‘There’s something about that boy’s face,’ the old gentleman thought to himself as he walked away slowly, tapping his chin with the book cover in a reflective way; ‘something that really moves and intrigues me. Could he be innocent? He seemed like—Oh, wait,’ the old gentleman suddenly stopped, staring up at the sky, ‘Goodness!—where have I seen that look before?’
After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked, with the same meditative face, into a back anteroom opening from the yard; and there, retiring into a corner, called up before his mind’s eye a vast amphitheatre of faces over which a dusky curtain had hung for many years. ‘No,’ said the old gentleman, shaking his head; ‘it must be imagination.
After thinking for a few minutes, the old gentleman walked, with the same thoughtful expression, into a back room that opened from the yard; and there, retreating into a corner, he conjured up a vast amphitheater of faces that had been hidden behind a dark curtain for many years. ‘No,’ the old gentleman said, shaking his head; ‘it must be my imagination.
He wandered over them again. He had called them into view, and it was not easy to replace the shroud that had so long concealed them. There were the faces of friends, and foes, and of many that had been almost strangers peering intrusively from the crowd; there were the faces of young and blooming girls that were now old women; there were faces that the grave had changed and closed upon, but which the mind, superior to its power, still dressed in their old freshness and beauty, calling back the lustre of the eyes, the brightness of the smile, the beaming of the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering of beauty beyond the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from earth only to be set up as a light, to shed a soft and gentle glow upon the path to Heaven.
He wandered over them again. He had brought them into view, and it wasn’t easy to lift the veil that had concealed them for so long. There were the faces of friends and enemies, and many who had been nearly strangers, peering curiously from the crowd; there were the faces of young, vibrant girls who were now old women; there were faces that death had altered and taken, yet the mind, stronger than its limits, still dressed them in their former freshness and beauty, recalling the shine in their eyes, the warmth of their smiles, the glow of their spirits behind their earthly masks, and hinting at a beauty that exists beyond the grave, transformed only to be elevated, removed from the earth only to be set as a light, casting a soft and gentle radiance on the journey to Heaven.
But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver’s features bore a trace. So, he heaved a sigh over the recollections he awakened; and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman, buried them again in the pages of the musty book.
But the old man couldn't remember anyone whose face looked like Oliver's. So, he sighed over the memories that came to mind; and being, fortunately for him, a somewhat forgetful old man, he buried them again in the pages of the dusty book.
He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the man with the keys to follow him into the office. He closed his book hastily; and was at once ushered into the imposing presence of the renowned Mr. Fang.
He was awakened by a touch on his shoulder and a request from the guy with the keys to follow him into the office. He quickly closed his book and was immediately led into the impressive presence of the famous Mr. Fang.
The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr. Fang sat behind a bar, at the upper end; and on one side the door was a sort of wooden pen in which poor little Oliver was already deposited; trembling very much at the awfulness of the scene.
The office was a front parlor, with a paneled wall. Mr. Fang sat behind a bar at the upper end, and on one side of the door was a wooden pen where poor little Oliver was already placed, trembling a lot at the terrifying situation.
Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with no great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and sides of his head. His face was stern, and much flushed. If he were really not in the habit of drinking rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy damages.
Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, average-sized guy, with very little hair, and what he had was growing on the back and sides of his head. His face was serious and often flushed. If he weren’t in the habit of drinking more than was good for him, he could have sued his face for defamation and probably won a hefty settlement.
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.
The elderly gentleman bowed politely and approached the magistrate’s desk, saying, as he pointed to the paper, “That’s my name and address, sir.” He then stepped back a couple of paces and, with another courteous nod of his 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.
Now, it just so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment reading a leading article in a morning newspaper, talking about a recent decision he made, and praising him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special attention of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was in a bad mood, and he looked up with an angry glare.
‘Who are you?’ said Mr. Fang.
‘Who are you?’ Mr. Fang asked.
The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.
The old man pointed to his card, looking somewhat surprised.
‘Officer!’ said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper. ‘Who is this fellow?’
‘Officer!’ said Mr. Fang, throwing the card dismissively aside with the newspaper. ‘Who is this guy?’
‘My name, sir,’ said the old gentleman, speaking like a gentleman, ‘my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable person, under the protection of the bench.’ Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information.
‘My name, sir,’ said the old gentleman, speaking like a gentleman, ‘my name, sir, is Brownlow. May I ask the name of the magistrate who is giving a free and unwarranted insult to a respectable person, while under the protection of the bench?’ Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if searching for someone who could provide him with the needed information.
‘Officer!’ said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, ‘what’s this fellow charged with?’
‘Officer!’ Mr. Fang said, tossing the paper aside, ‘what's this guy being charged with?’
‘He’s not charged at all, your worship,’ replied the officer. ‘He appears against this boy, your worship.’
'He's not being charged at all, your honor,' replied the officer. 'He's testifying against this boy, your honor.'
His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe one.
His worship knew this very well; but it was a mild annoyance, and a harmless one.
‘Appears against the boy, does he?’ said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. ‘Swear him!’
‘So he’s standing against the boy, is he?’ said Mr. Fang, looking down at Mr. Brownlow with contempt from head to toe. ‘Have him swear an oath!’
‘Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word,’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘and that is, that I really never, without actual experience, could have believed—’
‘Before I take an oath, I need to say something,’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘and that is, that I truly never, without firsthand experience, could have believed—’
‘Hold your tongue, sir!’ said Mr. Fang, peremptorily.
“Keep quiet, sir!” Mr. Fang said authoritatively.
‘I will not, sir!’ replied the old gentleman.
‘I will not, sir!’ replied the old man.
‘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!’
‘Shut your mouth right now, or I’ll have you kicked out of the office!’ said Mr. Fang. ‘You’re a rude, disrespectful person. How dare you intimidate a magistrate!’
‘What!’ exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.
‘What!’ the old gentleman exclaimed, his face flushing.
‘Swear this person!’ said Fang to the clerk. ‘I’ll not hear another word. Swear him.’
‘Swear this person in!’ Fang said to the clerk. ‘I don’t want to hear another word. Just swear him in.’
Mr. Brownlow’s indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting perhaps, that he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed his feelings and submitted to be sworn at once.
Mr. Brownlow was really upset; but thinking that he might just hurt the boy by showing it, he held back his emotions and agreed to be sworn in right away.
‘Now,’ said Fang, ‘what’s the charge against this boy? What have you got to say, sir?’
‘Now,’ said Fang, ‘what’s the accusation against this kid? What do you have to say, sir?’
‘I was standing at a bookstall—’ Mr. Brownlow began.
'I was standing at a bookstall—' Mr. Brownlow began.
‘Hold your tongue, sir,’ said Mr. Fang. ‘Policeman! Where’s the policeman? Here, swear this policeman. Now, policeman, what is this?’
‘Shut your mouth, sir,’ said Mr. Fang. ‘Officer! Where’s the officer? Here, have this officer swear in. Now, officer, what’s going on here?’
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.
The police officer, in a humble manner, explained how he had taken control of the situation; how he had searched Oliver and found nothing on him; and how that was all the information he had.
‘Are there any witnesses?’ inquired Mr. Fang.
“Are there any witnesses?” Mr. Fang asked.
‘None, your worship,’ replied the policeman.
‘None, your honor,’ replied the police officer.
Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the prosecutor, said in a towering passion.
Mr. Fang sat quietly for a few minutes, and then, turning to the prosecutor, spoke in a furious tone.
‘Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, man, or do you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing to give evidence, I’ll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will, by—’
‘Are you going to say what your complaint against this boy is, or not? You’ve been sworn in. If you just stand there, refusing to give evidence, I’ll punish you for disrespecting the court; I will, by—’
By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailor coughed very loud, just at the right moment; and the former dropped a heavy book upon the floor, thus preventing the word from being heard—accidently, of course.
By what, or by whom, nobody knows, because the clerk and jailer coughed really loudly right at that moment; and the clerk dropped a heavy book on the floor, making sure the word wasn’t heard—just an accident, of course.
With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived to state his case; observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he had run after the boy because he had saw him running away; and expressing his hope that, if the magistrate should believe him, although not actually the thief, to be connected with the thieves, he would deal as leniently with him as justice would allow.
With numerous interruptions and constant insults, Mr. Brownlow managed to explain his situation; he noted that, in the heat of the moment, he chased after the boy because he had seen him running away; and he expressed his hope that, if the magistrate believed him, even if he wasn't actually the thief but was associated with the thieves, he would be treated as leniently as justice would permit.
‘He has been hurt already,’ said the old gentleman in conclusion. ‘And I fear,’ he added, with great energy, looking towards the bar, ‘I really fear that he is ill.’
‘He has been hurt already,’ said the old gentleman in conclusion. ‘And I fear,’ he added, with great intensity, looking towards the bar, ‘I really fear that he is unwell.’
‘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?’
‘Oh! yes, I bet!’ said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. ‘Come on, no tricks here, you young troublemaker; they won’t work. 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.
Oliver tried to respond, but he couldn't find the words. He was extremely pale, and the entire room felt like it was spinning.
‘What’s your name, you hardened scoundrel?’ demanded Mr. Fang. ‘Officer, what’s his name?’
‘What’s your name, you tough scoundrel?’ asked Mr. Fang. ‘Officer, what’s his name?’
This was addressed to a bluff old fellow, in a striped waistcoat, who was standing by the bar. He bent over Oliver, and repeated the inquiry; but finding him really incapable of understanding the question; and knowing that his not replying would only infuriate the magistrate the more, and add to the severity of his sentence; he hazarded a guess.
This was directed at a gruff old man in a striped waistcoat, who was standing by the bar. He leaned over Oliver and asked the question again; but seeing that Oliver truly couldn't grasp what was being asked, and realizing that his silence would only make the magistrate angrier and lead to a harsher sentence, he took a chance and guessed.
‘He says his name’s Tom White, your worship,’ said the kind-hearted thief-taker.
‘He says his name’s Tom White, your honor,’ said the kind-hearted thief-taker.
‘Oh, he won’t speak out, won’t he?’ said Fang. ‘Very well, very well. Where does he live?’
‘Oh, he won’t speak up, will he?’ said Fang. ‘Alright, alright. Where does he live?’
‘Where he can, your worship,’ replied the officer; again pretending to receive Oliver’s answer.
‘Where he can, your worship,’ replied the officer, again pretending to receive Oliver’s answer.
‘Has he any parents?’ inquired Mr. Fang.
“Does he have any parents?” Mr. Fang asked.
‘He says they died in his infancy, your worship,’ replied the officer: hazarding the usual reply.
‘He says they died when he was a baby, your honor,’ replied the officer, taking a guess at the usual response.
At this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head; and, looking round with imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of water.
At this point in the investigation, Oliver lifted his head and, glancing around with pleading eyes, whispered a faint request for a drink of water.
‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said Mr. Fang: ‘don’t try to make a fool of me.’
“That's ridiculous!” said Mr. Fang. “Don’t try to play me for a fool.”
‘I think he really is ill, your worship,’ remonstrated the officer.
"I really think he is sick, your honor," the officer protested.
‘I know better,’ said Mr. Fang.
‘I know better,’ said Mr. Fang.
‘Take care of him, officer,’ said the old gentleman, raising his hands instinctively; ‘he’ll fall down.’
“Please look after him, officer,” said the elderly man, raising his hands instinctively; “he’s going to fall.”
‘Stand away, officer,’ cried Fang; ‘let him, if he likes.’
“Step back, officer,” yelled Fang; “let him, if he wants to.”
Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell to the floor in a fainting fit. The men in the office looked at each other, but no one dared to stir.
Oliver took advantage of the kind permission and collapsed on the floor in a faint. The men in the office exchanged glances, but no one dared to move.
‘I knew he was shamming,’ said Fang, as if this were incontestable proof of the fact. ‘Let him lie there; he’ll soon be tired of that.’
"I knew he was faking," Fang said, as if this were undeniable proof of the situation. "Let him lay there; he'll get bored of it soon enough."
‘How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?’ inquired the clerk in a low voice.
‘How do you plan to handle the case, sir?’ asked the clerk in a low voice.
‘Summarily,’ replied Mr. Fang. ‘He stands committed for three months—hard labour of course. Clear the office.’
‘In short,’ replied Mr. Fang. ‘He’s sentenced to three months—hard labor, of course. Clear out the office.’
The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were preparing to carry the insensible boy to his cell; when an elderly man of decent but poor appearance, clad in an old suit of black, rushed hastily into the office, and advanced towards the bench.
The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were getting ready to carry the unconscious boy to his cell; when an older man, looking respectable but poor, wearing an old black suit, hurried into the office and walked towards the bench.
‘Stop, stop! don’t take him away! For Heaven’s sake stop a moment!’ cried the new comer, breathless with haste.
‘Stop, stop! Don’t take him away! For Heaven’s sake, just pause for a moment!’ cried the newcomer, breathless from rushing.
Although the presiding Genii in such an office as this, exercise a summary and arbitrary power over the liberties, the good name, the character, almost the lives, of Her Majesty’s subjects, expecially of the poorer class; and although, within such walls, enough fantastic tricks are daily played to make the angels blind with weeping; they are closed to the public, save through the medium of the daily press.[Footnote: Or were virtually, then.] Mr. Fang was consequently not a little indignant to see an unbidden guest enter in such irreverent disorder.
Although the officials in a job like this hold a lot of unchecked power over the freedoms, reputation, character, and almost the lives of Her Majesty’s subjects, especially those who are less fortunate; and even though many bizarre things happen within these walls every day that would make angels cry, it’s not open to the public, except through the daily news. Mr. Fang was therefore quite upset to see an uninvited guest come in looking so disrespectful.
‘What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the office!’ cried Mr. Fang.
‘What is this? Who is this? Get this guy out of here. Clear the office!’ shouted Mr. Fang.
‘I will speak,’ cried the man; ‘I will not be turned out. I saw it all. I keep the book-stall. I demand to be sworn. I will not be put down. Mr. Fang, you must hear me. You must not refuse, sir.’
‘I will speak,’ shouted the man; ‘I won’t be thrown out. I saw everything. I run the bookstall. I demand to be sworn in. I will not be silenced. Mr. Fang, you need to listen to me. You cannot refuse, sir.’
The man was right. His manner was determined; and the matter was growing rather too serious to be hushed up.
The man was right. He was resolute, and the situation was becoming too serious to be ignored.
‘Swear the man,’ growled Mr. Fang, with a very ill grace. ‘Now, man, what have you got to say?’
‘Swear in the man,’ Mr. Fang said grumpily. ‘Now, what do you have to say?’
‘This,’ said the man: ‘I saw three boys: two others and the prisoner here: loitering on the opposite side of the way, when this gentleman was reading. The robbery was committed by another boy. I saw it done; and I saw that this boy was perfectly amazed and stupified by it.’ Having by this time recovered a little breath, the worthy book-stall keeper proceeded to relate, in a more coherent manner the exact circumstances of the robbery.
‘This,’ said the man, ‘I saw three boys: two others and the prisoner here, hanging out on the other side of the street while this gentleman was reading. The robbery was carried out by another boy. I saw it happen, and I could see that this boy was completely shocked and stunned by it.’ After catching his breath a bit, the kind book-stall keeper went on to explain, in a clearer way, the exact details of the robbery.
‘Why didn’t you come here before?’ said Fang, after a pause.
‘Why didn’t you come here earlier?’ said Fang, after a pause.
‘I hadn’t a soul to mind the shop,’ replied the man. ‘Everybody who could have helped me, had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobody till five minutes ago; and I’ve run here all the way.’
‘I didn’t have anyone to watch the shop,’ replied the man. ‘Everyone who could have helped me had gone off to join the search. I couldn’t find anyone until just five minutes ago; and I ran here the whole way.’
‘The prosecutor was reading, was he?’ inquired Fang, after another pause.
‘The prosecutor was reading, right?’ Fang asked after another pause.
‘Yes,’ replied the man. ‘The very book he has in his hand.’
‘Yes,’ replied the man. ‘The exact book he’s holding.’
‘Oh, that book, eh?’ said Fang. ‘Is it paid for?’
‘Oh, that book, huh?’ said Fang. ‘Is it paid for?’
‘No, it is not,’ replied the man, with a smile.
‘No, it’s not,’ replied the man, smiling.
‘Dear me, I forgot all about it!’ exclaimed the absent old gentleman, innocently.
“Wow, I totally forgot about it!” the distracted old gentleman exclaimed, obliviously.
‘A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!’ said Fang, with a comical effort to look humane. ‘I consider, sir, that you have obtained possession of that book, under very suspicious and disreputable circumstances; and you may think yourself very fortunate that the owner of the property declines to prosecute. Let this be a lesson to you, my man, or the law will overtake you yet. The boy is discharged. Clear the office!’
‘A nice person to press charges against a poor kid!’ said Fang, making a comical attempt to look sympathetic. ‘I believe, sir, that you acquired that book under very suspicious and shady circumstances; and you should consider yourself lucky that the owner of the property has decided not to take legal action. Let this be a lesson to you, my friend, or the law will catch up with you eventually. The boy is free to go. Clear the office!’
‘D—n me!’ cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had kept down so long, ‘d—n me! I’ll—’
‘Damn me!’ cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had kept down for so long, ‘damn me! I’ll—’
‘Clear the office!’ said the magistrate. ‘Officers, do you hear? Clear the office!’
‘Clear the office!’ said the judge. ‘Officers, do you hear me? Clear the office!’
The mandate was obeyed; and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was conveyed out, with the book in one hand, and the bamboo cane in the other: in a perfect phrenzy of rage and defiance. He reached the yard; and his passion vanished in a moment. Little Oliver Twist lay on his back on the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned, and his temples bathed with water; his face a deadly white; and a cold tremble convulsing his whole frame.
The order was followed; and the furious Mr. Brownlow was taken out, holding the book in one hand and the bamboo cane in the other, completely consumed by rage and defiance. He arrived in the yard, and his anger disappeared instantly. Little Oliver Twist was lying on his back on the pavement, his shirt unbuttoned, and his temples wet with water; his face was ghostly pale, and a cold shiver shook his entire body.
‘Poor boy, poor boy!’ said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. ‘Call a coach, somebody, pray. Directly!’
‘Poor kid, poor kid!’ said Mr. Brownlow, leaning over him. ‘Someone call a cab, please. Right now!’
A coach was obtained, and Oliver having been carefully laid on the seat, the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.
A coach was hired, and after Oliver was carefully laid on the seat, the old gentleman got in and sat on the other side.
‘May I accompany you?’ said the book-stall keeper, looking in.
‘Can I join you?’ asked the book-stall keeper, peering in.
‘Bless me, yes, my dear sir,’ said Mr. Brownlow quickly. ‘I forgot you. Dear, dear! I have this unhappy book still! Jump in. Poor fellow! There’s no time to lose.’
‘Bless me, yes, my dear sir,’ Mr. Brownlow said quickly. ‘I forgot about you. Dear me! I still have this unfortunate book! Get in. Poor guy! There’s no time to waste.’
The book-stall keeper got into the coach; and away they drove.
The bookstall owner got into the carriage, and they drove away.
CHAPTER XII — IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. AND IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE REVERTS TO THE MERRY OLD GENTLEMAN AND HIS YOUTHFUL FRIENDS.
The coach rattled away, over nearly the same ground as that which Oliver had traversed when he first entered London in company with the Dodger; and, turning a different way when it reached the Angel at Islington, stopped at length before a neat house, in a quiet shady street near Pentonville. Here, a bed was prepared, without loss of time, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his young charge carefully and comfortably deposited; and here, he was tended with a kindness and solicitude that knew no bounds.
The coach rolled away, going over almost the same route that Oliver had taken when he first arrived in London with the Dodger; and, taking a different turn when it reached the Angel at Islington, it finally stopped in front of a tidy house on a calm, shady street near Pentonville. Here, a bed was quickly made for him, where Mr. Brownlow made sure his young charge was placed carefully and comfortably; and here, he received kindness and care that was beyond measure.
But, for many days, Oliver remained insensible to all the goodness of his new friends. The sun rose and sank, and rose and sank again, and many times after that; and still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy bed, dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever. The worm does not work more surely on the dead body, than does this slow creeping fire upon the living frame.
But, for many days, Oliver was unaware of all the kindness from his new friends. The sun rose and set, and rose and set again, over and over; yet the boy lay stretched out on his uncomfortable bed, fading away under the dry and draining heat of fever. The way this slow creeping fire affects his living body is as certain as a worm's effect on a dead body.
Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to have been a long and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in the bed, with his head resting on his trembling arm, he looked anxiously around.
Weak, thin, and pale, he finally woke up from what felt like a long and troubled dream. Struggling to sit up in bed, with his head resting on his shaky arm, he looked around anxiously.
‘What room is this? Where have I been brought to?’ said Oliver. ‘This is not the place I went to sleep in.’
‘What room is this? Where am I?’ said Oliver. ‘This isn’t the place I went to sleep in.’
He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and weak; but they were overheard at once. The curtain at the bed’s head was hastily drawn back, and a motherly old lady, very neatly and precisely dressed, rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair close by, in which she had been sitting at needle-work.
He spoke these words in a weak voice, feeling very faint; but they were heard immediately. The curtain at the head of the bed was quickly drawn back, and a kind old lady, dressed very neatly and precisely, stood up from an armchair nearby, where she had been sitting and doing needlework.
‘Hush, my dear,’ said the old lady softly. ‘You must be very quiet, or you will be ill again; and you have been very bad,—as bad as bad could be, pretty nigh. Lie down again; there’s a dear!’ With those words, the old lady very gently placed Oliver’s head upon the pillow; and, smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and loving in his face, that he could not help placing his little withered hand in hers, and drawing it round his neck.
‘Hush, my dear,’ the old lady said gently. ‘You need to be very quiet, or you’ll get sick again; and you’ve been very poorly—almost as bad as it gets. Lie down again; that’s a good child!’ With that, the old lady carefully laid Oliver’s head back on the pillow; and, brushing his hair back from his forehead, she looked so kind and loving at him that he couldn’t help but place his small, fragile hand in hers and wrap it around his neck.
‘Save us!’ said the old lady, with tears in her eyes. ‘What a grateful little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel if she had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!’
“Save us!” said the old lady, tears in her eyes. “What a sweet little dear it is. Such a pretty creature! How would his mother feel if she had sat by him like I have and could see him now!”
‘Perhaps she does see me,’ whispered Oliver, folding his hands together; ‘perhaps she has sat by me. I almost feel as if she had.’
‘Maybe she does see me,’ whispered Oliver, folding his hands together; ‘maybe she has sat next to me. I almost feel like she has.’
‘That was the fever, my dear,’ said the old lady mildly.
"That was the fever, my dear," the old lady said gently.
‘I suppose it was,’ replied Oliver, ‘because heaven is a long way off; and they are too happy there, to come down to the bedside of a poor boy. But if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me, even there; for she was very ill herself before she died. She can’t know anything about me though,’ added Oliver after a moment’s silence. ‘If she had seen me hurt, it would have made her sorrowful; and her face has always looked sweet and happy, when I have dreamed of her.’
“I guess it was,” Oliver replied, “because heaven is far away; and they are too happy there to come down to the bedside of a poor boy. But if she knew I was sick, she must have felt sorry for me, even from there; since she was very ill herself before she passed away. She can’t know anything about me though,” Oliver added after a brief silence. “If she had seen me hurt, it would have made her sad; and her face has always looked sweet and happy whenever I dream about her.”
The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first, and her spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were part and parcel of those features, brought some cool stuff for Oliver to drink; and then, patting him on the cheek, told him he must lie very quiet, or he would be ill again.
The old lady didn’t respond to this; instead, she wiped her eyes first, and then her glasses, which rested on the bedspread, as if they were part of her face. She brought some cool drink for Oliver and then, patting him on the cheek, told him he needed to lie very still, or he would get sick again.
So, Oliver kept very still; partly because he was anxious to obey the kind old lady in all things; and partly, to tell the truth, because he was completely exhausted with what he had already said. He soon fell into a gentle doze, from which he was awakened by the light of a candle: which, being brought near the bed, showed him a gentleman with a very large and loud-ticking gold watch in his hand, who felt his pulse, and said he was a great deal better.
So, Oliver stayed perfectly still; partly because he wanted to follow the kind old lady’s instructions in everything, and partly, to be honest, because he was totally drained from what he had already said. He quickly drifted into a light sleep, from which he was stirred by the glow of a candle. When it was brought close to the bed, he saw a man holding a very large, loudly ticking gold watch, who took his pulse and said he was much better.
‘You are a great deal better, are you not, my dear?’ said the gentleman.
‘You are feeling a lot better, aren’t you, my dear?’ said the gentleman.
‘Yes, thank you, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘Yes, thank you, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘Yes, I know you are,’ said the gentleman: ‘You’re hungry too, an’t you?’
‘Yes, I know you are,’ said the gentleman. ‘You’re hungry too, aren’t you?’
‘No, sir,’ answered Oliver.
'No, sir,' replied Oliver.
‘Hem!’ said the gentleman. ‘No, I know you’re not. He is not hungry, Mrs. Bedwin,’ said the gentleman: looking very wise.
‘Ahem!’ said the gentleman. ‘No, I know you’re not. He isn’t hungry, Mrs. Bedwin,’ said the gentleman, looking very clever.
The old lady made a respectful inclination of the head, which seemed to say that she thought the doctor was a very clever man. The doctor appeared much of the same opinion himself.
The old lady nodded respectfully, which suggested that she believed the doctor was very smart. The doctor seemed to agree with her.
‘You feel sleepy, don’t you, my dear?’ said the doctor.
‘You feel sleepy, don’t you, my dear?’ said the doctor.
‘No, sir,’ replied Oliver.
'No, sir,' Oliver replied.
‘No,’ said the doctor, with a very shrewd and satisfied look. ‘You’re not sleepy. Nor thirsty. Are you?’
‘No,’ said the doctor, with a very clever and pleased expression. ‘You’re not sleepy. Nor thirsty. Are you?’
‘Yes, sir, rather thirsty,’ answered Oliver.
'Yes, sir, I'm quite thirsty,' Oliver replied.
‘Just as I expected, Mrs. Bedwin,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s very natural that he should be thirsty. You may give him a little tea, ma’am, and some dry toast without any butter. Don’t keep him too warm, ma’am; but be careful that you don’t let him be too cold; will you have the goodness?’
‘Just as I thought, Mrs. Bedwin,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s completely normal for him to be thirsty. You can give him a bit of tea, ma’am, and some dry toast without butter. Don’t make him too warm, ma’am; but make sure he doesn’t get too cold either; will you do me that favor?’
The old lady dropped a curtsey. The doctor, after tasting the cool stuff, and expressing a qualified approval of it, hurried away: his boots creaking in a very important and wealthy manner as he went downstairs.
The old lady curtsied. The doctor, after sampling the cool drink and giving it a nod of approval, quickly left; his boots creaking in a notably important and affluent way as he went down the stairs.
Oliver dozed off again, soon after this; when he awoke, it was nearly twelve o’clock. The old lady tenderly bade him good-night shortly afterwards, and left him in charge of a fat old woman who had just come: bringing with her, in a little bundle, a small Prayer Book and a large nightcap. Putting the latter on her head and the former on the table, the old woman, after telling Oliver that she had come to sit up with him, drew her chair close to the fire and went off into a series of short naps, chequered at frequent intervals with sundry tumblings forward, and divers moans and chokings. These, however, had no worse effect than causing her to rub her nose very hard, and then fall asleep again.
Oliver nodded off again shortly after; when he woke up, it was nearly midnight. The old lady gently said goodnight to him a bit later and left him in the care of a plump old woman who had just arrived, bringing with her a small Prayer Book and a large nightcap in a little bundle. After putting the nightcap on her head and placing the Prayer Book on the table, the old woman, after telling Oliver she was there to keep him company, pulled her chair close to the fire and drifted off into a series of brief naps, interrupted often by sudden tumbles forward and various groans and choking sounds. However, these only made her rub her nose vigorously before she fell asleep again.
And thus the night crept slowly on. Oliver lay awake for some time, counting the little circles of light which the reflection of the rushlight-shade threw upon the ceiling; or tracing with his languid eyes the intricate pattern of the paper on the wall. The darkness and the deep stillness of the room were very solemn; as they brought into the boy’s mind the thought that death had been hovering there, for many days and nights, and might yet fill it with the gloom and dread of his awful presence, he turned his face upon the pillow, and fervently prayed to Heaven.
And so the night slowly passed. Oliver lay awake for a while, counting the small circles of light cast on the ceiling by the reflection of the lampshade, or following the complex design of the wallpaper with his tired eyes. The darkness and deep silence of the room felt very serious; it made him think that death had been nearby for many days and nights and might still bring its dark and frightening presence into the room. He turned his face to the pillow and earnestly prayed to Heaven.
Gradually, he fell into that deep tranquil sleep which ease from recent suffering alone imparts; that calm and peaceful rest which it is pain to wake from. Who, if this were death, would be roused again to all the struggles and turmoils of life; to all its cares for the present; its anxieties for the future; more than all, its weary recollections of the past!
Gradually, he slipped into that deep, peaceful sleep that only comes from easing recent pain; that calm and restful state that is hard to wake from. Who, if this were death, would want to be brought back to all the struggles and chaos of life; to all its worries about the present; its anxieties for the future; and most of all, its tiring memories of the past!
It had been bright day, for hours, when Oliver opened his eyes; he felt cheerful and happy. The crisis of the disease was safely past. He belonged to the world again.
It had been a bright day for hours when Oliver opened his eyes; he felt cheerful and happy. The worst of the sickness was over. He was back in the world again.
In three days’ time he was able to sit in an easy-chair, well propped up with pillows; and, as he was still too weak to walk, Mrs. Bedwin had him carried downstairs into the little housekeeper’s room, which belonged to her. Having him set, here, by the fire-side, the good old lady sat herself down too; and, being in a state of considerable delight at seeing him so much better, forthwith began to cry most violently.
In three days, he was able to sit in a comfy chair, well supported by pillows; and, since he was still too weak to walk, Mrs. Bedwin had him carried downstairs into her small housekeeper's room. Once he was settled by the fire, the kind old lady sat down too; and being really happy to see him doing so much better, she immediately started crying tears of joy.
‘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.’
‘Never mind me, dear,’ said the old lady; ‘I’m just having a good cry. There; it’s all done now; and I feel fine.’
‘You’re very, very kind to me, ma’am,’ said Oliver.
"You're really, really kind to me, ma'am," said Oliver.
‘Well, never you mind that, my dear,’ said the old lady; ‘that’s got nothing to do with your broth; and it’s full time you had it; for the doctor says Mr. Brownlow may come in to see you this morning; and we must get up our best looks, because the better we look, the more he’ll be pleased.’ And with this, the old lady applied herself to warming up, in a little saucepan, a basin full of broth: strong enough, Oliver thought, to furnish an ample dinner, when reduced to the regulation strength, for three hundred and fifty paupers, at the lowest computation.
‘Well, don’t worry about that, my dear,’ said the old lady; ‘that’s got nothing to do with your soup; and it’s about time you had it; because the doctor says Mr. Brownlow might come to see you this morning; and we need to look our best, because the better we look, the happier he’ll be.’ With that, the old lady started warming up a bowl full of broth in a small saucepan: strong enough, Oliver thought, to make a decent meal, when diluted to the standard strength, for three hundred and fifty poor people, at the very least.
Original
‘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.
“Do you like pictures, dear?” asked the old lady, noticing that Oliver was staring intently at a portrait that was hanging on the wall directly across from 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!’
‘I’m not really sure, ma’am,’ said Oliver, keeping his gaze on the canvas; ‘I’ve seen so few that I hardly know. That lady has such a beautiful, gentle face!’
‘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.
‘Ah!’ said the old lady, ‘painters always make women look prettier than they really are, or they wouldn’t have any business, dear. The guy who invented the machine for taking pictures should have known that wouldn't catch on; it’s way too honest. A lot,’ said the old lady, laughing really hard at her own cleverness.
‘Is—is that a likeness, ma’am?’ said Oliver.
“Is—is that a picture, ma’am?” Oliver asked.
‘Yes,’ said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the broth; ‘that’s a portrait.’
‘Yes,’ said the old lady, glancing up from the broth for a moment; ‘that’s a portrait.’
‘Whose, ma’am?’ asked Oliver.
"Whose, ma'am?" Oliver asked.
‘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.’
‘Well, honestly, my dear, I’m not sure,’ replied the old lady with a cheerful tone. ‘It doesn’t look like anyone we know, I assume. But it seems to catch your eye, dear.’
‘It is so pretty,’ replied Oliver.
“It’s so pretty,” Oliver said.
‘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.
‘Why, are you really not afraid of it?’ said the old lady, noticing in great surprise the look of awe on the child's face as they stared at 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.’
‘Oh no, no,’ Oliver replied quickly; ‘but the eyes look so sad; and where I am sitting, they seem to be focused on me. It makes my heart race,’ Oliver added softly, ‘as if it were alive and wanted to talk to me, but couldn’t.’
‘Lord save us!’ exclaimed the old lady, starting; ‘don’t talk in that way, child. You’re weak and nervous after your illness. Let me wheel your chair round to the other side; and then you won’t see it. There!’ said the old lady, suiting the action to the word; ‘you don’t see it now, at all events.’
“Lord save us!” exclaimed the old lady, startled. “Don't talk like that, dear. You’re feeling weak and nervous after your illness. Let me move your chair to the other side; then you won’t have to see it. There!” said the old lady, doing exactly what she said; “You can’t see it now, at least.”
Oliver did see it in his mind’s eye as distinctly as if he had not altered his position; but he thought it better not to worry the kind old lady; so he smiled gently when she looked at him; and Mrs. Bedwin, satisfied that he felt more comfortable, salted and broke bits of toasted bread into the broth, with all the bustle befitting so solemn a preparation. Oliver got through it with extraordinary expedition. He had scarcely swallowed the last spoonful, when there came a soft rap at the door. ‘Come in,’ said the old lady; and in walked Mr. Brownlow.
Oliver did see it in his mind just as clearly as if he hadn’t changed his position; but he thought it would be better not to worry the kind old lady, so he smiled gently when she looked at him. Mrs. Bedwin, pleased that he seemed more comfortable, salted and broke pieces of toasted bread into the broth, bustling about as befits such an important preparation. Oliver finished it surprisingly quickly. He had barely swallowed the last spoonful when there was a soft knock at the door. “Come in,” said the old lady, and Mr. Brownlow walked in.
Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but, he had no sooner raised his spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his hands behind the skirts of his dressing-gown to take a good long look at Oliver, than his countenance underwent a very great variety of odd contortions. Oliver looked very worn and shadowy from sickness, and made an ineffectual attempt to stand up, out of respect to his benefactor, which terminated in his sinking back into the chair again; and the fact is, if the truth must be told, that Mr. Brownlow’s heart, being large enough for any six ordinary old gentlemen of humane disposition, forced a supply of tears into his eyes, by some hydraulic process which we are not sufficiently philosophical to be in a condition to explain.
Now, the old gentleman came in as lively as could be; but, as soon as he pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and tucked his hands behind his dressing gown to take a good look at Oliver, his face went through a lot of strange expressions. Oliver looked very frail and pale from being sick, and made a weak attempt to stand up out of respect for his benefactor, which ended with him sinking back into the chair again. To be honest, the truth is that Mr. Brownlow’s heart, being big enough for any six ordinary old gentlemen with a kind nature, produced tears in his eyes through some emotional process we can't quite 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.’
‘Poor boy, poor boy!’ Mr. Brownlow said, clearing his throat. ‘I’m feeling a bit hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I’m afraid I’ve caught a cold.’
‘I hope not, sir,’ said Mrs. Bedwin. ‘Everything you have had, has been well aired, sir.’
‘I hope not, sir,’ said Mrs. Bedwin. ‘Everything you’ve 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?’
‘I don’t know, Bedwin. I don’t know,’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘I think I had a damp napkin at dinner yesterday; but never mind that. How are you feeling, my dear?’
‘Very happy, sir,’ replied Oliver. ‘And very grateful indeed, sir, for your goodness to me.’
‘I'm very happy, sir,’ replied Oliver. ‘And I'm truly grateful for your kindness to me.’
‘Good by,’ said Mr. Brownlow, stoutly. ‘Have you given him any nourishment, Bedwin? Any slops, eh?’
“Goodbye,” said Mr. Brownlow firmly. “Have you given him any food, Bedwin? Any broth, huh?”
‘He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir,’ replied Mrs. Bedwin: drawing herself up slightly, and laying strong emphasis on the last word: to intimate that between slops, and broth will compounded, there existed no affinity or connection whatsoever.
‘He just had a bowl of really good, strong broth, sir,’ replied Mrs. Bedwin, sitting up a bit straighter and putting extra emphasis on the last word to indicate that there was no comparison or connection at all between slops and broth.
‘Ugh!’ said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder; ‘a couple of glasses of port wine would have done him a great deal more good. Wouldn’t they, Tom White, eh?’
‘Ugh!’ said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder; ‘a couple of glasses of port wine would have done him a lot more good. Wouldn’t they, Tom White, huh?’
‘My name is Oliver, sir,’ replied the little invalid: with a look of great astonishment.
‘My name is Oliver, sir,’ replied the little sick boy, looking very surprised.
‘Oliver,’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘Oliver what? Oliver White, eh?’
‘Oliver,’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘Oliver what? Oliver White, huh?’
‘No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist.’
‘No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist.’
‘Queer name!’ said the old gentleman. ‘What made you tell the magistrate your name was White?’
‘Weird name!’ said the old gentleman. ‘Why did you tell the magistrate your name was White?’
‘I never told him so, sir,’ returned Oliver in amazement.
‘I never told him that, sir,’ Oliver replied in astonishment.
This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked somewhat sternly in Oliver’s face. It was impossible to doubt him; there was truth in every one of its thin and sharpened lineaments.
This sounded so much like a lie that the old man looked somewhat sternly at Oliver's face. It was impossible to doubt him; there was truth in every one of its sharp, thin features.
‘Some mistake,’ said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive for looking steadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the resemblance between his features and some familiar face came upon him so strongly, that he could not withdraw his gaze.
“Some mistake,” Mr. Brownlow said. But even though he no longer had a reason to look intently at Oliver, the old thought that Oliver’s features resembled someone he knew became so overwhelming that he couldn’t look away.
‘I hope you are not angry with me, sir?’ said Oliver, raising his eyes beseechingly.
‘I hope you’re not mad at me, sir?’ said Oliver, looking up at him with pleading eyes.
‘No, no,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘Why! what’s this? Bedwin, look there!’
'No, no,' responded the old gentleman. 'What’s going on? Bedwin, take a look there!'
As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture over Oliver’s head, and then to the boy’s face. There was its living copy. The eyes, the head, the mouth; every feature was the same. The expression was, for the instant, so precisely alike, that the minutest line seemed copied with startling accuracy!
As he talked, he quickly pointed to the picture above Oliver’s head and then to the boy’s face. It was like looking at a living replica. The eyes, the head, the mouth—every feature matched perfectly. For a brief moment, the expression was so identical that even the tiniest details seemed replicated with shocking precision!
Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation; for, not being strong enough to bear the start it gave him, he fainted away. A weakness on his part, which affords the narrative an opportunity of relieving the reader from suspense, in behalf of the two young pupils of the Merry Old Gentleman; and of recording—
Oliver did not understand why this sudden shout happened; he was too weak to handle the shock and fainted. This weakness gives the story a chance to ease the reader's tension regarding the two young students of the Merry Old Gentleman and to note—
That when the Dodger, and his accomplished friend Master Bates, joined in the hue-and-cry which was raised at Oliver’s heels, in consequence of their executing an illegal conveyance of Mr. Brownlow’s personal property, as has been already described, they were actuated by a very laudable and becoming regard for themselves; and forasmuch as the freedom of the subject and the liberty of the individual are among the first and proudest boasts of a true-hearted Englishman, so, I need hardly beg the reader to observe, that this action should tend to exalt them in the opinion of all public and patriotic men, in almost as great a degree as this strong proof of their anxiety for their own preservation and safety goes to corroborate and confirm the little code of laws which certain profound and sound-judging philosophers have laid down as the main-springs of all Nature’s deeds and actions: the said philosophers very wisely reducing the good lady’s proceedings to matters of maxim and theory: and, by a very neat and pretty compliment to her exalted wisdom and understanding, putting entirely out of sight any considerations of heart, or generous impulse and feeling. For, these are matters totally beneath a female who is acknowledged by universal admission to be far above the numerous little foibles and weaknesses of her sex.
That when the Dodger and his skilled friend Master Bates joined in the commotion that erupted at Oliver’s heels due to their illegal theft of Mr. Brownlow’s belongings, as was previously mentioned, they were motivated by a commendable concern for their own well-being. And since the freedom of the individual and the rights of citizens are among the most cherished and proud claims of any true-hearted Englishman, I hardly need to point out to the reader that this action should elevate their status in the eyes of all public-spirited and patriotic individuals, just as much as this strong indication of their anxiety for their own safety and preservation supports and confirms the little code of laws that certain wise and sound-thinking philosophers have established as the main driving forces behind all of Nature's actions: these philosophers very cleverly boiling down the lady’s actions to principles and theories, and with a delightful nod to her superior wisdom and understanding, completely disregarding any thoughts of compassion, or noble impulse and feeling. Because those are issues far beneath a woman who is universally recognized as being well above the countless minor flaws and weaknesses of her gender.
If I wanted any further proof of the strictly philosophical nature of the conduct of these young gentlemen in their very delicate predicament, I should at once find it in the fact (also recorded in a foregoing part of this narrative), of their quitting the pursuit, when the general attention was fixed upon Oliver; and making immediately for their home by the shortest possible cut. Although I do not mean to assert that it is usually the practice of renowned and learned sages, to shorten the road to any great conclusion (their course indeed being rather to lengthen the distance, by various circumlocutions and discursive staggerings, like unto those in which drunken men under the pressure of a too mighty flow of ideas, are prone to indulge); still, I do mean to say, and do say distinctly, that it is the invariable practice of many mighty philosophers, in carrying out their theories, to evince great wisdom and foresight in providing against every possible contingency which can be supposed at all likely to affect themselves. Thus, to do a great right, you may do a little wrong; and you may take any means which the end to be attained, will justify; the amount of the right, or the amount of the wrong, or indeed the distinction between the two, being left entirely to the philosopher concerned, to be settled and determined by his clear, comprehensive, and impartial view of his own particular case.
If I wanted any more evidence of the purely philosophical nature of these young men's behavior in their tricky situation, I would instantly find it in the fact (also mentioned earlier in this story) that they gave up their pursuit when everyone's attention was focused on Oliver and headed straight home by the quickest route. While I don't want to claim that it's common for renowned and learned scholars to take the shortest path to any significant conclusion (they often tend to lengthen the route with various roundabout ways and rambling, much like drunk people who are overwhelmed by a flood of ideas), I do want to say, and I clearly state, that many great philosophers consistently show wisdom and foresight in planning for any possible situation that might affect them. Thus, to achieve a great good, you might have to do a small wrong; and you can use any means that the desired outcome will justify, with the degree of right or wrong, or even the distinction between the two, being left entirely up to the philosopher's judgment, based on their clear, comprehensive, and unbiased view of their specific situation.
It was not until the two boys had scoured, with great rapidity, through a most intricate maze of narrow streets and courts, that they ventured to halt beneath a low and dark archway. Having remained silent here, just long enough to recover breath to speak, Master Bates uttered an exclamation of amusement and delight; and, bursting into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, flung himself upon a doorstep, and rolled thereon in a transport of mirth.
It wasn't until the two boys had quickly searched through a complicated maze of narrow streets and alleys that they dared to stop under a dark, low archway. After staying quiet for a moment to catch their breath, Master Bates exclaimed in amusement and joy; then, unable to hold back his laughter, he threw himself onto a doorstep and rolled around in fits of giggles.
‘What’s the matter?’ inquired the Dodger.
“What's wrong?” asked the Dodger.
‘Ha! ha! ha!’ roared Charley Bates.
‘Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed Charley Bates.
‘Hold your noise,’ remonstrated the Dodger, looking cautiously round. ‘Do you want to be grabbed, stupid?’
‘Be quiet,’ the Dodger scolded, glancing around carefully. ‘Do you want to get caught, stupid?’
‘I can’t help it,’ said Charley, ‘I can’t help it! To see him splitting away at that pace, and cutting round the corners, and knocking up again’ the posts, and starting on again as if he was made of iron as well as them, and me with the wipe in my pocket, singing out arter him—oh, my eye!’ The vivid imagination of Master Bates presented the scene before him in too strong colours. As he arrived at this apostrophe, he again rolled upon the door-step, and laughed louder than before.
"I can't help it," Charley said, "I can't help it! Watching him take off like that, cutting around the corners, bumping against the posts, and then just starting up again like he was made of iron too, while I've got the wipe in my pocket, calling out after him—oh man!" Master Bates's vivid imagination painted the scene in such bright colors. After this outburst, he rolled back onto the doorstep and laughed even more than before.
‘What’ll Fagin say?’ inquired the Dodger; taking advantage of the next interval of breathlessness on the part of his friend to propound the question.
‘What will Fagin say?’ asked the Dodger, using the next moment of breathlessness from his friend to ask the question.
‘What?’ repeated Charley Bates.
"What?" Charley Bates echoed.
‘Ah, what?’ said the Dodger.
"Wait, what?" said the Dodger.
‘Why, what should he say?’ inquired Charley: stopping rather suddenly in his merriment; for the Dodger’s manner was impressive. ‘What should he say?’
‘Why, what should he say?’ Charley asked, suddenly pausing in his laughter, as the Dodger’s demeanor was quite serious. ‘What should he say?’
Mr. Dawkins whistled for a couple of minutes; then, taking off his hat, scratched his head, and nodded thrice.
Mr. Dawkins whistled for a few minutes; then, he took off his hat, scratched his head, and nodded three times.
‘What do you mean?’ said Charley.
‘What do you mean?’ Charley asked.
‘Toor rul lol loo, gammon and spinnage, the frog he wouldn’t, and high cockolorum,’ said the Dodger: with a slight sneer on his intellectual countenance.
‘Toor rul lol loo, gammon and spinach, the frog he wouldn’t, and high cockalorum,’ said the Dodger, with a slight sneer on his clever face.
This was explanatory, but not satisfactory. Master Bates felt it so; and again said, ‘What do you mean?’
This was clear, but not satisfying. Master Bates felt the same way and said again, "What do you mean?"
The Dodger made no reply; but putting his hat on again, and gathering the skirts of his long-tailed coat under his arm, thrust his tongue into his cheek, slapped the bridge of his nose some half-dozen times in a familiar but expressive manner, and turning on his heel, slunk down the court. Master Bates followed, with a thoughtful countenance.
The Dodger didn’t respond; instead, he put his hat back on, gathered the edges of his long coat under his arm, poked his tongue into his cheek, slapped the bridge of his nose about six times in a casual yet meaningful way, and turned on his heel, sneaking down the alley. Master Bates followed, looking thoughtful.
The noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs, a few minutes after the occurrence of this conversation, roused the merry old gentleman as he sat over the fire with a saveloy and a small loaf in his hand; a pocket-knife in his right; and a pewter pot on the trivet. There was a rascally smile on his white face as he turned round, and looking sharply out from under his thick red eyebrows, bent his ear towards the door, and listened.
The sound of footsteps on the creaking stairs, just a few minutes after their conversation, woke the cheerful old man as he sat by the fire with a sausage and a small loaf in his hand; a pocket knife in his right hand; and a metal pot on the trivet. He had a mischievous grin on his pale face as he turned around, and peering sharply from under his thick red eyebrows, tilted his ear toward the door and listened.
‘Why, how’s this?’ muttered the Jew: changing countenance; ‘only two of ‘em? Where’s the third? They can’t have got into trouble. Hark!’
‘What’s going on here?’ muttered the Jew, his expression changing. ‘Only two of them? Where’s the third? They can’t be in trouble. Listen!’
The footsteps approached nearer; they reached the landing. The door was slowly opened; and the Dodger and Charley Bates entered, closing it behind them.
The footsteps got closer; they reached the landing. The door was slowly opened, and the Dodger and Charley Bates walked in, closing it behind them.
CHAPTER XIII — SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES ARE INTRODUCED TO THE INTELLIGENT READER, CONNECTED WITH WHOM VARIOUS PLEASANT MATTERS ARE RELATED, APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY
‘Where’s Oliver?’ said the Jew, rising with a menacing look. ‘Where’s the boy?’
The young thieves eyed their preceptor as if they were alarmed at his violence; and looked uneasily at each other. But they made no reply.
The young thieves looked at their teacher as if they were shocked by his aggression and exchanged worried glances with each other. But they didn't say anything.
‘What’s become of the boy?’ said the Jew, seizing the Dodger tightly by the collar, and threatening him with horrid imprecations. ‘Speak out, or I’ll throttle you!’
‘What happened to the boy?’ said the Jew, grabbing the Dodger firmly by the collar and threatening him with awful curses. ‘Speak up, or I’ll choke you!’
Mr. Fagin looked so very much in earnest, that Charley Bates, who deemed it prudent in all cases to be on the safe side, and who conceived it by no means improbable that it might be his turn to be throttled second, dropped upon his knees, and raised a loud, well-sustained, and continuous roar—something between a mad bull and a speaking trumpet.
Mr. Fagin looked so serious that Charley Bates, who thought it was wise to play it safe in any situation and believed it was definitely possible that he could be the next one to get choked, dropped to his knees and let out a loud, steady, and ongoing roar—somewhere between a raging bull and a loudspeaker.
‘Will you speak?’ thundered the Jew: shaking the Dodger so much that his keeping in the big coat at all, seemed perfectly miraculous.
‘Will you speak?’ shouted the Jew, shaking the Dodger so much that it seemed totally miraculous that he could even fit in the big coat at all.
‘Why, the traps have got him, and that’s all about it,’ said the Dodger, sullenly. ‘Come, let go o’ me, will you!’ And, swinging himself, at one jerk, clean out of the big coat, which he left in the Jew’s hands, the Dodger snatched up the toasting fork, and made a pass at the merry old gentleman’s waistcoat; which, if it had taken effect, would have let a little more merriment out than could have been easily replaced.
“Why, the traps have caught him, and that’s all there is to it,” said the Dodger, sulkily. “Come on, let go of me, will you!” And, with one swift motion, he swung himself out of the big coat, leaving it in the Jew’s hands. The Dodger grabbed the toasting fork and aimed it at the cheerful old gentleman’s waistcoat; if it had hit, it would have released more laughter than could have been easily replaced.
The Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more agility than could have been anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the pot, prepared to hurl it at his assailant’s head. But Charley Bates, at this moment, calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl, he suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full at that young gentleman.
The Jew stepped back in this crisis, with more agility than anyone would expect from a man of his apparent frailty; and, grabbing the pot, got ready to throw it at his attacker’s head. But Charley Bates, at that moment, caught his attention with a completely terrifying scream, causing him to suddenly change direction and launch it straight at that young man.
‘Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!’ growled a deep voice. ‘Who pitched that ‘ere at me? It’s well it’s the beer, and not the pot, as hit me, or I’d have settled somebody. I might have know’d, as nobody but an infernal, rich, plundering, thundering old Jew could afford to throw away any drink but water—and not that, unless he done the River Company every quarter. Wot’s it all about, Fagin? D—me, if my neck-handkercher an’t lined with beer! Come in, you sneaking warmint; wot are you stopping outside for, as if you was ashamed of your master! Come in!’
‘What the hell is going on now!’ growled a deep voice. ‘Who threw that at me? It's a good thing it was the beer, not the pot, that hit me, or I would have taken care of someone. I should have known that nobody but a greedy, wealthy, stealing old Jew could afford to waste anything but water—and not even that unless he scammed the River Company every quarter. What’s happening, Fagin? Damn it, if my neck scarf isn’t soaked in beer! Come in, you sneaky rat; why are you standing outside as if you’re ashamed of your master? Come in!’
The man who growled out these words, was a stoutly-built fellow of about five-and-thirty, in a black velveteen coat, very soiled drab breeches, lace-up half boots, and grey cotton stockings which inclosed a bulky pair of legs, with large swelling calves;—the kind of legs, which in such costume, always look in an unfinished and incomplete state without a set of fetters to garnish them. He had a brown hat on his head, and a dirty belcher handkerchief round his neck: with the long frayed ends of which he smeared the beer from his face as he spoke. He disclosed, when he had done so, a broad heavy countenance with a beard of three days’ growth, and two scowling eyes; one of which displayed various parti-coloured symptoms of having been recently damaged by a blow.
The man who growled these words was a sturdy guy around thirty-five, wearing a black velveteen coat, very dirty tan pants, lace-up boots, and gray cotton stockings that covered a large pair of legs with big, bulging calves. Those legs, in that outfit, always looked unfinished and incomplete without a set of shackles to embellish them. He had a brown hat on his head and a grimy bandana around his neck, using the frayed ends to wipe the beer off his face as he spoke. When he finished, he revealed a broad, heavy face with three days’ worth of beard and two scowling eyes; one of which showed various colorful signs of having recently taken a hit.
‘Come in, d’ye hear?’ growled this engaging ruffian.
‘Come in, do you hear?’ growled this charming thug.
A white shaggy dog, with his face scratched and torn in twenty different places, skulked into the room.
A scruffy white dog, his face scratched and torn in twenty different spots, sneaked 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!’
‘Why didn't you come in earlier?’ said the man. ‘Are you too proud to admit me in front of company now? Lie down!’
This command was accompanied with a kick, which sent the animal to the other end of the room. He appeared well used to it, however; for he coiled himself up in a corner very quietly, without uttering a sound, and winking his very ill-looking eyes twenty times in a minute, appeared to occupy himself in taking a survey of the apartment.
This command was followed by a kick that sent the animal to the other side of the room. He seemed pretty used to it, though; he curled up in a corner quietly, without making a sound, and blinked his very unattractive eyes twenty times a minute, appearing to keep himself busy by surveying the room.
‘What are you up to? Ill-treating the boys, you covetous, avaricious, in-sa-ti-a-ble old fence?’ said the man, seating himself deliberately. ‘I wonder they don’t murder you! I would if I was them. If I’d been your ‘prentice, I’d have done it long ago, and—no, I couldn’t have sold you afterwards, for you’re fit for nothing but keeping as a curiousity of ugliness in a glass bottle, and I suppose they don’t blow glass bottles large enough.’
‘What are you doing? Abusing the boys, you greedy, insatiable old miser?’ said the man, sitting down deliberately. ‘I wonder they don’t kill you! I would if I were them. If I’d been your apprentice, I’d have done it a long time ago, and—no, I couldn’t have sold you afterward, because you’re only fit to be kept as a curiosity of ugliness in a glass bottle, and I guess they don’t make glass bottles big enough.’
‘Hush! hush! Mr. Sikes,’ said the Jew, trembling; ‘don’t speak so loud!’
‘Hush! Hush! Mr. Sikes,’ said the Jew, trembling; ‘don’t talk 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.’
‘Cut out the mister stuff,’ replied the thug. ‘You always have bad intentions when you act like that. You know my name; say it! I won’t embarrass it when the time comes.’
‘Well, well, then—Bill Sikes,’ said the Jew, with abject humility. ‘You seem out of humour, Bill.’
‘Well, well, then—Bill Sikes,’ said the Jew, with extreme humility. ‘You seem in a bad mood, Bill.’
‘Perhaps I am,’ replied Sikes; ‘I should think you was rather out of sorts too, unless you mean as little harm when you throw pewter pots about, as you do when you blab and—’
‘Maybe I am,’ replied Sikes; ‘I’d say you’re not in the best mood either, unless you mean no harm when you throw around those pewter pots, just like when you gossip and—’
‘Are you mad?’ said the Jew, catching the man by the sleeve, and pointing towards the boys.
‘Are you crazy?’ said the Jew, grabbing the man by the sleeve and pointing toward 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.
Mr. Sikes settled for tying an imaginary knot under his left ear and tilting his head to the right shoulder; a silent gesture that the Jew seemed to understand completely. He then, using the slang that filled his speech but would sound completely nonsensical if written down here, asked for a glass of liquor.
‘And mind you don’t poison it,’ said Mr. Sikes, laying his hat upon the table.
'And make sure you don't poison it,' said Mr. Sikes, setting his hat down on the table.
This was said in jest; but if the speaker could have seen the evil leer with which the Jew bit his pale lip as he turned round to the cupboard, he might have thought the caution not wholly unnecessary, or the wish (at all events) to improve upon the distiller’s ingenuity not very far from the old gentleman’s merry heart.
This was said in fun; but if the speaker had seen the sinister smile with which the Jew bit his pale lip as he turned to the cupboard, he might have thought the warning not entirely unnecessary, or the desire (in any case) to build on the distiller’s cleverness not too far from the old man’s cheerful nature.
After swallowing two of three glasses of spirits, Mr. Sikes condescended to take some notice of the young gentlemen; which gracious act led to a conversation, in which the cause and manner of Oliver’s capture were circumstantially detailed, with such alterations and improvements on the truth, as to the Dodger appeared most advisable under the circumstances.
After finishing two out of three glasses of alcohol, Mr. Sikes decided to pay some attention to the young men; this generous act sparked a conversation in which they discussed the reasons and circumstances of Oliver’s capture, with the Dodger making various alterations and enhancements to the truth that he thought were best given the situation.
‘I’m afraid,’ said the Jew, ‘that he may say something which will get us into trouble.’
‘I’m worried,’ said the Jew, ‘that he might say something that will get us into trouble.’
‘That’s very likely,’ returned Sikes with a malicious grin. ‘You’re blowed upon, Fagin.’
‘That’s very likely,’ Sikes replied with a wicked grin. ‘You’re ratted out, 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.’
‘And I’m afraid, you see,’ the Jew continued, acting as if he hadn’t noticed the interruption and looking closely at the other as he spoke, ‘I’m afraid that if things went south for us, they might go south for a lot of others too, and it would probably turn out worse for you than for me, my dear.’
The man started, and turned round upon the Jew. But the old gentleman’s shoulders were shrugged up to his ears; and his eyes were vacantly staring on the opposite wall.
The man jumped and turned to face the Jew. But the old gentleman had his shoulders raised up to his ears, and his eyes were blankly staring at the wall across from him.
There was a long pause. Every member of the respectable coterie appeared plunged in his own reflections; not excepting the dog, who by a certain malicious licking of his lips seemed to be meditating an attack upon the legs of the first gentleman or lady he might encounter in the streets when he went out.
There was a long pause. Every member of the respectable group seemed lost in their own thoughts, including the dog, who, with a certain mischievous licking of his lips, appeared to be planning an attack on the legs of whichever gentleman or lady he might come across in the streets when he went outside.
‘Somebody must find out wot’s been done at the office,’ said Mr. Sikes in a much lower tone than he had taken since he came in.
‘Somebody has to find out what’s been done at the office,’ said Mr. Sikes in a much quieter tone than he had used since he arrived.
The Jew nodded assent.
The Jew nodded in agreement.
‘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.’
‘If he hasn’t snitched, and is in for it, there’s no worry until he gets out again,’ said Mr. Sikes, ‘and then he needs to be dealt with. You’ve got to find a way to get to him.’
Again the Jew nodded.
Again, the Jewish man nodded.
The prudence of this line of action, indeed, was obvious; but, unfortunately, there was one very strong objection to its being adopted. This was, that the Dodger, and Charley Bates, and Fagin, and Mr. William Sikes, happened, one and all, to entertain a violent and deeply-rooted antipathy to going near a police-office on any ground or pretext whatever.
The wisdom of this plan was clear; however, there was one major reason against going forward with it. This was that the Dodger, Charley Bates, Fagin, and Mr. William Sikes all had a strong and deep-seated dislike for being anywhere near a police station for any reason at all.
How long they might have sat and looked at each other, in a state of uncertainty not the most pleasant of its kind, it is difficult to guess. It is not necessary to make any guesses on the subject, however; for the sudden entrance of the two young ladies whom Oliver had seen on a former occasion, caused the conversation to flow afresh.
How long they could have sat there staring at each other, feeling a kind of uncertainty that wasn’t exactly enjoyable, is tough to say. There's no need to speculate, though; the unexpected arrival of the two young ladies Oliver had seen before got the conversation going again.
‘The very thing!’ said the Jew. ‘Bet will go; won’t you, my dear?’
‘Absolutely!’ said the Jew. ‘Bet will go; won’t you, my dear?’
‘Wheres?’ inquired the young lady.
"Where's?" asked the young lady.
‘Only just up to the office, my dear,’ said the Jew coaxingly.
‘Just up to the office, my dear,’ said the Jew in a persuasive tone.
It is due to the young lady to say that she did not positively affirm that she would not, but that she merely expressed an emphatic and earnest desire to be ‘blessed’ if she would; a polite and delicate evasion of the request, which shows the young lady to have been possessed of that natural good breeding which cannot bear to inflict upon a fellow-creature, the pain of a direct and pointed refusal.
It should be noted that the young lady didn’t outright say she wouldn’t, but rather expressed a strong and sincere wish to be ‘blessed’ if she did. This was a polite and gentle way to avoid the request, showing that the young lady had that natural good manners which can’t stand to cause someone the discomfort of a direct and blunt refusal.
The Jew’s countenance fell. He turned from this young lady, who was gaily, not to say gorgeously attired, in a red gown, green boots, and yellow curl-papers, to the other female.
The Jew's expression darkened. He turned away from the young woman, who was cheerfully, if not extravagantly, dressed in a red dress, green boots, and yellow curlers, to the other woman.
‘Nancy, my dear,’ said the Jew in a soothing manner, ‘what do you say?’
‘Nancy, my dear,’ said the Jew in a calming tone, ‘what do you say?’
‘That it won’t do; so it’s no use a-trying it on, Fagin,’ replied Nancy.
"That won't work, so it's pointless to try it, Fagin," Nancy replied.
‘What do you mean by that?’ said Mr. Sikes, looking up in a surly manner.
‘What do you mean by that?’ Mr. Sikes said, looking up with an annoyed expression.
‘What I say, Bill,’ replied the lady collectedly.
‘What I’m saying, Bill,’ replied the lady calmly.
‘Why, you’re just the very person for it,’ reasoned Mr. Sikes: ‘nobody about here knows anything of you.’
‘Why, you’re exactly the person for it,’ Mr. Sikes reasoned: ‘nobody around here knows anything about you.’
‘And as I don’t want ‘em to, neither,’ replied Nancy in the same composed manner, ‘it’s rather more no than yes with me, Bill.’
‘And I don’t want them to either,’ Nancy replied in the same calm way, ‘so it’s more no than yes for me, Bill.’
‘She’ll go, Fagin,’ said Sikes.
"She'll go, Fagin," said Sikes.
‘No, she won’t, Fagin,’ said Nancy.
‘No, she won’t, Fagin,’ Nancy said.
‘Yes, she will, Fagin,’ said Sikes.
‘Yes, she will, Fagin,’ said Sikes.
And Mr. Sikes was right. By dint of alternate threats, promises, and bribes, the lady in question was ultimately prevailed upon to undertake the commission. She was not, indeed, withheld by the same considerations as her agreeable friend; for, having recently removed into the neighborhood of Field Lane from the remote but genteel suburb of Ratcliffe, she was not under the same apprehension of being recognised by any of her numerous acquaintances.
And Mr. Sikes was right. Through a mix of threats, promises, and bribes, the woman in question was finally convinced to take on the task. Unlike her friendly companion, she didn't have the same concerns; having recently moved to the area near Field Lane from the far but upscale suburb of Ratcliffe, she wasn’t worried about being recognized by any of her many acquaintances.
Accordingly, with a clean white apron tied over her gown, and her curl-papers tucked up under a straw bonnet,—both articles of dress being provided from the Jew’s inexhaustible stock,—Miss Nancy prepared to issue forth on her errand.
Accordingly, with a clean white apron tied over her dress and her curlers tucked up under a straw bonnet—both items being supplied from the Jew’s endless collection—Miss Nancy got ready to head out on her errand.
‘Stop a minute, my dear,’ said the Jew, producing, a little covered basket. ‘Carry that in one hand. It looks more respectable, my dear.’
‘Hold on a second, my dear,’ said the Jew, pulling out a small covered basket. ‘Carry that in one hand. It looks more respectable, my dear.’
‘Give her a door-key to carry in her t’other one, Fagin,’ said Sikes; ‘it looks real and genivine like.’
‘Give her a door key to carry in her other one, Fagin,’ said Sikes; ‘it looks real and genuine like.’
‘Yes, yes, my dear, so it does,’ said the Jew, hanging a large street-door key on the forefinger of the young lady’s right hand.
‘Yes, yes, my dear, it really does,’ said the Jew, hanging a large street-door key on the young lady’s right forefinger.
‘There; very good! Very good indeed, my dear!’ said the Jew, rubbing his hands.
‘There; very good! Really great indeed, my dear!’ said the Jew, rubbing his hands.
‘Oh, my brother! My poor, dear, sweet, innocent little brother!’ exclaimed Nancy, bursting into tears, and wringing the little basket and the street-door key in an agony of distress. ‘What has become of him! Where have they taken him to! Oh, do have pity, and tell me what’s been done with the dear boy, gentlemen; do, gentlemen, if you please, gentlemen!’
‘Oh, my brother! My poor, dear, sweet, innocent little brother!’ Nancy exclaimed, bursting into tears and wringing the little basket and the front door key in a fit of distress. ‘What has happened to him? Where have they taken him? Oh, please, have mercy and tell me what’s been done with the dear boy, gentlemen; please, gentlemen, if you would!’
Having uttered those words in a most lamentable and heart-broken tone: to the immeasurable delight of her hearers: Miss Nancy paused, winked to the company, nodded smilingly round, and disappeared.
Having said those words in a deeply sad and heartbroken tone, much to the immense delight of her listeners, Miss Nancy paused, winked at the group, smiled at everyone, and then vanished.
‘Ah, she’s a clever girl, my dears,’ said the Jew, turning round to his young friends, and shaking his head gravely, as if in mute admonition to them to follow the bright example they had just beheld.
‘Ah, she’s a smart girl, my dears,’ said the Jew, turning to his young friends and shaking his head thoughtfully, as if silently urging them to follow the impressive example they had just seen.
‘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!’
‘She’s an honor to her gender,’ said Mr. Sikes, filling his glass, and hitting the table with his huge fist. ‘Here’s to her health, and wishing they were all like her!’
While these, and many other encomiums, were being passed on the accomplished Nancy, that young lady made the best of her way to the police-office; whither, notwithstanding a little natural timidity consequent upon walking through the streets alone and unprotected, she arrived in perfect safety shortly afterwards.
While these and many other compliments were being given to the accomplished Nancy, she made her way to the police station. Despite feeling a bit nervous walking through the streets alone and unprotected, she arrived there safely shortly after.
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.
Entering through the back entrance, she softly tapped the key against one of the cell doors and listened. There was no sound inside, so she coughed and listened again. Still, there was no response, so she spoke.
‘Nolly, dear?’ murmured Nancy in a gentle voice; ‘Nolly?’
‘Nolly, dear?’ Nancy said softly; ‘Nolly?’
There was nobody inside but a miserable shoeless criminal, who had been taken up for playing the flute, and who, the offence against society having been clearly proved, had been very properly committed by Mr. Fang to the House of Correction for one month; with the appropriate and amusing remark that since he had so much breath to spare, it would be more wholesomely expended on the treadmill than in a musical instrument. He made no answer: being occupied mentally bewailing the loss of the flute, which had been confiscated for the use of the county: so Nancy passed on to the next cell, and knocked there.
There was no one inside except for a miserable, shoeless criminal who had been arrested for playing the flute. Since the offense against society was clearly established, Mr. Fang had rightly sentenced him to one month in the House of Correction, adding a sarcastic remark that since he had so much breath to spare, it would be better spent on the treadmill than on a musical instrument. He didn’t respond, as he was lost in thoughts about the flute he had lost, which had been taken for the county's use. So Nancy moved on to the next cell and knocked there.
‘Well!’ cried a faint and feeble voice.
‘Well!’ cried a weak and faint voice.
‘Is there a little boy here?’ inquired Nancy, with a preliminary sob.
“Is there a little boy here?” Nancy asked, starting to cry.
‘No,’ replied the voice; ‘God forbid.’
‘No,’ replied the voice; ‘God forbid.’
This was a vagrant of sixty-five, who was going to prison for not playing the flute; or, in other words, for begging in the streets, and doing nothing for his livelihood. In the next cell was another man, who was going to the same prison for hawking tin saucepans without license; thereby doing something for his living, in defiance of the Stamp-office.
This was a 65-year-old homeless man who was going to prison for not playing the flute; in other words, for begging on the streets and not doing anything to support himself. In the next cell was another man who was headed to the same prison for selling tin saucepans without a license; thus, he was trying to make a living, despite the Stamp Office's rules.
But, as neither of these criminals answered to the name of Oliver, or knew anything about him, Nancy made straight up to the bluff officer in the striped waistcoat; and with the most piteous wailings and lamentations, rendered more piteous by a prompt and efficient use of the street-door key and the little basket, demanded her own dear brother.
But, since neither of these criminals went by the name of Oliver or knew anything about him, Nancy went straight up to the tough officer in the striped vest; and with the most heartbreaking cries and sobs, made even more tragic by a quick and effective use of the front door key and the little basket, demanded to see her beloved brother.
‘I haven’t got him, my dear,’ said the old man.
‘I don’t have him, my dear,’ said the old man.
‘Where is he?’ screamed Nancy, in a distracted manner.
‘Where is he?’ shouted Nancy, distractedly.
‘Why, the gentleman’s got him,’ replied the officer.
‘Well, the guy's got him,’ replied the officer.
‘What gentleman! Oh, gracious heavens! What gentleman?’ exclaimed Nancy.
‘What a gentleman! Oh, my goodness! What a gentleman?’ exclaimed Nancy.
In reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the deeply affected sister that Oliver had been taken ill in the office, and discharged in consequence of a witness having proved the robbery to have been committed by another boy, not in custody; and that the prosecutor had carried him away, in an insensible condition, to his own residence: of and concerning which, all the informant knew was, that it was somewhere in Pentonville, he having heard that word mentioned in the directions to the coachman.
In response to this confusing questioning, the old man told the greatly affected sister that Oliver had fallen ill at the office and had been released because a witness had proven that another boy, who wasn’t in custody, had committed the robbery. The prosecutor had taken him home in an unconscious state, and all the old man knew about it was that it was somewhere in Pentonville, as he had heard that name mentioned when giving directions to the coachman.
In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young woman staggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a swift run, returned by the most devious and complicated route she could think of, to the domicile of the Jew.
In a terrible state of doubt and uncertainty, the distressed young woman staggered to the gate, and then, switching her unsteady walk for a quick run, took the most winding and complicated route she could think of, back to the home 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.
Mr. Bill Sikes barely heard the report of the expedition before he quickly called for the white dog, put on his hat, and left in a hurry, without taking the time to say good morning to everyone.
‘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!’
‘We need to know where he is, my dears; he has to be found,’ said the Jew, feeling very agitated. ‘Charley, just stay hidden until you bring back some news about him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him located. I’m counting on you, my dear—on you and the Artful for everything! Wait, wait,’ the Jew added, unlocking a drawer with a trembling hand; ‘there’s money, my dears. I’m closing this shop tonight. You’ll know where to find me! Don’t stay here for a second. Not even for a moment, 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.
With these words, he pushed them out of the room; then, after carefully double-locking and securing the door behind them, he took out the box he had accidentally shown to Oliver. After that, he quickly began to hide the watches and jewelry under his clothes.
A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. ‘Who’s there?’ he cried in a shrill tone.
A knock at the door startled him while he was working. "Who’s there?" he shouted in a high-pitched voice.
‘Me!’ replied the voice of the Dodger, through the key-hole.
‘It’s me!’ replied the Dodger’s voice through the keyhole.
‘What now?’ cried the Jew impatiently.
‘What now?’ shouted the Jew, feeling impatient.
‘Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?’ inquired the Dodger.
‘Is he going to be taken to the other place, Nancy says?’ asked 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.’
‘Yes,’ replied the Jew, ‘wherever she gets her hands on him. Find him, track him down, that’s all. I’ll know what to do next; don’t worry.’
The boy murmured a reply of intelligence: and hurried downstairs after his companions.
The boy quietly replied with understanding and rushed downstairs after his friends.
‘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.’
‘He hasn’t said anything so far,’ said the Jew as he continued his work. ‘If he plans to spill the beans to his new friends, we can still silence him.’
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.
Oliver soon recovering from the fainting spell that Mr. Brownlow’s sudden exclamation had caused him, the topic of the painting was carefully avoided by both the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin during the following conversation. This chat didn’t touch on Oliver’s past or future, but was limited to topics that could entertain him without getting him too worked up. He was still too weak to join breakfast; however, when he came down to the housekeeper’s room the next day, his first action was to cast an eager glance at the wall, hoping to see the face of the beautiful lady again. Unfortunately, he was disappointed, as the painting had been taken down.
‘Ah!’ said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver’s eyes. ‘It is gone, you see.’
‘Ah!’ said the housekeeper, noticing where Oliver was looking. ‘It's gone, you see.’
‘I see it is ma’am,’ replied Oliver. ‘Why have they taken it away?’
‘I see it is, ma’am,’ replied Oliver. ‘Why did they take 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.
‘It was taken down, sweetie, because Mr. Brownlow said that since it seemed to upset you, it might keep you from getting better, you know,’ replied the old lady.
‘Oh, no, indeed. It didn’t worry me, ma’am,’ said Oliver. ‘I liked to see it. I quite loved it.’
'Oh, no, not at all. It didn’t bother me, ma’am,' said Oliver. 'I enjoyed seeing it. I really 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.’
‘Well, well!’ said the old lady cheerfully; ‘you get better as fast as you can, dear, and I’ll hang it up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let’s 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.
This was all the information Oliver could get about the picture at that time. Since the old lady had been so kind to him during his illness, he tried not to think about it for now; instead, he listened closely to the many stories she shared about her lovely and attractive daughter, who married a nice and good-looking man and lived in the countryside, and about a son who worked as a clerk for a merchant in the West Indies. He was also such a good young man, writing dutiful letters home four times a year, which brought tears to her eyes as she talked about him. After the old lady had gone on for quite a while about the greatness of her children and the qualities of her kind husband who had passed away, poor dear soul! just twenty-six years ago, it was time for tea. After tea, she started teaching Oliver how to play cribbage, which he picked up as quickly as she could teach him. They played the game with great interest and seriousness until it was time for the invalid to have some warm wine and water with a slice of dry toast, and then to snuggle up in 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.
They were happy days during Oliver’s recovery. Everything was so quiet, neat, and orderly; everyone was so kind and gentle; that after the noise and chaos he had always lived in, it felt like Heaven itself. As soon as he was strong enough to put on his clothes properly, Mr. Brownlow had a completely new suit, a new cap, and a new pair of shoes made for him. Since Oliver was told he could do whatever he wanted 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, keeping the money for herself. She happily agreed; and as Oliver looked out of the parlor window and saw the Jew roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt delighted that they were safely gone and that there was no chance he would ever wear them again. They were tattered rags, to be honest; and Oliver had never owned 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.
One evening, about a week after the picture incident, while he was sitting and chatting with Mrs. Bedwin, a message came from Mr. Brownlow saying that if Oliver Twist was feeling alright, he would like to see him in his study and have a little conversation.
‘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!’
‘Bless us, and save us! Wash your hands, and let me fix your hair nicely for you, kid,’ said Mrs. Bedwin. ‘Goodness! If we had known he would ask for you, we would have put a clean collar on you and made you look sharp as a tack!’
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.
Oliver did what the old lady asked him to do, and even though she complained a lot about not having enough time to crimp the little frill that edged his shirt collar, he looked so delicate and handsome that she boldly stated, while surveying him with great satisfaction from head to toe, that she honestly didn’t think it would have been possible, even with the longest notice, to improve his appearance any further.
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.
Encouraged by this, Oliver tapped on the study door. When Mr. Brownlow called him in, he entered a small back room filled with books, with a window overlooking some nice little gardens. There was a table in front of the window where Mr. Brownlow was sitting and reading. When he saw Oliver, he pushed the book away and told him to come closer to the table and sit down. Oliver did as he was told, wondering where all the people could be who read so many books that seemed to be written to make the world smarter. This is still a mystery to even 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.
‘There are a lot of books, aren’t there, my boy?’ said Mr. Brownlow, noticing the curiosity with which Oliver looked at the shelves that went from the floor to the ceiling.
‘A great number, sir,’ replied Oliver. ‘I never saw so many.’
‘A lot, sir,’ replied Oliver. ‘I’ve never seen so many.’
‘You shall read them, if you behave well,’ said the old gentleman kindly; ‘and you will like that, better than looking at the outsides,—that is, some cases; because there are books of which the backs and covers are by far the best parts.’
‘You can read them if you behave well,’ said the old gentleman kindly; ‘and you’ll enjoy that more than just looking at the covers—well, some of them; because there are books where the spines and covers are definitely 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.
‘I guess those are the heavy ones, sir,’ said Oliver, pointing to some large quartos with quite a bit of gold on the binding.
‘Not always those,’ said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head, and smiling as he did so; ‘there are other equally heavy ones, though of a much smaller size. How should you like to grow up a clever man, and write books, eh?’
“Not always,” said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head and smiling as he did so. “There are other equally important ones, though they’re much smaller. How would you like to grow up to be a smart man and write books, huh?”
‘I think I would rather read them, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘I think I’d rather read them, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘What! wouldn’t you like to be a book-writer?’ said the old gentleman.
"Really! Don't you want to be a writer?" asked the old gentleman.
Oliver considered a little while; and at last said, he should think it would be a much better thing to be a book-seller; upon which the old gentleman laughed heartily, and declared he had said a very good thing. Which Oliver felt glad to have done, though he by no means knew what it was.
Oliver thought for a moment and finally said that he believed it would be much better to be a bookseller. The old gentleman laughed loudly and said that Oliver had made a very good point. Oliver felt pleased to have said it, even though he didn’t really understand why.
‘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.’
‘Well, well,’ said the old gentleman, rearranging his expression. ‘Don’t worry! We won’t turn you into an author while there’s a decent trade to learn, or brick-making to fall back on.’
‘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.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Oliver. At the sincere way he responded, the old gentleman laughed again and mentioned something about a strange instinct, which Oliver, not fully grasping, didn’t pay much attention to.
‘Now,’ said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possible in a kinder, but at the same time in a much more serious manner, than Oliver had ever known him assume yet, ‘I want you to pay great attention, my boy, to what I am going to say. I shall talk to you without any reserve; because I am sure you are well able to understand me, as many older persons would be.’
‘Now,’ Mr. Brownlow said, speaking in a kinder but much more serious tone than Oliver had ever heard from him, ‘I want you to pay close attention, my boy, to what I’m about to say. I will talk to you openly because I’m confident you can understand me just as well as many older people can.’
‘Oh, don’t tell you are going to send me away, sir, pray!’ exclaimed Oliver, alarmed at the serious tone of the old gentleman’s commencement! ‘Don’t turn me out of doors to wander in the streets again. Let me stay here, and be a servant. Don’t send me back to the wretched place I came from. Have mercy upon a poor boy, sir!’
‘Oh, please don’t say you’re going to send me away, sir!’ Oliver exclaimed, alarmed by the serious tone of the old gentleman's words. ‘Don’t kick me out to roam the streets again. Let me stay here and be a servant. Just don’t send me back to that miserable place I came from. Have mercy on 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.’
‘My dear child,’ said the old gentleman, touched by the sincerity of Oliver’s sudden plea; ‘you don’t have to worry about me abandoning you, unless you give me a reason to.’
‘I never, never will, sir,’ interposed Oliver.
‘I will never, ever do that, sir,’ Oliver interrupted.
‘I hope not,’ rejoined the old gentleman. ‘I do not think you ever will. I have been deceived, before, in the objects whom I have endeavoured to benefit; but I feel strongly disposed to trust you, nevertheless; and I am more interested in your behalf than I can well account for, even to myself. The persons on whom I have bestowed my dearest love, lie deep in their graves; but, although the happiness and delight of my life lie buried there too, I have not made a coffin of my heart, and sealed it up, forever, on my best affections. Deep affliction has but strengthened and refined them.’
‘I hope not,’ replied the old man. ‘I don’t think you ever will. I’ve been misled before by the people I tried to help; but I really want to trust you, anyway, and I’m more invested in you than I can explain, even to myself. The people I loved the most are long gone; but even though the joy of my life is buried with them, I haven’t closed off my heart or locked away my deepest feelings forever. My pain has only made those feelings stronger and more profound.’
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.
As the old man said this in a quiet voice, more to himself than to his companion, and as he stayed silent for a little while afterward, Oliver sat completely 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.’
‘Well, well!’ said the old man after a moment, in a more uplifting tone, ‘I mention this because you have a youthful spirit; and knowing that I have experienced a lot of pain and sadness, you might be more cautious not to hurt me again. You say you’re an orphan, with no one in the world to turn to; all the inquiries I’ve made confirm that. Please tell me your story: where you come from, who raised you, and how you ended up in the situation I found you in. Speak honestly, and you won’t be alone while I’m around.’
Oliver’s sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; when he was on the point of beginning to relate how he had been brought up at the farm, and carried to the workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a peculiarly impatient little double-knock was heard at the street-door: and the servant, running upstairs, announced Mr. Grimwig.
Oliver’s sobs interrupted his speech for a few minutes; just as he was about to start explaining how he was raised on the farm and taken to the workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a particularly impatient double-knock was heard at the front door. The servant dashed upstairs and announced Mr. Grimwig.
‘Is he coming up?’ inquired Mr. Brownlow.
‘Is he coming up?’ asked 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.’
‘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 for 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.
Mr. Brownlow smiled and turned to Oliver, saying that Mr. Grimwig was an old friend of his, and he shouldn't mind if he was a bit rough around the edges, because he was a good guy at heart, as he had good reason to know.
‘Shall I go downstairs, sir?’ inquired Oliver.
“Should I go downstairs, sir?” Oliver asked.
‘No,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, ‘I would rather you remained here.’
‘No,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, ‘I’d prefer you stay 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.
At that moment, a stout old gentleman hobbled into the room, leaning on a thick stick. He was dressed in a blue coat, striped vest, light-colored breeches, and gaiters, topped off with a wide-brimmed white hat that had green sides. A tiny plaited shirt frill poked out from his vest, and a long steel watch chain with just a key at the end dangled loosely below. The ends of his white neckerchief were twisted into a ball about the size of an orange, and his face twisted into a variety of shapes that were hard to describe. He had a habit of tilting his head to one side when he spoke and looking out of the corners of his eyes at the same time, which irresistibly reminded anyone watching of a parrot. He struck this pose as soon as he entered, and holding out a small piece of orange peel at arm’s length, he exclaimed in a growling, discontented voice.
‘Look here! do you see this! Isn’t it a most wonderful and extraordinary thing that I can’t call at a man’s house but I find a piece of this poor surgeon’s friend on the staircase? I’ve been lamed with orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel will be my death, or I’ll be content to eat my own head, sir!’
‘Look here! Do you see this? Isn’t it amazing and unusual that every time I visit a man’s house, I find a piece of this poor surgeon’s friend on the stairs? I’ve been injured by orange peel before, and I know orange peel will be the end of me, or I’ll be fine with eating my own head, sir!’
This was the handsome offer with which Mr. Grimwig backed and confirmed nearly every assertion he made; and it was the more singular in his case, because, even admitting for the sake of argument, the possibility of scientific improvements being brought to that pass which will enable a gentleman to eat his own head in the event of his being so disposed, Mr. Grimwig’s head was such a particularly large one, that the most sanguine man alive could hardly entertain a hope of being able to get through it at a sitting—to put entirely out of the question, a very thick coating of powder.
This was the impressive claim that Mr. Grimwig used to back up nearly every statement he made; and it was even more unusual for him because, even if we accept for the sake of argument that scientific advancements could eventually allow someone to eat their own head if they wanted to, Mr. Grimwig's head was so notably big that even the most optimistic person could hardly hope to finish it in one sitting—especially with a very thick layer of powder to consider.
‘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.
‘I’ll eat my hat, sir,’ repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick on the ground. ‘Hey! what’s that!’ he said, looking at Oliver and taking a step or two back.
‘This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about,’ said Mr. Brownlow.
‘This is young Oliver Twist, who we were just talking about,’ said Mr. Brownlow.
Oliver bowed.
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.’
‘You’re not saying that’s the kid who had the fever, right?’ Mr. Grimwig said, pulling back a little more. ‘Hold on! Don’t say anything! Stop—’ Mr. Grimwig continued, suddenly losing all fear of the fever in his excitement at the revelation; ‘that’s the kid who had the orange! If that’s not the kid, sir, who had the orange and tossed this piece of peel on the stairs, 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.’
‘No, no, he hasn't had one,’ said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. ‘Come on! Take off your hat and talk to my young friend.’
‘I feel strongly on this subject, sir,’ said the irritable old gentleman, drawing off his gloves. ‘There’s always more or less orange-peel on the pavement in our street; and I know it’s put there by the surgeon’s boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit last night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got up I saw her look towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light. “Don’t go to him,” I called out of the window, “he’s an assassin! A man-trap!” So he is. If he is not—’ Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick; which was always understood, by his friends, to imply the customary offer, whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass, which he wore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again.
“I feel very strongly about this, sir,” said the cranky old man, taking off his gloves. “There’s always some orange peel on the sidewalk in our street, and I know it’s left there by the surgeon’s boy at the corner. A young woman tripped over a piece last night and fell against my garden railing; as soon as she got up, I saw her glance at his annoying red lamp that looks like something from a show. ‘Don’t go to him,’ I shouted from the window, ‘he’s a killer! A trap!’ And he is. If he isn’t—” Here the irritable old man slammed his stick on the ground, which his friends always understood as the usual gesture for an offer, even when he didn’t say it out loud. Then, still holding his stick, he sat down and opened a pair of binoculars he wore on a thick black ribbon, taking a good look at Oliver: who, noticing he was being examined, flushed and bowed again.
‘That’s the boy, is it?’ said Mr. Grimwig, at length.
‘Is that the boy?’ said Mr. Grimwig finally.
‘That’s the boy,’ replied Mr. Brownlow.
‘That’s the kid,’ replied Mr. Brownlow.
‘How are you, boy?’ said Mr. Grimwig.
‘How are you, kid?’ said Mr. Grimwig.
‘A great deal better, thank you, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘Much 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.
Mr. Brownlow, sensing that his unusual friend was about to say something unpleasant, asked Oliver to go downstairs and let Mrs. Bedwin know they were ready for tea; which, since he didn’t quite like the visitor’s vibe, he was more than happy to do.
‘He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?’ inquired Mr. Brownlow.
“He’s a good-looking boy, isn’t he?” Mr. Brownlow asked.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly.
"I don’t know," Mr. Grimwig replied irritably.
‘Don’t know?’
"Not sure?"
‘No. I don’t know. I never see any difference in boys. I only knew two sort of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys.’
‘No. I don’t know. I never notice any difference in boys. I only knew two types of boys. Soft boys and beefy boys.’
‘And which is Oliver?’
‘And which one is Oliver?’
‘Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy, they call him; with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid boy; with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes; with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I know him! The wretch!’
‘Mealy. I know a friend who has a chubby-faced boy; a good-looking kid, they say; with a round head, rosy cheeks, and intense eyes; a terrible boy; with a body and limbs that seem to be bursting out of the seams of his blue clothes; with the voice of a sailor and the appetite of a wolf. I know him! The scoundrel!’
‘Come,’ said Mr. Brownlow, ‘these are not the characteristics of young Oliver Twist; so he needn’t excite your wrath.’
'Come on,' said Mr. Brownlow, 'these aren't the traits of young Oliver Twist, so you don't need to be angry with him.'
‘They are not,’ replied Mr. Grimwig. ‘He may have worse.’
‘They aren’t,’ replied Mr. Grimwig. ‘He could have it worse.’
Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to afford Mr. Grimwig the most exquisite delight.
Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently, which seemed to give Mr. Grimwig the greatest pleasure.
‘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!’
‘He might have it worse, I say,’ Mr. Grimwig repeated. ‘Where’s he from? Who is he? What is he? He’s had a fever. So what? Fevers aren’t just for good people; are they? Bad people get fevers too; don’t they? I knew a guy who was hanged in Jamaica for killing his master. He’d had a fever six times; no one showed him any mercy because of that. Nonsense!’
Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr. Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver’s appearance and manner were unusually prepossessing; but he had a strong appetite for contradiction, sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the orange-peel; and, inwardly determining that no man should dictate to him whether a boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved, from the first, to oppose his friend. When Mr. Brownlow admitted that on no one point of inquiry could he yet return a satisfactory answer; and that he had postponed any investigation into Oliver’s previous history until he thought the boy was strong enough to hear it; Mr. Grimwig chuckled maliciously. And he demanded, with a sneer, whether the housekeeper was in the habit of counting the plate at night; because if she didn’t find a table-spoon or two missing some sunshiny morning, why, he would be content to—and so forth.
Now, the truth was that deep down in his heart, Mr. Grimwig was definitely inclined to admit that Oliver's looks and demeanor were quite charming; however, he had a strong craving for contradiction, which was fueled this time by finding the orange peel. Determined that no one would tell him whether a boy was good-looking or not, he had made up his mind from the start to oppose his friend. When Mr. Brownlow acknowledged that he couldn’t yet provide a satisfactory answer about any of his inquiries and that he had put off investigating Oliver’s past until he thought the boy was strong enough to handle it, Mr. Grimwig chuckled wickedly. He then asked with a sneer whether the housekeeper made it a habit to count the silverware at night because if she didn’t notice a tablespoon or two missing some bright morning, well, he would be fine with that—and so on.
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.
All of this, Mr. Brownlow, even though he was somewhat of an impulsive guy himself, handled his friend’s quirks with great good humor. Since Mr. Grimwig, during tea, happily shared his full approval of the muffins, everything went smoothly; and Oliver, one of the guests, started to feel more comfortable than he had in the presence of the grumpy old gentleman.
‘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 his subject.
‘So when are you going to hear a complete, honest, and detailed story of Oliver Twist's life and adventures?’ Grimwig asked Mr. Brownlow at the end of the meal, glancing at Oliver as he picked up the conversation again.
‘To-morrow morning,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘I would rather he was alone with me at the time. Come up to me to-morrow morning at ten o’clock, my dear.’
‘Tomorrow morning,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘I’d prefer he be alone with me then. Come 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.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Oliver. He answered with a bit of hesitation because he was puzzled by Mr. Grimwig’s intense stare.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ whispered that gentleman to Mr. Brownlow; ‘he won’t come up to you to-morrow morning. I saw him hesitate. He is deceiving you, my good friend.’
‘I’ll tell you this,’ whispered that guy to Mr. Brownlow; ‘he won’t come to you tomorrow morning. I saw him hesitate. He’s deceiving you, my good friend.’
‘I’ll swear he is not,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, warmly.
‘I swear he’s not,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, warmly.
‘If he is not,’ said Mr. Grimwig, ‘I’ll—’ and down went the stick.
‘If he isn’t,’ said Mr. Grimwig, ‘I’ll—’ and down went the stick.
‘I’ll answer for that boy’s truth with my life!’ said Mr. Brownlow, knocking the table.
"I'll stake my life on that boy's honesty!" said Mr. Brownlow, pounding the table.
‘And I for his falsehood with my head!’ rejoined Mr. Grimwig, knocking the table also.
‘And I for his lies with my head!’ replied Mr. Grimwig, banging the table as well.
‘We shall see,’ said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising anger.
‘We’ll see,’ Mr. Brownlow said, holding back his growing anger.
‘We will,’ replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile; ‘we will.’
‘We will,’ replied Mr. Grimwig with a teasing smile; ‘we will.’
As fate would have it, Mrs. Bedwin chanced to bring in, at this moment, a small parcel of books, which Mr. Brownlow had that morning purchased of the identical bookstall-keeper, who has already figured in this history; having laid them on the table, she prepared to leave the room.
As luck would have it, Mrs. Bedwin happened to bring in a small package of books at that moment, which Mr. Brownlow had bought that morning from the same bookstall vendor who has already appeared in this story; after placing them on the table, she got ready to leave the room.
‘Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin!’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘there is something to go back.’
‘Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin!’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘there's something to retrieve.’
‘He has gone, sir,’ replied Mrs. Bedwin.
‘He’s gone, sir,’ replied Mrs. Bedwin.
‘Call after him,’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘it’s particular. He is a poor man, and they are not paid for. There are some books to be taken back, too.’
‘Call after him,’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘it’s important. He’s a poor man, and they aren’t being compensated for it. There are also some books that need to be returned.’
The street-door was opened. Oliver ran one way; and the girl ran another; and Mrs. Bedwin stood on the step and screamed for the boy; but there was no boy in sight. Oliver and the girl returned, in a breathless state, to report that there were no tidings of him.
The front door swung open. Oliver ran one way, while the girl ran another; Mrs. Bedwin stood on the step shouting for the boy, but there was no sign of him. Oliver and the girl came back, out of breath, to say that they hadn’t found him.
‘Dear me, I am very sorry for that,’ exclaimed Mr. Brownlow; ‘I particularly wished those books to be returned to-night.’
“Dear me, I’m really sorry about that,” Mr. Brownlow exclaimed; “I really wanted those books to be returned tonight.”
‘Send Oliver with them,’ said Mr. Grimwig, with an ironical smile; ‘he will be sure to deliver them safely, you know.’
‘Send Oliver with them,’ said Mr. Grimwig, with a sarcastic smile; ‘he’ll definitely make sure they get there safely, you know.’
‘Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir,’ said Oliver. ‘I’ll run all the way, sir.’
‘Yes; please let me take them, if you don’t mind, sir,’ said Oliver. ‘I’ll run the whole way, sir.’
The old gentleman was just going to say that Oliver should not go out on any account; when a most malicious cough from Mr. Grimwig determined him that he should; and that, by his prompt discharge of the commission, he should prove to him the injustice of his suspicions: on this head at least: at once.
The old man was just about to say that Oliver shouldn't go out for any reason when a really annoying cough from Mr. Grimwig made him decide that he should. He figured that by quickly taking care of the task, Oliver would show him that his suspicions were unjust, at least in this case.
‘You shall go, my dear,’ said the old gentleman. ‘The books are on a chair by my table. Fetch them down.’
‘You will go, my dear,’ said the old gentleman. ‘The books are on a chair by my table. Bring them down.’
Oliver, delighted to be of use, brought down the books under his arm in a great bustle; and waited, cap in hand, to hear what message he was to take.
Oliver, happy to help, brought the books down under his arm with a lot of energy; and he waited, holding his cap in his hands, to hear what message he was supposed to deliver.
‘You are to say,’ said Mr. Brownlow, glancing steadily at Grimwig; ‘you are to say that you have brought those books back; and that you have come to pay the four pound ten I owe him. This is a five-pound note, so you will have to bring me back, ten shillings change.’
‘You need to say,’ said Mr. Brownlow, looking directly at Grimwig, ‘that you’ve returned those books and that you’re here to pay the four pound ten I owe him. This is a five-pound note, so you’ll need to bring me back ten shillings in change.’
‘I won’t be ten minutes, sir,’ said Oliver, eagerly. Having buttoned up the bank-note in his jacket pocket, and placed the books carefully under his arm, he made a respectful bow, and left the room. Mrs. Bedwin followed him to the street-door, giving him many directions about the nearest way, and the name of the bookseller, and the name of the street: all of which Oliver said he clearly understood. Having superadded many injunctions to be sure and not take cold, the old lady at length permitted him to depart.
‘I won’t be gone for more than ten minutes, sir,’ said Oliver eagerly. After tucking the banknote into his jacket pocket and carefully placing the books under his arm, he gave a respectful bow and left the room. Mrs. Bedwin followed him to the front door, giving him plenty of instructions about the quickest route, the name of the bookseller, and the name of the street, all of which Oliver said he understood perfectly. After adding several reminders to make sure he didn’t catch a cold, the old lady finally let him go.
‘Bless his sweet face!’ said the old lady, looking after him. ‘I can’t bear, somehow, to let him go out of my sight.’
‘Bless his sweet face!’ said the old lady, watching him. ‘I just can’t stand to let him out of my sight.’
At this moment, Oliver looked gaily round, and nodded before he turned the corner. The old lady smilingly returned his salutation, and, closing the door, went back to her own room.
At that moment, Oliver looked around happily and nodded before he turned the corner. The older woman smiled and returned his greeting, then closed the door and went back to her own room.
‘Let me see; he’ll be back in twenty minutes, at the longest,’ said Mr. Brownlow, pulling out his watch, and placing it on the table. ‘It will be dark by that time.’
‘Let me see; he’ll be back in twenty minutes, at the most,’ said Mr. Brownlow, taking out his watch and putting it on the table. ‘It’ll be dark by then.’
‘Oh! you really expect him to come back, do you?’ inquired Mr. Grimwig.
‘Oh! You really think he’s coming back, do you?’ asked Mr. Grimwig.
‘Don’t you?’ asked Mr. Brownlow, smiling.
"Don't you?" Mr. Brownlow asked with a smile.
The spirit of contradiction was strong in Mr. Grimwig’s breast, at the moment; and it was rendered stronger by his friend’s confident smile.
The spirit of contradiction was strong in Mr. Grimwig at that moment, and it was made even stronger by his friend's confident smile.
‘No,’ he said, smiting the table with his fist, ‘I do not. The boy has a new suit of clothes on his back, a set of valuable books under his arm, and a five-pound note in his pocket. He’ll join his old friends the thieves, and laugh at you. If ever that boy returns to this house, sir, I’ll eat my head.’
‘No,’ he said, slamming his fist on the table, ‘I don’t. The kid has a new suit of clothes on, a bunch of valuable books under his arm, and a fifty-pound note in his pocket. He’ll go back to his old friends, the thieves, and laugh at you. If that kid ever comes back to this house, sir, I’ll eat my hat.’
With these words he drew his chair closer to the table; and there the two friends sat, in silent expectation, with the watch between them.
With that, he pulled his chair closer to the table, and there the two friends sat in quiet anticipation, with the watch between them.
It is worthy of remark, as illustrating the importance we attach to our own judgments, and the pride with which we put forth our most rash and hasty conclusions, that, although Mr. Grimwig was not by any means a bad-hearted man, and though he would have been unfeignedly sorry to see his respected friend duped and deceived, he really did most earnestly and strongly hope at that moment, that Oliver Twist might not come back.
It’s noteworthy, as an example of how much we value our own opinions and the pride we take in our quickest and most reckless conclusions, that even though Mr. Grimwig was not a cruel man at all, and he would have genuinely felt terrible to see his respected friend tricked and deceived, he actually hoped quite sincerely and passionately at that moment that Oliver Twist wouldn’t return.
It grew so dark, that the figures on the dial-plate were scarcely discernible; but there the two old gentlemen continued to sit, in silence, with the watch between them.
It got so dark that the numbers on the clock face were hardly visible; yet the two old gentlemen kept sitting there in silence, with the watch between them.
CHAPTER XV — SHOWING HOW VERY FOND OF OLIVER TWIST, THE MERRY OLD JEW AND MISS NANCY WERE
In the obscure parlour of a low public-house, in the filthiest part of Little Saffron Hill; a dark and gloomy den, where a flaring gas-light burnt all day in the winter-time; and where no ray of sun ever shone in the summer: there sat, brooding over a little pewter measure and a small glass, strongly impregnated with the smell of liquor, a man in a velveteen coat, drab shorts, half-boots and stockings, whom even by that dim light no experienced agent of the police would have hesitated to recognise as Mr. William Sikes. At his feet, sat a white-coated, red-eyed dog; who occupied himself, alternately, in winking at his master with both eyes at the same time; and in licking a large, fresh cut on one side of his mouth, which appeared to be the result of some recent conflict.
In the dim backroom of a rundown pub in the dirtiest part of Little Saffron Hill—a dark, gloomy place where a flickering gas light burned all day in winter and no sunlight ever reached in summer—there sat a man in a velveteen coat, beige shorts, half-boots, and stockings, brooding over a small pewter mug and a tiny glass that smelled strongly of alcohol. Even in that poor lighting, any seasoned police officer would have easily recognized him as Mr. William Sikes. At his feet lay a white-coated, red-eyed dog, who entertained himself by winking at his master with both eyes at once and licking a large, fresh cut on the side of his mouth, likely from a recent fight.
‘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.
‘Shut up, you little pest! Just shut up!’ Mr. Sikes suddenly shouted, breaking the silence. Whether his thoughts were so deep that they were interrupted by the dog’s blinking, or whether his emotions were so stirred up by his reflections that he needed the release of kicking an innocent animal to calm down, is open for discussion. Whatever the reason, the result was a kick and a curse, aimed at the dog at the same time.
Dogs are not generally apt to revenge injuries inflicted upon them by their masters; but Mr. Sikes’s dog, having faults of temper in common with his owner, and labouring, perhaps, at this moment, under a powerful sense of injury, made no more ado but at once fixed his teeth in one of the half-boots. Having given in a hearty shake, he retired, growling, under a form; just escaping the pewter measure which Mr. Sikes levelled at his head.
Dogs usually don't seek revenge for the wrongs done to them by their owners; however, Mr. Sikes's dog, sharing some of his owner's bad temper, and maybe feeling particularly hurt at that moment, didn’t hesitate to sink his teeth into one of the half-boots. After giving it a good shake, he retreated, growling, under a bench, narrowly avoiding the metal pitcher that Mr. Sikes aimed at him.
‘You would, would you?’ said Sikes, seizing the poker in one hand, and deliberately opening with the other a large clasp-knife, which he drew from his pocket. ‘Come here, you born devil! Come here! D’ye hear?’
‘Oh really, you would?’ said Sikes, grabbing the poker with one hand and carefully opening a large clasp knife with the other, which he pulled out of his pocket. ‘Come here, you little devil! Come here! Do you hear me?’
The dog no doubt heard; because Mr. Sikes spoke in the very harshest key of a very harsh voice; but, appearing to entertain some unaccountable objection to having his throat cut, he remained where he was, and growled more fiercely than before: at the same time grasping the end of the poker between his teeth, and biting at it like a wild beast.
The dog definitely heard; Mr. Sikes spoke in the harshest tone of his already harsh voice. However, seeming to have some strange aversion to getting his throat cut, he stayed put and growled even more fiercely than before. At the same time, he grabbed the end of the poker with his teeth and bit at it like a wild animal.
This resistance only infuriated Mr. Sikes the more; who, dropping on his knees, began to assail the animal most furiously. The dog jumped from right to left, and from left to right; snapping, growling, and barking; the man thrust and swore, and struck and blasphemed; and the struggle was reaching a most critical point for one or other; when, the door suddenly opening, the dog darted out: leaving Bill Sikes with the poker and the clasp-knife in his hands.
This resistance only made Mr. Sikes even angrier. Dropping to his knees, he started to attack the dog furiously. The dog jumped from side to side, snapping, growling, and barking; the man shouted and swore, lunging and cursing, and the struggle was reaching a critical point for one of them. Then, the door suddenly swung open, and the dog dashed out, leaving Bill Sikes with the poker and the pocket knife in his hands.
There must always be two parties to a quarrel, says the old adage. Mr. Sikes, being disappointed of the dog’s participation, at once transferred his share in the quarrel to the new comer.
There are always two sides to a fight, as the saying goes. Mr. Sikes, disappointed that the dog wasn't involved, immediately shifted his part of the argument to the newcomer.
‘What the devil do you come in between me and my dog for?’ said Sikes, with a fierce gesture.
‘What on earth are you doing between me and my dog?’ said Sikes, with an intense gesture.
‘I didn’t know, my dear, I didn’t know,’ replied Fagin, humbly; for the Jew was the new comer.
‘I didn’t know, my dear, I didn’t know,’ replied Fagin, humbly; for the Jew was the newcomer.
‘Didn’t know, you white-livered thief!’ growled Sikes. ‘Couldn’t you hear the noise?’
‘Didn’t know, you cowardly thief!’ growled Sikes. ‘Couldn’t you hear the racket?’
‘Not a sound of it, as I’m a living man, Bill,’ replied the Jew.
‘Not a sound of it, as I’m a living man, Bill,’ replied the Jew.
‘Oh no! You hear nothing, you don’t,’ retorted Sikes with a fierce sneer. ‘Sneaking in and out, so as nobody hears how you come or go! I wish you had been the dog, Fagin, half a minute ago.’
‘Oh no! You don't hear anything, do you?’ Sikes shot back with a fierce sneer. ‘Sneaking in and out so that no one hears you come or go! I wish you had been the dog, Fagin, just half a minute ago.’
‘Why?’ inquired the Jew with a forced smile.
'Why?' asked the Jew with a forced smile.
‘Cause the government, as cares for the lives of such men as you, as haven’t half the pluck of curs, lets a man kill a dog how he likes,’ replied Sikes, shutting up the knife with a very expressive look; ‘that’s why.’
‘Because the government, which cares for the lives of people like you, who don’t have half the courage of a dog, allows a person to kill a dog however they want,’ replied Sikes, closing the knife with a very pointed look; ‘that’s why.’
The Jew rubbed his hands; and, sitting down at the table, affected to laugh at the pleasantry of his friend. He was obviously very ill at ease, however.
The man rubbed his hands; and, sitting down at the table, pretended to laugh at his friend's joke. He was obviously very uncomfortable, though.
‘Grin away,’ said Sikes, replacing the poker, and surveying him with savage contempt; ‘grin away. You’ll never have the laugh at me, though, unless it’s behind a nightcap. I’ve got the upper hand over you, Fagin; and, d—me, I’ll keep it. There! If I go, you go; so take care of me.’
‘Grin all you want,’ said Sikes, putting the poker back and looking at him with fierce contempt; ‘grin all you want. You’ll never get the better of me, though, unless it’s when I’m drinking. I’ve got the upper hand over you, Fagin; and, damn it, I’m going to keep it. There! If I go down, you go down too; so watch yourself.’
‘Well, well, my dear,’ said the Jew, ‘I know all that; we—we—have a mutual interest, Bill,—a mutual interest.’
‘Well, well, my dear,’ said the Jew, ‘I know all that; we—we—have a shared interest, Bill—a shared interest.’
‘Humph,’ said Sikes, as if he thought the interest lay rather more on the Jew’s side than on his. ‘Well, what have you got to say to me?’
‘Humph,’ said Sikes, as if he believed the interest was more on the Jew’s side than on his. ‘Well, what do you want to say to me?’
‘It’s all passed safe through the melting-pot,’ replied Fagin, ‘and this is your share. It’s rather more than it ought to be, my dear; but as I know you’ll do me a good turn another time, and—’
‘It’s all gone through the melting pot safely,’ replied Fagin, ‘and this is your share. It’s a bit more than it should be, my dear; but since I know you’ll help me out another time, and—’
‘Stow that gammon,’ interposed the robber, impatiently. ‘Where is it? Hand over!’
‘Stop that nonsense,’ interrupted the robber, impatiently. ‘Where is it? Give it here!’
‘Yes, yes, Bill; give me time, give me time,’ replied the Jew, soothingly. ‘Here it is! All safe!’ As he spoke, he drew forth an old cotton handkerchief from his breast; and untying a large knot in one corner, produced a small brown-paper packet. Sikes, snatching it from him, hastily opened it; and proceeded to count the sovereigns it contained.
‘Yeah, yeah, Bill; just give me a moment, give me a moment,’ replied the Jew, trying to calm him down. ‘Here it is! All safe!’ As he said this, he took out an old cotton handkerchief from his chest; and after untying a big knot in one corner, he revealed a small brown-paper packet. Sikes, grabbing it from him, quickly opened it and started counting the sovereigns inside.
‘This is all, is it?’ inquired Sikes.
‘Is this all there is?’ asked Sikes.
‘All,’ replied the Jew.
"Everyone," replied the Jew.
‘You haven’t opened the parcel and swallowed one or two as you come along, have you?’ inquired Sikes, suspiciously. ‘Don’t put on an injured look at the question; you’ve done it many a time. Jerk the tinkler.’
"You haven’t opened the package and taken one or two as you went, have you?" Sikes asked suspiciously. "Don't act all offended by the question; you've done it plenty of times. Jerk the bell."
These words, in plain English, conveyed an injunction to ring the bell. It was answered by another Jew: younger than Fagin, but nearly as vile and repulsive in appearance.
These words, in plain English, conveyed a command to ring the bell. It was responded to by another Jew: younger than Fagin, but almost as disgusting and repulsive in appearance.
Bill Sikes merely pointed to the empty measure. The Jew, perfectly understanding the hint, retired to fill it: previously exchanging a remarkable look with Fagin, who raised his eyes for an instant, as if in expectation of it, and shook his head in reply; so slightly that the action would have been almost imperceptible to an observant third person. It was lost upon Sikes, who was stooping at the moment to tie the boot-lace which the dog had torn. Possibly, if he had observed the brief interchange of signals, he might have thought that it boded no good to him.
Bill Sikes simply pointed to the empty measure. The Jew, fully understanding the cue, stepped back to fill it: previously exchanging a meaningful look with Fagin, who briefly raised his eyes as if expecting it, then shook his head slightly in response; so subtly that an observant third party might have missed it. Sikes overlooked it, as he was bent down tying the boot-lace that the dog had torn. If he had noticed the quick exchange of signals, he might have believed it was a bad omen for him.
‘Is anybody here, Barney?’ inquired Fagin; speaking, now that that Sikes was looking on, without raising his eyes from the ground.
‘Is anyone here, Barney?’ Fagin asked, still looking down at the ground since Sikes was watching.
‘Dot a shoul,’ replied Barney; whose words: whether they came from the heart or not: made their way through the nose.
‘Dot a shoul,’ replied Barney; whose words, whether they came from the heart or not, came out through his nose.
‘Nobody?’ inquired Fagin, in a tone of surprise: which perhaps might mean that Barney was at liberty to tell the truth.
‘Nobody?’ asked Fagin, sounding surprised, which might suggest that Barney was free to tell the truth.
‘Dobody but Biss Dadsy,’ replied Barney.
‘Nobody but this Dad,’ replied Barney.
‘Nancy!’ exclaimed Sikes. ‘Where? Strike me blind, if I don’t honour that ‘ere girl, for her native talents.’
‘Nancy!’ exclaimed Sikes. ‘Where? I swear, if I don’t respect that girl for her natural talents.’
‘She’s bid havid a plate of boiled beef id the bar,’ replied Barney.
‘She’s had a plate of boiled beef at the bar,’ replied Barney.
‘Send her here,’ said Sikes, pouring out a glass of liquor. ‘Send her here.’
‘Send her here,’ said Sikes, pouring a glass of liquor. ‘Send her here.’
Barney looked timidly at Fagin, as if for permission; the Jew remaining silent, and not lifting his eyes from the ground, he retired; and presently returned, ushering in Nancy; who was decorated with the bonnet, apron, basket, and street-door key, complete.
Barney looked nervously at Fagin, as if seeking approval; Fagin stayed silent and didn’t raise his eyes from the ground, so he left. Soon after, he came back, bringing Nancy with him; she was fully dressed with the bonnet, apron, basket, and the key to the front door.
‘You are on the scent, are you, Nancy?’ inquired Sikes, proffering the glass.
‘You’re on to something, aren’t you, Nancy?’ Sikes asked, offering the glass.
‘Yes, I am, Bill,’ replied the young lady, disposing of its contents; ‘and tired enough of it I am, too. The young brat’s been ill and confined to the crib; and—’
‘Yes, I am, Bill,’ replied the young lady, getting rid of its contents; ‘and I’m pretty tired of it, too. The young brat’s been sick and stuck in the crib; and—’
‘Ah, Nancy, dear!’ said Fagin, looking up.
‘Oh, Nancy, my dear!’ said Fagin, looking up.
Now, whether a peculiar contraction of the Jew’s red eye-brows, and a half closing of his deeply-set eyes, warned Miss Nancy that she was disposed to be too communicative, is not a matter of much importance. The fact is all we need care for here; and the fact is, that she suddenly checked herself, and with several gracious smiles upon Mr. Sikes, turned the conversation to other matters. In about ten minutes’ time, Mr. Fagin was seized with a fit of coughing; upon which Nancy pulled her shawl over her shoulders, and declared it was time to go. Mr. Sikes, finding that he was walking a short part of her way himself, expressed his intention of accompanying her; they went away together, followed, at a little distant, by the dog, who slunk out of a back-yard as soon as his master was out of sight.
Now, whether the strange furrow of the Jew’s red eyebrows and the slight drooping of his deeply-set eyes signaled to Miss Nancy that she was about to share too much is not really important. What matters here is that she suddenly held back, and with several charming smiles at Mr. Sikes, shifted the topic to something else. Within about ten minutes, Mr. Fagin was hit with a coughing fit. At that, Nancy wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and said it was time to leave. Mr. Sikes, realizing he was walking part of the way with her, said he would accompany her; they left together, trailed at a bit of a distance by the dog, who crept out from a back yard as soon as his owner was out of sight.
The Jew thrust his head out of the room door when Sikes had left it; looked after him as we walked up the dark passage; shook his clenched fist; muttered a deep curse; and then, with a horrible grin, reseated himself at the table; where he was soon deeply absorbed in the interesting pages of the Hue-and-Cry.
The Jew stuck his head out of the room door when Sikes had left it; watched him as he walked up the dark hallway; shook his clenched fist; muttered a dark curse; and then, with a menacing grin, sat back down at the table, where he quickly became engrossed in the intriguing pages of the Hue-and-Cry.
Meanwhile, Oliver Twist, little dreaming that he was within so very short a distance of the merry old gentleman, was on his way to the book-stall. When he got into Clerkenwell, he accidently turned down a by-street which was not exactly in his way; but not discovering his mistake until he had got half-way down it, and knowing it must lead in the right direction, he did not think it worth while to turn back; and so marched on, as quickly as he could, with the books under his arm.
Meanwhile, Oliver Twist, unaware that he was so close to the cheerful old gentleman, was heading to the book stall. When he reached Clerkenwell, he accidentally took a side street that wasn’t exactly on his route; however, since he didn’t realize his mistake until he had gone halfway down it, and believing it would lead him in the right direction, he decided it wasn’t worth turning back. So, he continued on as quickly as he could, carrying the books under his arm.
He was walking along, thinking how happy and contented he ought to feel; and how much he would give for only one look at poor little Dick, who, starved and beaten, might be weeping bitterly at that very moment; when he was startled by a young woman screaming out very loud. ‘Oh, my dear brother!’ And he had hardly looked up, to see what the matter was, when he was stopped by having a pair of arms thrown tight round his neck.
He was walking along, thinking about how happy and satisfied he should feel; and how much he would give for just one glimpse of poor little Dick, who, starving and beaten, might be crying hard at that very moment; when he was startled by a young woman screaming loudly, “Oh, my dear brother!” And he had barely looked up to see what was going on when a pair of arms wrapped tightly around his neck.
‘Don’t,’ cried Oliver, struggling. ‘Let go of me. Who is it? What are you stopping me for?’
‘Don’t,’ Oliver shouted, fighting to get free. ‘Let go of me. Who are you? Why are you holding me back?’
The only reply to this, was a great number of loud lamentations from the young woman who had embraced him; and who had a little basket and a street-door key in her hand.
The only response to this was a loud outpouring of sorrow from the young woman who had hugged him, and who was holding a small basket and a house key.
‘Oh my gracious!’ said the young woman, ‘I have found him! Oh! Oliver! Oliver! Oh you naughty boy, to make me suffer such distress on your account! Come home, dear, come. Oh, I’ve found him. Thank gracious goodness heavins, I’ve found him!’ With these incoherent exclamations, the young woman burst into another fit of crying, and got so dreadfully hysterical, that a couple of women who came up at the moment asked a butcher’s boy with a shiny head of hair anointed with suet, who was also looking on, whether he didn’t think he had better run for the doctor. To which, the butcher’s boy: who appeared of a lounging, not to say indolent disposition: replied, that he thought not.
‘Oh my goodness!’ said the young woman, ‘I’ve found him! Oh! Oliver! Oliver! You naughty boy, making me suffer so much worry about you! Come home, sweetheart, come. Oh, I’ve found him. Thank goodness, I’ve found him!’ With these jumbled exclamations, the young woman burst into another fit of tears and became so incredibly hysterical that a couple of women who arrived at that moment asked a butcher’s boy with shiny hair slicked back with grease, who was also watching, if he thought he should go get the doctor. To which the butcher’s boy, who seemed rather lazy, replied that he didn’t think so.
‘Oh, no, no, never mind,’ said the young woman, grasping Oliver’s hand; ‘I’m better now. Come home directly, you cruel boy! Come!’
‘Oh, no, no, it’s fine,’ said the young woman, holding Oliver’s hand; ‘I’m fine now. Come home right away, you mean boy! Come!’
‘Oh, ma’am,’ replied the young woman, ‘he ran away, near a month ago, from his parents, who are hard-working and respectable people; and went and joined a set of thieves and bad characters; and almost broke his mother’s heart.’
‘Oh, ma’am,’ replied the young woman, ‘he ran away almost a month ago from his parents, who are hard-working and decent people; and went and joined a group of thieves and bad influences; and nearly broke his mother’s heart.’
‘Young wretch!’ said one woman.
"Young loser!" said one woman.
‘Go home, do, you little brute,’ said the other.
‘Go home, you little brat,’ said the other.
‘I am not,’ replied Oliver, greatly alarmed. ‘I don’t know her. I haven’t any sister, or father and mother either. I’m an orphan; I live at Pentonville.’
‘I’m not,’ Oliver replied, feeling very worried. ‘I don’t know her. I don’t have a sister, or any parents. I’m an orphan; I live in Pentonville.’
‘Only hear him, how he braves it out!’ cried the young woman.
‘Just listen to him, how he toughs it out!’ cried the young woman.
‘Why, it’s Nancy!’ exclaimed Oliver; who now saw her face for the first time; and started back, in irrepressible astonishment.
‘Why, it’s Nancy!’ Oliver exclaimed, seeing her face for the first time and stepping back in uncontrollable surprise.
‘You see he knows me!’ cried Nancy, appealing to the bystanders. ‘He can’t help himself. Make him come home, there’s good people, or he’ll kill his dear mother and father, and break my heart!’
‘You see he knows me!’ cried Nancy, looking at the crowd. ‘He can’t help it. Make him come home, there are good people, or he’ll end up hurting his dear mother and father, and break my heart!’
‘What the devil’s this?’ said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with a white dog at his heels; ‘young Oliver! Come home to your poor mother, you young dog! Come home directly.’
‘What on earth is this?’ said a man, rushing out of a bar, with a white dog following him; ‘young Oliver! Come back to your poor mother, you little rascal! Come home right away.’
‘I don’t belong to them. I don’t know them. Help! help!’ cried Oliver, struggling in the man’s powerful grasp.
‘I don’t belong to them. I don’t know them. Help! Help!’ cried Oliver, struggling in the man’s strong grip.
Original
‘Help!’ repeated the man. ‘Yes; I’ll help you, you young rascal! What books are these? You’ve been a stealing ‘em, have you? Give ‘em here.’ With these words, the man tore the volumes from his grasp, and struck him on the head.
‘Help!’ said the man again. ‘Yes; I’ll help you, you little troublemaker! What books are these? You’ve been stealing them, haven’t you? Hand them over.’ With that, the man yanked the books from his hands and hit him on the head.
‘That’s right!’ cried a looker-on, from a garret-window. ‘That’s the only way of bringing him to his senses!’
‘That’s right!’ shouted an onlooker from a top-floor window. ‘That’s the only way to bring him back to reality!’
‘To be sure!’ cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an approving look at the garret-window.
‘Absolutely!’ exclaimed a drowsy carpenter, glancing approvingly at the attic window.
‘It’ll do him good!’ said the two women.
“It'll do him good!” said the two women.
‘And he shall have it, too!’ rejoined the man, administering another blow, and seizing Oliver by the collar. ‘Come on, you young villain! Here, Bull’s-eye, mind him, boy! Mind him!’
‘And he’s going to get it, too!’ the man shot back, hitting Oliver again and grabbing him by the collar. ‘Let’s go, you little scoundrel! Here, Bull’s-eye, keep an eye on him, boy! Watch him!’
Weak with recent illness; stupified by the blows and the suddenness of the attack; terrified by the fierce growling of the dog, and the brutality of the man; overpowered by the conviction of the bystanders that he really was the hardened little wretch he was described to be; what could one poor child do! Darkness had set in; it was a low neighborhood; no help was near; resistance was useless. In another moment he was dragged into a labyrinth of dark narrow courts, and was forced along them at a pace which rendered the few cries he dared to give utterance to, unintelligible. It was of little moment, indeed, whether they were intelligible or no; for there was nobody to care for them, had they been ever so plain.
Weak from his recent illness; stunned by the blows and the suddenness of the attack; terrified by the fierce growling of the dog and the brutality of the man; overwhelmed by the bystanders' belief that he really was the hardened little wretch they claimed he was; what could one poor child do! Night had fallen; it was a rough neighborhood; no help was nearby; resistance was pointless. In another moment, he was dragged into a maze of dark, narrow alleys and forced to move at a pace that made the few cries he dared to let out unintelligible. It hardly mattered whether they were understandable or not; there was no one around to care for them, even if they had been perfectly clear.
The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the open door; the servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were any traces of Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat, perseveringly, in the dark parlour, with the watch between them.
The gas lamps were lit; Mrs. Bedwin was anxiously waiting at the open door; the servant had dashed up the street multiple times to look for any sign of Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat, determined, in the dark parlor, with the watch between them.
CHAPTER XVI — RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY NANCY
The narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open space; scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other indications of a cattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they reached this spot: the girl being quite unable to support any longer, the rapid rate at which they had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he roughly commanded him to take hold of Nancy’s hand.
The narrow streets and alleys eventually opened up into a large open space, dotted with pens for animals and other signs of a cattle market. Sikes slowed down when they got to this area, as the girl could no longer keep up with the fast pace they had been walking. Turning to Oliver, he harshly ordered him to grab Nancy's hand.
‘Do you hear?’ growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round.
“Do you hear?” growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated and looked around.
They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers.
They were in a dark corner, far away from the path of travelers.
Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers.
Oliver saw all too clearly that fighting back would be pointless. He extended his hand, which Nancy squeezed tightly in hers.
‘Give me the other,’ said Sikes, seizing Oliver’s unoccupied hand. ‘Here, Bull’s-Eye!’
‘Give me the other one,’ said Sikes, grabbing Oliver’s free hand. ‘Here, Bull’s-Eye!’
The dog looked up, and growled.
The dog looked up and growled.
‘See here, boy!’ said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver’s throat; ‘if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D’ye mind!’
'Listen up, kid!' Sikes said, bringing his other hand to Oliver's throat; 'if he says even the slightest word, grab him! Got it!'
The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.
The dog growled again, licking his lips, and looked at Oliver as if he couldn't wait to grab his throat.
‘He’s as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn’t!’ said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. ‘Now, you know what you’ve got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young’un!’
‘He’s as willing as a Christian, I swear he is!’ said Sikes, looking at the animal with a mix of grim satisfaction and fierce approval. ‘Now, you know what you can expect, boss, so go ahead and call him as fast as you want; the dog will put an end to that game soon enough. Keep going, kid!’
Bull’s-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the benefit of Oliver, led the way onward.
Bull's-eye wagged his tail in response to this unusually charming way of speaking; and, letting out another warning growl for Oliver's sake, he moved ahead.
It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was dark and foggy. The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle through the heavy mist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the streets and houses in gloom; rendering the strange place still stranger in Oliver’s eyes; and making his uncertainty the more dismal and depressing.
It was Smithfield they were crossing, but it could have been Grosvenor Square for all Oliver knew. The night was dark and foggy. The lights in the shops barely managed to shine through the thickening mist, which wrapped the streets and houses in darkness; making the unfamiliar place even weirder in Oliver’s view and deepening his feeling of uncertainty and gloom.
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.
They had rushed ahead a few steps when a deep church bell rang out the hour. With the first chime, his two guides halted and turned their heads toward the source of the sound.
‘Eight o’ clock, Bill,’ said Nancy, when the bell ceased.
‘It's eight o'clock, Bill,’ Nancy said when the bell stopped.
‘What’s the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can’t I!’ replied Sikes.
‘What’s the point of telling me that; I can hear it, can’t I!’ replied Sikes.
‘I wonder whether they can hear it,’ said Nancy.
‘I wonder if they can hear it,’ said Nancy.
‘Of course they can,’ replied Sikes. ‘It was Bartlemy time when I was shopped; and there warn’t a penny trumpet in the fair, as I couldn’t hear the squeaking on. Arter I was locked up for the night, the row and din outside made the thundering old jail so silent, that I could almost have beat my brains out against the iron plates of the door.’
‘Of course they can,’ replied Sikes. ‘It was Bartlemy time when I was shopped; and there wasn’t a penny trumpet at the fair that I couldn’t hear squeaking. After I was locked up for the night, the noise and chaos outside made the old jail feel so quiet that I could almost have banged my head against the iron plates of the door.’
‘Poor fellow!’ said Nancy, who still had her face turned towards the quarter in which the bell had sounded. ‘Oh, Bill, such fine young chaps as them!’
‘Poor guy!’ said Nancy, who still had her face turned towards the direction where the bell had rung. ‘Oh, Bill, those are such great young guys!’
‘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.’
‘Yeah, that’s all you women care about,’ replied Sikes. ‘Great young guys! Well, they’re as good as gone, so it doesn’t really 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.
With this reassurance, Mr. Sikes seemed to hold back a growing feeling of jealousy, and, gripping Oliver’s wrist more tightly, instructed 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.’
‘Wait a minute!’ said the girl. ‘I wouldn’t rush past if it was you about to be hanged the next time the clock struck eight, Bill. I’d walk around the place until I couldn’t anymore, even if the snow was on the ground and I didn’t have a shawl to keep me warm.’
‘And what good would that do?’ inquired the unsentimental Mr. Sikes. ‘Unless you could pitch over a file and twenty yards of good stout rope, you might as well be walking fifty mile off, or not walking at all, for all the good it would do me. Come on, and don’t stand preaching there.’
‘And what good would that do?’ asked the unsentimental Mr. Sikes. ‘Unless you could throw over a file and twenty yards of sturdy rope, you might as well be walking fifty miles away, or just not walking at all, because it wouldn't help me at all. Let’s go, and don’t just 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.
The girl laughed loudly; pulled her shawl tighter around her; and they walked away. But Oliver felt her hand shake, and as they passed under a streetlamp, he saw that her face had gone a ghostly white.
They walked on, by little-frequented and dirty ways, for a full half-hour: meeting very few people, and those appearing from their looks to hold much the same position in society as Mr. Sikes himself. At length they turned into a very filthy narrow street, nearly full of old-clothes shops; the dog running forward, as if conscious that there was no further occasion for his keeping on guard, stopped before the door of a shop that was closed and apparently untenanted; the house was in a ruinous condition, and on the door was nailed a board, intimating that it was to let: which looked as if it had hung there for many years.
They walked on, down little-used and dirty paths, for a full half-hour: meeting very few people, and those who did seem to be in a similar social position as Mr. Sikes himself. Eventually, they turned onto a very filthy narrow street, packed with old-clothes shops; the dog ran ahead, as if he knew there was no need for him to stay on alert, and stopped in front of a shop that was closed and seemed abandoned; the building was in such bad shape, and there was a sign nailed to the door saying it was for rent: it looked like it had been there for many years.
‘All right,’ cried Sikes, glancing cautiously about.
‘All right,’ shouted Sikes, looking around carefully.
Nancy stooped below the shutters, and Oliver heard the sound of a bell. They crossed to the opposite side of the street, and stood for a few moments under a lamp. A noise, as if a sash window were gently raised, was heard; and soon afterwards the door softly opened. Mr. Sikes then seized the terrified boy by the collar with very little ceremony; and all three were quickly inside the house.
Nancy crouched down below the shutters, and Oliver heard the sound of a bell. They crossed to the other side of the street and stood for a few moments under a lamp. A noise, like a sash window being gently raised, was heard; and soon after, the door quietly opened. Mr. Sikes then grabbed the terrified boy by the collar with hardly any elegance, and all three were quickly inside the house.
The passage was perfectly dark. They waited, while the person who had let them in, chained and barred the door.
The passage was completely dark. They waited while the person who had let them in locked and secured the door.
‘Anybody here?’ inquired Sikes.
“Is anyone here?” Sikes asked.
‘No,’ replied a voice, which Oliver thought he had heard before.
‘No,’ replied a voice that Oliver thought he recognized.
‘Is the old ‘un here?’ asked the robber.
"Is the old guy here?" asked the robber.
‘Yes,’ replied the voice, ‘and precious down in the mouth he has been. Won’t he be glad to see you? Oh, no!’
‘Yes,’ replied the voice, ‘and he’s been feeling pretty down about things. Won’t he be happy to see you? Oh, no!’
The style of this reply, as well as the voice which delivered it, seemed familiar to Oliver’s ears: but it was impossible to distinguish even the form of the speaker in the darkness.
The style of this reply, along with the voice that delivered it, felt familiar to Oliver’s ears; but it was impossible to recognize even the shape of the speaker in the darkness.
‘Let’s have a glim,’ said Sikes, ‘or we shall go breaking our necks, or treading on the dog. Look after your legs if you do!’
“Let’s have a look,” said Sikes, “or we’ll end up breaking our necks or stepping on the dog. Watch your legs if you do!”
‘Stand still a moment, and I’ll get you one,’ replied the voice. The receding footsteps of the speaker were heard; and, in another minute, the form of Mr. John Dawkins, otherwise the Artful Dodger, appeared. He bore in his right hand a tallow candle stuck in the end of a cleft stick.
‘Hold on a second, and I’ll grab one for you,’ said the voice. The sound of the speaker's footsteps faded away, and, a moment later, the figure of Mr. John Dawkins, better known as the Artful Dodger, came into view. He was holding a tallow candle stuck in the end of a split stick in his right hand.
The young gentleman did not stop to bestow any other mark of recognition upon Oliver than a humourous grin; but, turning away, beckoned the visitors to follow him down a flight of stairs. They crossed an empty kitchen; and, opening the door of a low earthy-smelling room, which seemed to have been built in a small back-yard, were received with a shout of laughter.
The young man didn’t take the time to acknowledge Oliver any further than a playful smile; instead, he turned and signaled for the visitors to follow him down a set of stairs. They passed through an empty kitchen, and upon opening the door to a small, musty room that looked like it was constructed in a tiny backyard, they were greeted with a burst of laughter.
‘Oh, my wig, my wig!’ cried Master Charles Bates, from whose lungs the laughter had proceeded: ‘here he is! oh, cry, here he is! Oh, Fagin, look at him! Fagin, do look at him! I can’t bear it; it is such a jolly game, I cant’ bear it. Hold me, somebody, while I laugh it out.’
‘Oh, my wig, my wig!’ yelled Master Charles Bates, the laughter coming from deep within him: ‘here he is! oh, come on, here he is! Oh, Fagin, look at him! Fagin, please look at him! I can’t take it; it’s such a fun game, I can’t handle it. Hold me, someone, while I laugh it off.’
With this irrepressible ebullition of mirth, Master Bates laid himself flat on the floor: and kicked convulsively for five minutes, in an ectasy of facetious joy. Then jumping to his feet, he snatched the cleft stick from the Dodger; and, advancing to Oliver, viewed him round and round; while the Jew, taking off his nightcap, made a great number of low bows to the bewildered boy. The Artful, meantime, who was of a rather saturnine disposition, and seldom gave way to merriment when it interfered with business, rifled Oliver’s pockets with steady assiduity.
With this unstoppable burst of laughter, Master Bates lay flat on the floor and kicked around for five minutes in a fit of hilarious joy. Then, jumping to his feet, he grabbed the split stick from the Dodger and, moving towards Oliver, looked him over from every angle, while the Jew, removing his nightcap, bowed repeatedly to the confused boy. Meanwhile, the Artful, who had a rather serious nature and rarely let joy interfere with business, was diligently going through Oliver’s pockets.
Original
‘Look at his togs, Fagin!’ said Charley, putting the light so close to his new jacket as nearly to set him on fire. ‘Look at his togs! Superfine cloth, and the heavy swell cut! Oh, my eye, what a game! And his books, too! Nothing but a gentleman, Fagin!’
‘Check out his clothes, Fagin!’ said Charley, holding the light so close to his new jacket that it nearly caught fire. ‘Look at his clothes! Fancy fabric, and the stylish cut! Wow, what a trick! And his books, too! Just a total 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.’
‘I'm so glad to see you looking so good, my dear,’ said the Jew, bowing with false humility. ‘The Artful will get you another suit, my dear, in case you ruin that Sunday one. Why didn’t you write, my dear, and let us know you were coming? We would have prepared something warm for dinner.’
At his, Master Bates roared again: so loud, that Fagin himself relaxed, and even the Dodger smiled; but as the Artful drew forth the five-pound note at that instant, it is doubtful whether the sally of the discovery awakened his merriment.
At his, Master Bates shouted again: so loud that Fagin himself relaxed, and even the Dodger smiled; but as the Artful pulled out the five-pound note at that moment, it’s unclear if the surprise of the discovery made him laugh.
‘Hallo, what’s that?’ inquired Sikes, stepping forward as the Jew seized the note. ‘That’s mine, Fagin.’
‘Hey, what’s that?’ asked Sikes, stepping forward as the Jew grabbed the note. ‘That’s mine, Fagin.’
‘No, no, my dear,’ said the Jew. ‘Mine, Bill, mine. You shall have the books.’
‘No, no, my dear,’ said the Jew. ‘It’s mine, Bill, mine. You can have the books.’
‘If that ain’t mine!’ said Bill Sikes, putting on his hat with a determined air; ‘mine and Nancy’s that is; I’ll take the boy back again.’
‘If that isn’t mine!’ said Bill Sikes, putting on his hat with a determined attitude; 'mine and Nancy’s, that is; I’m going to take the boy back again.’
The Jew started. Oliver started too, though from a very different cause; for he hoped that the dispute might really end in his being taken back.
The Jew jumped. Oliver jumped too, but for a very different reason; he hoped that the argument might actually result in him being taken back.
‘Come! Hand over, will you?’ said Sikes.
‘Come on! Hand it over, would you?’ said Sikes.
‘This is hardly fair, Bill; hardly fair, is it, Nancy?’ inquired the Jew.
‘This isn’t fair at all, Bill; not fair at all, is it, Nancy?’ asked the Jew.
‘Fair, or not fair,’ retorted Sikes, ‘hand over, I tell you! Do you think Nancy and me has got nothing else to do with our precious time but to spend it in scouting arter, and kidnapping, every young boy as gets grabbed through you? Give it here, you avaricious old skeleton, give it here!’
‘Fair or not fair,’ Sikes shot back, ‘just hand it over, I’m telling you! Do you really think Nancy and I have nothing better to do with our time than to mess around and kidnap every young boy who gets caught because of you? Just give it here, you greedy 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.
With this soft warning, Mr. Sikes took the note from between the Jew’s finger and thumb; and looking the old man straight in the eye, folded it up small and tied it in his handkerchief.
‘That’s for our share of the trouble,’ said Sikes; ‘and not half enough, neither. You may keep the books, if you’re fond of reading. If you ain’t, sell ‘em.’
‘That’s for our share of the trouble,’ said Sikes; ‘and it’s not even close to enough. You can keep the books if you like reading. If you don’t, sell them.’
‘They’re very pretty,’ said Charley Bates: who, with sundry grimaces, had been affecting to read one of the volumes in question; ‘beautiful writing, isn’t is, Oliver?’ At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more boisterous than the first.
‘They’re really nice,’ said Charley Bates, who had been pretending to read one of the books with various funny faces. ‘Beautiful writing, right, Oliver?’ When he saw the worried look on Oliver’s face as he stared at his bullies, Master Bates, who had a knack for the ridiculous, burst into another fit of laughter, even louder than the first.
‘They belong to the old gentleman,’ said Oliver, wringing his hands; ‘to the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had me nursed, when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him back the books and money. Keep me here all my life long; but pray, pray send them back. He’ll think I stole them; the old lady: all of them who were so kind to me: will think I stole them. Oh, do have mercy upon me, and send them back!’
‘They belong to the old gentleman,’ said Oliver, wringing his hands; ‘to the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his home and had me cared for when I was nearly dying from the fever. Oh, please send them back; send him back the books and money. Keep me here for the rest of my life; but please, please send them back. He’ll think I stole them; the old lady and everyone else who was so kind to me will think I stole them. Oh, please have mercy on me and send them back!’
With these words, which were uttered with all the energy of passionate grief, Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jew’s feet; and beat his hands together, in perfect desperation.
With these words, said with all the intensity of deep sorrow, Oliver dropped to his knees at the Jew’s feet and clapped his hands together in utter despair.
‘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!’
‘The boy’s right,’ said Fagin, glancing around secretly and frowning. ‘You’re right, Oliver, you’re right; they will think you stole them. Ha! ha!’ laughed the Jew, rubbing his hands, ‘it couldn’t have worked out better if we had picked the time ourselves!’
‘Of course it couldn’t,’ replied Sikes; ‘I know’d that, directly I see him coming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It’s all right enough. They’re soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn’t have taken him in at all; and they’ll ask no questions after him, fear they should be obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged. He’s safe enough.’
‘Of course it couldn’t,’ replied Sikes; ‘I knew that as soon as I saw him coming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It’s all good. They’re soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn’t have taken him in at all; and they won’t ask any questions about him, afraid they might have to take legal action and end up getting him caught. He’s safe enough.’
Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being spoken, as if he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and tore wildly from the room: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare old house echo to the roof.
Oliver looked from one person to another while these words were being spoken, as if he was confused and could barely understand what was happening; but when Bill Sikes finished, he suddenly jumped to his feet and ran out of the room in a panic, screaming for help, which made the empty old house echo from top to bottom.
‘Keep back the dog, Bill!’ cried Nancy, springing before the door, and closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. ‘Keep back the dog; he’ll tear the boy to pieces.’
‘Keep the dog back, Bill!’ Nancy shouted, jumping in front of the door and shutting it as the Jew and his two students rushed out after them. ‘Keep the dog back; he’ll rip the boy apart.’
‘Serve him right!’ cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl’s grasp. ‘Stand off from me, or I’ll split your head against the wall.’
“Serves him right!” shouted Sikes, trying to break free from the girl’s hold. “Get away from me, or I’ll smash your head against the wall.”
‘I don’t care for that, Bill, I don’t care for that,’ screamed the girl, struggling violently with the man, ‘the child shan’t be torn down by the dog, unless you kill me first.’
‘I don’t care about that, Bill, I don’t care about that,’ screamed the girl, struggling fiercely with the man. ‘The child won’t be taken down by the dog, unless you kill me first.’
‘Shan’t he!’ said Sikes, setting his teeth. ‘I’ll soon do that, if you don’t keep off.’
‘He won’t!’ said Sikes, gritting his teeth. ‘I’ll take care of that quickly if you don't stay away.’
The housebreaker flung the girl from him to the further end of the room, just as the Jew and the two boys returned, dragging Oliver among them.
The burglar threw the girl away from him to the other side of the room, right as the Jew and the two boys came back, dragging Oliver with them.
‘What’s the matter here!’ said Fagin, looking round.
‘What’s going on here!’ said Fagin, looking around.
‘The girl’s gone mad, I think,’ replied Sikes, savagely.
‘I think the girl’s gone crazy,’ Sikes replied, angrily.
‘No, she hasn’t,’ said Nancy, pale and breathless from the scuffle; ‘no, she hasn’t, Fagin; don’t think it.’
‘No, she hasn’t,’ said Nancy, pale and out of breath from the struggle; ‘no, she hasn’t, Fagin; don’t believe it.’
‘Then keep quiet, will you?’ said the Jew, with a threatening look.
‘Then keep quiet, will you?’ said the Jewish man, with a threatening glare.
‘No, I won’t do that, neither,’ replied Nancy, speaking very loud. ‘Come! What do you think of that?’
‘No, I’m not doing that either,’ Nancy said loudly. ‘Come on! What do you think of that?’
Mr. Fagin was sufficiently well acquainted with the manners and customs of that particular species of humanity to which Nancy belonged, to feel tolerably certain that it would be rather unsafe to prolong any conversation with her, at present. With the view of diverting the attention of the company, he turned to Oliver.
Mr. Fagin was familiar enough with the behaviors and habits of the kind of people Nancy was a part of to know that it would be pretty risky to keep talking to her right now. In order to shift the focus of the group, he turned to Oliver.
‘So you wanted to get away, my dear, did you?’ said the Jew, taking up a jagged and knotted club which lay in a corner of the fireplace; ‘eh?’
‘So you wanted to escape, my dear, did you?’ said the Jew, picking up a jagged and twisted club that was resting in a corner of the fireplace; ‘huh?’
Oliver made no reply. But he watched the Jew’s motions, and breathed quickly.
Oliver didn't respond. But he observed the Jew's movements and breathed rapidly.
‘Wanted to get assistance; called for the police; did you?’ sneered the Jew, catching the boy by the arm. ‘We’ll cure you of that, my young master.’
‘Wanted to get help; called the police; did you?’ sneered the Jew, grabbing the boy by the arm. ‘We’ll fix that for you, my young master.’
The Jew inflicted a smart blow on Oliver’s shoulders with the club; and was raising it for a second, when the girl, rushing forward, wrested it from his hand. She flung it into the fire, with a force that brought some of the glowing coals whirling out into the room.
The Jew struck Oliver on the shoulders with the club; and was lifting it for another blow when the girl rushed in, snatched it from his hand, and threw it into the fire, with such force that some of the hot coals flew out into the room.
‘I won’t stand by and see it done, Fagin,’ cried the girl. ‘You’ve got the boy, and what more would you have?—Let him be—let him be—or I shall put that mark on some of you, that will bring me to the gallows before my time.’
‘I won’t just stand by and watch this happen, Fagin,’ the girl shouted. ‘You’ve got the boy, what more do you want?—Just leave him alone—leave him alone—or I’ll make sure that some of you end up with a mark that could send me to the gallows before my time.’
The girl stamped her foot violently on the floor as she vented this threat; and with her lips compressed, and her hands clenched, looked alternately at the Jew and the other robber: her face quite colourless from the passion of rage into which she had gradually worked herself.
The girl slammed her foot down hard on the floor as she unleashed this threat; with her lips pressed together and her hands clenched, she glared back and forth at the Jew and the other robber, her face pale from the intense rage she had worked herself into.
‘Why, Nancy!’ said the Jew, in a soothing tone; after a pause, during which he and Mr. Sikes had stared at one another in a disconcerted manner; ‘you,—you’re more clever than ever to-night. Ha! ha! my dear, you are acting beautifully.’
‘Why, Nancy!’ said the Jew, in a calming tone; after a moment, during which he and Mr. Sikes had looked at each other in a confused way; ‘you,—you’re more clever than ever tonight. Ha! ha! my dear, you are performing beautifully.’
‘Am I!’ said the girl. ‘Take care I don’t overdo it. You will be the worse for it, Fagin, if I do; and so I tell you in good time to keep clear of me.’
‘Am I!’ said the girl. ‘Be careful I don’t go too far. You’ll regret it, Fagin, if I do; and I’m warning you now to stay away from me.’
There is something about a roused woman: especially if she add to all her other strong passions, the fierce impulses of recklessness and despair; which few men like to provoke. The Jew saw that it would be hopeless to affect any further mistake regarding the reality of Miss Nancy’s rage; and, shrinking involuntarily back a few paces, cast a glance, half imploring and half cowardly, at Sikes: as if to hint that he was the fittest person to pursue the dialogue.
There’s something about an angry woman, especially when she adds fierce feelings of recklessness and despair to all her other strong passions; it's something most men don’t want to provoke. The Jew realized it would be pointless to pretend he didn’t see how furious Miss Nancy was. He instinctively stepped back a little and gave Sikes a look that was part pleading, part cowardly, as if suggesting he was the right person to continue the conversation.
Mr. Sikes, thus mutely appealed to; and possibly feeling his personal pride and influence interested in the immediate reduction of Miss Nancy to reason; gave utterance to about a couple of score of curses and threats, the rapid production of which reflected great credit on the fertility of his invention. As they produced no visible effect on the object against whom they were discharged, however, he resorted to more tangible arguments.
Mr. Sikes, being silently appealed to, and perhaps feeling that his pride and influence were at stake in getting Miss Nancy to be reasonable, let out a barrage of curses and threats, showing off his creativity in coming up with them. But since his outbursts didn't seem to have any effect on her, he decided to use more concrete methods.
‘What do you mean by this?’ said Sikes; backing the inquiry with a very common imprecation concerning the most beautiful of human features: which, if it were heard above, only once out of every fifty thousand times that it is uttered below, would render blindness as common a disorder as measles: ‘what do you mean by it? Burn my body! Do you know who you are, and what you are?’
‘What do you mean by this?’ Sikes asked, punctuating his question with a vulgar comment about one of the most attractive human traits: which, if it were heard above even once for every fifty thousand times it’s said below, would make blindness as common as measles: ‘what do you mean by it? Damn it! Do you even know who you are and what you’re about?’
‘Oh, yes, I know all about it,’ replied the girl, laughing hysterically; and shaking her head from side to side, with a poor assumption of indifference.
‘Oh, yes, I know all about it,’ replied the girl, laughing uncontrollably; and shaking her head from side to side, trying to act indifferent.
‘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.’
‘Well, then, shut up,’ Sikes replied, growling like he usually did when talking to his dog, ‘or I’ll make sure you stay quiet for a long time.’
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.
The girl laughed again, this time even less controlled than before. She quickly glanced at Sikes, turned her face away, and bit her lip until it bled.
‘You’re a nice one,’ added Sikes, as he surveyed her with a contemptuous air, ‘to take up the humane and gen—teel side! A pretty subject for the child, as you call him, to make a friend of!’
‘You’re a nice one,’ added Sikes, as he looked her up and down with a sneer, ‘to take up the kind and gentle side! A great choice for the kid, as you call him, to make a friend of!’
‘God Almighty help me, I am!’ cried the girl passionately; ‘and I wish I had been struck dead in the street, or had changed places with them we passed so near to-night, before I had lent a hand in bringing him here. He’s a thief, a liar, a devil, all that’s bad, from this night forth. Isn’t that enough for the old wretch, without blows?’
‘God Almighty help me, I am!’ cried the girl passionately; ‘and I wish I had been struck dead in the street, or had swapped places with those we passed so close to tonight, before I helped bring him here. He’s a thief, a liar, a devil, all that’s bad, from this night on. Isn’t that enough for the old wretch, without hits?’
‘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.’
‘Come on, Sikes,’ the Jew said, trying to reason with him and pointing to the boys, who were eagerly listening to everything that was happening; ‘we need to use polite language; polite language, Bill.’
‘Civil words!’ cried the girl, whose passion was frightful to see. ‘Civil words, you villain! Yes, you deserve ‘em from me. I thieved for you when I was a child not half as old as this!’ pointing to Oliver. ‘I have been in the same trade, and in the same service, for twelve years since. Don’t you know it? Speak out! Don’t you know it?’
‘Respectful words!’ shouted the girl, her anger almost terrifying to witness. ‘Respectful words, you scoundrel! Yes, you deserve them from me. I stole for you when I was barely older than him!’ she said, pointing to Oliver. ‘I've been in the same line of work and doing the same thing for twelve years since. Don’t you realize that? Speak up! Don’t you know that?’
‘Well, well,’ replied the Jew, with an attempt at pacification; ‘and, if you have, it’s your living!’
‘Well, well,’ replied the Jew, trying to calm things down; ‘if you have, it’s your livelihood!’
‘Aye, it is!’ returned the girl; not speaking, but pouring out the words in one continuous and vehement scream. ‘It is my living; and the cold, wet, dirty streets are my home; and you’re the wretch that drove me to them long ago, and that’ll keep me there, day and night, day and night, till I die!’
"Yes, it is!" the girl shouted, her words spilling out in one intense, loud cry. "This is my life; the cold, wet, dirty streets are my home; and you're the one who pushed me into them long ago, and you'll keep me there, day and night, day and night, until 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!’
‘I’m going to do you harm!’ the Jew interrupted, driven by these accusations; ‘something worse than that, if you keep talking!’
The girl said nothing more; but, tearing her hair and dress in a transport of passion, made such a rush at the Jew as would probably have left signal marks of her revenge upon him, had not her wrists been seized by Sikes at the right moment; upon which, she made a few ineffectual struggles, and fainted.
The girl didn’t say anything else; instead, in a fit of rage, she tore at her hair and dress and rushed at the Jew in a way that would have definitely marked him with her revenge if Sikes hadn’t grabbed her wrists just in time. She then made a few useless attempts to break free 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.’
‘She’s fine now,’ said Sikes, laying her down in a corner. ‘She’s really strong in the arms when she’s like this.’
The Jew wiped his forehead: and smiled, as if it were a relief to have the disturbance over; but neither he, nor Sikes, nor the dog, nor the boys, seemed to consider it in any other light than a common occurance incidental to business.
The Jew wiped his forehead and smiled, as if it was a relief to have the disturbance over. But neither he, nor Sikes, nor the dog, nor the boys seemed to see it as anything other than a regular occurrence that came with the business.
‘It’s the worst of having to do with women,’ said the Jew, replacing his club; ‘but they’re clever, and we can’t get on, in our line, without ‘em. Charley, show Oliver to bed.’
‘It’s the worst part about dealing with women,’ said the Jew, putting away his club; ‘but they’re smart, and we can’t get by in our business without them. Charley, take Oliver to bed.’
‘I suppose he’d better not wear his best clothes tomorrow, Fagin, had he?’ inquired Charley Bates.
‘I guess he shouldn’t wear his best clothes tomorrow, right, Fagin?’ asked Charley Bates.
‘Certainly not,’ replied the Jew, reciprocating the grin with which Charley put the question.
‘Definitely not,’ replied the Jew, returning the smile with which Charley asked 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.
Master Bates, clearly thrilled with his task, grabbed the split stick and took Oliver into a nearby kitchen, where there were two or three of the beds he had slept in before. There, amid uncontrollable fits of laughter, he pulled out the exact old suit of clothes that Oliver had been so proud to leave behind at Mr. Brownlow’s. The chance showing of this by the Jew who bought them had been the first clue Fagin received about Oliver’s whereabouts.
‘Put off the smart ones,’ said Charley, ‘and I’ll give ‘em to Fagin to take care of. What fun it is!’
“Get rid of the smart ones,” Charley said, “and I’ll hand them over to Fagin to manage. It’s so much fun!”
Poor Oliver unwillingly complied. Master Bates rolling up the new clothes under his arm, departed from the room, leaving Oliver in the dark, and locking the door behind him.
Poor Oliver reluctantly complied. Master Bates rolled up the new clothes under his arm, left the room, leaving Oliver in the dark, and locked the door behind him.
The noise of Charley’s laughter, and the voice of Miss Betsy, who opportunely arrived to throw water over her friend, and perform other feminine offices for the promotion of her recovery, might have kept many people awake under more happy circumstances than those in which Oliver was placed. But he was sick and weary; and he soon fell sound asleep.
The sound of Charley's laughter and Miss Betsy's voice, who conveniently showed up to help her friend by splashing water on her and taking care of other supportive tasks, might have kept a lot of people awake in happier situations than the ones Oliver was in. But he was tired and unwell, and he quickly fell into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER XVII — OLIVER’S DESTINY CONTINUING UNPROPITIOUS, BRINGS A GREAT MAN TO LONDON TO INJURE HIS REPUTATION
It is the custom on the stage, in all good murderous melodramas, to present the tragic and the comic scenes, in as regular alternation, as the layers of red and white in a side of streaky bacon. The hero sinks upon his straw bed, weighed down by fetters and misfortunes; in the next scene, his faithful but unconscious squire regales the audience with a comic song. We behold, with throbbing bosoms, the heroine in the grasp of a proud and ruthless baron: her virtue and her life alike in danger, drawing forth her dagger to preserve the one at the cost of the other; and just as our expectations are wrought up to the highest pitch, a whistle is heard, and we are straightway transported to the great hall of the castle; where a grey-headed seneschal sings a funny chorus with a funnier body of vassals, who are free of all sorts of places, from church vaults to palaces, and roam about in company, carolling perpetually.
It’s a tradition in stage performances, especially in good murder melodramas, to alternate tragic and comedic scenes as regularly as the layers of red and white in streaky bacon. The hero collapses onto his straw bed, burdened by chains and misfortunes; in the next scene, his loyal yet oblivious squire entertains the audience with a funny song. We watch with racing hearts as the heroine is captured by a proud and ruthless baron: her virtue and life both in jeopardy, she draws her dagger to save one at the cost of the other; just when our tension reaches its peak, a whistle sounds, and we are suddenly taken to the great hall of the castle, where a grey-haired steward sings a humorous chorus with a even funnier group of vassals, who come from all kinds of places, from church crypts to palaces, and roam around together, singing constantly.
Such changes appear absurd; but they are not so unnatural as they would seem at first sight. The transitions in real life from well-spread boards to death-beds, and from mourning-weeds to holiday garments, are not a whit less startling; only, there, we are busy actors, instead of passive lookers-on, which makes a vast difference. The actors in the mimic life of the theatre, are blind to violent transitions and abrupt impulses of passion or feeling, which, presented before the eyes of mere spectators, are at once condemned as outrageous and preposterous.
Such changes might seem absurd, but they're not as unnatural as they first appear. The shifts in real life from festive gatherings to deathbeds, and from mourning attire to celebration outfits, are just as surprising; it's just that in those moments, we're active participants rather than passive observers, which makes a huge difference. The characters in the staged performances of the theater are oblivious to sudden shifts and intense emotions that, when seen by mere audience members, are immediately judged as outrageous and ridiculous.
As sudden shiftings of the scene, and rapid changes of time and place, are not only sanctioned in books by long usage, but are by many considered as the great art of authorship: an author’s skill in his craft being, by such critics, chiefly estimated with relation to the dilemmas in which he leaves his characters at the end of every chapter: this brief introduction to the present one may perhaps be deemed unnecessary. If so, let it be considered a delicate intimation on the part of the historian that he is going back to the town in which Oliver Twist was born; the reader taking it for granted that there are good and substantial reasons for making the journey, or he would not be invited to proceed upon such an expedition.
As sudden shifts in the scene and quick changes in time and place are not only accepted in books due to long tradition, but are also seen by many as a hallmark of great writing: an author’s talent is often measured by the challenges they leave their characters facing at the end of each chapter. This brief introduction to the current chapter might be considered unnecessary. If so, let it serve as a subtle hint from the narrator that he is going back to the town where Oliver Twist was born; the reader can assume there are valid and significant reasons for this journey, or the invitation to embark on such an adventure wouldn't be made.
Mr. Bumble emerged at early morning from the workhouse-gate, and walked with portly carriage and commanding steps, up the High Street. He was in the full bloom and pride of beadlehood; his cocked hat and coat were dazzling in the morning sun; he clutched his cane with the vigorous tenacity of health and power. Mr. Bumble always carried his head high; but this morning it was higher than usual. There was an abstraction in his eye, an elevation in his air, which might have warned an observant stranger that thoughts were passing in the beadle’s mind, too great for utterance.
Mr. Bumble stepped out of the workhouse gate early in the morning and walked confidently up the High Street. He was full of pride in his position as beadle; his cocked hat and coat sparkled in the morning sun, and he held his cane tightly, filled with health and authority. Mr. Bumble always walked with his head held high, but today it was even higher than usual. There was a distant look in his eyes and an elevated demeanor that might have made a keen observer realize that he was deep in thought about something too significant to express.
Mr. Bumble stopped not to converse with the small shopkeepers and others who spoke to him, deferentially, as he passed along. He merely returned their salutations with a wave of his hand, and relaxed not in his dignified pace, until he reached the farm where Mrs. Mann tended the infant paupers with parochial care.
Mr. Bumble didn’t stop to chat with the small shopkeepers and others who respectfully greeted him as he walked by. He just waved his hand in acknowledgment and didn’t slow down his dignified pace until he got to the farm where Mrs. Mann took care of the needy infants with local attention.
‘Drat that beadle!’ said Mrs. Mann, hearing the well-known shaking at the garden-gate. ‘If it isn’t him at this time in the morning! Lauk, Mr. Bumble, only think of its being you! Well, dear me, it is a pleasure, this is! Come into the parlour, sir, please.’
‘Drat that beadle!’ said Mrs. Mann, hearing the familiar rattling at the garden gate. ‘If it isn’t him at this time in the morning! Goodness, Mr. Bumble, just think of it being you! Well, my goodness, it really is a pleasure! Come into the parlor, sir, please.’
The first sentence was addressed to Susan; and the exclamations of delight were uttered to Mr. Bumble: as the good lady unlocked the garden-gate: and showed him, with great attention and respect, into the house.
The first sentence was directed at Susan; and the exclamations of delight were expressed to Mr. Bumble as the kind lady unlocked the garden gate and showed him, with great care and respect, into the house.
‘Mrs. Mann,’ said Mr. Bumble; not sitting upon, or dropping himself into a seat, as any common jackanapes would: but letting himself gradually and slowly down into a chair; ‘Mrs. Mann, ma’am, good morning.’
‘Mrs. Mann,’ said Mr. Bumble, not just plopping down in a seat like some common fool, but easing himself slowly into a chair; ‘Mrs. Mann, ma’am, good morning.’
‘Well, and good morning to you, sir,’ replied Mrs. Mann, with many smiles; ‘and hoping you find yourself well, sir!’
‘Well, good morning to you, sir,’ replied Mrs. Mann with a lot of smiles; ‘I hope you’re doing well, sir!’
‘So-so, Mrs. Mann,’ replied the beadle. ‘A porochial life is not a bed of roses, Mrs. Mann.’
‘So-so, Mrs. Mann,’ replied the beadle. ‘A parish life isn't all sunshine and rainbows, Mrs. Mann.’
‘Ah, that it isn’t indeed, Mr. Bumble,’ rejoined the lady. And all the infant paupers might have chorused the rejoinder with great propriety, if they had heard it.
‘Oh, it really isn’t, Mr. Bumble,’ the lady replied. And all the little orphaned children could have joined in the response with perfect fittingness if they had heard it.
‘A porochial life, ma’am,’ continued Mr. Bumble, striking the table with his cane, ‘is a life of worrit, and vexation, and hardihood; but all public characters, as I may say, must suffer prosecution.’
‘A provincial life, ma’am,’ continued Mr. Bumble, striking the table with his cane, ‘is a life of worry, frustration, and toughness; but all public figures, as I might put it, must endure scrutiny.’
Mrs. Mann, not very well knowing what the beadle meant, raised her hands with a look of sympathy, and sighed.
Mrs. Mann, not really sure what the beadle meant, raised her hands with a sympathetic look and sighed.
‘Ah! You may well sigh, Mrs. Mann!’ said the beadle.
‘Ah! You can definitely sigh, Mrs. Mann!’ said the beadle.
Finding she had done right, Mrs. Mann sighed again: evidently to the satisfaction of the public character: who, repressing a complacent smile by looking sternly at his cocked hat, said,
Finding she had done the right thing, Mrs. Mann sighed again; clearly to the satisfaction of the public figure, who, suppressing a self-satisfied smile by staring sternly at his cocked hat, said,
‘Mrs. Mann, I am going to London.’
‘Mrs. Mann, I’m heading to London.’
‘Lauk, Mr. Bumble!’ cried Mrs. Mann, starting back.
‘Lauk, Mr. Bumble!’ exclaimed Mrs. Mann, stepping back.
‘To London, ma’am,’ resumed the inflexible beadle, ‘by coach. I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has appointed me—me, Mrs. Mann—to dispose to the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell.
‘To London, ma’am,’ continued the unyielding beadle, ‘by coach. I and two homeless people, Mrs. Mann! There’s a legal action coming up concerning a settlement; and the board has appointed me—me, Mrs. Mann—to handle the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkenwell.
And I very much question,’ added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, ‘whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me.’
And I really wonder,’ added Mr. Bumble, straightening himself up, ‘if the Clerkenwell Sessions won’t find themselves in the wrong place before they’re done with me.’
‘Oh! you mustn’t be too hard upon them, sir,’ said Mrs. Mann, coaxingly.
‘Oh! you shouldn't be too hard on them, sir,’ said Mrs. Mann, sweetly.
‘The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Bumble; ‘and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they come off rather worse than they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have only themselves to thank.’
‘The Clerkinwell Sessions brought this on themselves, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Bumble; ‘and if the Clerkinwell Sessions realize that things turned out worse than they anticipated, the Clerkinwell Sessions have only themselves to blame.’
There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs. Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said,
There was such strong determination and seriousness in the way Mr. Bumble said these words that Mrs. Mann seemed truly intimidated by them. Finally, she spoke,
‘You’re going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them paupers in carts.’
‘Are you traveling by coach, sir? I thought it was common to send those poor folks in carts.’
‘That’s when they’re ill, Mrs. Mann,’ said the beadle. ‘We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold.’
‘That’s when they’re sick, Mrs. Mann,’ said the beadle. ‘We put the ill paupers into open carts in rainy weather, to keep them from catching a cold.’
‘Oh!’ said Mrs. Mann.
‘Oh!’ Mrs. Mann exclaimed.
‘The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come two pound cheaper to move ‘em than to bury ‘em—that is, if we can throw ‘em upon another parish, which I think we shall be able to do, if they don’t die upon the road to spite us. Ha! ha! ha!’
‘The opposition coach is booked for these two, and it's a good deal,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘They’re both in pretty bad shape, and we’ve figured out it’d be two pounds cheaper to transport them than to bury them—that is, if we can offload them onto another parish, which I think we can manage, as long as they don’t die on the way just to annoy us. Ha! ha! ha!’
When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered the cocked hat; and he became grave.
When Mr. Bumble had laughed for a bit, his eyes landed on the cocked hat again, and he grew serious.
‘We are forgetting business, ma’am,’ said the beadle; ‘here is your porochial stipend for the month.’
‘We’re losing focus on business, ma’am,’ said the beadle; ‘here is your parish stipend for the month.’
Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his pocket-book; and requested a receipt: which Mrs. Mann wrote.
Mr. Bumble took out some silver coins wrapped in paper from his wallet and asked for a receipt, which Mrs. Mann wrote out.
‘It’s very much blotted, sir,’ said the farmer of infants; ‘but it’s formal enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much obliged to you, I’m sure.’
‘It’s really quite messy, sir,’ said the baby farmer; ‘but it’s formal enough, I suppose. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I really appreciate it, I’m sure.’
Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann’s curtsey; and inquired how the children were.
Mr. Bumble nodded casually in response to Mrs. Mann’s curtsy and asked how the kids were doing.
‘Bless their dear little hearts!’ said Mrs. Mann with emotion, ‘they’re as well as can be, the dears! Of course, except the two that died last week. And little Dick.’
‘Bless their sweet little hearts!’ said Mrs. Mann with feeling, ‘they're as well as can be, the dears! Of course, except for the two that passed away last week. And little Dick.’
‘Isn’t that boy no better?’ inquired Mr. Bumble.
‘Isn’t that boy any better?’ asked Mr. Bumble.
Mrs. Mann shook her head.
Mrs. Mann shook her head.
‘He’s a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child that,’ said Mr. Bumble angrily. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s a rude, nasty, troublemaking kid from the neighborhood,’ said Mr. Bumble angrily. ‘Where is he?’
‘I’ll bring him to you in one minute, sir,’ replied Mrs. Mann. ‘Here, you Dick!’
‘I’ll get him for you in a minute, sir,’ replied Mrs. Mann. ‘Hey, Dick!’
After some calling, Dick was discovered. Having had his face put under the pump, and dried upon Mrs. Mann’s gown, he was led into the awful presence of Mr. Bumble, the beadle.
After some calling, Dick was found. Having had his face dunked in the pump and dried on Mrs. Mann's gown, he was taken into the terrifying presence of Mr. Bumble, the beadle.
The child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken; and his eyes large and bright. The scanty parish dress, the livery of his misery, hung loosely on his feeble body; and his young limbs had wasted away, like those of an old man.
The child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken, and his eyes were large and bright. The ragged parish clothes, a sign of his suffering, hung loosely on his frail body, and his young limbs had withered away, much like those of an old man.
Such was the little being who stood trembling beneath Mr. Bumble’s glance; not daring to lift his eyes from the floor; and dreading even to hear the beadle’s voice.
Such was the small figure who stood shaking under Mr. Bumble’s gaze; not daring to lift his eyes from the ground; and fearing even to hear the beadle’s voice.
‘Can’t you look at the gentleman, you obstinate boy?’ said Mrs. Mann.
"Can’t you just look at the gentleman, you stubborn boy?" said Mrs. Mann.
The child meekly raised his eyes, and encountered those of Mr. Bumble.
The child quietly looked up and met Mr. Bumble's gaze.
‘What’s the matter with you, porochial Dick?’ inquired Mr. Bumble, with well-timed jocularity.
‘What’s wrong with you, clueless Dick?’ asked Mr. Bumble, with perfectly timed humor.
‘Nothing, sir,’ replied the child faintly.
‘Nothing, sir,’ the child replied softly.
‘I should think not,’ said Mrs. Mann, who had of course laughed very much at Mr. Bumble’s humour.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Mrs. Mann, who had of course laughed a lot at Mr. Bumble’s humor.
‘You want for nothing, I’m sure.’
'You lack for nothing, I’m sure.'
‘I should like—’ faltered the child.
‘I would like—’ faltered the child.
‘Hey-day!’ interposed Mrs. Mann, ‘I suppose you’re going to say that you do want for something, now? Why, you little wretch—’
‘Hey-day!’ interrupted Mrs. Mann, ‘I guess you’re going to say that you do want something now? Well, you little brat—’
‘Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop!’ said the beadle, raising his hand with a show of authority. ‘Like what, sir, eh?’
‘Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop!’ said the beadle, raising his hand with a show of authority. ‘Like what, sir, huh?’
‘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.’
‘I would like,’ hesitated the child, ‘if someone who can write would put a few words on a piece of paper for me, fold it up, seal it, and keep it for me after I’m buried.’
‘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?’
‘What does the boy mean?’ exclaimed Mr. Bumble, who was slightly affected by the child's serious demeanor and pale appearance, even though he was used 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 nobody to help him. And I should like to tell him,’ said the child pressing his small hands together, and speaking with great fervour, ‘that I was glad to die when I was very young; for, perhaps, if I had lived to be a man, and had grown old, my little sister who is in Heaven, might forget me, or be unlike me; and it would be so much happier if we were both children there together.’
“I’d like,” said the child, “to leave my dear love to poor Oliver Twist; and to let him know how often I’ve sat by myself and cried just thinking about him wandering alone in the dark nights with no one to help him. And I’d like to tell him,” said the child, pressing his small hands together and speaking passionately, “that I’m glad to die when I’m very young; because, maybe, if I had lived to be a man and had grown old, my little sister who’s in Heaven might forget me or not be like me; and it would be so much happier if we were both children there together.”
Mr. Bumble surveyed the little speaker, from head to foot, with indescribable astonishment; and, turning to his companion, said, ‘They’re all in one story, Mrs. Mann. That out-dacious Oliver had demogalized them all!’
Mr. Bumble looked at the little speaker, from head to toe, with complete shock; and, turning to his companion, said, ‘They’re all in one story, Mrs. Mann. That outrageous Oliver had demoralized 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!’
‘I couldn’t have believed it, sir,’ said Mrs. Mann, raising her hands and giving Dick a nasty look. ‘I’ve never seen such a hardened little brat!’
‘Take him away, ma’am!’ said Mr. Bumble imperiously. ‘This must be stated to the board, Mrs. Mann.’
‘Take him away, ma’am!’ Mr. Bumble ordered with authority. ‘This needs to be reported to the board, Mrs. Mann.’
‘I hope the gentleman will understand that it isn’t my fault, sir?’ said Mrs. Mann, whimpering pathetically.
‘I hope the gentleman understands that it's not my fault, sir?’ said Mrs. Mann, whimpering sadly.
‘They shall understand that, ma’am; they shall be acquainted with the true state of the case,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘There; take him away, I can’t bear the sight on him.’
‘They will understand that, ma’am; they will know the real situation,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘There; take him away, I can’t stand to look at him.’
Dick was immediately taken away, and locked up in the coal-cellar. Mr. Bumble shortly afterwards took himself off, to prepare for his journey.
Dick was quickly taken away and locked up in the coal cellar. Mr. Bumble soon left to get ready for his trip.
At six o’clock next morning, Mr. Bumble: having exchanged his cocked hat for a round one, and encased his person in a blue great-coat with a cape to it: took his place on the outside of the coach, accompanied by the criminals whose settlement was disputed; with whom, in due course of time, he arrived in London.
At six o’clock the next morning, Mr. Bumble, having swapped his top hat for a round one and put on a blue greatcoat with a cape, took his seat on the outside of the coach, joined by the criminals whose fates were in question. Eventually, they arrived in London.
He experienced no other crosses on the way, than those which originated in the perverse behaviour of the two paupers, who persisted in shivering, and complaining of the cold, in a manner which, Mr. Bumble declared, caused his teeth to chatter in his head, and made him feel quite uncomfortable; although he had a great-coat on.
He faced no other hardships on the way except for the annoying behavior of the two beggars, who kept shivering and whining about the cold, in a way that made Mr. Bumble say his teeth chattered in his head and left him feeling really uncomfortable, even though he was wearing a great-coat.
Having disposed of these evil-minded persons for the night, Mr. Bumble sat himself down in the house at which the coach stopped; and took a temperate dinner of steaks, oyster sauce, and porter. Putting a glass of hot gin-and-water on the chimney-piece, he drew his chair to the fire; and, with sundry moral reflections on the too-prevalent sin of discontent and complaining, composed himself to read the paper.
After getting rid of those unpleasant people for the night, Mr. Bumble settled in at the place where the coach had stopped and had a modest dinner of steaks, oyster sauce, and beer. He placed a glass of hot gin and water on the mantelpiece, moved his chair closer to the fire, and, while reflecting on the common sin of discontent and complaining, began to read the newspaper.
The very first paragraph upon which Mr. Bumble’s eye rested, was the following advertisement.
The very first paragraph that caught Mr. Bumble’s eye was the following advertisement.
‘FIVE GUINEAS REWARD
‘Whereas a young boy, named Oliver Twist, absconded, or
enticed, on Thursday evening last, from his home, at was
Pentonville; and has not since been heard of. The above
reward will be paid to any person who will give such
information as will lead to the discovery of the said Oliver
Twist, or tend to throw any light upon his previous history,
in which the advertiser is, for many reasons, warmly
interested.’
‘FIVE GUINEAS REWARD
‘A young boy named Oliver Twist ran away or was taken on Thursday evening from his home in Pentonville, and no one has seen him since. The above reward will be given to anyone who can provide information that leads to finding Oliver Twist or sheds light on his past, which the advertiser is deeply interested in for various reasons.’ 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.
And then came a detailed description of Oliver's clothing, looks, presence, and vanishing: along with Mr. Brownlow's name and address in full.
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.
Mr. Bumble opened his eyes, read the advertisement slowly and carefully three times, and after a little more than five minutes, he was on his way to Pentonville, having actually, in his excitement, left the glass of hot gin and water untouched.
‘Is Mr. Brownlow at home?’ inquired Mr. Bumble of the girl who opened the door.
‘Is Mr. Brownlow home?’ asked 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?’
To this question, the girl gave the common yet evasive response, "I don't know; where are you 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.
Mr. Bumble barely finished saying Oliver’s name to explain his reason for being there when Mrs. Bedwin, who had been listening at the parlor door, rushed into the hallway, clearly out of breath.
‘Come in, come in,’ said the old lady: ‘I knew we should hear of him. Poor dear! I knew we should! I was certain of it. Bless his heart! I said so all along.’
‘Come in, come in,’ said the old lady. ‘I knew we’d hear from him. Poor thing! I knew we would! I was sure of it. Bless his heart! I said that all along.’
Having heard this, the worthy old lady hurried back into the parlour again; and seating herself on a sofa, burst into tears. The girl, who was not quite so susceptible, had run upstairs meanwhile; and now returned with a request that Mr. Bumble would follow her immediately: which he did.
Having heard this, the kind old lady rushed back into the living room again; and sitting down on a couch, she started to cry. The girl, who wasn't quite as emotional, had gone upstairs in the meantime; and now she came back with a request for Mr. Bumble to follow her right away: which he did.
He was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr. Brownlow and his friend Mr. Grimwig, with decanters and glasses before them. The latter gentleman at once burst into the exclamation:
He was led into the small back study, where Mr. Brownlow and his friend Mr. Grimwig were seated, with decanters and glasses in front of them. The latter immediately exclaimed:
‘A beadle. A parish beadle, or I’ll eat my head.’
‘A beadle. A church beadle, or I’ll eat my hat.’
‘Pray don’t interrupt just now,’ said Mr. Brownlow. ‘Take a seat, will you?’
‘Please don’t interrupt right now,’ said Mr. Brownlow. ‘Have a seat, will you?’
Mr. Bumble sat himself down; quite confounded by the oddity of Mr. Grimwig’s manner. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp, so as to obtain an uninterrupted view of the beadle’s countenance; and said, with a little impatience, ‘Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the advertisement?’
Mr. Bumble sat down, completely puzzled by Mr. Grimwig’s strange behavior. Mr. Brownlow adjusted the lamp to get a better view of the beadle's face and said, with a hint of impatience, “Now, sir, you’re here because you saw the advertisement?”
‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr. Bumble.
"Yes, sir," Mr. Bumble replied.
‘And you are a beadle, are you not?’ inquired Mr. Grimwig.
‘And you are a beadle, right?’ Mr. Grimwig asked.
‘I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen,’ rejoined Mr. Bumble proudly.
‘I am a local beadle, gentlemen,’ Mr. Bumble replied proudly.
‘Of course,’ observed Mr. Grimwig aside to his friend, ‘I knew he was. A beadle all over!’
‘Of course,’ Mr. Grimwig remarked to his friend, ‘I knew he was. A total beadle!’
Mr. Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence on his friend, and resumed:
Mr. Brownlow lightly shook his head to signal his friend to be quiet, and continued:
‘Do you know where this poor boy is now?’
‘Do you know where this poor kid is now?’
‘No more than nobody,’ replied Mr. Bumble.
'Not more than anyone,' replied Mr. Bumble.
‘Well, what do you know of him?’ inquired the old gentleman. ‘Speak out, my friend, if you have anything to say. What do you know of him?’
‘Well, what do you know about him?’ asked the old gentleman. ‘Go ahead, my friend, if you have something to share. What do you know about him?’
‘You don’t happen to know any good of him, do you?’ said Mr. Grimwig, caustically; after an attentive perusal of Mr. Bumble’s features.
‘You wouldn’t happen to know anything good about him, would you?’ said Mr. Grimwig, sarcastically, after carefully studying Mr. Bumble’s face.
Mr. Bumble, catching at the inquiry very quickly, shook his head with portentous solemnity.
Mr. Bumble, quickly picking up on the question, shook his head with serious importance.
‘You see?’ said Mr. Grimwig, looking triumphantly at Mr. Brownlow.
‘You see?’ Mr. Grimwig said, looking triumphantly at Mr. Brownlow.
Mr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr. Bumble’s pursed-up countenance; and requested him to communicate what he knew regarding Oliver, in as few words as possible.
Mr. Brownlow glanced nervously at Mr. Bumble’s tight face and asked him to share what he knew about Oliver in as few words as he could manage.
Mr. Bumble put down his hat; unbuttoned his coat; folded his arms; inclined his head in a retrospective manner; and, after a few moments’ reflection, commenced his story.
Mr. Bumble set down his hat, unbuttoned his coat, crossed his arms, leaned his head in a thoughtful way, and after a moment of reflection, began his story.
It would be tedious if given in the beadle’s words: occupying, as it did, some twenty minutes in the telling; but the sum and substance of it was, that Oliver was a foundling, born of low and vicious parents. That he had, from his birth, displayed no better qualities than treachery, ingratitude, and malice. That he had terminated his brief career in the place of his birth, by making a sanguinary and cowardly attack on an unoffending lad, and running away in the night-time from his master’s house. In proof of his really being the person he represented himself, Mr. Bumble laid upon the table the papers he had brought to town. Folding his arms again, he then awaited Mr. Brownlow’s observations.
It would be boring if explained in the beadle’s words, which took about twenty minutes to tell; but the gist of it was that Oliver was a foundling, born to low and dishonest parents. From the very start, he had only shown traits like treachery, ingratitude, and malice. He had ended his short time at the place where he was born by making a bloody and cowardly attack on an innocent boy and then escaping in the night from his master’s house. To prove he was who he claimed to be, Mr. Bumble placed the documents he had brought to town on the table. Folding his arms again, he then waited for Mr. Brownlow’s comments.
‘I fear it is all too true,’ said the old gentleman sorrowfully, after looking over the papers. ‘This is not much for your intelligence; but I would gladly have given you treble the money, if it had been favourable to the boy.’
‘I’m afraid it’s all too true,’ said the old gentleman sadly, after looking over the papers. ‘This isn’t much for your understanding; but I would have happily given you three times the money if it had been good news for the boy.’
It is not improbable that if Mr. Bumble had been possessed of this information at an earlier period of the interview, he might have imparted a very different colouring to his little history. It was too late to do it now, however; so he shook his head gravely, and, pocketing the five guineas, withdrew.
It’s not unlikely that if Mr. Bumble had known this information earlier in the conversation, he might have shared a very different version of his story. But it was too late to change it now; so he shook his head seriously, pocketed the five guineas, and left.
Mr. Brownlow paced the room to and fro for some minutes; evidently so much disturbed by the beadle’s tale, that even Mr. Grimwig forbore to vex him further.
Mr. Brownlow paced the room back and forth for a few minutes, clearly so upset by the beadle’s story that even Mr. Grimwig didn’t want to bother him anymore.
At length he stopped, and rang the bell violently.
At last, he stopped and rang the bell hard.
‘Mrs. Bedwin,’ said Mr. Brownlow, when the housekeeper appeared; ‘that boy, Oliver, is an imposter.’
‘Mrs. Bedwin,’ said Mr. Brownlow when the housekeeper showed up, ‘that boy, Oliver, is a fraud.’
‘It can’t be, sir. It cannot be,’ said the old lady energetically.
‘It can't be, sir. It just can't be,’ said the old lady energetically.
‘I tell you he is,’ retorted the old gentleman. ‘What do you mean by can’t be? We have just heard a full account of him from his birth; and he has been a thorough-paced little villain, all his life.’
‘I’m telling you he is,’ the old man shot back. ‘What do you mean by can’t be? We just heard a complete story about him from the day he was born; and he’s been a real little troublemaker his whole life.’
‘I never will believe it, sir,’ replied the old lady, firmly. ‘Never!’
‘I will never believe it, sir,’ responded the old lady, firmly. ‘Never!’
‘You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying story-books,’ growled Mr. Grimwig. ‘I knew it all along. Why didn’t you take my advise in the beginning; you would if he hadn’t had a fever, I suppose, eh? He was interesting, wasn’t he? Interesting! Bah!’ And Mr. Grimwig poked the fire with a flourish.
‘You old women never believe anything but fake doctors and made-up stories,’ grumbled Mr. Grimwig. ‘I knew it all along. Why didn’t you take my advice in the beginning? You would have if he hadn’t had a fever, right? He was interesting, wasn’t he? Interesting! Bah!’ And Mr. Grimwig poked the fire with a flourish.
‘He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir,’ retorted Mrs. Bedwin, indignantly. ‘I know what children are, sir; and have done these forty years; and people who can’t say the same, shouldn’t say anything about them. That’s my opinion!’
‘He was a sweet, thankful, gentle kid, sir,’ fired back Mrs. Bedwin, indignantly. ‘I know what kids are like, sir; I’ve been around for forty years; and people who can’t say the same shouldn’t say anything about them. That’s my take!’
This was a hard hit at Mr. Grimwig, who was a bachelor. As it extorted nothing from that gentleman but a smile, the old lady tossed her head, and smoothed down her apron preparatory to another speech, when she was stopped by Mr. Brownlow.
This was a tough blow for Mr. Grimwig, who was single. Since it only got a smile from him, the old lady tossed her head and smoothed down her apron to prepare for another speech, but she was interrupted by Mr. Brownlow.
‘Silence!’ said the old gentleman, feigning an anger he was far from feeling. ‘Never let me hear the boy’s name again. I rang to tell you that. Never. Never, on any pretence, mind! You may leave the room, Mrs. Bedwin. Remember! I am in earnest.’
‘Silence!’ said the old gentleman, pretending to be angry when he really wasn’t. ‘Never let me hear that boy’s name again. I called to tell you that. Never. Never, under any circumstances, understand? You can leave the room now, Mrs. Bedwin. Remember! I’m serious.’
There were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow’s that night.
There were heavy hearts at Mr. Brownlow's that night.
Oliver’s heart sank within him, when he thought of his good friends; it was well for him that he could not know what they had heard, or it might have broken outright.
Oliver felt his heart drop as he thought about his good friends; he was lucky he couldn't know what they had heard, or it might have completely shattered him.
CHAPTER XVIII — HOW OLIVER PASSED HIS TIME IN THE IMPROVING SOCIETY OF HIS REPUTABLE FRIENDS
About noon next day, when the Dodger and Master Bates had gone out to pursue their customary avocations, Mr. Fagin took the opportunity of reading Oliver a long lecture on the crying sin of ingratitude; of which he clearly demonstrated he had been guilty, to no ordinary extent, in wilfully absenting himself from the society of his anxious friends; and, still more, in endeavouring to escape from them after so much trouble and expense had been incurred in his recovery. Mr. Fagin laid great stress on the fact of his having taken Oliver in, and cherished him, when, without his timely aid, he might have perished with hunger; and he related the dismal and affecting history of a young lad whom, in his philanthropy, he had succoured under parallel circumstances, but who, proving unworthy of his confidence and evincing a desire to communicate with the police, had unfortunately come to be hanged at the Old Bailey one morning. Mr. Fagin did not seek to conceal his share in the catastrophe, but lamented with tears in his eyes that the wrong-headed and treacherous behaviour of the young person in question, had rendered it necessary that he should become the victim of certain evidence for the crown: which, if it were not precisely true, was indispensably necessary for the safety of him (Mr. Fagin) and a few select friends. Mr. Fagin concluded by drawing a rather disagreeable picture of the discomforts of hanging; and, with great friendliness and politeness of manner, expressed his anxious hopes that he might never be obliged to submit Oliver Twist to that unpleasant operation.
Around noon the next day, after the Dodger and Master Bates had headed out to do their usual work, Mr. Fagin saw his chance to give Oliver a lengthy lecture about the terrible sin of ingratitude. He made it clear that Oliver had been quite guilty of this, especially by choosing to stay away from his worried friends; even more so by trying to escape from them after they had gone through so much trouble and expense to rescue him. Mr. Fagin emphasized how he had taken Oliver in and cared for him, noting that without his help, Oliver could have starved. He then recounted the sad story of a young boy he had helped under similar circumstances, who, proving to be untrustworthy and wanting to talk to the police, unfortunately ended up being hanged at the Old Bailey one morning. Mr. Fagin didn't hide his involvement in the tragedy but lamented, with tears in his eyes, that the misguided and treacherous actions of that young man had forced him to become a key witness for the crown: a situation that, while not entirely true, was absolutely necessary for his (Mr. Fagin's) safety and that of a few close associates. Mr. Fagin wrapped up by painting an unappealing picture of the horrors of hanging and, with a lot of friendliness and politeness, expressed his sincere hope that he would never have to subject Oliver Twist to that unpleasant fate.
Little Oliver’s blood ran cold, as he listened to the Jew’s words, and imperfectly comprehended the dark threats conveyed in them. That it was possible even for justice itself to confound the innocent with the guilty when they were in accidental companionship, he knew already; and that deeply-laid plans for the destruction of inconveniently knowing or over-communicative persons, had been really devised and carried out by the Jew on more occasions than one, he thought by no means unlikely, when he recollected the general nature of the altercations between that gentleman and Mr. Sikes: which seemed to bear reference to some foregone conspiracy of the kind. As he glanced timidly up, and met the Jew’s searching look, he felt that his pale face and trembling limbs were neither unnoticed nor unrelished by that wary old gentleman.
Little Oliver’s blood ran cold as he listened to the Jew’s words and somewhat understood the dark threats behind them. He already knew that even justice could confuse the innocent with the guilty when they happened to be together; and he thought it was quite possible that the Jew had actually planned and executed schemes to eliminate people who knew too much or talked too freely on more than one occasion. This thought crossed his mind as he remembered the typical arguments between that man and Mr. Sikes, which seemed to hint at some prior conspiracy. When he glanced up timidly and met the Jew’s intense gaze, he realized that his pale face and trembling limbs had not gone unnoticed or unappreciated by that shrewd old man.
The Jew, smiling hideously, patted Oliver on the head, and said, that if he kept himself quiet, and applied himself to business, he saw they would be very good friends yet. Then, taking his hat, and covering himself with an old patched great-coat, he went out, and locked the room-door behind him.
The Jew, grinning unpleasantly, patted Oliver on the head and said that if he stayed quiet and focused on his work, they could end up being good friends. Then, after putting on his hat and an old patched overcoat, he left and locked the door behind him.
And so Oliver remained all that day, and for the greater part of many subsequent days, seeing nobody, between early morning and midnight, and left during the long hours to commune with his own thoughts. Which, never failing to revert to his kind friends, and the opinion they must long ago have formed of him, were sad indeed.
And so Oliver stayed like that all day, and for most of the following days, seeing no one from early morning until midnight, left for long hours to think by himself. His thoughts always drifted back to his kind friends and what they must have thought of him a long time ago, and those thoughts were truly sad.
After the lapse of a week or so, the Jew left the room-door unlocked; and he was at liberty to wander about the house.
After about a week, the Jew left the door unlocked, and he was free to walk around the house.
It was a very dirty place. The rooms upstairs had great high wooden chimney-pieces and large doors, with panelled walls and cornices to the ceiling; which, although they were black with neglect and dust, were ornamented in various ways. From all of these tokens Oliver concluded that a long time ago, before the old Jew was born, it had belonged to better people, and had perhaps been quite gay and handsome: dismal and dreary as it looked now.
It was a really dirty place. The rooms upstairs had tall wooden mantels and big doors, with paneled walls and ornate ceiling cornices; even though they were black with neglect and dust, they still had decorative features. From all of this, Oliver figured that a long time ago, before the old Jew was born, it had belonged to better people and might have been quite cheerful and attractive, despite how gloomy and dreary it looked now.
Spiders had built their webs in the angles of the walls and ceilings; and sometimes, when Oliver walked softly into a room, the mice would scamper across the floor, and run back terrified to their holes. With these exceptions, there was neither sight nor sound of any living thing; and often, when it grew dark, and he was tired of wandering from room to room, he would crouch in the corner of the passage by the street-door, to be as near living people as he could; and would remain there, listening and counting the hours, until the Jew or the boys returned.
Spiders had spun their webs in the corners of the walls and ceilings; and sometimes, when Oliver walked quietly into a room, the mice would dart across the floor and dash back in fear to their hideouts. Other than that, there was no sign or sound of any living thing; and often, when it got dark and he was tired of wandering from room to room, he would huddle in the corner of the hallway by the front door, trying to be as close to people as possible; and he would stay there, listening and counting the hours, until the Jew or the boys came back.
In all the rooms, the mouldering shutters were fast closed: the bars which held them were screwed tight into the wood; the only light which was admitted, stealing its way through round holes at the top: which made the rooms more gloomy, and filled them with strange shadows. There was a back-garret window with rusty bars outside, which had no shutter; and out of this, Oliver often gazed with a melancholy face for hours together; but nothing was to be descried from it but a confused and crowded mass of housetops, blackened chimneys, and gable-ends. Sometimes, indeed, a grizzly head might be seen, peering over the parapet-wall of a distant house; but it was quickly withdrawn again; and as the window of Oliver’s observatory was nailed down, and dimmed with the rain and smoke of years, it was as much as he could do to make out the forms of the different objects beyond, without making any attempt to be seen or heard,—which he had as much chance of being, as if he had lived inside the ball of St. Paul’s Cathedral.
In all the rooms, the decaying shutters were tightly closed: the bars holding them were screwed firmly into the wood; the only light that came in trickled through round holes at the top, making the rooms even darker and filling them with strange shadows. There was a back garret window with rusty bars outside that had no shutter; out of this, Oliver often gazed with a sad expression for hours on end, but all he could see was a jumbled and crowded mass of rooftops, darkened chimneys, and gable ends. Sometimes, indeed, a grizzled head might be spotted peeking over the parapet wall of a distant house, but it quickly disappeared again. Since Oliver’s observatory window was nailed shut and clouded with years of rain and smoke, he could barely make out the shapes of the different objects outside, without any real hope of being seen or heard—he had as much chance of that as if he lived inside the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral.
One afternoon, the Dodger and Master Bates being engaged out that evening, the first-named young gentleman took it into his head to evince some anxiety regarding the decoration of his person (to do him justice, this was by no means an habitual weakness with him); and, with this end and aim, he condescendingly commanded Oliver to assist him in his toilet, straightway.
One afternoon, since the Dodger and Master Bates were busy that evening, the Dodger decided to show some concern about his appearance (to be fair, this wasn’t something he usually worried about); so, with that in mind, he ordered Oliver to help him get ready right away.
Oliver was but too glad to make himself useful; too happy to have some faces, however bad, to look upon; too desirous to conciliate those about him when he could honestly do so; to throw any objection in the way of this proposal. So he at once expressed his readiness; and, kneeling on the floor, while the Dodger sat upon the table so that he could take his foot in his laps, he applied himself to a process which Mr. Dawkins designated as ‘japanning his trotter-cases.’ The phrase, rendered into plain English, signifieth, cleaning his boots.
Oliver was more than happy to be helpful; he was thrilled to have some faces, even if they weren't great, to look at; and he really wanted to get along with the people around him when he could honestly do so, so he didn’t hesitate to agree to the proposal. He immediately showed his willingness and, kneeling on the floor while the Dodger sat on the table with his foot on his lap, he got to work on a task that Mr. Dawkins referred to as ‘japanning his trotter-cases.’ In plain English, that meant cleaning his boots.
Original
Whether it was the sense of freedom and independence which a rational animal may be supposed to feel when he sits on a table in an easy attitude smoking a pipe, swinging one leg carelessly to and fro, and having his boots cleaned all the time, without even the past trouble of having taken them off, or the prospective misery of putting them on, to disturb his reflections; or whether it was the goodness of the tobacco that soothed the feelings of the Dodger, or the mildness of the beer that mollified his thoughts; he was evidently tinctured, for the nonce, with a spice of romance and enthusiasm, foreign to his general nature. He looked down on Oliver, with a thoughtful countenance, for a brief space; and then, raising his head, and heaving a gentle sign, said, half in abstraction, and half to Master Bates:
Whether it was the sense of freedom and independence that a thinking being might feel when lounging at a table, casually smoking a pipe, swinging one leg back and forth, and having his boots cleaned the whole time—without the hassle of taking them off or the upcoming annoyance of putting them on to interrupt his thoughts; or whether it was the quality of the tobacco calming the Dodger's feelings, or the mildness of the beer softening his mood; he clearly had a touch of romance and enthusiasm that was unusual for him. He glanced down at Oliver with a contemplative look for a moment, and then, lifting his head and letting out a soft sigh, said, half lost in thought and half to Master Bates:
‘What a pity it is he isn’t a prig!’
‘What a shame he isn’t a stuck-up jerk!’
‘Ah!’ said Master Charles Bates; ‘he don’t know what’s good for him.’
‘Ah!’ said Master Charles Bates; ‘he doesn’t know what’s good for him.’
The Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe: as did Charley Bates. They both smoked, for some seconds, in silence.
The Dodger sighed again and picked up his pipe again, just like Charley Bates did. They both smoked in silence for a few seconds.
‘I suppose you don’t even know what a prig is?’ said the Dodger mournfully.
"I guess you don't even know what a snob is?" said the Dodger sadly.
‘I think I know that,’ replied Oliver, looking up. ‘It’s a the—; you’re one, are you not?’ inquired Oliver, checking himself.
'I think I know that,' replied Oliver, looking up. 'It's a th—; you’re one, aren’t you?' Oliver asked, catching himself.
‘I am,’ replied the Dodger. ‘I’d scorn to be anything else.’ Mr. Dawkins gave his hat a ferocious cock, after delivering this sentiment, and looked at Master Bates, as if to denote that he would feel obliged by his saying anything to the contrary.
‘I am,’ replied the Dodger. ‘I’d be ashamed to be anything else.’ Mr. Dawkins gave his hat a fierce tilt after making this statement and glanced at Master Bates, as if to suggest that he would appreciate it if he said anything different.
‘I am,’ repeated the Dodger. ‘So’s Charley. So’s Fagin. So’s Sikes. So’s Nancy. So’s Bet. So we all are, down to the dog. And he’s the downiest one of the lot!’
‘I am,’ repeated the Dodger. ‘So is Charley. So is Fagin. So is Sikes. So is Nancy. So is Bet. So we all are, including the dog. And he’s the most down and out of all of us!’
‘And the least given to peaching,’ added Charley Bates.
‘And the least given to snitching,’ added Charley Bates.
‘He wouldn’t so much as bark in a witness-box, for fear of committing himself; no, not if you tied him up in one, and left him there without wittles for a fortnight,’ said the Dodger.
‘He wouldn’t even make a sound in a witness box, for fear of getting himself in trouble; no, not even if you tied him up in one and left him there without food for two weeks,’ said the Dodger.
‘Not a bit of it,’ observed Charley.
"Not at all," Charley replied.
‘He’s a rum dog. Don’t he look fierce at any strange cove that laughs or sings when he’s in company!’ pursued the Dodger. ‘Won’t he growl at all, when he hears a fiddle playing! And don’t he hate other dogs as ain’t of his breed! Oh, no!’
‘He’s a weird dog. Doesn’t he look scary at anyone who laughs or sings when he’s around!’ continued the Dodger. ‘He won't growl at all when he hears a fiddle playing! And doesn’t he dislike other dogs that aren’t his breed! Oh, no!’
‘He’s an out-and-out Christian,’ said Charley.
‘He’s a total Christian,’ said Charley.
This was merely intended as a tribute to the animal’s abilities, but it was an appropriate remark in another sense, if Master Bates had only known it; for there are a good many ladies and gentlemen, claiming to be out-and-out Christians, between whom, and Mr. Sikes’ dog, there exist strong and singular points of resemblance.
This was simply meant as a nod to the animal's skills, but it was also a fitting comment in another way, if Master Bates had realized it; because there are quite a few men and women, who consider themselves true Christians, who share significant and unusual similarities with Mr. Sikes’ dog.
‘Well, well,’ said the Dodger, recurring to the point from which they had strayed: with that mindfulness of his profession which influenced all his proceedings. ‘This hasn’t go anything to do with young Green here.’
‘Well, well,’ said the Dodger, returning to the topic they had wandered away from, with that awareness of his profession that guided all his actions. ‘This has nothing to do with young Green here.’
‘No more it has,’ said Charley. ‘Why don’t you put yourself under Fagin, Oliver?’
‘It hasn't anymore,’ said Charley. ‘Why don’t you join Fagin, Oliver?’
‘And make your fortun’ out of hand?’ added the Dodger, with a grin.
‘And make your fortune right away?’ added the Dodger, with a grin.
‘And so be able to retire on your property, and do the gen-teel: as I mean to, in the very next leap-year but four that ever comes, and the forty-second Tuesday in Trinity-week,’ said Charley Bates.
‘And so be able to retire on your property and live the good life: just like I plan to, in the very next leap year but four that comes around, and the forty-second Tuesday in Trinity week,’ said Charley Bates.
‘I don’t like it,’ rejoined Oliver, timidly; ‘I wish they would let me go. I—I—would rather go.’
‘I don’t like it,’ replied Oliver, nervously; ‘I wish they would let me go. I—I—would prefer to leave.’
‘And Fagin would rather not!’ rejoined Charley.
‘And Fagin would rather not!’ replied Charley.
Oliver knew this too well; but thinking it might be dangerous to express his feelings more openly, he only sighed, and went on with his boot-cleaning.
Oliver understood this all too well; but thinking it might be risky to express his feelings more openly, he just sighed and continued with his boot-cleaning.
‘Go!’ exclaimed the Dodger. ‘Why, where’s your spirit?’ Don’t you take any pride out of yourself? Would you go and be dependent on your friends?’
‘Go!’ shouted the Dodger. ‘What’s with your spirit?’ Don’t you have any pride in yourself? Are you really going to rely on your friends?’
‘Oh, blow that!’ said Master Bates: drawing two or three silk handkerchiefs from his pocket, and tossing them into a cupboard, ‘that’s too mean; that is.’
‘Oh, forget that!’ said Master Bates, pulling out a couple of silk handkerchiefs from his pocket and throwing them into a cupboard. ‘That’s too petty; it really is.’
‘I couldn’t do it,’ said the Dodger, with an air of haughty disgust.
‘I couldn't do it,’ said the Dodger, with an air of arrogant disgust.
‘You can leave your friends, though,’ said Oliver with a half smile; ‘and let them be punished for what you did.’
‘You can ditch your friends, though,’ said Oliver with a half-smile; ‘and let them take the fall for what you did.’
‘That,’ rejoined the Dodger, with a wave of his pipe, ‘That was all out of consideration for Fagin, ‘cause the traps know that we work together, and he might have got into trouble if we hadn’t made our lucky; that was the move, wasn’t it, Charley?’
‘That,’ replied the Dodger, waving his pipe, ‘was all to look out for Fagin, ‘cause the cops know we work together, and he could have gotten into trouble if we hadn’t made our score; that was the plan, right, Charley?’
Master Bates nodded assent, and would have spoken, but the recollection of Oliver’s flight came so suddenly upon him, that the smoke he was inhaling got entangled with a laugh, and went up into his head, and down into his throat: and brought on a fit of coughing and stamping, about five minutes long.
Master Bates nodded in agreement and was about to say something, but the sudden memory of Oliver’s escape hit him so hard that the smoke he was inhaling mixed with a laugh, rushing up into his head and down into his throat, causing him to cough and stamp around for about five minutes.
‘Look here!’ said the Dodger, drawing forth a handful of shillings and halfpence. ‘Here’s a jolly life! What’s the odds where it comes from? Here, catch hold; there’s plenty more where they were took from. You won’t, won’t you? Oh, you precious flat!’
‘Look here!’ said the Dodger, pulling out a handful of shillings and pennies. ‘Here’s a great life! Who cares where it comes from? Here, grab this; there’s plenty more where these came from. You won’t, will you? Oh, you silly fool!’
‘It’s naughty, ain’t it, Oliver?’ inquired Charley Bates. ‘He’ll come to be scragged, won’t he?’
"It’s naughty, isn't it, Oliver?" Charley Bates asked. "He’s going to get in trouble, right?"
‘I don’t know what that means,’ replied Oliver.
‘I don’t know what that means,’ Oliver said.
‘Something in this way, old feller,’ said Charly. As he said it, Master Bates caught up an end of his neckerchief; and, holding it erect in the air, dropped his head on his shoulder, and jerked a curious sound through his teeth; thereby indicating, by a lively pantomimic representation, that scragging and hanging were one and the same thing.
‘Something like this, old buddy,’ said Charly. As he said it, Master Bates grabbed one end of his neckerchief; and, holding it up in the air, dropped his head on his shoulder and made a strange sound through his teeth; thus indicating, through a lively gesture, that strangling and hanging were the same thing.
‘That’s what it means,’ said Charley. ‘Look how he stares, Jack!
‘That’s what it means,’ Charley said. ‘Look at how he’s staring, Jack!
I never did see such prime company as that ‘ere boy; he’ll be the death of me, I know he will.’ Master Charley Bates, having laughed heartily again, resumed his pipe with tears in his eyes.
I’ve never seen such great company as that kid; he’s gonna be the end of me, I just know it.” Master Charley Bates, still laughing hard, picked up his pipe again with tears in his eyes.
‘You’ve been brought up bad,’ said the Dodger, surveying his boots with much satisfaction when Oliver had polished them. ‘Fagin will make something of you, though, or you’ll be the first he ever had that turned out unprofitable. You’d better begin at once; for you’ll come to the trade long before you think of it; and you’re only losing time, Oliver.’
‘You’ve been raised poorly,’ said the Dodger, looking at his boots with great satisfaction after Oliver polished them. ‘Fagin will make something of you, though, or you’ll be the first he ever had who turned out to be a waste of time. You should get started right away; you’ll get into the business long before you realize it, and you’re just wasting time, Oliver.’
Master Bates backed this advice with sundry moral admonitions of his own: which, being exhausted, he and his friend Mr. Dawkins launched into a glowing description of the numerous pleasures incidental to the life they led, interspersed with a variety of hints to Oliver that the best thing he could do, would be to secure Fagin’s favour without more delay, by the means which they themselves had employed to gain it.
Master Bates supported this advice with various moral warnings of his own, and after finishing them, he and his friend Mr. Dawkins dove into an enthusiastic description of the many pleasures that came with their lifestyle, sprinkled with several hints to Oliver that the best thing he could do would be to win Fagin's favor without further delay, using the same methods they had used to achieve it.
‘And always put this in your pipe, Nolly,’ said the Dodger, as the Jew was heard unlocking the door above, ‘if you don’t take fogels and tickers—’
‘And always keep this in mind, Nolly,’ said the Dodger, as the Jew was heard unlocking the door above, ‘if you don’t take fogels and tickers—’
‘What’s the good of talking in that way?’ interposed Master Bates; ‘he don’t know what you mean.’
‘What’s the point of talking like that?’ interrupted Master Bates; ‘he doesn’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘If you don’t take pocket-handkechers and watches,’ said the Dodger, reducing his conversation to the level of Oliver’s capacity, ‘some other cove will; so that the coves that lose ‘em will be all the worse, and you’ll be all the worse, too, and nobody half a ha’p’orth the better, except the chaps wot gets them—and you’ve just as good a right to them as they have.’
‘If you don’t grab pocket handkerchiefs and watches,’ said the Dodger, simplifying his conversation to match Oliver’s understanding, ‘some other guy will; so those who lose them will be worse off, and you’ll be worse off too, and nobody will benefit at all, except for the guys who get them—and you have just as much right to them as they do.’
‘To be sure, to be sure!’ said the Jew, who had entered unseen by Oliver. ‘It all lies in a nutshell my dear; in a nutshell, take the Dodger’s word for it. Ha! ha! ha! He understands the catechism of his trade.’
‘Sure, sure!’ said the Jew, who had come in without Oliver noticing. ‘It all comes down to this, my dear; in a nutshell, believe the Dodger. Ha! ha! ha! He knows the tricks of his trade.’
The old man rubbed his hands gleefully together, as he corroborated the Dodger’s reasoning in these terms; and chuckled with delight at his pupil’s proficiency.
The old man rubbed his hands together happily as he confirmed the Dodger’s reasoning like this; and he chuckled with delight at his student’s skill.
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.
The conversation didn’t go any further at this moment because the Jew had come back home with Miss Betsy and a gentleman Oliver had never seen before, who the Dodger called Tom Chitling. After hanging out on the stairs to trade a few flirtations with the lady, he finally made his entrance.
Mr. Chitling was older in years than the Dodger: having perhaps numbered eighteen winters; but there was a degree of deference in his deportment towards that young gentleman which seemed to indicate that he felt himself conscious of a slight inferiority in point of genius and professional aquirements. He had small twinkling eyes, and a pock-marked face; wore a fur cap, a dark corduroy jacket, greasy fustian trousers, and an apron. His wardrobe was, in truth, rather out of repair; but he excused himself to the company by stating that his ‘time’ was only out an hour before; and that, in consequence of having worn the regimentals for six weeks past, he had not been able to bestow any attention on his private clothes. Mr. Chitling added, with strong marks of irritation, that the new way of fumigating clothes up yonder was infernal unconstitutional, for it burnt holes in them, and there was no remedy against the County. The same remark he considered to apply to the regulation mode of cutting the hair: which he held to be decidedly unlawful. Mr. Chitling wound up his observations by stating that he had not touched a drop of anything for forty-two moral long hard-working days; and that he ‘wished he might be busted if he warn’t as dry as a lime-basket.’
Mr. Chitling was older than the Dodger, probably about eighteen winters, but he treated that young man with a kind of respect that suggested he felt a bit inferior in terms of talent and skills. He had small, twinkling eyes and a pockmarked face; he wore a fur cap, a dark corduroy jacket, greasy fustian trousers, and an apron. His clothes were honestly quite worn out, but he explained to the group that his ‘time’ was only up an hour ago and that, after being in uniform for the last six weeks, he hadn’t been able to pay any attention to his personal clothes. Mr. Chitling also expressed his irritation about the new way of fumigating clothes up there, saying it was unconstitutionally awful because it burnt holes in them, and there was no recourse with the County. He believed the same was true for the standard haircutting method, which he thought was definitely illegal. Mr. Chitling concluded his remarks by saying he hadn’t had a single drop of anything for forty-two 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.
‘Where do you think the guy has come from, Oliver?’ the Jew asked with a grin, as the other boys placed a bottle of liquor on the table.
‘I—I—don’t know, sir,’ replied Oliver.
"I—I—don't know, sir," replied Oliver.
‘Who’s that?’ inquired Tom Chitling, casting a contemptuous look at Oliver.
‘Who’s that?’ Tom Chitling asked, looking at Oliver with disdain.
‘A young friend of mine, my dear,’ replied the Jew.
‘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!’
‘He’s lucky, then,’ said the young man, giving a meaningful glance at Fagin. ‘Forget where I came from, kid; you’ll find your way there soon enough, I’d bet a crown!’
At this sally, the boys laughed. After some more jokes on the same subject, they exchanged a few short whispers with Fagin; and withdrew.
At this remark, the boys laughed. After sharing a few more jokes on the same topic, they exchanged a few brief whispers with Fagin and then left.
After some words apart between the last comer and Fagin, they drew their chairs towards the fire; and the Jew, telling Oliver to come and sit by him, led the conversation to the topics most calculated to interest his hearers. These were, the great advantages of the trade, the proficiency of the Dodger, the amiability of Charley Bates, and the liberality of the Jew himself. At length these subjects displayed signs of being thoroughly exhausted; and Mr. Chitling did the same: for the house of correction becomes fatiguing after a week or two. Miss Betsy accordingly withdrew; and left the party to their repose.
After a bit of chatter between the newcomer and Fagin, they pulled their chairs closer to the fire. The Jew invited Oliver to sit with him and steered the conversation toward topics that he thought would interest everyone. These included the great benefits of the trade, the skills of the Dodger, the friendliness of Charley Bates, and the generosity of the Jew himself. Eventually, these topics seemed completely played out; Mr. Chitling felt the same way, as the correctional facility gets tiring after a week or two. Miss Betsy then left, allowing the group to relax.
From this day, Oliver was seldom left alone; but was placed in almost constant communication with the two boys, who played the old game with the Jew every day: whether for their own improvement or Oliver’s, Mr. Fagin best knew. At other times the old man would tell them stories of robberies he had committed in his younger days: mixed up with so much that was droll and curious, that Oliver could not help laughing heartily, and showing that he was amused in spite of all his better feelings.
From that day on, Oliver was rarely left alone; he was almost always in touch with the two boys, who played the same old game with the Jew every day. Whether it was for their own benefit or Oliver's, Mr. Fagin knew best. At other times, the old man would share stories about the robberies he pulled off in his younger days, filled with so much humor and curiosity that Oliver couldn’t help but laugh heartily, showing that he found it amusing despite all his better instincts.
In short, the wily old Jew had the boy in his toils. Having prepared his mind, by solitude and gloom, to prefer any society to the companionship of his own sad thoughts in such a dreary place, he was now slowly instilling into his soul the poison which he hoped would blacken it, and change its hue for ever.
In short, the crafty old man had the boy wrapped around his finger. Having conditioned his mind through isolation and darkness to choose any company over the misery of his own thoughts in such a bleak place, he was now gradually injecting into his soul the toxic influence he hoped would corrupt it and change it forever.
CHAPTER XIX — IN WHICH A NOTABLE PLAN IS DISCUSSED AND DETERMINED ON
It was a chill, damp, windy night, when the Jew: buttoning his great-coat tight round his shrivelled body, and pulling the collar up over his ears so as completely to obscure the lower part of his face: emerged from his den. He paused on the step as the door was locked and chained behind him; and having listened while the boys made all secure, and until their retreating footsteps were no longer audible, slunk down the street as quickly as he could.
It was a cold, damp, windy night when the Jew, buttoning his overcoat tightly around his thin body and pulling the collar up over his ears to hide the lower part of his face, stepped out of his hideout. He paused on the step as the door was locked and chained behind him; and after listening to make sure the boys had secured everything and could no longer be heard, he quickly slipped down the street.
The house to which Oliver had been conveyed, was in the neighborhood of Whitechapel. The Jew stopped for an instant at the corner of the street; and, glancing suspiciously round, crossed the road, and struck off in the direction of the Spitalfields.
The house where Oliver had been taken was in the Whitechapel area. The Jew paused for a moment at the street corner; looking around suspiciously, he crossed the road and headed towards 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.
The mud was thick on the stones, and a dark mist hung over the streets; the rain fell slowly, and everything felt cold and damp to the touch. It felt like the perfect night for someone like the Jew to be out. As he moved stealthily, creeping under the shelter of the walls and doorways, the ugly old man looked like some disgusting reptile, born from the slime and darkness around him: crawling out at night, looking for something valuable to eat.
He kept on his course, through many winding and narrow ways, until he reached Bethnal Green; then, turning suddenly off to the left, he soon became involved in a maze of the mean and dirty streets which abound in that close and densely-populated quarter.
He continued on his path, through many twisting and narrow roads, until he reached Bethnal Green; then, suddenly turning left, he quickly got caught up in a maze of the shabby and dirty streets that fill that cramped and heavily populated area.
The Jew was evidently too familiar with the ground he traversed to be at all bewildered, either by the darkness of the night, or the intricacies of the way. He hurried through several alleys and streets, and at length turned into one, lighted only by a single lamp at the farther end. At the door of a house in this street, he knocked; having exchanged a few muttered words with the person who opened it, he walked upstairs.
The Jew clearly knew the area he was walking through well enough not to be confused by the darkness or the complex paths. He rushed through several alleys and streets, eventually turning into one illuminated only by a single lamp at the far end. He knocked on the door of a house on this street; after exchanging a few quiet words with the person who answered, he went upstairs.
A dog growled as he touched the handle of a room-door; and a man’s voice demanded who was there.
A dog growled when he reached for the door handle, and a man's voice called out, asking who was there.
‘Only me, Bill; only me, my dear,’ said the Jew looking in.
‘Just me, Bill; just me, my friend,’ said the Jew looking in.
‘Bring in your body then,’ said Sikes. ‘Lie down, you stupid brute! Don’t you know the devil when he’s got a great-coat on?’
‘Bring in your body then,’ said Sikes. ‘Lie down, you stupid brute! Don’t you recognize the devil when he’s wearing a big coat?’
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.
Apparently, the dog had been a bit misled by Mr. Fagin's outerwear; as the Jew unbuttoned it and tossed it over the back of a chair, he returned to the corner from which he had come, wagging his tail as he went to indicate that he was as content as he could be.
‘Well!’ said Sikes.
"Well!" said Sikes.
‘Well, my dear,’ replied the Jew.—‘Ah! Nancy.’
‘Well, my dear,’ replied the Jew. —‘Ah! Nancy.’
The latter recognition was uttered with just enough of embarrassment to imply a doubt of its reception; for Mr. Fagin and his young friend had not met, since she had interfered in behalf of Oliver. All doubts upon the subject, if he had any, were speedily removed by the young lady’s behaviour. She took her feet off the fender, pushed back her chair, and bade Fagin draw up his, without saying more about it: for it was a cold night, and no mistake.
The latter acknowledgment was spoken with just enough embarrassment to suggest uncertainty about how it would be received; since Mr. Fagin and his young companion hadn't met since she had stepped in to defend Oliver. Any doubts he might have had were quickly cleared up by the young lady's actions. She lifted her feet off the fender, pushed her chair back, and invited Fagin to pull his chair closer, without saying anything more about it: it was a cold night, no doubt about that.
‘It is cold, Nancy dear,’ said the Jew, as he warmed his skinny hands over the fire. ‘It seems to go right through one,’ added the old man, touching his side.
‘It’s cold, Nancy dear,’ said the man as he warmed his thin hands over the fire. ‘It feels like it goes right through you,’ the old man added, touching his side.
‘It must be a piercer, if it finds its way through your heart,’ said Mr. Sikes. ‘Give him something to drink, Nancy. Burn my body, make haste! It’s enough to turn a man ill, to see his lean old carcase shivering in that way, like a ugly ghost just rose from the grave.’
‘It must be a real heartbreaker if it gets through to you,’ said Mr. Sikes. ‘Get him a drink, Nancy. Hurry up and burn my body! It’s enough to make a man sick to see his thin old body shaking like an ugly ghost just risen from the grave.’
Nancy quickly brought a bottle from a cupboard, in which there were many: which, to judge from the diversity of their appearance, were filled with several kinds of liquids. Sikes pouring out a glass of brandy, bade the Jew drink it off.
Nancy quickly grabbed a bottle from a cupboard that held many others, which, judging by their different looks, contained various types of liquids. Sikes poured a glass of brandy and told the Jew to drink it down.
‘Quite enough, quite, thankee, Bill,’ replied the Jew, putting down the glass after just setting his lips to it.
‘That’s plenty, thanks, Bill,’ replied the Jew, putting down the glass after barely touching 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!’
‘What! You’re scared we might beat you, huh?’ Sikes asked, staring at the Jew. ‘Ugh!’
With a hoarse grunt of contempt, Mr. Sikes seized the glass, and threw the remainder of its contents into the ashes: as a preparatory ceremony to filling it again for himself: which he did at once.
With a rough grunt of disdain, Mr. Sikes grabbed the glass and tossed the rest of its contents into the ashes as a warm-up before refilling it for himself, which he did immediately.
The Jew glanced round the room, as his companion tossed down the second glassful; not in curiousity, for he had seen it often before; but in a restless and suspicious manner habitual to him. It was a meanly furnished apartment, with nothing but the contents of the closet to induce the belief that its occupier was anything but a working man; and with no more suspicious articles displayed to view than two or three heavy bludgeons which stood in a corner, and a ‘life-preserver’ that hung over the chimney-piece.
The Jew looked around the room while his companion downed the second drink; not out of curiosity, since he had seen it plenty of times before, but in a restless and suspicious way that he was used to. The room was sparsely furnished, with only the stuff in the closet hinting that its occupant was anything other than a working man; and there were only a couple of heavy clubs in the corner and a ‘life-preserver’ hanging over the fireplace that raised any suspicion.
‘There,’ said Sikes, smacking his lips. ‘Now I’m ready.’
‘There,’ said Sikes, licking his lips. ‘Now I’m ready.’
‘For business?’ inquired the Jew.
"Is it for business?" asked the Jew.
‘For business,’ replied Sikes; ‘so say what you’ve got to say.’
‘For business,’ replied Sikes; ‘so just say what you need to say.’
‘About the crib at Chertsey, Bill?’ said the Jew, drawing his chair forward, and speaking in a very low voice.
‘About the crib at Chertsey, Bill?’ said the Jew, pulling his chair closer and speaking in a very quiet voice.
‘Yes. Wot about it?’ inquired Sikes.
‘Yes. What about it?’ Sikes asked.
‘Ah! you know what I mean, my dear,’ said the Jew. ‘He knows what I mean, Nancy; don’t he?’
‘Ah! you know what I mean, my dear,’ said the Jew. ‘He knows what I mean, Nancy; doesn’t he?’
‘No, he don’t,’ sneered Mr. Sikes. ‘Or he won’t, and that’s the same thing. Speak out, and call things by their right names; don’t sit there, winking and blinking, and talking to me in hints, as if you warn’t the very first that thought about the robbery. Wot d’ye mean?’
‘No, he doesn’t,’ sneered Mr. Sikes. ‘Or he won’t, and that’s the same thing. Speak up, and say what you mean; don’t just sit there, winking and blinking, and talking to me in hints, as if you weren’t the very first one to think about the robbery. What do you 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.’
‘Hush, Bill, hush!’ said the Jew, who had tried in vain to stop this outburst of anger; ‘someone will hear us, my dear. Someone will hear us.’
‘Let ‘em hear!’ said Sikes; ‘I don’t care.’ But as Mr. Sikes did care, on reflection, he dropped his voice as he said the words, and grew calmer.
‘Let them hear!’ said Sikes; ‘I don’t care.’ But as Mr. Sikes did care, upon thinking about it, he lowered his voice as he spoke and became calmer.
‘There, there,’ said the Jew, coaxingly. ‘It was only my caution, nothing more. Now, my dear, about that crib at Chertsey; when is it to be done, Bill, eh? When is it to be done? Such plate, my dear, such plate!’ said the Jew: rubbing his hands, and elevating his eyebrows in a rapture of anticipation.
‘There, there,’ said the Jew, soothingly. ‘It was just my caution, nothing more. Now, my dear, about that crib at Chertsey; when is it going to be ready, Bill, huh? When will it be done? Such treasures, my dear, such treasures!’ said the Jew, rubbing his hands and raising his eyebrows in excitement.
‘Not at all,’ replied Sikes coldly.
‘Not at all,’ Sikes replied coldly.
‘Not to be done at all!’ echoed the Jew, leaning back in his chair.
‘Not happening at all!’ the Jew said, leaning back in his chair.
‘No, not at all,’ rejoined Sikes. ‘At least it can’t be a put-up job, as we expected.’
‘No, not at all,’ replied Sikes. ‘At least it can't be a setup, as we expected.’
‘Then it hasn’t been properly gone about,’ said the Jew, turning pale with anger. ‘Don’t tell me!’
‘Then it hasn’t been done right,’ said the Jew, turning pale with anger. ‘Don’t tell me!’
‘But I will tell you,’ retorted Sikes. ‘Who are you that’s not to be told? I tell you that Toby Crackit has been hanging about the place for a fortnight, and he can’t get one of the servants in line.’
‘But I will tell you,’ Sikes shot back. ‘Who are you that shouldn't be told? I’m telling you that Toby Crackit has been lurking around here for two weeks, and he can’t get a single one of the servants in line.’
‘Do you mean to tell me, Bill,’ said the Jew: softening as the other grew heated: ‘that neither of the two men in the house can be got over?’
‘Are you serious, Bill,’ said the Jew, calming down as the other became more agitated, ‘that neither of the two men in the house can be convinced?’
‘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.’
‘Yes, I really mean to say that,’ replied Sikes. ‘The old lady has had them for twenty years, and even if you offered her five hundred pounds, she wouldn’t part with them.’
‘But do you mean to say, my dear,’ remonstrated the Jew, ‘that the women can’t be got over?’
‘But are you actually saying, my dear,’ the Jew protested, ‘that the women can’t be persuaded?’
‘Not a bit of it,’ replied Sikes.
"Not at all," Sikes replied.
‘Not by flash Toby Crackit?’ said the Jew incredulously. ‘Think what women are, Bill.’
‘Not by flashy Toby Crackit?’ said the Jew, incredulously. ‘Think about what women are like, Bill.’
‘No; not even by flash Toby Crackit,’ replied Sikes. ‘He says he’s worn sham whiskers, and a canary waistcoat, the whole blessed time he’s been loitering down there, and it’s all of no use.’
‘No; not even by flash Toby Crackit,’ replied Sikes. ‘He says he’s been wearing fake sideburns and a bright yellow vest the whole time he's been hanging around down there, and it doesn’t do any good.’
‘He should have tried mustachios and a pair of military trousers, my dear,’ said the Jew.
‘He should have tried mustaches and a pair of military pants, my dear,’ said the Jew.
‘So he did,’ rejoined Sikes, ‘and they warn’t of no more use than the other plant.’
‘So he did,’ replied Sikes, ‘and they weren’t any more useful than the other plant.’
The Jew looked blank at this information. After ruminating for some minutes with his chin sunk on his breast, he raised his head and said, with a deep sigh, that if flash Toby Crackit reported aright, he feared the game was up.
The Jew stared blankly at this news. After thinking for a few minutes with his head down, he lifted it and said with a deep sigh that if flash Toby Crackit was telling the truth, he was worried that their chances were gone.
‘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.’
‘And yet,’ said the old man, resting his hands on his knees, ‘it’s a sad thing, my dear, to lose so much when we had our hearts set on it.’
‘So it is,’ said Mr. Sikes. ‘Worse luck!’
‘So it is,’ said Mr. Sikes. ‘Just our luck!’
A long silence ensued; during which the Jew was plunged in deep thought, with his face wrinkled into an expression of villainy perfectly demoniacal. Sikes eyed him furtively from time to time. Nancy, apparently fearful of irritating the housebreaker, sat with her eyes fixed upon the fire, as if she had been deaf to all that passed.
A long silence followed, during which the Jew was lost in deep thought, his face twisted into a perfectly demonic expression of villainy. Sikes glanced at him nervously from time to time. Nancy, seemingly worried about upsetting the housebreaker, stared at the fire as if she hadn't heard anything that was said.
‘Fagin,’ said Sikes, abruptly breaking the stillness that prevailed; ‘is it worth fifty shiners extra, if it’s safely done from the outside?’
‘Fagin,’ Sikes said, suddenly cutting through the silence, ‘is it worth an extra fifty bucks if it’s done safely from the outside?’
‘Yes,’ said the Jew, as suddenly rousing himself.
‘Yeah,’ said the Jew, suddenly shaking himself awake.
‘Is it a bargain?’ inquired Sikes.
‘Is it a good deal?’ Sikes asked.
‘Yes, my dear, yes,’ rejoined the Jew; his eyes glistening, and every muscle in his face working, with the excitement that the inquiry had awakened.
‘Yes, my dear, yes,’ replied the Jew; his eyes shining, and every muscle in his face twitching with the excitement that the question had stirred up.
‘Then,’ said Sikes, thrusting aside the Jew’s hand, with some disdain, ‘let it come off as soon as you like. Toby and me were over the garden-wall the night afore last, sounding the panels of the door and shutters. The crib’s barred up at night like a jail; but there’s one part we can crack, safe and softly.’
‘Then,’ said Sikes, pushing the Jew’s hand away with a bit of contempt, ‘let's do it whenever you’re ready. Toby and I climbed over the garden wall the night before last, checking the door and shutters. The place is locked up at night like a prison; but there’s one spot we can get through, easily and quietly.’
‘Which is that, Bill?’ asked the Jew eagerly.
‘Which is that, Bill?’ the Jewish man asked eagerly.
‘Why,’ whispered Sikes, ‘as you cross the lawn—’
‘Why,’ whispered Sikes, ‘as you walk across the lawn—’
‘Yes?’ said the Jew, bending his head forward, with his eyes almost starting out of it.
‘Yes?’ said the Jew, leaning his head forward, his eyes nearly popping out.
‘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.’
‘Umph!’ yelled Sikes, halting abruptly, as the girl, barely shifting her head, looked around quickly and pointed for a moment at the Jew’s face. ‘It doesn’t matter which part it is. You can’t do it without me, I know; but it’s better to play it safe when dealing with you.’
‘As you like, my dear, as you like’ replied the Jew. ‘Is there no help wanted, but yours and Toby’s?’
‘As you wish, my dear, as you wish,’ replied the Jew. ‘Is there no help needed, except for yours and Toby’s?’
‘None,’ said Sikes. ‘Cept a centre-bit and a boy. The first we’ve both got; the second you must find us.’
‘None,’ said Sikes. ‘Except a center bit and a kid. We’ve both got the first; you need to find us the second.’
‘A boy!’ exclaimed the Jew. ‘Oh! then it’s a panel, eh?’
‘A boy!’ the Jew exclaimed. ‘Oh! So it's a panel, huh?’
‘Never mind wot it is!’ replied Sikes. ‘I want a boy, and he musn’t be a big ‘un. Lord!’ said Mr. Sikes, reflectively, ‘if I’d only got that young boy of Ned, the chimbley-sweeper’s! He kept him small on purpose, and let him out by the job. But the father gets lagged; and then the Juvenile Delinquent Society comes, and takes the boy away from a trade where he was earning money, teaches him to read and write, and in time makes a ‘prentice of him. And so they go on,’ said Mr. Sikes, his wrath rising with the recollection of his wrongs, ‘so they go on; and, if they’d got money enough (which it’s a Providence they haven’t,) we shouldn’t have half a dozen boys left in the whole trade, in a year or two.’
“Never mind what it is!” replied Sikes. “I need a boy, and he can’t be a big one. Lord!” said Mr. Sikes, thinking for a moment, “if only I had that young boy of Ned, the chimney sweeper’s! He kept him small on purpose and let him out just for the job. But then the father gets caught, and the Juvenile Delinquent Society comes in and takes the boy away from a job where he was making money, teaches him to read and write, and eventually makes an apprentice out of him. And they just keep on,” said Mr. Sikes, his anger growing with the memory of his grievances, “they just keep going; and if they had enough money (thank goodness they don’t), we wouldn’t have a handful of boys left in the entire trade in a year or two.”
‘No more we should,’ acquiesced the Jew, who had been considering during this speech, and had only caught the last sentence. ‘Bill!’
‘We shouldn’t anymore,’ agreed the Jew, who had been thinking during this speech and had only heard the last sentence. ‘Bill!’
‘What now?’ inquired Sikes.
"What's next?" asked Sikes.
The Jew nodded his head towards Nancy, who was still gazing at the fire; and intimated, by a sign, that he would have her told to leave the room. Sikes shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as if he thought the precaution unnecessary; but complied, nevertheless, by requesting Miss Nancy to fetch him a jug of beer.
The Jew nodded his head at Nancy, who was still staring at the fire; and signaled that he wanted her to be asked to leave the room. Sikes shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as if he thought the precaution was unnecessary; but he went along with it anyway by asking Miss Nancy to get him a jug of beer.
‘You don’t want any beer,’ said Nancy, folding her arms, and retaining her seat very composedly.
“You don’t want any beer,” Nancy said, folding her arms and sitting very calmly in her chair.
‘I tell you I do!’ replied Sikes.
‘I’m telling you I do!’ replied Sikes.
‘Nonsense,’ rejoined the girl coolly, ‘Go on, Fagin. I know what he’s going to say, Bill; he needn’t mind me.’
‘Nonsense,’ the girl replied calmly, ‘Go ahead, Fagin. I know what he’s going to say, Bill; he doesn’t need to worry about me.’
The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the other in some surprise.
The Jew was still unsure. Sikes looked between them, surprised.
‘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?’
‘Why, you don't mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?’ he finally asked. ‘You've known her long enough to trust her, or there’s something seriously wrong. She’s not one to spill secrets. Are you, Nancy?’
‘I should think not!’ replied the young lady: drawing her chair up to the table, and putting her elbows upon it.
‘I don’t think so!’ replied the young lady, pulling her chair up to the table and resting her elbows on it.
‘No, no, my dear, I know you’re not,’ said the Jew; ‘but—’ and again the old man paused.
‘No, no, my dear, I know you’re not,’ said the Jew; ‘but—’ and again the old man paused.
‘But wot?’ inquired Sikes.
‘But what?’ inquired Sikes.
‘I didn’t know whether she mightn’t p’r’aps be out of sorts, you know, my dear, as she was the other night,’ replied the Jew.
"I didn’t know if she might be feeling a bit off, you know, my dear, like she was the other night," replied the Jew.
At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into sundry exclamations of ‘Keep the game a-going!’ ‘Never say die!’ and the like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise.
At this confession, Miss Nancy broke into a loud laugh; and, downing a glass of brandy, shook her head defiantly and exclaimed things like, “Keep the game going!” “Never give up!” and similar phrases. These seemed to reassure both men; the Jew nodded with a satisfied look and sat back down, as did Mr. Sikes.
‘Now, Fagin,’ said Nancy with a laugh. ‘Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!’
‘Now, Fagin,’ Nancy said with a laugh. ‘Tell Bill right now about Oliver!’
‘Ha! you’re a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!’ said the Jew, patting her on the neck. ‘It was about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!’
‘Ha! you’re really something, my dear: the smartest girl I’ve ever seen!’ said the Jew, giving her a friendly pat on the neck. ‘It was about Oliver I was going to talk about, for sure. Ha! ha! ha!’
‘What about him?’ demanded Sikes.
"What about him?" Sikes asked.
‘He’s the boy for you, my dear,’ replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully.
‘He’s the guy for you, my dear,’ replied the Jew in a raspy whisper; putting his finger on the side of his nose and grinning menacingly.
‘He!’ exclaimed. Sikes.
"He's here!" 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.’
‘Take him, Bill!’ said Nancy. ‘I would if I were you. He might not be as smart as the others, but that’s not what you need if all he has to do is open a door for you. Trust me, he’s a reliable choice, Bill.’
‘I know he is,’ rejoined Fagin. ‘He’s been in good training these last few weeks, and it’s time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big.’
‘I know he is,’ replied Fagin. ‘He’s been in good shape these last few weeks, and it’s time he started earning his keep. Plus, the others are all too big.’
‘Well, he is just the size I want,’ said Mr. Sikes, ruminating.
‘Well, he is exactly the size I need,’ said Mr. Sikes, thinking.
‘And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear,’ interposed the Jew; ‘he can’t help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough.’
‘And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear,’ interrupted the Jew; ‘he can’t help it. That is, if you scare him enough.’
‘Frighten him!’ echoed Sikes. ‘It’ll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there’s anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won’t see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!’ said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead.
“Scare him!” Sikes shouted. “And don’t think it’ll just be for show. If there’s anything off about him once we get started; we’re fully committed. You won’t see him alive again, Fagin. Keep that in mind before you send him over. Believe me!” said the robber, lifting a crowbar that he had pulled out from beneath the bed.
‘I’ve thought of it all,’ said the Jew with energy. ‘I’ve—I’ve had my eye upon him, my dears, close—close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he’s ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn’t have come about better!’ The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy.
‘I’ve considered everything,’ said the Jew with enthusiasm. ‘I’ve—I've been watching him, my dears, closely—very closely. Just let him realize that he’s one of us; once fill his mind with the notion that he’s a thief; and he’s ours! Ours for life. Oh! It couldn’t have worked out better!’ The old man crossed his arms over his chest and, hunching his head and shoulders together, literally embraced himself in joy.
‘Ours!’ said Sikes. ‘Yours, you mean.’
‘Ours!’ said Sikes. ‘You mean yours.’
‘Perhaps I do, my dear,’ said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. ‘Mine, if you like, Bill.’
‘Maybe I do, my dear,’ said the Jew, with a high-pitched laugh. ‘It's yours, if you want it, Bill.’
‘And wot,’ said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, ‘wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?’
‘And what,’ said Sikes, scowling fiercely at his agreeable friend, ‘what makes you put in so much effort for one pale-faced kid when you know there are fifty boys lounging around Covent Garden every night, just waiting to be picked?’
‘Because they’re of no use to me, my dear,’ replied the Jew, with some confusion, ‘not worth the taking. Their looks convict ‘em when they get into trouble, and I lose ‘em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what I couldn’t with twenty of them. Besides,’ said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, ‘he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it’s quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that’s all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way—which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides.’
“Because they’re not helpful to me, my dear,” replied the Jew, feeling a bit flustered, “not worth it. Their appearance gives them away when they get into trouble, and I lose them all. With this boy, if managed properly, my dears, I could achieve what I couldn’t with twenty of them. Besides,” said the Jew, regaining his composure, “he’s on our side now if he could just give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same situation as us. It doesn’t matter how he ended up there; it’s enough for me to have power over him because he was involved in a robbery; that’s all I need. Now, how much better is this than having to get rid of the poor little boy—which would be risky, and we’d end up suffering for it too.”
‘When is it to be done?’ asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin’s affectation of humanity.
“When is it going to happen?” Nancy asked, interrupting a stormy outburst from Mr. Sikes, who was clearly disgusted by Fagin’s false display of compassion.
‘Ah, to be sure,’ said the Jew; ‘when is it to be done, Bill?’
‘Oh, for sure,’ said the Jew; ‘when is it going to happen, Bill?’
‘I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow,’ rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, ‘if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy.’
‘I planned with Toby for the night after tomorrow,’ Sikes replied in a grumpy tone, ‘if he doesn’t hear anything from me otherwise.’
‘Good,’ said the Jew; ‘there’s no moon.’
‘Good,’ said the Jew; ‘there’s no moon.’
‘No,’ rejoined Sikes.
'No,' replied Sikes.
‘It’s all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?’ asked the Jew.
'Is everything set for getting the loot?' asked the Jew.
Sikes nodded.
Sikes agreed.
‘And about—’
‘And regarding—’
‘Oh, ah, it’s all planned,’ rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. ‘Never mind particulars. You’d better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that’s all you’ll have to do.’
‘Oh, yeah, it’s all planned,’ Sikes replied, cutting him off. ‘Don’t worry about the details. You should bring the boy here tomorrow night. I’ll get off the stone an hour after daybreak. Then just keep quiet and have the melting pot ready, and that’s all you need to do.’
After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew’s next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit.
After some discussion, where all three took an active role, it was decided that Nancy would go to the Jew's place the next evening after dark and bring Oliver back with her. Fagin slyly pointed out that if Oliver showed any reluctance to go, he would probably be more willing to go with the girl who had recently helped him than anyone else. It was also officially arranged that poor Oliver would be completely handed over to Mr. William Sikes for the planned mission, and that Sikes could deal with him however he saw fit, without the Jew holding him responsible for any trouble or harm that might come to Oliver. It was understood that to make the agreement binding, any statements made by Sikes upon his return would need to be confirmed and supported, in all critical details, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit.
These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools: which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell.
Once these preliminaries were settled, Mr. Sikes started downing brandy at an insane pace, waving the crowbar around in a pretty scary way; at the same time, he was yelling out some terrible, off-key bits of songs mixed with wild curses. Finally, in a burst of professional excitement, he insisted on showing off his box of burglary tools: as soon as he tripped in with it and opened it up to explain the nature and uses of the different tools inside and the unique features of their design, he tripped over the box on the floor and passed out right there.
‘Good-night, Nancy,’ said the Jew, muffling himself up as before.
‘Goodnight, Nancy,’ said the Jew, wrapping himself up like before.
‘Good-night.’
‘Good night.’
Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no flinching about the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as Toby Crackit himself could be.
Their eyes locked, and the Jew studied her intently. The girl didn’t flinch at all. She was as genuine and sincere in the situation as Toby Crackit himself could be.
The Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a sly kick upon the prostrate form of Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, groped downstairs.
The Jew once more wished her goodnight, and, giving a sneaky kick to the fallen Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, felt her way downstairs.
‘Always the way!’ muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homeward. ‘The worst of these women is, that a very little thing serves to call up some long-forgotten feeling; and, the best of them is, that it never lasts. Ha! ha! The man against the child, for a bag of gold!’
‘Always the same!’ muttered the Jew to himself as he headed home. ‘The worst thing about these women is that even the smallest thing can bring back some long-forgotten feeling; and the best part is that it never lasts. Ha! Ha! The man versus the child, over a bag of gold!’
Beguiling the time with these pleasant reflections, Mr. Fagin wended his way, through mud and mire, to his gloomy abode: where the Dodger was sitting up, impatiently awaiting his return.
Amusing himself with these enjoyable thoughts, Mr. Fagin made his way through the mud and grime to his dreary home, where the Dodger was sitting up, eagerly waiting for him to come back.
‘Is Oliver a-bed? I want to speak to him,’ was his first remark as they descended the stairs.
‘Is Oliver in bed? I want to talk to him,’ was his first comment as they went down the stairs.
‘Hours ago,’ replied the Dodger, throwing open a door. ‘Here he is!’
‘A few hours ago,’ replied the Dodger, flinging open a door. ‘Here he is!’
The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the floor; so pale with anxiety, and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he looked like death; not death as it shows in shroud and coffin, but in the guise it wears when life has just departed; when a young and gentle spirit has, but an instant, fled to Heaven, and the gross air of the world has not had time to breathe upon the changing dust it hallowed.
The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a makeshift bed on the floor; so pale from anxiety, sadness, and the confinement of his prison, that he looked like death; not death as it appears in a shroud and coffin, but in the form it takes when life has just left; when a young and gentle spirit has only just fled to Heaven, and the heavy air of the world hasn’t yet touched the sacred dust that remains.
‘Not now,’ said the Jew, turning softly away. ‘To-morrow. To-morrow.’
‘Not now,’ said the Jew, turning away gently. ‘Tomorrow. Tomorrow.’
CHAPTER XX — 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 shoes had been removed. At first, he was pleased with the discovery: hoping that it might be the forerunner of his release; but such thoughts were quickly dispelled, on his sitting down to breakfast along with the Jew, who told him, in a tone and manner which increased his alarm, that he was to be taken to the residence of Bill Sikes that night.
When Oliver woke up in the morning, he was quite surprised to see a new pair of shoes with sturdy soles placed next to his bed, and his old shoes were gone. At first, he was happy about the find, hoping it might mean he was being set free; but those thoughts quickly faded when he sat down for breakfast with the Jew, who told him in a tone and manner that made him even more anxious that he would be taken to Bill Sikes' place that night.
‘To—to—stop there, sir?’ asked Oliver, anxiously.
‘To—to—stop there, sir?’ Oliver asked 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!’
‘No, no, my dear. We can’t leave it at that,’ replied the Jew. ‘We wouldn’t want to lose you. Don’t worry, Oliver, you’ll come back to us again. Ha! ha! ha! We won’t be so mean 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.
The old man, who was bent over the fire toasting a slice of bread, looked around as he joked with Oliver and chuckled as if to indicate that he would still be quite happy to leave 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?’
‘I guess,’ said the Jew, focusing his gaze on Oliver, ‘you want to know why you’re going to Bill’s—right, 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.
Oliver flushed, unable to help it, when he realized that the old thief had been reading his thoughts; but he confidently replied, Yes, he did want to know.
‘Why, do you think?’ inquired Fagin, parrying the question.
“Why do you think?” Fagin asked, dodging the question.
‘Indeed I don’t know, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘Honestly, I don’t know, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘Bah!’ said the Jew, turning away with a disappointed countenance from a close perusal of the boy’s face. ‘Wait till Bill tells you, then.’
‘Bah!’ said the Jew, turning away with a disappointed look after closely examining the boy’s face. ‘Wait until Bill tells you, then.’
The Jew seemed much vexed by Oliver’s not expressing any greater curiosity on the subject; but the truth is, that, although Oliver felt very anxious, he was too much confused by the earnest cunning of Fagin’s looks, and his own speculations, to make any further inquiries just then. He had no other opportunity: for the Jew remained very surly and silent till night: when he prepared to go abroad.
The Jew seemed really annoyed by Oliver’s lack of curiosity on the matter; but honestly, even though Oliver was quite anxious, he was too confused by Fagin’s intense and sly expressions, along with his own thoughts, to ask more questions at that moment. He didn’t have another chance: the Jew stayed grumpy and quiet until night, when he got ready to go out.
‘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!’
‘You can light a candle,’ said the Jew, placing one on the table. ‘And here’s a book for you to read until they come to get you. Good night!’
‘Good-night!’ replied Oliver, softly.
"Good night!" Oliver replied softly.
The Jew walked to the door: looking over his shoulder at the boy as he went. Suddenly stopping, he called him by his name.
The Jew walked to the door, glancing back at the boy as he went. Suddenly stopping, he called out to him by name.
Oliver looked up; the Jew, pointing to the candle, motioned him to light it. He did so; and, as he placed the candlestick upon the table, saw that the Jew was gazing fixedly at him, with lowering and contracted brows, from the dark end of the room.
Oliver looked up; the Jew, pointing to the candle, signaled him to light it. He did so; and as he set the candlestick on the table, he noticed the Jew was staring intensely at him, with a scowling and furrowed brow, from the dim 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.
‘Listen up, Oliver! Listen up!’ said the old man, shaking his right hand in a warning gesture. ‘He’s a tough guy and doesn’t care about blood when he’s angered. No matter what happens, say nothing; and do what he tells you. Got it!’ Putting extra stress on the last word, he slowly let his face twist into a creepy grin and, nodding, left the room.
Oliver leaned his head upon his hand when the old man disappeared, and pondered, with a trembling heart, on the words he had just heard. The more he thought of the Jew’s admonition, the more he was at a loss to divine its real purpose and meaning.
Oliver rested his head on his hand after the old man vanished, and with a racing heart, he reflected on the words he had just heard. The more he considered the Jew's warning, the more confused he became about its true purpose and meaning.
He could think of no bad object to be attained by sending him to Sikes, which would not be equally well answered by his remaining with Fagin; and after meditating for a long time, concluded that he had been selected to perform some ordinary menial offices for the housebreaker, until another boy, better suited for his purpose could be engaged. He was too well accustomed to suffering, and had suffered too much where he was, to bewail the prospect of change very severely. He remained lost in thought for some minutes; and then, with a heavy sigh, snuffed the candle, and, taking up the book which the Jew had left with him, began to read.
He couldn't think of any negative outcome from being sent to Sikes that wouldn't be just as easily achieved by staying with Fagin. After thinking it over for a long time, he decided that he had been chosen to do some basic chores for the housebreaker until another boy who was a better fit for the job could be found. He was too used to pain and had already endured so much where he was to really mourn the idea of change. He stayed lost in thought for a few minutes, then let out a heavy sigh, extinguished the candle, and picked up the book that the Jew had left with him to start reading.
He turned over the leaves. Carelessly at first; but, lighting on a passage which attracted his attention, he soon became intent upon the volume. It was a history of the lives and trials of great criminals; and the pages were soiled and thumbed with use. Here, he read of dreadful crimes that made the blood run cold; of secret murders that had been committed by the lonely wayside; of bodies hidden from the eye of man in deep pits and wells: which would not keep them down, deep as they were, but had yielded them up at last, after many years, and so maddened the murderers with the sight, that in their horror they had confessed their guilt, and yelled for the gibbet to end their agony. Here, too, he read of men who, lying in their beds at dead of night, had been tempted (so they said) and led on, by their own bad thoughts, to such dreadful bloodshed as it made the flesh creep, and the limbs quail, to think of. The terrible descriptions were so real and vivid, that the sallow pages seemed to turn red with gore; and the words upon them, to be sounded in his ears, as if they were whispered, in hollow murmurs, by the spirits of the dead.
He flipped through the pages. At first, he did it carelessly, but when he stumbled upon a passage that caught his eye, he quickly became absorbed in the book. It was a history of the lives and struggles of notorious criminals, and the pages were dirty and worn from repeated handling. Here, he read about horrifying crimes that made his blood run cold; about secret murders committed along lonely roads; about bodies hidden from view in deep pits and wells, which ultimately could not keep them down, no matter how deep they were, and had eventually surfaced after many years, driving the killers mad at the sight, causing them to confess their guilt and scream for the gallows to end their suffering. He also read about men who, while lying in their beds in the dead of night, claimed they were tempted and led astray by their own dark thoughts to commit such horrific acts of violence that it made one's flesh crawl and limbs tremble at the thought. The dreadful descriptions were so real and intense that the yellowed pages seemed to turn red with blood; and the words on them resonated 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.
In a fit of fear, the boy closed the book and pushed it away from him. Then, dropping to his knees, he prayed to Heaven to spare him from such acts; he would rather die right away than be left to commit such terrifying and horrible crimes. Gradually, he became calmer and pleaded in a soft, shaky voice that he might be saved from his current dangers; and that if there was any help to be found for a poor outcast boy who had never experienced the love of friends or family, it might come to him now, as he stood alone and abandoned in the midst of wrongdoing and guilt.
He had concluded his prayer, but still remained with his head buried in his hands, when a rustling noise aroused him.
He had finished his prayer but still had his head buried in his hands when a rustling noise woke him up.
‘What’s that!’ he cried, starting up, and catching sight of a figure standing by the door. ‘Who’s there?’
‘What’s that!’ he shouted, jumping up and spotting a figure standing by the door. ‘Who’s there?’
‘Me. Only me,’ replied a tremulous voice.
‘Me. Just me,’ replied a shaky voice.
Oliver raised the candle above his head: and looked towards the door. It was Nancy.
Oliver lifted the candle over his head and looked toward the door. It was Nancy.
‘Put down the light,’ said the girl, turning away her head. ‘It hurts my eyes.’
‘Put down the light,’ said the girl, turning her head away. ‘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.
Oliver noticed she looked very pale and softly asked if she was sick. The girl slumped into a chair, facing away from him, and twisted her hands, but didn’t say anything.
‘God forgive me!’ she cried after a while, ‘I never thought of this.’
‘God forgive me!’ she exclaimed after a bit, ‘I never considered this.’
‘Has anything happened?’ asked Oliver. ‘Can I help you? I will if I can. I will, indeed.’
“Has anything happened?” Oliver asked. “Can I help you? I will if I can. I will, definitely.”
She rocked herself to and fro; caught her throat; and, uttering a gurgling sound, gasped for breath.
She rocked back and forth, held her throat, and, making a gurgling sound, gasped for air.
‘Nancy!’ cried Oliver, ‘What is it?’
‘Nancy!’ cried Oliver, ‘What’s going on?’
The girl beat her hands upon her knees, and her feet upon the ground; and, suddenly stopping, drew her shawl close round her: and shivered with cold.
The girl pounded her hands on her knees and her feet on the ground; then, suddenly stopping, she pulled her shawl tight around her and shivered from the 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.
Oliver poked the fire. Pulling her chair closer to it, she sat there for a bit without saying anything; but eventually, she lifted her head and looked around.
‘I don’t know what comes over me sometimes,’ said she, affecting to busy herself in arranging her dress; ‘it’s this damp dirty room, I think. Now, Nolly, dear, are you ready?’
‘I don’t know what gets into me sometimes,’ she said, pretending to occupy herself with arranging her dress. ‘I think it’s this damp, dirty room. Now, Nolly, sweetheart, are you ready?’
‘Am I to go with you?’ asked Oliver.
‘Am I going with you?’ asked Oliver.
‘Yes. I have come from Bill,’ replied the girl. ‘You are to go with me.’
‘Yes. I came from Bill,’ the girl replied. ‘You need to come with me.’
‘What for?’ asked Oliver, recoiling.
"What for?" asked Oliver, backing away.
‘What for?’ echoed the girl, raising her eyes, and averting them again, the moment they encountered the boy’s face. ‘Oh! For no harm.’
‘What for?’ the girl echoed, raising her eyes and quickly looking away as soon as she saw the boy’s face. ‘Oh! For no harm.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Oliver: who had watched her closely.
‘I can’t believe it,’ said Oliver, who had been watching her intently.
‘Have it your own way,’ rejoined the girl, affecting to laugh. ‘For no good, then.’
'Do what you want,' the girl replied, pretending to laugh. 'It's for nothing, then.'
Oliver could see that he had some power over the girl’s better feelings, and, for an instant, thought of appealing to her compassion for his helpless state. But, then, the thought darted across his mind that it was barely eleven o’clock; and that many people were still in the streets: of whom surely some might be found to give credence to his tale. As the reflection occured to him, he stepped forward: and said, somewhat hastily, that he was ready.
Oliver realized he had some influence over the girl's better feelings and briefly considered asking for her compassion for his helpless situation. But then the thought flashed through his mind that it was barely eleven o'clock and that many people were still out on the streets, some of whom might believe his story. As that realization struck him, he stepped forward and said somewhat hurriedly that he was ready.
Neither his brief consideration, nor its purport, was lost on his companion. She eyed him narrowly, while he spoke; and cast upon him a look of intelligence which sufficiently showed that she guessed what had been passing in his thoughts.
Neither his brief thoughts nor their meaning went unnoticed by his companion. She watched him closely as he spoke and gave him a knowing look that clearly indicated she understood what had been on his mind.
‘Hush!’ said the girl, stooping over him, and pointing to the door as she looked cautiously round. ‘You can’t help yourself. I have tried hard for you, but all to no purpose. You are hedged round and round. If ever you are to get loose from here, this is not the time.’
‘Quiet!’ said the girl, leaning over him and gesturing toward the door while she glanced around carefully. ‘You can't do anything about it. I've tried really hard for you, but it was all for nothing. You're trapped on all sides. If you're ever going to get out of here, this isn’t the moment.’
Struck by the energy of her manner, Oliver looked up in her face with great surprise. She seemed to speak the truth; her countenance was white and agitated; and she trembled with very earnestness.
Struck by her energy, Oliver looked up at her with great surprise. She seemed to be telling the truth; her face was pale and anxious, and she trembled with intense sincerity.
‘I have saved you from being ill-used once, and I will again, and I do now,’ continued the girl aloud; ‘for those who would have fetched you, if I had not, would have been far more rough than me. I have promised for your being quiet and silent; if you are not, you will only do harm to yourself and me too, and perhaps be my death. See here! I have borne all this for you already, as true as God sees me show it.’
‘I’ve saved you from being mistreated once, and I will do it again, and I’m doing it now,’ the girl continued aloud; ‘because the people who would have come for you, if I hadn’t, would have been much harsher than I am. I’ve promised to keep you calm and quiet; if you can’t do that, you’ll only hurt yourself and me too, and maybe even cause my death. Look! I’ve already endured all of this for you, as true as God sees me doing it.’
She pointed, hastily, to some livid bruises on her neck and arms; and continued, with great rapidity:
She quickly pointed to some dark bruises on her neck and arms and continued, speaking very fast:
‘Remember this! And don’t let me suffer more for you, just now. If I could help you, I would; but I have not the power. They don’t mean to harm you; whatever they make you do, is no fault of yours. Hush! Every word from you is a blow for me. Give me your hand. Make haste! Your hand!’
‘Remember this! And don’t let me suffer more for you right now. If I could help you, I would; but I don’t have the power. They don’t mean to harm you; whatever they make you do is not your fault. Hush! Every word from you is a blow to me. Give me your hand. Hurry! Your hand!’
She caught the hand which Oliver instinctively placed in hers, and, blowing out the light, drew him after her up the stairs. The door was opened, quickly, by some one shrouded in the darkness, and was as quickly closed, when they had passed out. A hackney-cabriolet was in waiting; with the same vehemence which she had exhibited in addressing Oliver, the girl pulled him in with her, and drew the curtains close. The driver wanted no directions, but lashed his horse into full speed, without the delay of an instant.
She grabbed the hand that Oliver instinctively offered her and, turning off the light, pulled him up the stairs. The door was opened quickly by someone hidden in the darkness and shut just as fast after they got through. A cab was waiting; with the same urgency she had shown when talking to Oliver, the girl pulled him inside with her and closed the curtains tightly. The driver didn't need any instructions; he whipped his horse into full speed without any hesitation.
The girl still held Oliver fast by the hand, and continued to pour into his ear, the warnings and assurances she had already imparted. All was so quick and hurried, that he had scarcely time to recollect where he was, or how he came there, when the carriage stopped at the house to which the Jew’s steps had been directed on the previous evening.
The girl still held Oliver tightly by the hand and kept whispering the warnings and reassurances she had already given him. Everything happened so fast that he barely had time to remember where he was or how he got there when the carriage stopped at the house the Jew had been heading to the night before.
For one brief moment, Oliver cast a hurried glance along the empty street, and a cry for help hung upon his lips. But the girl’s voice was in his ear, beseeching him in such tones of agony to remember her, that he had not the heart to utter it. While he hesitated, the opportunity was gone; he was already in the house, and the door was shut.
For a brief moment, Oliver quickly looked down the empty street, and a cry for help was about to escape his lips. But the girl’s voice echoed in his ear, pleading with him in such painful tones to remember her, that he couldn’t bring himself to say it. As he hesitated, the chance slipped away; he was already inside the house, and the door was closed.
‘This way,’ said the girl, releasing her hold for the first time. ‘Bill!’
‘This way,’ said the girl, letting go for the first time. ‘Bill!’
‘Hallo!’ replied Sikes: appearing at the head of the stairs, with a candle. ‘Oh! That’s the time of day. Come on!’
‘Hello!’ replied Sikes, appearing at the top of the stairs with a candle. ‘Oh! That’s the time of day. Let’s go!’
This was a very strong expression of approbation, an uncommonly hearty welcome, from a person of Mr. Sikes’ temperament. Nancy, appearing much gratified thereby, saluted him cordially.
This was a really strong show of approval, an unusually warm welcome, from someone like Mr. Sikes. Nancy, looking quite pleased, greeted him warmly.
‘Bull’s-eye’s gone home with Tom,’ observed Sikes, as he lighted them up. ‘He’d have been in the way.’
‘Bull’s-eye went home with Tom,’ Sikes noted as he lit them up. ‘He’d have just been in the way.’
‘That’s right,’ rejoined Nancy.
"That's right," responded Nancy.
‘So you’ve got the kid,’ said Sikes when they had all reached the room: closing the door as he spoke.
‘So you’ve got the kid,’ Sikes said when they all got to the room, closing the door as he spoke.
‘Yes, here he is,’ replied Nancy.
‘Yes, here he is,’ Nancy replied.
‘Did he come quiet?’ inquired Sikes.
‘Did he arrive quietly?’ Sikes asked.
‘Like a lamb,’ rejoined Nancy.
"Like a lamb," replied Nancy.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Sikes, looking grimly at Oliver; ‘for the sake of his young carcase: as would otherways have suffered for it. Come here, young ‘un; and let me read you a lectur’, which is as well got over at once.’
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Sikes said, grimly looking at Oliver; ‘for the sake of his young body; otherwise, he would have suffered for it. Come here, kid; let me give you a lecture, which is better to get over with all at once.’
Thus addressing his new pupil, Mr. Sikes pulled off Oliver’s cap and threw it into a corner; and then, taking him by the shoulder, sat himself down by the table, and stood the boy in front of him.
Thus addressing his new student, Mr. Sikes took off Oliver's cap and tossed it into a corner; then, grabbing him by the shoulder, sat himself down at the table and positioned the boy in front of him.
‘Now, first: do you know wot this is?’ inquired Sikes, taking up a pocket-pistol which lay on the table.
“Now, first off: do you know what this is?” Sikes asked, picking up a pocket pistol that was lying on the table.
Oliver replied in the affirmative.
Oliver said yes.
‘Well, then, look here,’ continued Sikes. ‘This is powder; that ‘ere’s a bullet; and this is a little bit of a old hat for waddin’.’
‘Well, then, check this out,’ continued Sikes. ‘This is gunpowder; that’s a bullet; and this is a small piece of an old hat for wadding.’
Oliver murmured his comprehension of the different bodies referred to; and Mr. Sikes proceeded to load the pistol, with great nicety and deliberation.
Oliver muttered that he understood the different bodies mentioned; and Mr. Sikes went on to load the pistol with great care and intention.
‘Now it’s loaded,’ said Mr. Sikes, when he had finished.
'Now it's loaded,' said Mr. Sikes, when he was done.
‘Yes, I see it is, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘Yes, I see it is, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘Well,’ said the robber, grasping Oliver’s wrist, and putting the barrel so close to his temple that they touched; at which moment the boy could not repress a start; ‘if you speak a word when you’re out o’doors with me, except when I speak to you, that loading will be in your head without notice. So, if you do make up your mind to speak without leave, say your prayers first.’
‘Well,’ said the robber, grabbing Oliver’s wrist and putting the gun so close to his temple that they touched; at that moment, the boy couldn’t help but flinch. ‘If you say a word when we’re outside together, except when I talk to you, that bullet will be in your head before you know it. So, if you do decide to speak without permission, say your prayers first.’
Having bestowed a scowl upon the object of this warning, to increase its effect, Mr. Sikes continued.
Having given a scowl to the subject of this warning to make it more impactful, Mr. Sikes continued.
‘As near as I know, there isn’t anybody as would be asking very partickler arter you, if you was disposed of; so I needn’t take this devil-and-all of trouble to explain matters to you, if it warn’t for your own good. D’ye hear me?’
‘As far as I know, there isn’t anyone who would be asking in particular after you, if you were gone; so I don’t need to go through all this trouble to explain things to you, if it weren’t for your own good. Do you hear me?’
‘The short and the long of what you mean,’ said Nancy: speaking very emphatically, and slightly frowning at Oliver as if to bespeak his serious attention to her words: ‘is, that if you’re crossed by him in this job you have on hand, you’ll prevent his ever telling tales afterwards, by shooting him through the head, and will take your chance of swinging for it, as you do for a great many other things in the way of business, every month of your life.’
‘Here’s the bottom line of what you mean,’ said Nancy, speaking very emphatically and slightly frowning at Oliver to get his serious attention: ‘is that if he gets in your way with this job you have, you’ll make sure he can never tell anyone by shooting him in the head, and you’ll take your chances of facing the consequences, just like you do for a lot of other things in business every month of your life.’
‘That’s it!’ observed Mr. Sikes, approvingly; ‘women can always put things in fewest words.—Except when it’s blowing up; and then they lengthens it out. And now that he’s thoroughly up to it, let’s have some supper, and get a snooze before starting.’
‘That’s it!’ Mr. Sikes remarked, nodding in approval; ‘women always know how to say things in the fewest words.—Except when they’re really upset; then they just drag it out. Now that he’s fully aware, let’s grab some dinner and get some sleep before we head out.’
In pursuance of this request, Nancy quickly laid the cloth; disappearing for a few minutes, she presently returned with a pot of porter and a dish of sheep’s heads: which gave occasion to several pleasant witticisms on the part of Mr. Sikes, founded upon the singular coincidence of ‘jemmies’ being a can name, common to them, and also to an ingenious implement much used in his profession. Indeed, the worthy gentleman, stimulated perhaps by the immediate prospect of being on active service, was in great spirits and good humour; in proof whereof, it may be here remarked, that he humourously drank all the beer at a draught, and did not utter, on a rough calculation, more than four-score oaths during the whole progress of the meal.
In response to this request, Nancy quickly set the table; she disappeared for a few minutes and then came back with a jug of beer and a plate of sheep's heads. This sparked several funny comments from Mr. Sikes, who joked about the coincidence of "jemmies" being a common nickname for both them and a clever tool he often used in his job. In fact, the good gentleman, perhaps motivated by the upcoming chance to be busy, was in high spirits and a great mood; it’s worth noting that he humorously drank all the beer in one go and only managed to let out, by rough estimate, about eighty curses throughout the entire meal.
Supper being ended—it may be easily conceived that Oliver had no great appetite for it—Mr. Sikes disposed of a couple of glasses of spirits and water, and threw himself on the bed; ordering Nancy, with many imprecations in case of failure, to call him at five precisely. Oliver stretched himself in his clothes, by command of the same authority, on a mattress upon the floor; and the girl, mending the fire, sat before it, in readiness to rouse them at the appointed time.
Supper was over—it’s easy to imagine that Oliver wasn't very hungry for it—Mr. Sikes knocked back a couple of glasses of spirits and water, then flopped onto the bed; he ordered Nancy, with plenty of curses if she didn’t comply, to wake him up at exactly five. Oliver lay down in his clothes, following the same order, on a mattress on the floor; and the girl, tending to the fire, sat in front of it, ready to wake them at the designated time.
For a long time Oliver lay awake, thinking it not impossible that Nancy might seek that opportunity of whispering some further advice; but the girl sat brooding over the fire, without moving, save now and then to trim the light. Weary with watching and anxiety, he at length fell asleep.
For a long time, Oliver lay awake, thinking it wasn’t impossible that Nancy might take the chance to whisper some more advice; but the girl sat quietly, lost in thought by the fire, barely moving except now and then to adjust the light. Tired from waiting and worrying, he eventually fell asleep.
When he awoke, the table was covered with tea-things, and Sikes was thrusting various articles into the pockets of his great-coat, which hung over the back of a chair. Nancy was busily engaged in preparing breakfast. It was not yet daylight; for the candle was still burning, and it was quite dark outside. A sharp rain, too, was beating against the window-panes; and the sky looked black and cloudy.
When he woke up, the table was filled with tea items, and Sikes was stuffing various things into the pockets of his big coat, which was hanging over the back of a chair. Nancy was busy making breakfast. It wasn't daylight yet; the candle was still burning, and it was pretty dark outside. A heavy rain was pounding against the window panes, and the sky looked dark and cloudy.
‘Now, then!’ growled Sikes, as Oliver started up; ‘half-past five! Look sharp, or you’ll get no breakfast; for it’s late as it is.’
‘Alright, then!’ growled Sikes, as Oliver jumped up; ‘half-past five! Hurry up, or you won’t get any breakfast; it’s already late as it is.’
Oliver was not long in making his toilet; having taken some breakfast, he replied to a surly inquiry from Sikes, by saying that he was quite ready.
Oliver didn't take long to get ready; after having some breakfast, he responded to a grumpy question from Sikes by saying that he was all set.
Nancy, scarcely looking at the boy, threw him a handkerchief to tie round his throat; Sikes gave him a large rough cape to button over his shoulders. Thus attired, he gave his hand to the robber, who, merely pausing to show him with a menacing gesture that he had that same pistol in a side-pocket of his great-coat, clasped it firmly in his, and, exchanging a farewell with Nancy, led him away.
Nancy, barely glancing at the boy, tossed him a handkerchief to tie around his neck; Sikes handed him a big, rugged cape to fasten over his shoulders. Dressed like that, he shook hands with the robber, who just paused to show him with a threatening gesture that he had the same pistol in a side pocket of his overcoat. The boy gripped it tightly in his hand and, after saying goodbye to Nancy, was led away.
Oliver turned, for an instant, when they reached the door, in the hope of meeting a look from the girl. But she had resumed her old seat in front of the fire, and sat, perfectly motionless before it.
Oliver turned for a moment when they reached the door, hoping to catch the girl’s gaze. But she had gone back to her usual spot in front of the fire and sat completely still before it.
CHAPTER XXI — THE EXPEDITION
It was a cheerless morning when they got into the street; blowing and raining hard; and the clouds looking dull and stormy. The night had been very wet: large pools of water had collected in the road: and the kennels were overflowing. There was a faint glimmering of the coming day in the sky; but it rather 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 house-tops, and dreary streets. There appeared to be nobody stirring in that quarter of the town; the windows of the houses were all closely shut; and the streets through which they passed, were noiseless and empty.
It was a bleak morning when they stepped out onto the street; it was blowing and pouring rain, with the clouds looking dull and threatening. The night had been very wet: large puddles had formed in the road, and the gutters were overflowing. There was a faint hint of dawn in the sky, but it only added to the gloom of the scene: the dim light merely washed out what the street lamps provided, without adding any warmer or brighter colors to the wet rooftops and dreary streets. It seemed like no one was awake in that part of town; all the windows of the houses were tightly shut, and the streets they walked through were silent and empty.
By the time they had turned into the Bethnal Green Road, the day had fairly begun to break. Many of the lamps were already extinguished; a few country waggons were slowly toiling on, towards London; now and then, a stage-coach, covered with mud, rattled briskly by: the driver bestowing, as he passed, 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 degrees, other shops began to be unclosed, and a few scattered people were met with. Then, came straggling groups of labourers going to their work; then, men and women with fish-baskets on their heads; donkey-carts laden with vegetables; chaise-carts filled with live-stock or whole carcasses of meat; milk-women with pails; an unbroken concourse of people, trudging out with various supplies to the eastern suburbs of the town. As they approached the City, the noise and traffic gradually increased; when they threaded the streets between Shoreditch and Smithfield, it had swelled into a roar of sound and bustle. It was as light as it was likely to be, till night came on again, and the busy morning of half the London population had begun.
By the time they turned onto Bethnal Green Road, day was starting to break. Many of the street lamps were already off; a few country wagons were making their way slowly toward London; now and then, a mud-covered stagecoach rattled by quickly, with the driver giving a scolding whip on the heavy wagon that, by sticking to the wrong side of the road, risked making him arrive at the office a quarter of a minute late. The pubs, with gas lights on inside, were already open. Gradually, other shops started to open, and they encountered a few scattered people. Then came groups of laborers heading to work; men and women carrying fish baskets on their heads; donkey carts loaded with vegetables; chaise carts filled with livestock or whole carcasses of meat; milkwomen with pails; an unbroken stream of people making their way out with various supplies to the eastern suburbs of the city. As they got closer to the City, the noise and traffic began to increase; when they navigated the streets between Shoreditch and Smithfield, it erupted into a roar of sound and activity. It was as bright as it was going to get until night fell again, and the busy morning of half the London population had begun.
Turning down Sun Street and Crown Street, and crossing Finsbury square, Mr. Sikes struck, by way of Chiswell Street, into Barbican: thence into Long Lane, and so into Smithfield; from which latter place arose a tumult of discordant sounds that filled Oliver Twist with amazement.
Turning down Sun Street and Crown Street, and crossing Finsbury Square, Mr. Sikes went along Chiswell Street into Barbican; then into Long Lane, and into Smithfield, where a cacophony of loud and jarring sounds amazed Oliver Twist.
It was market-morning. The ground was covered, nearly ankle-deep, with filth and mire; a thick steam, perpetually rising from the reeking bodies of the cattle, and mingling with the fog, which seemed to rest upon the chimney-tops, hung heavily above. All the pens in the centre of the large area, and as many temporary pens as could be crowded into the vacant space, were filled with sheep; tied up to posts by the gutter side were long lines of beasts and oxen, three or four deep. Countrymen, butchers, drovers, hawkers, boys, thieves, idlers, and vagabonds of every low grade, were mingled together in a mass; the whistling of drovers, the barking dogs, the bellowing and plunging of the oxen, the bleating of sheep, the grunting and squeaking of pigs, the cries of hawkers, the shouts, oaths, and quarrelling on all sides; the ringing of bells and roar of voices, that issued from every public-house; the crowding, pushing, driving, beating, whooping and yelling; the hideous and discordant dim that resounded from every corner of the market; and the unwashed, unshaven, squalid, and dirty 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.
It was market morning. The ground was nearly ankle-deep in muck and grime; a thick steam constantly rose from the smelly bodies of the cattle, mixing with the fog that seemed to hang low over the chimney tops. All the pens in the center of the large area, along with as many temporary pens as could fit into the vacant space, were filled with sheep; tied up to posts by the side of the gutter were long lines of cattle and oxen, three or four deep. Country folk, butchers, drovers, vendors, boys, thieves, idle people, and vagrants of every type were all jumbled together in a crowd; the whistling of drovers, barking dogs, the bellowing and thrashing of oxen, the bleating of sheep, the grunting and squealing of pigs, the shouts of vendors, the shouting, cursing, and arguing everywhere; the ringing of bells and roar of voices coming from every pub; the pushing, shoving, driving, beating, whooping, and yelling; the awful and jarring din echoing from every corner of the market; and the unwashed, unshaven, ragged, and dirty figures constantly darting to and fro, bursting in and out of the mass; made it a stunning and overwhelming scene that completely overloaded the senses.
Mr. Sikes, dragging Oliver after him, elbowed his way through the thickest of the crowd, and bestowed very little attention on the numerous sights and sounds, which so astonished the boy. He nodded, twice or thrice, to a passing friend; and, resisting as many invitations to take a morning dram, pressed steadily onward, until they were clear of the turmoil, and had made their way through Hosier Lane into Holborn.
Mr. Sikes, pulling Oliver along, pushed his way through the thickest part of the crowd and paid little attention to the many sights and sounds that amazed the boy. He nodded a couple of times to a friend passing by and turned down several offers to grab a morning drink, moving forward firmly until they escaped the chaos and made their way through Hosier Lane into Holborn.
‘Now, young ‘un!’ said Sikes, looking up at the clock of St. Andrew’s Church, ‘hard upon seven! you must step out. Come, don’t lag behind already, Lazy-legs!’
‘Now, kid!’ said Sikes, looking up at the clock on St. Andrew’s Church, ‘it’s almost seven! You need to head out. Come on, don’t fall behind already, Lazy-legs!’
Mr. Sikes accompanied this speech with a jerk at his little companion’s wrist; Oliver, quickening his pace into a kind of trot between a fast walk and a run, kept up with the rapid strides of the house-breaker as well as he could.
Mr. Sikes emphasized his words with a tug at his small companion’s wrist; Oliver, picking up his pace to a mix between a fast walk and a run, did his best to keep up with the swift steps of the burglar.
They held their course at this rate, until they had passed Hyde Park corner, and were on their way to Kensington: when Sikes relaxed his pace, until an empty cart which was at some little distance behind, came up. Seeing ‘Hounslow’ written on it, he asked the driver with as much civility as he could assume, if he would give them a lift as far as Isleworth.
They kept going at this speed until they had passed Hyde Park corner and were heading to Kensington. At that point, Sikes slowed down until an empty cart, which was a bit behind them, caught up. Noticing ‘Hounslow’ written on it, he asked the driver as politely as he could if he would give them a ride as far as Isleworth.
‘Jump up,’ said the man. ‘Is that your boy?’
‘Jump up,’ said the man. ‘Is that your son?’
‘Yes; he’s my boy,’ replied Sikes, looking hard at Oliver, and putting his hand abstractedly into the pocket where the pistol was.
‘Yeah; he’s my boy,’ replied Sikes, staring at Oliver and absentmindedly putting his hand into the pocket where the pistol was.
‘Your father walks rather too quick for you, don’t he, my man?’ inquired the driver: seeing that Oliver was out of breath.
‘Your father walks a bit too fast for you, doesn’t he, kid?’ the driver asked, noticing that Oliver was out of breath.
‘Not a bit of it,’ replied Sikes, interposing. ‘He’s used to it. Here, take hold of my hand, Ned. In with you!’
‘Not at all,’ Sikes replied, interrupting. ‘He’s used to it. Here, grab my hand, Ned. Let’s go!’
Thus addressing Oliver, he helped him into the cart; and the driver, pointing to a heap of sacks, told him to lie down there, and rest himself.
Thus addressing Oliver, he helped him into the cart; and the driver, pointing to a pile of sacks, told him to lie down there and rest.
As they passed the different mile-stones, Oliver wondered, more and more, where his companion meant to take him. Kensington, Hammersmith, Chiswick, Kew Bridge, Brentford, were all passed; and yet they went on as steadily as if they had only just begun their journey. At length, they came to a public-house called the Coach and Horses; a little way beyond which, another road appeared to run off. And here, the cart stopped.
As they went by the different mile markers, Oliver increasingly wondered where his companion was taking him. They passed Kensington, Hammersmith, Chiswick, Kew Bridge, and Brentford, yet they continued on as steadily as if they had just started their journey. Finally, they arrived at a pub called the Coach and Horses; just beyond that, another road seemed to branch off. It was here that the cart came to a stop.
Sikes dismounted with great precipitation, holding Oliver by the hand all the while; and lifting him down directly, bestowed a furious look upon him, and rapped the side-pocket with his fist, in a significant manner.
Sikes jumped off quickly, holding Oliver's hand the whole time; and as he set him down, he shot him an angry look and hit the side pocket with his fist in a way that meant something.
‘Good-bye, boy,’ said the man.
‘Goodbye, kid,’ said the man.
‘He’s sulky,’ replied Sikes, giving him a shake; ‘he’s sulky. A young dog! Don’t mind him.’
‘He’s in a bad mood,’ replied Sikes, giving him a shake; ‘he’s in a bad mood. A young pup! Don’t worry about him.’
‘Not I!’ rejoined the other, getting into his cart. ‘It’s a fine day, after all.’ And he drove away.
‘Not me!’ replied the other, getting into his cart. ‘It’s a nice day, after all.’ And he drove away.
Sikes waited until he had fairly gone; and then, telling Oliver he might look about him if he wanted, once again led him onward on his journey.
Sikes waited until he had really left; then, telling Oliver he could explore if he wanted, he led him onward on their journey once again.
They turned round to the left, a short way past the public-house; and then, taking a right-hand road, walked on for a long time: passing many large gardens and gentlemen’s houses on both sides of the way, and stopping for nothing but a little beer, until they reached a town. Here against the wall of a house, Oliver saw written up in pretty large letters, ‘Hampton.’ They lingered about, in the fields, for some hours. At length they came back into the town; and, turning into an old public-house with a defaced sign-board, ordered some dinner by the kitchen fire.
They turned left just past the pub, and then took a right road, walking for a long time. They passed many large gardens and nice houses on both sides, stopping only for a little beer, until they reached a town. There, on the wall of a house, Oliver saw the word ‘Hampton’ written in large letters. They hung around in the fields for a few hours. Eventually, they returned to the town and went into an old pub with a worn-out sign, where they ordered some dinner by the kitchen fire.
The kitchen was an old, low-roofed room; with a great beam across the middle of the ceiling, and benches, with high backs to them, by the fire; on which were seated several rough men in smock-frocks, drinking and smoking. They took no notice of Oliver; and very little of Sikes; and, as Sikes took very little notice of them, he and his young comrade sat in a corner by themselves, without being much troubled by their company.
The kitchen was an old, low-ceilinged room with a big beam running across the middle of the ceiling. There were benches with high backs by the fire, where several rough-looking men in work clothes were drinking and smoking. They paid no attention to Oliver and only a little to Sikes. Since Sikes ignored them as well, he and his young friend sat off in a corner by themselves, not bothered much by their presence.
They had some cold meat for dinner, and sat so long after it, while Mr. Sikes indulged himself with three or four pipes, that Oliver began to feel quite certain they were not going any further. Being much tired with the walk, and getting up so early, he dozed a little at first; then, quite overpowered by fatigue and the fumes of the tobacco, fell asleep.
They had some cold meat for dinner and sat around for quite a while afterward while Mr. Sikes enjoyed three or four pipes. Oliver started to get pretty sure they weren’t going anywhere else. Feeling very tired from the walk and waking up so early, he dozed off a bit at first, but then, totally overcome by exhaustion and the smell of the tobacco, he fell asleep.
It was quite dark when he was awakened by a push from Sikes. Rousing himself sufficiently to sit up and look about him, he found that worthy in close fellowship and communication with a labouring man, over a pint of ale.
It was pretty dark when he was nudged awake by Sikes. As he forced himself to sit up and look around, he found Sikes having a cozy chat with a working man over a pint of ale.
‘So, you’re going on to Lower Halliford, are you?’ inquired Sikes.
‘So, you’re heading to Lower Halliford, are you?’ Sikes asked.
‘Yes, I am,’ replied the man, who seemed a little the worse—or better, as the case might be—for drinking; ‘and not slow about it neither. My horse hasn’t got a load behind him going back, as he had coming up in the mornin’; and he won’t be long a-doing of it. Here’s luck to him. Ecod! he’s a good ‘un!’
‘Yes, I am,’ replied the man, who looked a bit worse—or better, depending on how you see it—from drinking; ‘and I’m not taking my time about it either. My horse isn’t carrying anything on the way back like he was this morning; and he won't take long to get it done. Here’s to his luck. Wow! he’s a good one!’
‘Could you give my boy and me a lift as far as there?’ demanded Sikes, pushing the ale towards his new friend.
‘Can you give my son and me a ride over there?’ Sikes asked, sliding the beer towards his new friend.
‘If you’re going directly, I can,’ replied the man, looking out of the pot. ‘Are you going to Halliford?’
‘If you’re going straight there, I can,’ answered the man, peering out of the pot. ‘Are you heading to Halliford?’
‘Going on to Shepperton,’ replied Sikes.
“Going to Shepperton,” replied Sikes.
‘I’m your man, as far as I go,’ replied the other. ‘Is all paid, Becky?’
‘I’m your guy, as far as I’m concerned,’ replied the other. ‘Is everything paid for, Becky?’
‘Yes, the other gentleman’s paid,’ replied the girl.
‘Yeah, the other guy’s paid,’ replied the girl.
‘I say!’ said the man, with tipsy gravity; ‘that won’t do, you know.’
"I say!" said the man, with a serious tone despite being tipsy. "That won't work, you know."
‘Why not?’ rejoined Sikes. ‘You’re a-going to accommodate us, and wot’s to prevent my standing treat for a pint or so, in return?’
‘Why not?’ replied Sikes. ‘You’re going to help us out, so what’s stopping me from buying a round or two, in return?’
The stranger reflected upon this argument, with a very profound face; having done so, he seized Sikes by the hand: and declared he was a real good fellow. To which Mr. Sikes replied, he was joking; as, if he had been sober, there would have been strong reason to suppose he was.
The stranger thought about this argument with a serious expression; after doing so, he grabbed Sikes by the hand and declared he was a really good guy. To which Mr. Sikes responded, he was just kidding; because if he had been sober, there would have been plenty of reasons to think 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.
After exchanging a few more compliments, they said goodnight to the group and left; the girl picked up the pots and glasses as they did, then casually walked to the door with her hands full to watch the party leave.
The horse, whose health had been drunk in his absence, was standing outside: ready harnessed to the cart. Oliver and Sikes got in without any further ceremony; and the man to whom he belonged, having lingered for a minute or two ‘to bear him up,’ and to defy the hostler and the world to produce his equal, mounted also. Then, the hostler was told to give the horse his head; and, his head being given him, he made a very unpleasant use of it: tossing it into the air with great disdain, and running into the parlour windows over the way; after performing those feats, and supporting himself for a short time on his hind-legs, he started off at great speed, and rattled out of the town right gallantly.
The horse, which had been treated poorly in his owner's absence, was standing outside, all set up with the cart. Oliver and Sikes got in without any fuss, and the owner took a minute or two to show off the horse and claim that no one could match him. Then, the stable worker was told to let the horse take the reins, and once he did, the horse made a big scene: tossing his head up in the air with a lot of attitude and running right into the windows of the pub across the street. After showing off a bit more and balancing on his back legs for a moment, he took off at full speed, charging out of town like a champion.
The night was very dark. A damp mist rose from the river, and the marshy ground about; and spread itself over the dreary fields. It was piercing cold, too; all was gloomy and black. Not a word was spoken; for the driver had grown sleepy; and Sikes was in no mood to lead him into conversation. Oliver sat huddled together, in a corner of the cart; bewildered with alarm and apprehension; and figuring strange objects in the gaunt trees, whose branches waved grimly to and fro, as if in some fantastic joy at the desolation of the scene.
The night was really dark. A damp mist rose from the river and the marshy ground around it, spreading over the bleak fields. It was bitterly cold, too; everything felt gloomy and black. No one said a word; the driver had fallen asleep, and Sikes wasn’t in the mood to chat. Oliver sat curled up in a corner of the cart, confused with fear and worry, imagining strange shapes in the bare trees, whose branches swayed to and fro like they were joyfully celebrating the bleakness of the scene.
As they passed Sunbury Church, the clock struck seven. There was a light in the ferry-house window opposite: which streamed across the road, and threw into more sombre shadow a dark yew-tree with graves beneath it. There was a dull sound of falling water not far off; and the leaves of the old tree stirred gently in the night wind. It seemed like quiet music for the repose of the dead.
As they walked past Sunbury Church, the clock chimed seven. A light illuminated the ferry-house window across the road, casting eerie shadows over a dark yew tree with graves underneath it. In the distance, there was a soft sound of flowing water, and the leaves of the old tree rustled gently in the night breeze. It felt like soothing music for the peace of the dead.
Sunbury was passed through, and they came again into the lonely road. Two or three miles more, and the cart stopped. Sikes alighted, took Oliver by the hand, and they once again walked on.
Sunbury was passed, and they returned to the desolate road. A couple more miles, and the cart came to a halt. Sikes got out, took Oliver by the hand, and they started walking again.
They turned into no house at Shepperton, as the weary boy had expected; but still kept walking on, in mud and darkness, through gloomy lanes and over cold open wastes, until they came within sight of the lights of a town at no great distance. On looking intently forward, Oliver saw that the water was just below them, and that they were coming to the foot of a bridge.
They didn’t arrive at any house in Shepperton, as the tired boy had expected; but kept walking on, through mud and darkness, along gloomy paths and across cold open areas, until they spotted the lights of a town not far away. Looking closely ahead, Oliver saw that the water was right below them, and that they were approaching the base of a bridge.
Sikes kept straight on, until they were close upon the bridge; then turned suddenly down a bank upon the left.
Sikes continued on without stopping until they were near the bridge; then he abruptly turned down a bank on the left.
‘The water!’ thought Oliver, turning sick with fear. ‘He has brought me to this lonely place to murder me!’
‘The water!’ thought Oliver, feeling sick with fear. ‘He’s brought me to this lonely place to kill me!’
He was about to throw himself on the ground, and make one struggle for his young life, when he saw that they stood before a solitary house: all ruinous and decayed. There was a window on each side of the dilapidated entrance; and one story above; but no light was visible. The house was dark, dismantled: and the all appearance, uninhabited.
He was about to throw himself on the ground and fight for his young life when he noticed they stood in front of a lonely house: all ruined and decayed. There was a window on each side of the broken entrance, and one story above, but no light was visible. The house was dark, falling apart, and seemed completely uninhabited.
Sikes, with Oliver’s hand still in his, softly approached the low porch, and raised the latch. The door yielded to the pressure, and they passed in together.
Sikes, still holding Oliver’s hand, quietly walked up to the low porch and lifted the latch. The door opened with a push, and they entered together.
CHAPTER XXII — THE BURGLARY
‘Hallo!’ cried a loud, hoarse voice, as soon as they set foot in the passage.
‘Don’t make such a row,’ said Sikes, bolting the door. ‘Show a glim, Toby.’
“Stop making such a noise,” said Sikes, locking the door. “Light a candle, Toby.”
‘Aha! my pal!’ cried the same voice. ‘A glim, Barney, a glim! Show the gentleman in, Barney; wake up first, if convenient.’
‘Aha! my friend!’ shouted the same voice. ‘A light, Barney, a light! Bring the gentleman in, Barney; wake up first, if you can.’
The speaker appeared to throw a boot-jack, or some such article, at the person he addressed, to rouse him from his slumbers: for the noise of a wooden body, falling violently, was heard; and then an indistinct muttering, as of a man between sleep and awake.
The speaker seemed to throw a boot-jack or something similar at the person he was talking to, to wake him up from his sleep: there was a loud thud as a wooden object hit the ground, followed by some mumbling, like a man caught between sleeping and waking.
‘Do you hear?’ cried the same voice. ‘There’s Bill Sikes in the passage with nobody to do the civil to him; and you sleeping there, as if you took laudanum with your meals, and nothing stronger. Are you any fresher now, or do you want the iron candlestick to wake you thoroughly?’
‘Do you hear?’ shouted the same voice. ‘Bill Sikes is in the hallway with no one to greet him, and you’re just lying there, as if you’ve been taking laudanum with your food, and nothing stronger. Are you feeling any better now, or do you need the iron candlestick to wake you up completely?’
A pair of slipshod feet shuffled, hastily, across the bare floor of the room, as this interrogatory was put; and there issued, from a door on the right hand; first, a feeble candle: and next, the form of the same individual who has been heretofore described as labouring under the infirmity of speaking through his nose, and officiating as waiter at the public-house on Saffron Hill.
A pair of careless feet shuffled quickly across the bare floor of the room as this question was asked; then, from a door on the right, came a flickering candle, followed by the familiar figure previously described as having the odd habit of speaking through his nose and working as a waiter at the pub on Saffron Hill.
‘Bister Sikes!’ exclaimed Barney, with real or counterfeit joy; ‘cub id, sir; cub id.’
‘Bister Sikes!’ exclaimed Barney, with genuine or feigned joy; ‘cub it, sir; cub it.’
‘Here! you get on first,’ said Sikes, putting Oliver in front of him. ‘Quicker! or I shall tread upon your heels.’
‘Here! You go first,’ said Sikes, positioning Oliver in front of him. ‘Faster! or I’ll step on 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.
Muttering a curse about his lateness, Sikes shoved Oliver in front of 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 the couch, with his legs propped up higher than his head, a man was lounging, smoking a long clay pipe. He was wearing a smart-looking brown coat with large brass buttons, an orange neckerchief, a rough shawl-pattern waistcoat, and gray breeches. Mr. Crackit (that was him) had very little hair on his head or face, but what he had was a reddish color, styled into long corkscrew curls, through which he occasionally ran some very dirty fingers decorated with large common rings. He was a bit taller than average and seemed to have weak legs, but that didn’t take away from his own admiration of his tall boots, which he looked at with great 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!’
‘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 up; if that were the case, I would have come to find you. Hey!’
Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as his eyes rested on Oliver, Mr. Toby Crackit brought himself into a sitting posture, and demanded who that was.
Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as his eyes rested on Oliver, Mr. Toby Crackit sat up and asked who that was.
‘The boy. Only the boy!’ replied Sikes, drawing a chair towards the fire.
‘The boy. Just the boy!’ replied Sikes, pulling a chair closer to the fire.
‘Wud of Bister Fagid’s lads,’ exclaimed Barney, with a grin.
‘Would've been Bister Fagid’s guys,’ exclaimed Barney, with a grin.
‘Fagin’s, eh!’ exclaimed Toby, looking at Oliver. ‘Wot an inwalable boy that’ll make, for the old ladies’ pockets in chapels! His mug is a fortin’ to him.’
‘Fagin’s, huh!’ exclaimed Toby, looking at Oliver. ‘What an invaluable boy he’ll be for the old ladies’ pockets in chapels! His face is a fortune to him.’
‘There—there’s enough of that,’ interposed Sikes, impatiently; and stooping over his recumbant friend, he whispered a few words in his ear: at which Mr. Crackit laughed immensely, and honoured Oliver with a long stare of astonishment.
‘Enough of that,’ Sikes interrupted, impatiently; and leaning over his friend, he whispered a few words into his ear. Mr. Crackit burst out laughing and regarded Oliver with a long, astonished stare.
‘Now,’ said Sikes, as he resumed his seat, ‘if you’ll give us something to eat and drink while we’re waiting, you’ll put some heart in us; or in me, at all events. Sit down by the fire, younker, and rest yourself; for you’ll have to go out with us again to-night, though not very far off.’
‘Now,’ said Sikes, as he sat back down, ‘if you could get us something to eat and drink while we wait, it'll give us a boost; at least, it will for me. Come sit by the fire, kid, and take a load off; you'll need to head out with us again tonight, but not too far.’
Oliver looked at Sikes, in mute and timid wonder; and drawing a stool to the fire, sat with his aching head upon his hands, scarecely knowing where he was, or what was passing around him.
Oliver stared at Sikes, feeling a mix of speechless amazement and fear. He pulled a stool closer to the fire and sat there with his throbbing head in his hands, hardly aware of where he was or what was happening 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.
‘Here,’ said Toby, as the young Jew put some scraps of food and a bottle on the table, ‘Cheers to the crack!’ He stood up to honor the toast; and, carefully putting his empty pipe in a corner, walked over to the table, poured a glass of liquor, and drank it all down. Mr. Sikes did the same.
‘A drain for the boy,’ said Toby, half-filling a wine-glass. ‘Down with it, innocence.’
‘A drink for the boy,’ said Toby, half-filling a wine glass. ‘Cheers to losing innocence.’
‘Indeed,’ said Oliver, looking piteously up into the man’s face; ‘indeed, I—’
‘Yeah,’ said Oliver, looking sadly up into the man’s face; ‘really, I—’
‘Down with it!’ echoed Toby. ‘Do you think I don’t know what’s good for you? Tell him to drink it, Bill.’
“Get rid of it!” Toby shouted. “Do you think I don’t know what’s best 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!’
‘He had better!’ said Sikes, slapping his hand on his pocket. ‘I swear, if he isn’t more trouble than an entire family of Dodgers. Drink it, you stubborn little brat; drink it!’
Frightened by the menacing gestures of the two men, Oliver hastily swallowed the contents of the glass, and immediately fell into a violent fit of coughing: which delighted Toby Crackit and Barney, and even drew a smile from the surly Mr. Sikes.
Frightened by the threatening gestures of the two men, Oliver quickly gulped down the drink in the glass, and instantly started coughing violently: which pleased Toby Crackit and Barney, and even brought a smile to the grumpy Mr. Sikes.
This done, and Sikes having satisfied his appetite (Oliver could eat nothing but a small crust of bread which they made him swallow), the two men laid themselves down on chairs for a short nap. Oliver retained his stool by the fire; Barney wrapped in a blanket, stretched himself on the floor: close outside the fender.
This done, and Sikes having satisfied his hunger (Oliver could eat nothing but a small crust of bread which they made him swallow), the two men settled down on chairs for a quick nap. Oliver kept his stool by the fire; Barney, wrapped in a blanket, stretched out on the floor just outside the fender.
They slept, or appeared to sleep, for some time; nobody stirring but Barney, who rose once or twice to throw coals on the fire. Oliver fell into a heavy doze: imagining himself straying along the gloomy lanes, or wandering about the dark churchyard, or retracing some one or other of the scenes of the past day: when he was roused by Toby Crackit jumping up and declaring it was half-past one.
They slept, or seemed to sleep, for a while; no one moving except for Barney, who got up once or twice to add coals to the fire. Oliver sank into a deep nap, imagining himself wandering through the dark lanes, or roaming around the shadowy graveyard, or going over the events of the previous day. He was jolted awake by Toby Crackit suddenly jumping up and announcing it was one-thirty.
In an instant, the other two were on their legs, and all were actively engaged in busy preparation. Sikes and his companion enveloped their necks and chins in large dark shawls, and drew on their great-coats; Barney, opening a cupboard, brought forth several articles, which he hastily crammed into the pockets.
In a flash, the other two were standing up, and everyone was getting ready quickly. Sikes and his partner wrapped their necks and chins in big dark shawls and put on their overcoats. Barney opened a cupboard and took out several items, which he quickly stuffed into his pockets.
‘Barkers for me, Barney,’ said Toby Crackit.
‘Barkers for me, Barney,’ said Toby Crackit.
‘Here they are,’ replied Barney, producing a pair of pistols. ‘You loaded them yourself.’
‘Here they are,’ said Barney, pulling out a pair of pistols. ‘You loaded them yourself.’
‘All right!’ replied Toby, stowing them away. ‘The persuaders?’
‘Okay!’ replied Toby, putting them away. ‘The persuaders?’
‘I’ve got ‘em,’ replied Sikes.
"I've got them," replied Sikes.
‘Crape, keys, centre-bits, darkies—nothing forgotten?’ inquired Toby: fastening a small crowbar to a loop inside the skirt of his coat.
‘Crape, keys, center bits, darkies—did I forget anything?’ Toby asked, attaching a small crowbar to a loop inside the hem of his coat.
‘All right,’ rejoined his companion. ‘Bring them bits of timber, Barney. That’s the time of day.’
‘Okay,’ replied his friend. ‘Bring them pieces of wood, Barney. That’s what we need right now.’
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.
With these words, he took a thick stick from Barney, who, after handing another one to Toby, was busy fastening Oliver’s cape.
‘Now then!’ said Sikes, holding out his hand.
‘Alright!’ said Sikes, extending his hand.
Oliver: who was completely stupified by the unwonted exercise, and the air, and the drink which had been forced upon him: put his hand mechanically into that which Sikes extended for the purpose.
Oliver, who was totally stunned by the unusual activity, the fresh air, and the drink that had been shoved at him, reached out mechanically to take what Sikes was offering.
‘Take his other hand, Toby,’ said Sikes. ‘Look out, Barney.’
‘Take his other hand, Toby,’ said Sikes. ‘Watch out, Barney.’
The man went to the door, and returned to announce that all was quiet. The two robbers issued forth with Oliver between them. Barney, having made all fast, rolled himself up as before, and was soon asleep again.
The man went to the door and came back to say that everything was quiet. The two robbers came out with Oliver between them. Barney, having secured everything, curled up like before and quickly fell 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.
It was now pitch black. The fog was thicker than it had been earlier in the night, and the air was so damp that, even though it wasn’t raining, Oliver’s hair and eyebrows became stiff with the half-frozen moisture that was in the air just a few minutes after leaving the house. They crossed the bridge and continued toward the lights he had seen before. They were not far away, and since they walked quickly, they soon reached Chertsey.
‘Slap through the town,’ whispered Sikes; ‘there’ll be nobody in the way, to-night, to see us.’
‘Let’s slip through the town,’ whispered Sikes; ‘there won’t be anyone around tonight to see us.’
Toby acquiesced; and they hurried through the main street of the little town, which at that late hour was wholly deserted. A dim light shone at intervals from some bed-room window; and the hoarse barking of dogs occasionally broke the silence of the night. But there was nobody abroad. They had cleared the town, as the church-bell struck two.
Toby agreed, and they quickly made their way down the main street of the small town, which was completely empty at that late hour. A faint light flickered at times from a bedroom window, and the rough barking of dogs occasionally interrupted the quiet of the night. But there was no one out. They had left the town just as the church bell rang 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.
Quickening their pace, they turned up a road on the left. After walking about a quarter of a mile, they stopped in front of a separate house surrounded by a wall; to the top of which, Toby Crackit, barely stopping to catch his breath, climbed in no time.
‘The boy next,’ said Toby. ‘Hoist him up; I’ll catch hold of him.’
‘The boy next,’ said Toby. ‘Lift him up; I’ll grab 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.
Before Oliver had a chance to look around, Sikes grabbed him under the arms; and in just a few seconds, he and Toby were lying on the grass on the other side. Sikes followed right after. Then they crept carefully toward the house.
And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and terror, saw that housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the objects of the expedition. He clasped his hands together, and involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamation of horror. A mist came before his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs failed him; and he sank upon his knees.
And now, for the first time, Oliver, nearly overwhelmed with grief and fear, realized that breaking and entering, if not murder, were the goals of the mission. He clasped his hands together and instinctively let out a muffled cry of horror. A fog blurred his vision; cold sweat covered his pale face; his legs gave way beneath him; and he collapsed to 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.’
‘Get up!’ whispered Sikes, shaking with anger, and pulling the pistol from his pocket; ‘Get up, or I’ll splatter your brains on the grass.’
‘Oh! for God’s sake let me go!’ cried Oliver; ‘let me run away and die in the fields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray have mercy on me, and do not make me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!’
‘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! please have mercy on me, and don’t make me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy on 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.
The man this appeal was directed to swore a terrible oath and had cocked the pistol when Toby knocked it out of his hand, covered the boy's mouth, and pulled him toward 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.’
‘Hush!’ shouted the man; ‘that won’t work here. Say another word, and I’ll take care of you myself with a hit to the head. That makes no noise, is just as effective, and is more refined. Here, Bill, pry the shutter open. He’s brave enough now, I’ll bet. I’ve seen older guys his age act the same way for a minute or two on a cold night.’
Sikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin’s head for sending Oliver on such an errand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but with little noise. After some delay, and some assistance from Toby, the shutter to which he had referred, swung open on its hinges.
Sikes, cursing Fagin for sending Oliver on such a task, worked the crowbar hard but quietly. After a bit of a wait and with some help from Toby, the shutter he mentioned swung open on its hinges.
It was a little lattice window, about five feet and a half above the ground, at the back of the house: which belonged to a scullery, or small brewing-place, at the end of the passage. The aperture was so small, that the inmates had probably not thought it worth while to defend it more securely; but it was large enough to admit a boy of Oliver’s size, nevertheless. A very brief exercise of Mr. Sike’s art, sufficed to overcome the fastening of the lattice; and it soon stood wide open also.
It was a small lattice window, about five and a half feet off the ground, at the back of the house, which was part of a scullery or small brewing area at the end of the hall. The opening was so tiny that the people living there probably didn’t think it was worth reinforcing, but it was still big enough for a boy like Oliver to squeeze through. A quick application of Mr. Sikes’ skills was enough to unlock the lattice, and it quickly swung wide open.
‘Now listen, you young limb,’ whispered Sikes, drawing a dark lantern from his pocket, and throwing the glare full on Oliver’s face; ‘I’m a going to put you through there. Take this light; go softly up the steps straight afore you, and along the little hall, to the street door; unfasten it, and let us in.’
‘Now listen, you young kid,’ whispered Sikes, pulling a dark lantern from his pocket and shining the light directly on Oliver’s face; ‘I’m going to have you do something. Take this light; quietly go up the steps right in front of you and down the little hallway to the street door; unlock it, and let us in.’
‘There’s a bolt at the top, you won’t be able to reach,’ interposed Toby. ‘Stand upon one of the hall chairs. There are three there, Bill, with a jolly large blue unicorn and gold pitchfork on ‘em: which is the old lady’s arms.’
‘There’s a bolt at the top that you won’t be able to reach,’ interrupted Toby. ‘Stand on one of the hall chairs. There are three there, Bill, with a really big blue unicorn and a gold pitchfork on them: that’s the old lady’s coat of arms.’
‘Keep quiet, can’t you?’ replied Sikes, with a threatening look. ‘The room-door is open, is it?’
‘Can’t you be quiet?’ Sikes replied, giving a threatening glance. ‘The door to the room is open, isn’t 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!’
‘Wide,’ replied Toby, after looking in to make sure. ‘The trick is that they always leave it ajar with a latch, so the dog, who has a bed in here, can stroll up and down the hallway whenever he feels awake. Ha! ha! Barney lured him away tonight. So clever!’
Although Mr. Crackit spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, and laughed without noise, Sikes imperiously commanded him to be silent, and to get to work. Toby complied, by first producing his lantern, and placing it on the ground; then by planting himself firmly with his head against the wall beneath the window, and his hands upon his knees, so as to make a step of his back. This was no sooner done, than Sikes, mounting upon him, put Oliver gently through the window with his feet first; and, without leaving hold of his collar, planted him safely on the floor inside.
Although Mr. Crackit spoke in a barely audible whisper and laughed silently, Sikes ordered him to be quiet and get to work. Toby complied by first pulling out his lantern and setting it on the ground; then he positioned himself firmly with his head against the wall under the window and his hands on his knees to create a step with his back. As soon as this was done, Sikes climbed on him and carefully pushed Oliver through the window feet first; without letting go of his collar, he set him down safely on the floor inside.
‘Take this lantern,’ said Sikes, looking into the room. ‘You see the stairs afore you?’
‘Take this lantern,’ Sikes said, glancing into the room. ‘You see the stairs in front of you?’
Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out, ‘Yes.’ Sikes, pointing to the street-door with the pistol-barrel, briefly advised him to take notice that he was within shot all the way; and that if he faltered, he would fall dead that instant.
Oliver, barely hanging on, gasped, ‘Yes.’ Sikes, aiming the gun at the front door, warned him sharply to realize he was in range the whole way; and that if he hesitated, he would drop dead right then.
‘It’s done in a minute,’ said Sikes, in the same low whisper. ‘Directly I leave go of you, do your work. Hark!’
‘It’s done in a minute,’ Sikes said in the same low whisper. ‘As soon as I let go of you, get to work. Listen!’
‘What’s that?’ whispered the other man.
‘What’s that?’ whispered the other guy.
They listened intently.
They listened closely.
‘Nothing,’ said Sikes, releasing his hold of Oliver. ‘Now!’
‘Nothing,’ said Sikes, letting go of Oliver. ‘Now!’
In the short time he had had to collect his senses, the boy had firmly resolved that, whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one effort to dart upstairs from the hall, and alarm the family. Filled with this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthily.
In the brief moment he had to gather his thoughts, the boy was determined that, whether he succeeded or not, he would make one last effort to run upstairs from the hallway and warn the family. Driven by this thought, he moved forward immediately, but quietly.
‘Come back!’ suddenly cried Sikes aloud. ‘Back! back!’
‘Come back!’ Sikes suddenly shouted. ‘Back! Back!’
Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and by a loud cry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew not whether to advance or fly.
Scared by the sudden disruption of the complete silence in the place and by a loud scream that followed, Oliver dropped his lantern and didn’t know whether to move forward or run away.
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.
The shout echoed again—light flashed—a glimpse of two scared, half-dressed men at the top of the stairs swirled before his eyes—a burst—an explosive sound—smoke—something broke somewhere, but he couldn't tell where,—and he stumbled back.
Original
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.
Sikes vanished for a moment, but he was back on his feet, grabbing him by the collar before the smoke settled. He shot his own gun at the men, who were already backing away, and pulled the boy up.
‘Clasp your arm tighter,’ said Sikes, as he drew him through the window. ‘Give me a shawl here. They’ve hit him. Quick! How the boy bleeds!’
‘Hold your arm tighter,’ said Sikes, pulling him through the window. ‘Hand me a shawl. They’ve hurt him. Hurry! Look at how much the boy is bleeding!’
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.
Then came the loud ringing of a bell, mixed with the sound of gunfire, and the shouts of men, along with the feeling of being carried quickly over rough ground. Then, the noises faded into a jumbled mess in the distance, and a cold, heavy feeling settled over the boy’s heart; after that, he saw or heard nothing more.
CHAPTER XXIII — WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR. BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE MAY BE SUSCEPTIBLE ON SOME POINTS
The night was bitter cold. The snow lay on the ground, frozen into a hard thick crust, so that only the heaps that had drifted into byways and corners were affected by the sharp wind that howled abroad: which, as if expending increased fury on such prey as it found, caught it savagely up in clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies, scattered it in air. Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night for the well-housed and fed to draw round the bright fire and thank God they were at home; and for the homeless, starving wretch to lay him down and die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare streets, at such times, who, let their crimes have been what they may, can hardly open them in a more bitter world.
The night was painfully cold. The snow blanketed the ground, frozen into a thick crust, so that only the piles that had drifted into side streets and corners felt the sharp wind howling outside. The wind, as if directing its rage toward such vulnerable targets, swept them up fiercely in clouds, spinning them into a thousand misty swirls and scattering them through the air. Bleak, dark, and biting cold, it was a night for those who were warm and well-fed to gather around a bright fire and be grateful they were home; while for the homeless, starving individual, it was a night to lie down and succumb to despair. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our empty streets at times like these, and no matter what their past crimes were, it's hard to imagine a world more unforgiving than this one.
Such was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs, when Mrs. Corney, the matron of the workhouse to which our readers have been already introduced as the birthplace of Oliver Twist, sat herself down before a cheerful fire in her own little room, and glanced, with no small degree of complacency, at a small round table: on which stood a tray of corresponding size, furnished with all necessary materials for the most grateful meal that matrons enjoy. In fact, Mrs. Corney was about to solace herself with a cup of tea. As she glanced from the table to the fireplace, where the smallest of all possible kettles was singing a small song in a small voice, her inward satisfaction evidently increased,—so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Corney smiled.
This was the scene outside, when Mrs. Corney, the matron of the workhouse that our readers have already seen as the birthplace of Oliver Twist, settled down in front of a cozy fire in her little room. She looked with quite a bit of pride at a small round table, which had a matching tray holding all the essentials for the most satisfying meal that matrons enjoy. In fact, Mrs. Corney was about to treat herself to a cup of tea. As she glanced from the table to the fireplace, where the tiniest kettle was humming a little tune in a soft voice, her inner satisfaction clearly grew—so much so, that Mrs. Corney smiled.
‘Well!’ said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and looking reflectively at the fire; ‘I’m sure we have all on us a great deal to be grateful for! A great deal, if we did but know it. Ah!’
‘Well!’ said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table and looking thoughtfully at the fire. ‘I'm sure we all have a lot to be grateful for! A lot, if we only realized it. Ah!’
Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental blindness of those paupers who did not know it; and thrusting a silver spoon (private property) into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin tea-caddy, proceeded to make the tea.
Mrs. Corney shook her head sadly, as if regretting the ignorance of those poor souls who didn’t realize it; and, pushing a silver spoon (her own property) into the depths of a two-ounce tin tea caddy, she began to make the tea.
How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds! The black teapot, being very small and easily filled, ran over while Mrs. Corney was moralising; and the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney’s hand.
How small a thing can throw off the calm of our fragile minds! The little black teapot, being very small and easy to fill, spilled over while Mrs. Corney was reflecting; and the water lightly scalded Mrs. Corney's hand.
‘Drat the pot!’ said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on the hob; ‘a little stupid thing, that only holds a couple of cups! What use is it of, to anybody! Except,’ said Mrs. Corney, pausing, ‘except to a poor desolate creature like me. Oh dear!’
‘Darn the pot!’ said the kind matron, quickly placing it on the stove; ‘a silly little thing that only holds a couple of cups! What good is it to anyone? Except,’ said Mrs. Corney, pausing, ‘except to a poor lonely person like me. Oh dear!’
With these words, the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more resting her elbow on the table, thought of her solitary fate. The small teapot, and the single cup, had awakened in her mind sad recollections of Mr. Corney (who had not been dead more than five-and-twenty years); and she was overpowered.
With those words, the matron sank into her chair, and, once again resting her elbow on the table, contemplated her lonely fate. The small teapot and the single cup brought back bittersweet memories of Mr. Corney (who had passed away just twenty-five years ago); and she was overwhelmed.
‘I shall never get another!’ said Mrs. Corney, pettishly; ‘I shall never get another—like him.’
‘I’ll never get another one!’ said Mrs. Corney, irritably; ‘I’ll never get another—like him.’
Whether this remark bore reference to the husband, or the teapot, is uncertain. It might have been the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it as she spoke; and took it up afterwards. She had just tasted her first cup, when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room-door.
Whether this comment was about the husband or the teapot is unclear. It might have been the latter, as Mrs. Corney glanced at it while speaking and picked it up afterwards. She had just taken her first sip when she was interrupted by a gentle knock at the door.
‘Oh, come in with you!’ said Mrs. Corney, sharply. ‘Some of the old women dying, I suppose. They always die when I’m at meals. Don’t stand there, letting the cold air in, don’t. What’s amiss now, eh?’
‘Oh, come in!’ Mrs. Corney said sharply. ‘I suppose some of the old women are dying. They always seem to die when I’m eating. Don’t just stand there letting the cold air in. What’s going on now, huh?’
‘Nothing, ma’am, nothing,’ replied a man’s voice.
‘Nothing, ma’am, nothing,’ replied a man's voice.
‘Dear me!’ exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, ‘is that Mr. Bumble?’
‘Oh my!’ exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, ‘is that Mr. Bumble?’
‘At your service, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping outside to rub his shoes clean, and to shake the snow off his coat; and who now made his appearance, bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a bundle in the other. ‘Shall I shut the door, ma’am?’
‘At your service, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bumble, who had been standing outside to clean his shoes and shake the snow off his coat; and who now made his appearance, holding a top hat in one hand and a bundle in the other. ‘Shall I close the door, ma’am?’
The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any impropriety in holding an interview with Mr. Bumble, with closed doors. Mr. Bumble taking advantage of the hesitation, and being very cold himself, shut it without permission.
The lady hesitated to respond modestly, worried that it might be inappropriate to have a meeting with Mr. Bumble behind closed doors. Mr. Bumble, noticing her hesitation and feeling quite cold himself, closed the door without asking.
‘Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,’ said the matron.
‘Tough weather, Mr. Bumble,’ said the matron.
‘Hard, indeed, ma’am,’ replied the beadle. ‘Anti-porochial weather this, ma’am. We have given away, Mrs. Corney, we have given away a matter of twenty quartern loaves and a cheese and a half, this very blessed afternoon; and yet them paupers are not contented.’
‘It’s tough, really, ma’am,’ replied the beadle. ‘This weather is pretty miserable, ma’am. We’ve handed out about twenty loaves of bread and one and a half cheeses this very afternoon; and still those poor people aren’t happy.’
‘Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?’ said the matron, sipping her tea.
‘Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?’ said the matron, sipping her tea.
‘When, indeed, ma’am!’ rejoined Mr. Bumble. ‘Why here’s one man that, in 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 ‘em and then come back for more. That’s the way with these people, ma’am; give ‘em a apron full of coals to-day, and they’ll come back for another, the day after to-morrow, as brazen as alabaster.’
‘Well, ma’am!’ Mr. Bumble replied. ‘Here’s a man who, considering his wife and large family, gets a quarter loaf and a good pound of cheese, full weight. Is he thankful, ma’am? Is he thankful? Not a single copper farthing's worth of it! What does he do, ma’am, but ask for some coal; even if it’s just a pocket handkerchief full, he says! Coal! What would he do with coal? Toast his cheese on it and then come back for more. That’s how it is with these people, ma’am; give them an apron full of coal today, and they’ll come back for another, the day after tomorrow, as bold as brass.’
The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible simile; and the beadle went on.
The matron fully agreed with this clear comparison; and the beadle continued.
‘I never,’ said Mr. Bumble, ‘see anything like the pitch it’s got to. The day afore yesterday, a man—you have been a married woman, ma’am, and I may mention it to you—a man, with hardly a rag upon his back (here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer’s door when he has got company coming to dinner; and says, he must be relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn’t go away, and shocked the company very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a pint of oatmeal. “My heart!” says the ungrateful villain, “what’s the use of this to me? You might as well give me a pair of iron spectacles!” “Very good,” says our overseer, taking ‘em away again, “you won’t get anything else here.” “Then I’ll die in the streets!” says the vagrant. “Oh no, you won’t,” says our overseer.’
‘I never,’ said Mr. Bumble, ‘have seen anything like the state it’s gotten to. The day before yesterday, a man—you’ve been a married woman, ma’am, so I can mention this—a man, with hardly any clothes on his back (here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer’s door when he has guests coming for dinner; and says he needs to be helped, Mrs. Corney. Since he wouldn’t leave and really shocked the guests, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a pint of oatmeal. “My goodness!” says the ungrateful jerk, “what’s the use of this to me? You might as well give me a pair of iron glasses!” “Alright then,” says our overseer, taking them back, “you won’t get anything else here.” “Then I’ll die in the streets!” says the vagrant. “Oh no, you won’t,” says our overseer.’
‘Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn’t it?’ interposed the matron. ‘Well, Mr. Bumble?’
‘Ha! Ha! That was great! So much like Mr. Grannett, right?’ the matron chimed in. ‘So, Mr. Bumble?’
‘Well, ma’am,’ rejoined the beadle, ‘he went away; and he did die in the streets. There’s a obstinate pauper for you!’
‘Well, ma’am,’ replied the beadle, ‘he left, and he did die in the streets. There’s a stubborn beggar 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.’
‘It’s beyond anything I could have imagined,’ the matron said firmly. ‘But don’t you think outdoor relief is a really bad idea, anyway, Mr. Bumble? You’re an experienced gentleman and should know better. Come on.’
‘Mrs. Corney,’ said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious of superior information, ‘out-of-door relief, properly managed: properly managed, ma’am: is the porochial safeguard. The great principle of out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what they don’t want; and then they get tired of coming.’
‘Mrs. Corney,’ said the beadle, smiling like someone who knows something important, ‘outdoor relief, when handled correctly: handled correctly, ma’am: is the community’s safety net. The main idea behind outdoor relief is to give the poor exactly what they don’t want; and then they get fed up with asking for it.’
‘Dear me!’ exclaimed Mrs. Corney. ‘Well, that is a good one, too!’
‘Oh my!’ exclaimed Mrs. Corney. ‘Well, that’s a good one, too!’
‘Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma’am,’ returned Mr. Bumble, ‘that’s the great principle; and that’s the reason why, if you look at any cases that get into them owdacious newspapers, you’ll always observe that sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese. That’s the rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however,’ said the beadle, stopping to unpack his bundle, ‘these are official secrets, ma’am; not to be spoken of; except, as I may say, among the porochial officers, such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma’am, that the board ordered for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine; only out of the cask this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!’
“Yeah. Between you and me, ma’am,” Mr. Bumble replied, “that’s the main point; and that’s why, if you check any outrageous newspapers, you’ll always notice that sick families have been helped with slices of cheese. That’s the rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, anyway,” said the beadle, pausing to unpack his bag, “these are official secrets, ma’am; not to be talked about; except, as I might say, among the parish officials, like us. This is the port wine, ma’am, that the board ordered for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine; just out of the cask this morning; clear as a bell, and no sediment!”
Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to test its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of drawers; folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it carefully in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go.
Having held the first bottle up to the light and shaken it well to check its quality, Mr. Bumble placed both bottles on top of a dresser, folded the handkerchief that had wrapped them, carefully put it in his pocket, and picked up his hat as if he was about to leave.
‘You’ll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble,’ said the matron.
‘You're going to have a really cold walk, Mr. Bumble,’ said the matron.
‘It blows, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar, ‘enough to cut one’s ears off.’
"It’s freezing, ma’am," replied Mr. Bumble, pulling up his coat collar, "cold enough to freeze your ears off."
The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was moving towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether—whether he wouldn’t take a cup of tea?
The matron glanced from the small kettle to the beadle, who was heading toward the door; and as the beadle cleared his throat, getting ready to say goodnight, she shyly asked if he would like to take a cup of tea.
Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat and stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled.
Mr. Bumble quickly turned his collar back down, set his hat and stick on a chair, and pulled another chair up to the table. As he took his time sitting down, he glanced at the lady. She was focused on the small teapot. Mr. Bumble cleared his throat again and gave a slight smile.
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.
Mrs. Corney got up to grab another cup and saucer from the cupboard. As she sat back down, her eyes met those of the charming beadle again; she blushed and focused on making his tea. Once more, Mr. Bumble coughed—this time louder than he had before.
‘Sweet? Mr. Bumble?’ inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin.
‘Sweet? Mr. Bumble?’ the matron asked, picking up the sugar bowl.
‘Very sweet, indeed, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that moment.
‘Very sweet, indeed, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Bumble. He locked eyes with Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if there was ever a beadle who looked soft, Mr. Bumble was definitely that beadle at that moment.
The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department.
The tea was made and handed over in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a napkin over his knees to keep the crumbs from staining the elegance of his shorts, began to eat and drink. He occasionally mixed it up by letting out a deep sigh, which, surprisingly, didn’t hurt his appetite; instead, it actually seemed to help him enjoy the tea and toast more.
‘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!’
‘You have a cat, ma’am, I see,’ said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the center of her family, was lounging in front of the fire; ‘and kittens too, I must say!’
‘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.’
‘I care for them so much, Mr. Bumble, you can't imagine,’ replied the matron. ‘They’re so happy, so playful, and so cheerful, that they are great company for me.’
‘Very nice animals, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; ‘so very domestic.’
‘Very nice animals, ma’am,’ Mr. Bumble replied, nodding in approval; ‘they're 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.’
‘Oh, yes!’ the matron replied enthusiastically; ‘they love their home so much that it’s really a pleasure, I’m sure.’
‘Mrs. Corney, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, ‘I mean to say this, ma’am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma’am, and not be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma’am.’
‘Mrs. Corney, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bumble, slowly, tapping his teaspoon for emphasis, ‘I mean to say this, ma’am; any cat or kitten that could live with you, ma’am, and not love its home, must be an idiot, ma’am.’
‘Oh, Mr. Bumble!’ remonstrated Mrs. Corney.
‘Oh, Mr. Bumble!’ protested Mrs. Corney.
‘It’s of no use disguising facts, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; ‘I would drown it myself, with pleasure.’
‘There’s no point in hiding the truth, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bumble, slowly waving the teaspoon with a sort of theatrical elegance that made him even more striking; ‘I would gladly drown it myself.’
‘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.’
‘Then you’re a cruel man,’ said the matron cheerfully, as she extended her hand for the beadle’s cup; ‘and a very cold-hearted man too.’
‘Hard-hearted, ma’am?’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘Hard?’ Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney’s little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire.
‘Cold-hearted, ma’am?’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘Cold?’ Mr. Bumble set down his cup without saying anything else; he squeezed Mrs. Corney’s little finger as she took it; and after giving two loud slaps on his fancy waistcoat, let out a big sigh and moved his chair just a tiny bit farther from the fire.
It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great heroism on Mr. Bumble’s part: he being in some sort tempted by time, place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings, which however well they may become the lips of the light and thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other great public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who (as is well known) should be the sternest and most inflexible among them all.
It was a round table, and since Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting across from each other with not much space in between, facing the fire, it’s clear that as Mr. Bumble moved away from the fire while still at the table, he increased the distance between himself and Mrs. Corney. Some thoughtful readers will likely admire this move and consider it a brave act on Mr. Bumble’s part, as he was somewhat tempted by the time, place, and opportunity to say some sweet nothings. While such words may suit the lips of the lighthearted and carefree, they seem far below the dignity of judges, members of parliament, ministers, lord mayors, and other important public figures, especially the solemnity and seriousness expected of a beadle, who is supposed to be the sternest and most unyielding of them all.
Whatever were Mr. Bumble’s intentions, however (and no doubt they were of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close to that in which the matron was seated.
Whatever Mr. Bumble's intentions were (and they were probably good): it unfortunately happened, as has been noted twice before, that the table was round; as a result, Mr. Bumble, moving his chair little by little, soon started to close the gap between himself and the matron; and, continuing to move around the outer edge of the circle, eventually positioned his chair close to the one where the matron was sitting.
Original
Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble stopped.
Indeed, the two chairs were touching; and when that happened, Mr. Bumble stopped.
Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have been scorched by the fire; and if to the left, she must have fallen into Mr. Bumble’s arms; so (being a discreet matron, and no doubt foreseeing these consequences at a glance) she remained where she was, and handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea.
Now, if the matron had shifted her chair to the right, she would have been burned by the fire; and if she had moved to the left, she would have ended up in Mr. Bumble’s arms; so (being a sensible matron, and surely anticipating these outcomes instantly) she stayed put and handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea.
‘Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?’ said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and looking up into the matron’s face; ‘are you hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?’
‘Cold-hearted, Mrs. Corney?’ said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea and looking up at the matron’s face; ‘are you cold-hearted, Mrs. Corney?’
‘Dear me!’ exclaimed the matron, ‘what a very curious question from a single man. What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble?’
‘Wow!’ exclaimed the matron, ‘what a really interesting question from a single guy. What do you want to know for, Mr. Bumble?’
The beadle drank his tea to the last drop; finished a piece of toast; whisked the crumbs off his knees; wiped his lips; and deliberately kissed the matron.
The beadle drank his tea to the last drop, finished a piece of toast, brushed the crumbs off his knees, wiped his lips, and intentionally kissed the matron.
‘Mr. Bumble!’ cried that discreet lady in a whisper; for the fright was so great, that she had quite lost her voice, ‘Mr. Bumble, I shall scream!’ Mr. Bumble made no reply; but in a slow and dignified manner, put his arm round the matron’s waist.
‘Mr. Bumble!’ whispered that careful lady; the shock was so intense that she had completely lost her voice, ‘Mr. Bumble, I’m going to scream!’ Mr. Bumble didn’t respond; instead, he slowly and confidently wrapped his arm around the matron’s waist.
As the lady had stated her intention of screaming, of course she would have screamed at this additional boldness, but that the exertion was rendered unnecessary by a hasty knocking at the door: which was no sooner heard, than Mr. Bumble darted, with much agility, to the wine bottles, and began dusting them with great violence: while the matron sharply demanded who was there.
As the lady had said she was going to scream, she definitely would have screamed at this extra boldness, but that effort was made unnecessary by a quick knock at the door: as soon as it was heard, Mr. Bumble quickly dashed over to the wine bottles and started dusting them vigorously, while the matron firmly asked who was there.
It is worthy of remark, as a curious physical instance of the efficacy of a sudden surprise in counteracting the effects of extreme fear, that her voice had quite recovered all its official asperity.
It’s worth noting, as an interesting example of how a sudden surprise can counteract the effects of extreme fear, that her voice had fully regained its official sharpness.
‘If you please, mistress,’ said a withered old female pauper, hideously ugly: putting her head in at the door, ‘Old Sally is a-going fast.’
‘If you don’t mind, ma’am,’ said a frail old woman, very unattractive, sticking her head in the door, ‘Old Sally is fading fast.’
‘Well, what’s that to me?’ angrily demanded the matron. ‘I can’t keep her alive, can I?’
‘Well, what’s that to me?’ the matron angrily asked. ‘I can’t keep her alive, can I?’
‘No, no, mistress,’ replied the old woman, ‘nobody can; she’s far beyond the reach of help. I’ve seen a many people die; little babes and great strong men; and I know when death’s a-coming, well enough. But she’s troubled in her mind: and when the fits are not on her,—and that’s not often, for she is dying very hard,—she says she has got something to tell, which you must hear. She’ll never die quiet till you come, mistress.’
‘No, no, ma'am,’ the old woman replied, ‘nobody can help her; she’s way beyond anyone’s reach. I’ve seen many people pass away—little babies and strong men—and I know when death is near, for sure. But she’s not at peace in her mind: and when she’s not having her episodes—and that’s not frequent, because she’s fighting very hard to hold on—she says she has something to share that you need to hear. She won’t be able to rest until you arrive, ma'am.’
At this intelligence, the worthy Mrs. Corney muttered a variety of invectives against old women who couldn’t even die without purposely annoying their betters; and, muffling herself in a thick shawl which she hastily caught up, briefly requested Mr. Bumble to stay till she came back, lest anything particular should occur. Bidding the messenger walk fast, and not be all night hobbling up the stairs, she followed her from the room with a very ill grace, scolding all the way.
At this news, the decent Mrs. Corney grumbled a range of insults about old women who couldn't even die without irritating those of higher status; and, wrapping herself in a thick shawl she quickly grabbed, she briefly asked Mr. Bumble to wait until she returned, in case anything important happened. Telling the messenger to hurry and not take all night to climb the stairs, she followed her out of the room while complaining the whole way.
Mr. Bumble’s conduct on being left to himself, was rather inexplicable. He opened the closet, counted the teaspoons, weighed the sugar-tongs, closely inspected a silver milk-pot to ascertain that it was of the genuine metal, and, having satisfied his curiosity on these points, put on his cocked hat corner-wise, and danced with much gravity four distinct times round the table.
Mr. Bumble's behavior when left alone was quite puzzling. He opened the closet, counted the teaspoons, weighed the sugar tongs, closely examined a silver milk pot to confirm it was made of real metal, and after satisfying his curiosity about these things, tilted his hat to one side and seriously danced four times around the table.
Having gone through this very extraordinary performance, he took off the cocked hat again, and, spreading himself before the fire with his back towards it, seemed to be mentally engaged in taking an exact inventory of the furniture.
Having experienced this remarkable performance, he took off the cocked hat again and, spreading himself out before the fire with his back to it, appeared to be mentally cataloging the furniture.
CHAPTER XXIV — TREATS ON A VERY POOR SUBJECT. BUT IS A SHORT ONE, AND MAY BE FOUND OF IMPORTANCE IN THIS HISTORY
It was no unfit messenger of death, who had disturbed the quiet of the matron’s room. Her body was bent by age; her limbs trembled with palsy; her face, distorted into a mumbling leer, resembled more the grotesque shaping of some wild pencil, than the work of Nature’s hand.
It was a fitting messenger of death that had interrupted the peace of the matron’s room. Her body was hunched with age; her limbs shook with tremors; her face, twisted into a mumbling grin, looked more like a bizarre sketch from some wild artist than the creation of Nature’s hand.
Alas! How few of Nature’s faces are left alone to gladden us with their beauty! The cares, and sorrows, and hungerings, of the world, change them as they change hearts; and it is only when those passions sleep, and have lost their hold for ever, that the troubled clouds pass off, and leave Heaven’s surface clear. It is a common thing for the countenances of the dead, even in that fixed and rigid state, to subside into the long-forgotten expression of sleeping infancy, and settle into the very look of early life; so calm, so peaceful, do they grow again, that those who knew them in their happy childhood, kneel by the coffin’s side in awe, and see the Angel even upon earth.
Sadly, so few of Nature’s faces are left untouched to delight us with their beauty! The worries, sorrows, and cravings of the world change them just as they change hearts; and it’s only when those feelings rest and lose their grip forever that the troubled clouds clear away, leaving Heaven’s surface unobstructed. It’s common for the faces of the dead, even in their still and stiff state, to soften into the long-lost expression of peaceful childhood and resemble the look of early life; they become so calm and serene that those who knew them in their joyful youth kneel beside the coffin in reverence, seeing the Angel even here on earth.
The old crone tottered along the passages, and up the stairs, muttering some indistinct answers to the chidings of her companion; being at length compelled to pause for breath, she gave the light into her hand, and remained behind to follow as she might: while the more nimble superior made her way to the room where the sick woman lay.
The old woman slowly made her way through the halls and up the stairs, mumbling some unclear responses to her companion's scoldings. Eventually, she had to stop to catch her breath, handed the light to her companion, and stayed back to follow as she could, while the quicker woman headed to the room where the sick woman was.
It was a bare garret-room, with a dim light burning at the farther end. There was another old woman watching by the bed; the parish apothecary’s apprentice was standing by the fire, making a toothpick out of a quill.
It was a sparse attic room, with a faint light flickering at the far end. There was another elderly woman sitting by the bedside; the parish apothecary’s apprentice stood by the fire, crafting a toothpick from a quill.
‘Cold night, Mrs. Corney,’ said this young gentleman, as the matron entered.
‘Cold night, Mrs. Corney,’ said the young man as the matron walked in.
‘Very cold, indeed, sir,’ replied the mistress, in her most civil tones, and dropping a curtsey as she spoke.
‘It’s very cold, indeed, sir,’ replied the mistress in her politest tone, dropping a curtsy as she spoke.
‘You should get better coals out of your contractors,’ said the apothecary’s deputy, breaking a lump on the top of the fire with the rusty poker; ‘these are not at all the sort of thing for a cold night.’
‘You should get better coals from your contractors,’ said the apothecary’s assistant, breaking a lump on top of the fire with the rusty poker; ‘these are definitely not the right kind for a cold night.’
‘They’re the board’s choosing, sir,’ returned the matron. ‘The least they could do, would be to keep us pretty warm: for our places are hard enough.’
‘They’re the board’s choice, sir,’ replied the matron. ‘The least they could do would be to keep us warm because our jobs are tough enough.’
The conversation was here interrupted by a moan from the sick woman.
The conversation was interrupted by a moan from the sick woman.
‘Oh!’ said the young man, turning his face towards the bed, as if he had previously quite forgotten the patient, ‘it’s all U.P. there, Mrs. Corney.’
‘Oh!’ said the young man, turning his face towards the bed, as if he had completely forgotten about the patient, ‘it’s all U.P. there, Mrs. Corney.’
‘It is, is it, sir?’ asked the matron.
‘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?’
‘If she lasts a couple of hours, I’ll be surprised,’ said the apothecary’s apprentice, focused on the toothpick’s tip. ‘It’s a complete breakdown of the system. Is she dozing, old lady?’
The attendant stooped over the bed, to ascertain; and nodded in the affirmative.
The attendant leaned over the bed to check and nodded in agreement.
‘Then perhaps she’ll go off in that way, if you don’t make a row,’ said the young man. ‘Put the light on the floor. She won’t see it there.’
‘Then maybe she'll leave like that, if you don’t make a fuss,’ said the young man. ‘Put the light on the floor. She won’t see it there.’
The attendant did as she was told: shaking her head meanwhile, to intimate that the woman would not die so easily; having done so, she resumed her seat by the side of the other nurse, who had by this time returned. The mistress, with an expression of impatience, wrapped herself in her shawl, and sat at the foot of the bed.
The attendant did what she was instructed, shaking her head at the same time to suggest that the woman wouldn’t die so easily. After doing that, she went back to her seat next to the other nurse, who had returned by then. The mistress, looking impatient, 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.
The apothecary’s apprentice, after finishing the making of the toothpick, settled in front of the fire and enjoyed its warmth for about ten minutes. When he seemed to be getting a bit bored, he congratulated Mrs. Corney on her work and quietly slipped away.
When they had sat in silence for some time, the two old women rose from the bed, and crouching over the fire, held out their withered hands to catch the heat. The flame threw a ghastly light on their shrivelled faces, and made their ugliness appear terrible, as, in this position, they began to converse in a low voice.
When they had sat in silence for a while, the two old women got up from the bed and hunched over the fire, extending their bony hands to feel the warmth. The flames cast a strange light on their wrinkled faces, making their ugliness seem frightening as they started to talk in low voices.
‘Did she say any more, Anny dear, while I was gone?’ inquired the messenger.
‘Did she say anything else, Anny dear, while I was away?’ asked the messenger.
‘Not a word,’ replied the other. ‘She plucked and tore at her arms for a little time; but I held her hands, and she soon dropped off. She hasn’t much strength in her, so I easily kept her quiet. I ain’t so weak for an old woman, although I am on parish allowance; no, no!’
‘Not a word,’ replied the other. ‘She scratched and pulled at her arms for a little while; but I held her hands, and she soon fell asleep. She doesn’t have much strength, so I easily kept her calm. I’m not so weak for an old woman, even though I’m on government assistance; no, no!’
‘Did she drink the hot wine the doctor said she was to have?’ demanded the first.
‘Did she drink the hot wine the doctor said she should have?’ asked the first.
‘I tried to get it down,’ rejoined the other. ‘But her teeth were tight set, and she clenched the mug so hard that it was as much as I could do to get it back again. So I drank it; and it did me good!’
‘I tried to get it down,’ said the other. ‘But her teeth were clenched, and she held the mug so tightly that it was all I could do to get it back. So I drank it; and it helped me!’
Looking cautiously round, to ascertain that they were not overheard, the two hags cowered nearer to the fire, and chuckled heartily.
Looking around carefully to make sure they weren't overheard, the two witches huddled closer to the fire and laughed loudly.
‘I mind the time,’ said the first speaker, ‘when she would have done the same, and made rare fun of it afterwards.’
‘I remember when she would have done the same thing and made a real joke out of it afterwards.’
‘Ay, that she would,’ rejoined the other; ‘she had a merry heart. ‘A many, many, beautiful corpses she laid out, as nice and neat as waxwork. My old eyes have seen them—ay, and those old hands touched them too; for I have helped her, scores of times.’
‘Yeah, she would,’ replied the other; ‘she had a joyful spirit. She prepared so many beautiful bodies, as nice and neat as wax figures. My old eyes have seen them—yeah, and these old hands have touched them too; because I’ve helped her countless times.’
Stretching forth her trembling fingers as she spoke, the old creature shook them exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket, brought out an old time-discoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook a few grains into the outstretched palm of her companion, and a few more into her own. While they were thus employed, the matron, who had been impatiently watching until the dying woman should awaken from her stupor, joined them by the fire, and sharply asked how long she was to wait?
Stretching out her shaking fingers as she spoke, the old woman triumphantly waved them in front of her face, and, fumbling in her pocket, pulled out an old, faded tin snuff-box. She shook a few grains into her companion's open palm and a few more into her own. While they were occupied, the matron, who had been impatiently waiting for the dying woman to wake up from her stupor, joined them by the fire and asked sharply how long she was expected to wait.
‘Not long, mistress,’ replied the second woman, looking up into her face. ‘We have none of us long to wait for Death. Patience, patience! He’ll be here soon enough for us all.’
‘Not much longer, ma'am,’ the second woman replied, looking up at her face. ‘None of us have long to wait for Death. Just be patient! He’ll be here soon enough for all of us.’
‘Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!’ said the matron sternly. ‘You, Martha, tell me; has she been in this way before?’
‘Keep quiet, you foolish romantic!’ the matron said firmly. ‘You, Martha, tell me; has she acted like this before?’
‘Often,’ answered the first woman.
"Often," replied 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!’
‘But she will never be again,’ added the second one; ‘that is, she’ll only wake up once—and remember, ma’am, that won’t be for long!’
‘Long or short,’ said the matron, snappishly, ‘she won’t find me here when she does wake; take care, both of you, how you worry me again for nothing. It’s no part of my duty to see all the old women in the house die, and I won’t—that’s more. Mind that, you impudent old harridans. If you make a fool of me again, I’ll soon cure you, I warrant you!’
‘Long or short,’ said the matron, sharply, ‘she won’t find me here when she wakes up; be careful, both of you, about how you stress me out again for no good reason. It’s not my job to watch all the old women in the house die, and I won’t—that’s for sure. Remember that, you rude old hags. If you embarrass me again, I’ll set you straight, I guarantee it!’
She was bouncing away, when a cry from the two women, who had turned towards the bed, caused her to look round. The patient had raised herself upright, and was stretching her arms towards them.
She was bouncing away when a shout from the two women, who had turned toward the bed, made her look back. The patient had propped herself up and was reaching her arms out to them.
‘Who’s that?’ she cried, in a hollow voice.
“Who’s that?” she yelled, in a hollow voice.
‘Hush, hush!’ said one of the women, stooping over her. ‘Lie down, lie down!’
‘Shh, shh!’ said one of the women, leaning over her. ‘Lie down, lie down!’
‘I’ll never lie down again alive!’ said the woman, struggling. ‘I will tell her! Come here! Nearer! Let me whisper in your ear.’
‘I’ll never lie down again alive!’ said the woman, struggling. ‘I will tell her! Come here! Closer! Let me whisper in your ear.’
She clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her into a chair by the bedside, was about to speak, when looking round, she caught sight of the two old women bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners.
She grabbed the matron by the arm and pushed her into a chair by the bedside, ready to speak, when she looked around and noticed the two old women leaning in as if they were eager to listen.
‘Turn them away,’ said the woman, drowsily; ‘make haste! make haste!’
‘Turn them away,’ the woman said sleepily; ‘hurry! hurry!’
The two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous lamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best friends; and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her, when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy old ladies themselves.
The two elderly women, joining in unison, began to express their sorrowful wails that the poor dear was too far gone to recognize her closest friends; and they made various vows that they would never abandon her, when the caregiver pushed them out of the room, closed the door, and went back to the bedside. Once excluded, the old ladies changed their tune and shouted through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, in fact, was quite possible; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the pharmacist, she was also feeling the effects of a final sip of gin-and-water that had been secretly given to her, with generous intentions, by the well-meaning 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!’
‘Now listen to me,’ said the dying woman loudly, making a big effort to find a bit of energy. ‘In this very room—in this very bed—I once took care of a pretty young girl who was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised from walking, all dirty with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy and then died. Let me think—what year was it again!’
‘Never mind the year,’ said the impatient auditor; ‘what about her?’
‘Forget the year,’ said the annoyed auditor; ‘what about her?’
‘Ay,’ murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, ‘what about her?—what about—I know!’ she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head—‘I robbed her, so I did! She wasn’t cold—I tell you she wasn’t cold, when I stole it!’
‘Yeah,’ whispered the sick woman, slipping back into her previous sleepy state, ‘what about her?—what about—I know!’ she yelled, springing up fiercely: her face was flushed, and her eyes bulging—‘I stole from her, I did! She wasn’t cold—I’m telling you, she wasn’t cold when I took it!’
‘Stole what, for God’s sake?’ cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help.
‘Stole what, for heaven's sake?’ yelled the matron, waving her arms as if she needed to 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!’
‘It!’ replied the woman, covering the other’s mouth with her hand. ‘The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to stay warm and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, holding it close to her heart. It was gold, I tell you! Valuable gold, that could have saved her life!’
‘Gold!’ echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. ‘Go on, go on—yes—what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?’
‘Gold!’ exclaimed the matron, leaning in eagerly over the woman as she collapsed. ‘Continue, continue—yes—what happened? Who was the mother? When did it occur?’
‘She charge me to keep it safe,’ replied the woman with a groan, ‘and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child’s death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!’
‘She asked me to keep it safe,’ replied the woman with a groan, ‘and trusted me as the only woman around her. I secretly took it to heart when she first showed it to me hanging from her neck; and maybe the child’s death is on me too! They would have treated him better if they had known everything!’
‘Known what?’ asked the other. ‘Speak!’
"Known what?" asked the other. "Speak up!"
‘The boy grew so like his mother,’ said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, ‘that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there’s more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?’
‘The boy looks so much like his mother,’ the woman said, continuing on without really answering the question, ‘that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! Poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a sweet soul! Hold on; there’s more to share. I haven’t told you everything, 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!’
‘No, no,’ replied the matron, leaning in to hear the words as they grew fainter from the dying woman. ‘Hurry, or it might be too late!’
‘The mother,’ said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; ‘the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named. “And oh, kind Heaven!” she said, folding her thin hands together, “whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!”’
‘The mother,’ said the woman, straining harder than before; ‘the mother, when the pains of death first hit her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive and survived, there might come a day when it wouldn’t feel so ashamed to hear its poor young mother’s name. “And oh, kind Heaven!” she said, clasping her thin hands together, “whether it's a boy or a girl, please raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and have compassion on a lonely, abandoned child, left to its fate!”’
‘The boy’s name?’ demanded the matron.
‘What’s the boy’s name?’ asked the matron.
‘They called him Oliver,’ replied the woman, feebly. ‘The gold I stole was—’
‘They called him Oliver,’ replied the woman weakly. ‘The gold I took was—’
‘Yes, yes—what?’ cried the other.
"Yes, yes—what’s up?" cried the other.
She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed.
She was leaning forward eagerly over the woman to hear her response, but instinctively pulled back as the woman once again sat up slowly and stiffly. Then, gripping the blanket with both hands, she muttered some unclear sounds and collapsed lifeless onto the bed.
‘Stone dead!’ said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened.
‘Stone dead!’ said one of the old women, rushing in as soon as the door was opened.
‘And nothing to tell, after all,’ rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away.
‘And nothing to say, after all,’ replied the matron, walking off casually.
The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body.
The two old women, seemingly too caught up in getting ready for their horrific tasks to respond, were left alone, moving around the body.
CHAPTER XXV — WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY
While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den—the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl—brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars.
While all this was happening in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old hideout—the same one from which the girl had taken Oliver—lost in thought beside a dull, smoky fire. He had a pair of bellows on his lap, which he had apparently been trying to use to get the fire going better; however, he had fallen into a deep contemplation, with his arms crossed on them and his chin resting on his thumbs, staring blankly at the rusty bars.
At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and Mr. Chitling: all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy against Master Bates and Mr. Chitling. The countenance of the first-named gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired great additional interest from his close observance of the game, and his attentive perusal of Mr. Chitling’s hand; upon which, from time to time, as occasion served, he bestowed a variety of earnest glances: wisely regulating his own play by the result of his observations upon his neighbour’s cards. It being a cold night, the Dodger wore his hat, as, indeed, was often his custom within doors. He also sustained a clay pipe between his teeth, which he only removed for a brief space when he deemed it necessary to apply for refreshment to a quart pot upon the table, which stood ready filled with gin-and-water for the accommodation of the company.
At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and Mr. Chitling, all focused on a game of whist; the Artful was playing dummy against Master Bates and Mr. Chitling. The expression on the first gentleman's face, always particularly sharp, became even more interesting as he closely watched the game and studied Mr. Chitling’s hand. Every now and then, when the moment called for it, he shot various serious looks at Mr. Chitling's cards, carefully adjusting his own play based on what he observed. It was a chilly night, so the Dodger kept his hat on, which was a common habit of his, even indoors. He also had a clay pipe in his mouth, which he only took out briefly when he needed to pour himself a drink from a quart pot on the table that was filled with gin and water for the group.
Master Bates was also attentive to the play; but being of a more excitable nature than his accomplished friend, it was observable that he more frequently applied himself to the gin-and-water, and moreover indulged in many jests and irrelevant remarks, all highly unbecoming a scientific rubber. Indeed, the Artful, presuming upon their close attachment, more than once took occasion to reason gravely with his companion upon these improprieties; all of which remonstrances, Master Bates received in extremely good part; merely requesting his friend to be ‘blowed,’ or to insert his head in a sack, or replying with some other neatly-turned witticism of a similar kind, the happy application of which, excited considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling. It was remarkable that the latter gentleman and his partner invariably lost; and that the circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates, appeared to afford him the highest amusement, inasmuch as he laughed most uproariously at the end of every deal, and protested that he had never seen such a jolly game in all his born days.
Master Bates was also focused on the game; but being more excitable than his skilled friend, he often poured himself gin-and-water and cracked jokes, which were totally inappropriate for a serious player. In fact, the Artful, feeling comfortable with their close friendship, took several opportunities to seriously talk to his friend about these misbehaviors; all of which Master Bates took in stride, simply telling his friend to "get lost," or to stick his head in a bag, or responding with some other clever comeback that amused Mr. Chitling. It was noteworthy that Chitling and his partner always lost, and rather than upsetting Master Bates, it seemed to make him even happier, as he laughed loudly at the end of every round and insisted he had never played such a fun game in all his life.
‘That’s two doubles and the rub,’ said Mr. Chitling, with a very long face, as he drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket. ‘I never see such a feller as you, Jack; you win everything. Even when we’ve good cards, Charley and I can’t make nothing of ‘em.’
‘That’s two doubles and the rub,’ said Mr. Chitling, with a very long face, as he pulled out a half-crown from his waistcoat pocket. ‘I’ve never seen anyone like you, Jack; you win at everything. Even when Charley and I have good cards, we can’t make anything out of them.’
Either the master or the manner of this remark, which was made very ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that his consequent shout of laughter roused the Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire what was the matter.
Either the master or the way this comment was made, which was quite sorrowful, amused Charley Bates so much that his loud laughter brought the Jew out of his daydream and made him ask what was going on.
‘Matter, Fagin!’ cried Charley. ‘I wish you had watched the play. Tommy Chitling hasn’t won a point; and I went partners with him against the Artfull and dumb.’
‘What a shame, Fagin!’ shouted Charley. ‘I wish you had seen the performance. Tommy Chitling hasn’t scored any points; and I teamed up with him against the Artful and dumb.’
‘Ay, ay!’ said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated that he was at no loss to understand the reason. ‘Try ‘em again, Tom; try ‘em again.’
‘Yeah, yeah!’ said the Jew, with a grin that clearly showed he understood the reason. ‘Give them another shot, Tom; give them another shot.’
‘No more of it for me, thank ‘ee, Fagin,’ replied Mr. Chitling; ‘I’ve had enough. That ‘ere Dodger has such a run of luck that there’s no standing again’ him.’
‘No more of it for me, thanks, Fagin,’ replied Mr. Chitling; ‘I’ve had enough. That Dodger has such a streak of luck that there’s no beating him.’
‘Ha! ha! my dear,’ replied the Jew, ‘you must get up very early in the morning, to win against the Dodger.’
‘Ha! Ha! My dear,’ replied the Jew, ‘you have to wake up really early in the morning to beat the Dodger.’
‘Morning!’ said Charley Bates; ‘you must put your boots on over-night, and have a telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass between your shoulders, if you want to come over him.’
‘Morning!’ said Charley Bates; ‘you must put your boots on overnight, and have a telescope in each eye, and binoculars between your shoulders, if you want to get one over on him.’
Mr. Dawkins received these handsome compliments with much philosophy, and offered to cut any gentleman in company, for the first picture-card, at a shilling at a time. Nobody accepting the challenge, and his pipe being by this time smoked out, he proceeded to amuse himself by sketching a ground-plan of Newgate on the table with the piece of chalk which had served him in lieu of counters; whistling, meantime, with peculiar shrillness.
Mr. Dawkins took these flattering comments in stride and offered to challenge any guy in the room to a game for the first picture card, each for a shilling. Since no one accepted the challenge and his pipe had run out, he started to entertain himself by drawing a layout of Newgate on the table with the piece of chalk he had used as game pieces, whistling loudly in the meantime.
‘How precious dull you are, Tommy!’ said the Dodger, stopping short when there had been a long silence; and addressing Mr. Chitling. ‘What do you think he’s thinking of, Fagin?’
‘How boring you are, Tommy!’ said the Dodger, stopping abruptly after a long silence and turning to Mr. Chitling. ‘What do you think he’s thinking about, 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?’
‘How should I know, my dear?’ replied the Jew, looking around as he worked the bellows. ‘About his losses, maybe; or the little getaway in the countryside that he just left, huh? 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?’
‘Not at all,’ replied the Dodger, cutting off the discussion just as Mr. Chitling was about to respond. ‘What do you think, Charley?’
‘I should say,’ replied Master Bates, with a grin, ‘that he was uncommon sweet upon Betsy. See how he’s a-blushing! Oh, my eye! here’s a merry-go-rounder! Tommy Chitling’s in love! Oh, Fagin, Fagin! what a spree!’
‘I should say,’ replied Master Bates, with a grin, ‘that he was really sweet on Betsy. Look at him blushing! Oh, my gosh! here’s a real goofball! Tommy Chitling’s in love! Oh, Fagin, Fagin! what a party!’
Thoroughly overpowered with the notion of Mr. Chitling being the victim of the tender passion, Master Bates threw himself back in his chair with such violence, that he lost his balance, and pitched over upon the floor; where (the accident abating nothing of his merriment) he lay at full length until his laugh was over, when he resumed his former position, and began another laugh.
Completely overwhelmed by the idea of Mr. Chitling being a victim of love, Master Bates flung himself back in his chair so forcefully that he lost his balance and fell to the floor. He lay there, still laughing, until his laughter finally subsided. Then he got back up, settled into his chair again, and started laughing once more.
‘Never mind him, my dear,’ said the Jew, winking at Mr. Dawkins, and giving Master Bates a reproving tap with the nozzle of the bellows. ‘Betsy’s a fine girl. Stick up to her, Tom. Stick up to her.’
‘Never mind him, my dear,’ said the Jew, winking at Mr. Dawkins, and giving Master Bates a gentle tap with the end of the bellows. ‘Betsy’s a great girl. Support her, Tom. Support her.’
‘What I mean to say, Fagin,’ replied Mr. Chitling, very red in the face, ‘is, that that isn’t anything to anybody here.’
‘What I’m trying to say, Fagin,’ Mr. Chitling replied, his face very red, ‘is that this doesn’t matter to anyone here.’
‘No more it is,’ replied the Jew; ‘Charley will talk. Don’t mind him, my dear; don’t mind him. Betsy’s a fine girl. Do as she bids you, Tom, and you will make your fortune.’
‘It’s not happening anymore,’ replied the Jew; ‘Charley will speak. Don’t pay attention to him, my dear; don’t worry about him. Betsy’s a great girl. Just do what she says, Tom, and you’ll be successful.’
‘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?’
‘So I do what she tells me,’ replied Mr. Chitling; ‘I wouldn’t have gotten caught if it hadn’t been for her advice. But it ended up being a good deal for you, right, Fagin? And what’s six weeks of it? It has to happen sooner or later, so why not in the winter when you don’t feel like going out for walks as much; right, Fagin?’
‘Ah, to be sure, my dear,’ replied the Jew.
‘Ah, for 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?’
‘You wouldn’t mind it again, Tom, would you?’ asked the Dodger, winking at Charley and the Jew, ‘if Bet was all good?’
‘I mean to say that I shouldn’t,’ replied Tom, angrily. ‘There, now. Ah! Who’ll say as much as that, I should like to know; eh, Fagin?’
“I mean to say that I shouldn’t," Tom replied, angrily. "There, now. Ah! Who would say that much, I’d 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.’
‘Nobody, my dear,’ replied the Jew; ‘not a soul, Tom. I don’t know a single one of them who would do it besides you; not one of them, 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?’
‘I could have gotten away if I had turned her in; could I not, Fagin?’ angrily continued the poor half-witted dupe. ‘A single word from me would have done it; wouldn’t it, Fagin?’
‘To be sure it would, my dear,’ replied the Jew.
‘Of course it would, my dear,’ replied the Jew.
‘But I didn’t blab it; did I, Fagin?’ demanded Tom, pouring question upon question with great volubility.
‘But I didn't spill the beans; did I, Fagin?’ Tom asked, showering him with question after question with great chatter.
‘No, no, to be sure,’ replied the Jew; ‘you were too stout-hearted for that. A deal too stout, my dear!’
‘No, no, for sure,’ replied the Jew; ‘you were way too brave for that. A lot too brave, my dear!’
‘Perhaps I was,’ rejoined Tom, looking round; ‘and if I was, what’s to laugh at, in that; eh, Fagin?’
“Maybe I was,” Tom replied, glancing around. “And if I was, what’s so funny about that, huh, 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.
The Jew, noticing that Mr. Chitling was quite upset, quickly assured him that no one was laughing; to prove how serious everyone was, he referred to Master Bates, the main troublemaker. But unfortunately, Charley, while trying to respond that he’d never been more serious in his life, couldn’t stop himself from letting out such a loud laugh that the offended Mr. Chitling, without any warning, rushed across the room and tried to hit him. Charley, being quick on his feet, ducked just in time, causing the blow to land squarely on the chest of the jolly old gentleman instead, making him stumble back against the wall, gasping for air, while Mr. Chitling watched in utter shock.
‘Hark!’ cried the Dodger at this moment, ‘I heard the tinkler.’ Catching up the light, he crept softly upstairs.
‘Hey!’ shouted the Dodger at that moment, ‘I heard the bell.’ Picking up the light, he quietly crept upstairs.
The bell was rung again, with some impatience, while the party were in darkness. After a short pause, the Dodger reappeared, and whispered Fagin mysteriously.
The bell rang again, a bit impatiently, while the group was in darkness. After a brief moment, the Dodger came back and whispered to Fagin in a mysterious way.
‘What!’ cried the Jew, ‘alone?’
“What!” exclaimed 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 Dodger nodded yes and, covering the flame of the candle with his hand, silently signaled to Charley Bates that he should hold off on any jokes for the moment. After that friendly gesture, he focused his gaze on the Jew's face, waiting for his instructions.
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.
The old man bit his yellowing fingers and thought for a few seconds, his face showing signs of distress as if he was afraid of something and dreaded the worst. Finally, he lifted his head.
‘Where is he?’ he asked.
"Where is he?" he asked.
The Dodger pointed to the floor above, and made a gesture, as if to leave the room.
The Dodger pointed to the floor above and gestured, as if he was about to leave the room.
‘Yes,’ said the Jew, answering the mute inquiry; ‘bring him down. Hush! Quiet, Charley! Gently, Tom! Scarce, scarce!’
‘Yes,’ said the Jew, responding to the silent question; ‘bring him down. Shh! Easy, Charley! Softly, Tom! Careful, careful!’
This brief direction to Charley Bates, and his recent antagonist, was softly and immediately obeyed. There was no sound of their whereabout, when the Dodger descended the stairs, bearing the light in his hand, and followed by a man in a coarse smock-frock; who, after casting a hurried glance round the room, pulled off a large wrapper which had concealed the lower portion of his face, and disclosed: all haggard, unwashed, and unshorn: the features of flash Toby Crackit.
This quick instruction to Charley Bates and his recent opponent was quietly and promptly followed. There was no noise from their location when the Dodger came down the stairs, holding the light, followed by a man in a rough smock. After quickly looking around the room, he pulled off a large covering that had hidden the lower part of his face, revealing, all haggard, unwashed, and unshaven, the face of flashy Toby Crackit.
‘How are you, Faguey?’ said this worthy, nodding to the Jew. ‘Pop that shawl away in my castor, Dodger, so that I may know where to find it when I cut; that’s the time of day! You’ll be a fine young cracksman afore the old file now.’
‘How are you, Faguey?’ said this guy, nodding to the Jew. ‘Put that shawl away in my hat, Dodger, so I’ll know where to find it when I leave; that’s what I’m talking about! You’ll be a great young thief before the old man 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.
With these words, he lifted up the smock-frock, wrapped it around his waist, pulled a chair closer to the fire, and rested his feet on the hearth.
‘See there, Faguey,’ he said, pointing disconsolately to his top boots; ‘not a drop of Day and Martin since you know when; not a bubble of blacking, by Jove! But don’t look at me in that way, man. All in good time. I can’t talk about business till I’ve eat and drank; so produce the sustainance, and let’s have a quiet fill-out for the first time these three days!’
‘Look there, Faguey,’ he said, pointing unhappily at his top boots; ‘not a drop of Day and Martin since you know when; not a bit of blacking, I swear! But don’t give me that look, man. All in good time. I can’t talk about business until I’ve eaten and drunk something; so bring out the food, and let’s have a nice meal for the first time in 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.
The Jew signaled to the Dodger to put whatever food was there on the table and, sitting down across from the housebreaker, waited patiently.
To judge from appearances, Toby was by no means in a hurry to open the conversation. At first, the Jew contented himself with patiently watching his countenance, as if to gain from its expression some clue to the intelligence he brought; but in vain.
To judge by looks, Toby was definitely not in a rush to start the conversation. At first, the Jew simply watched his face, trying to pick up on any clues about the information he had; but it was no use.
He looked tired and worn, but there was the same complacent repose upon his features that they always wore: and through dirt, and beard, and whisker, there still shone, unimpaired, the self-satisfied smirk of flash Toby Crackit. Then the Jew, in an agony of impatience, watched every morsel he put into his mouth; pacing up and down the room, meanwhile, in irrepressible excitement. It was all of no use. Toby continued to eat with the utmost outward indifference, until he could eat no more; then, ordering the Dodger out, he closed the door, mixed a glass of spirits and water, and composed himself for talking.
He looked tired and worn out, but there was the same self-satisfied look on his face that he always had: and despite the dirt, beard, and whiskers, the confident smirk of flash Toby Crackit still shone through. Then the Jew, in a fit of impatience, watched every bite he took, pacing up and down the room, unable to contain his excitement. It was all pointless. Toby kept eating with complete indifference until he couldn’t eat anymore; then, sending the Dodger out, he closed the door, mixed a glass of spirits and water, and settled in for a chat.
‘First and foremost, Faguey,’ said Toby.
‘First and foremost, Faguey,’ Toby said.
‘Yes, yes!’ interposed the Jew, drawing up his chair.
‘Yes, yes!’ the Jew said, pulling up his chair.
Mr. Crackit stopped to take a draught of spirits and water, and to declare that the gin was excellent; then placing his feet against the low mantelpiece, so as to bring his boots to about the level of his eye, he quietly resumed.
Mr. Crackit paused to take a sip of gin and water, remarking that the gin was excellent; then, propping his feet against the low mantelpiece to bring his boots to eye level, he calmly continued.
‘First and foremost, Faguey,’ said the housebreaker, ‘how’s Bill?’
‘First and foremost, Faguey,’ said the burglar, ‘how’s Bill?’
‘What!’ screamed the Jew, starting from his seat.
‘What!’ yelled the Jew, leaping from his seat.
‘Why, you don’t mean to say—’ began Toby, turning pale.
‘Why, you can’t be serious—’ began Toby, turning pale.
‘Mean!’ cried the Jew, stamping furiously on the ground. ‘Where are they? Sikes and the boy! Where are they? Where have they been? Where are they hiding? Why have they not been here?’
‘Mean!’ shouted the Jew, stomping angrily on the ground. ‘Where are they? Sikes and the boy! Where are they? Where have they been? Where are they hiding? Why haven’t they been here?’
‘The crack failed,’ said Toby faintly.
‘The crack didn’t work,’ said Toby quietly.
‘I know it,’ replied the Jew, tearing a newspaper from his pocket and pointing to it. ‘What more?’
‘I know it,’ replied the Jew, pulling a newspaper from his pocket and pointing at it. ‘What else?’
‘They fired and hit the boy. We cut over the fields at the back, with him between us—straight as the crow flies—through hedge and ditch. They gave chase. Damme! the whole country was awake, and the dogs upon us.’
‘They shot and struck the boy. We rushed across the fields at the back, with him between us—directly as the crow flies—through hedges and ditches. They chased us. Damn it! the whole countryside was alert, and the dogs were on our trail.’
‘The boy!’
‘The kid!’
‘Bill had him on his back, and scudded like the wind. We stopped to take him between us; his head hung down, and he was cold. They were close upon our heels; every man for himself, and each from the gallows! We parted company, and left the youngster lying in a ditch. Alive or dead, that’s all I know about him.’
‘Bill had him on his back and raced like the wind. We paused to support him between us; his head drooped, and he felt cold. They were right on our tails; it was every man for himself, and everyone was escaping the gallows! We split up and left the kid lying in a ditch. Alive or dead, that’s all I know about him.’
The Jew stopped to hear no more; but uttering a loud yell, and twining his hands in his hair, rushed from the room, and from the house.
The Jew couldn't take it anymore; with a loud yell and his hands in his hair, he rushed out of the room and out of the house.
CHAPTER XXVI — IN WHICH A MYSTERIOUS CHARACTER APPEARS UPON THE SCENE; AND MANY THINGS, INSEPARABLE FROM THIS HISTORY, ARE DONE AND PERFORMED
The old man had gained the street corner, before he began to recover the effect of Toby Crackit’s intelligence. He had relaxed nothing of his unusual speed; but was still pressing onward, in the same wild and disordered manner, when the sudden dashing past of a carriage: and a boisterous cry from the foot passengers, who saw his danger: drove him back upon the pavement. Avoiding, as much as was possible, all the main streets, and skulking only through the by-ways and alleys, he at length emerged on Snow Hill. Here he walked even faster than before; nor did he linger until he had again turned into a court; when, as if conscious that he was now in his proper element, he fell into his usual shuffling pace, and seemed to breathe more freely.
The old man reached the street corner before he started processing what Toby Crackit had told him. He hadn’t slowed down his unusual speed; he was still moving forward in the same frantic and chaotic way when a carriage suddenly rushed past him, and a loud shout from the pedestrians, who noticed his danger, pushed him back onto the sidewalk. Trying to avoid the main roads as much as possible and sneaking through the side streets and alleys, he finally appeared on Snow Hill. Here, he walked even faster than before and didn’t stop until he turned into a court; then, as if he realized he was back in his comfort zone, he settled into his usual shuffling pace and seemed to breathe easier.
Near to the spot on which Snow Hill and Holborn Hill meet, opens, upon the right hand as you come out of the City, a narrow and dismal alley, leading to Saffron Hill. In its filthy shops are exposed for sale huge bunches of second-hand silk handkerchiefs, of all sizes and patterns; for here reside the traders who purchase them from pick-pockets. Hundreds of these handkerchiefs hang dangling from pegs outside the windows or flaunting from the door-posts; and the shelves, within, are piled with them. Confined as the limits of Field Lane are, it has its barber, its coffee-shop, its beer-shop, and its fried-fish warehouse. It is a commercial colony of itself: the emporium of petty larceny: visited at early morning, and setting-in of dusk, by silent merchants, who traffic in dark back-parlours, and who go as strangely as they come. Here, the clothesman, the shoe-vamper, and the rag-merchant, display their goods, as sign-boards to the petty thief; here, stores of old iron and bones, and heaps of mildewy fragments of woollen-stuff and linen, rust and rot in the grimy cellars.
Close to where Snow Hill and Holborn Hill meet, there's a narrow and gloomy alley on the right as you leave the City, leading to Saffron Hill. In its dirty shops, huge bunches of second-hand silk handkerchiefs are up for sale, showcasing various sizes and patterns; this is where traders buy them from pickpockets. Hundreds of these handkerchiefs hang from pegs outside the windows or display from the doorposts, while the shelves inside are piled high with them. Despite its small size, Field Lane has its barber, coffee shop, beer shop, and fried fish warehouse. It's a little commercial hub of its own: the center of petty theft, visited early in the morning and at dusk by quiet traders who do business in hidden back rooms and leave as mysteriously as they arrive. Here, the clothing seller, the shoemaker, and the rag dealer show off their items like signboards for the petty thief; here, piles of old iron and bones, along with heaps of musty bits of wool and linen, are left to rust and rot in the filthy basements.
It was into this place that the Jew turned. He was well known to the sallow denizens of the lane; for such of them as were on the look-out to buy or sell, nodded, familiarly, as he passed along. He replied to their salutations in the same way; but bestowed no closer recognition until he reached the further end of the alley; when he stopped, to address a salesman of small stature, who had squeezed as much of his person into a child’s chair as the chair would hold, and was smoking a pipe at his warehouse door.
It was to this place that the Jew turned. He was well known to the pale residents of the alley; those who were looking to buy or sell nodded casually as he walked by. He responded to their greetings in kind, but didn’t acknowledge anyone more closely until he reached the end of the alley. There, he stopped to speak to a short salesman who had crammed himself into a child’s chair as much as it would allow, smoking a pipe at the entrance of his shop.
‘Why, the sight of you, Mr. Fagin, would cure the hoptalmy!’ said this respectable trader, in acknowledgment of the Jew’s inquiry after his health.
‘Why, seeing you, Mr. Fagin, would cure the hiccups!’ said this respectable trader, in response to the Jew’s question about his health.
‘The neighbourhood was a little too hot, Lively,’ said Fagin, elevating his eyebrows, and crossing his hands upon his shoulders.
‘The neighborhood was a bit too hot, Lively,’ said Fagin, raising his eyebrows and crossing his arms over 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?’
‘Well, I've heard that complaint before, once or twice,’ replied the trader; ‘but it usually cools down again; don’t you think so?’
Fagin nodded in the affirmative. Pointing in the direction of Saffron Hill, he inquired whether any one was up yonder to-night.
Fagin nodded yes. He pointed towards Saffron Hill and asked if anyone was up there tonight.
‘At the Cripples?’ inquired the man.
‘At the Cripples?’ asked the man.
The Jew nodded.
The Jewish person nodded.
‘Let me see,’ pursued the merchant, reflecting.
‘Let me think,’ continued the merchant, reflecting.
‘Yes, there’s some half-dozen of ‘em gone in, that I knows. I don’t think your friend’s there.’
‘Yeah, I know about half a dozen of them that have gone in. I don’t think your friend is there.’
‘Sikes is not, I suppose?’ inquired the Jew, with a disappointed countenance.
'Sikes isn't, I guess?' asked the Jew, looking disappointed.
‘Non istwentus, as the lawyers say,’ replied the little man, shaking his head, and looking amazingly sly. ‘Have you got anything in my line to-night?’
‘Non istwentus, as the lawyers say,’ replied the little man, shaking his head and looking incredibly sly. ‘Do you have anything in my line tonight?’
‘Nothing to-night,’ said the Jew, turning away.
‘Nothing tonight,’ said the Jew, turning away.
‘Are you going up to the Cripples, Fagin?’ cried the little man, calling after him. ‘Stop! I don’t mind if I have a drop there with you!’
‘Are you going up to the Cripples, Fagin?’ shouted the little man, calling after him. ‘Wait! I don’t mind having a drink there with you!’
But as the Jew, looking back, waved his hand to intimate that he preferred being alone; and, moreover, as the little man could not very easily disengage himself from the chair; the sign of the Cripples was, for a time, bereft of the advantage of Mr. Lively’s presence. By the time he had got upon his legs, the Jew had disappeared; so Mr. Lively, after ineffectually standing on tiptoe, in the hope of catching sight of him, again forced himself into the little chair, and, exchanging a shake of the head with a lady in the opposite shop, in which doubt and mistrust were plainly mingled, resumed his pipe with a grave demeanour.
But as the Jew looked back and waved his hand to indicate that he preferred to be alone, and since the little man couldn’t easily get out of the chair, the sign of the Cripples was, for a while, missing Mr. Lively’s presence. By the time he managed to get up, the Jew had vanished; so Mr. Lively, after unsuccessfully standing on tiptoe in hopes of spotting him, squeezed himself back into the little chair, and, sharing a doubtful shake of the head with a woman in the opposite shop who clearly had her own suspicions, resumed smoking his pipe with a serious expression.
The Three Cripples, or rather the Cripples; which was the sign by which the establishment was familiarly known to its patrons: was the public-house in which Mr. Sikes and his dog have already figured. Merely making a sign to a man at the bar, Fagin walked straight upstairs, and opening the door of a room, and softly insinuating himself into the chamber, looked anxiously about: shading his eyes with his hand, as if in search of some particular person.
The Three Cripples, or just the Cripples, as the locals called it, was the pub where Mr. Sikes and his dog had already been. Fagin casually nodded to a guy at the bar, then walked straight upstairs. He opened the door to a room, quietly slipped inside, and looked around anxiously, shielding his eyes with his hand as if searching for someone specific.
The room was illuminated by two gas-lights; the glare of which was prevented by the barred shutters, and closely-drawn curtains of faded red, from being visible outside. The ceiling was blackened, to prevent its colour from being injured by the flaring of the lamps; and the place was so full of dense tobacco smoke, that at first it was scarcely possible to discern anything more. By degrees, however, as some of it cleared away through the open door, an assemblage of heads, as confused as the noises that greeted the ear, might be made out; and as the eye grew more accustomed to the scene, the spectator gradually became aware of the presence of a numerous company, male and female, crowded round a long table: at the upper end of which, sat a chairman with a hammer of office in his hand; while a professional gentleman with a bluish nose, and his face tied up for the benefit of a toothache, presided at a jingling piano in a remote corner.
The room was lit by two gas lamps, their glare blocked from view outside by barred shutters and tightly drawn faded red curtains. The ceiling was blackened to protect its color from the harsh light of the lamps, and the room was so filled with thick tobacco smoke that at first, it was almost impossible to see anything clearly. Gradually, as some smoke dissipated through the open door, you could make out a jumble of heads, as chaotic as the sounds filling the air; and as your eyes adjusted, you started to notice a large group of men and women gathered around a long table. At the head of the table sat a chairman holding a gavel, while a professional man with a bluish nose and his face bandaged for a toothache played a jingling piano in a distant corner.
As Fagin stepped softly in, the professional gentleman, running over the keys by way of prelude, occasioned a general cry of order for a song; which having subsided, a young lady proceeded to entertain the company with a ballad in four verses, between each of which the accompanyist played the melody all through, as loud as he could. When this was over, the chairman gave a sentiment, after which, the professional gentleman on the chairman’s right and left volunteered a duet, and sang it, with great applause.
As Fagin walked in quietly, the professional gentleman, going through the keys as a warm-up, prompted a collective shout for a song; as this settled down, a young woman began to perform a ballad in four verses, with the accompanist playing the tune loudly in between each verse. Once that finished, the chairman proposed a toast, after which the professional gentlemen on the chairman’s right and left offered to sing a duet, which received a lot of applause.
It was curious to observe some faces which stood out prominently from among the group. There was the chairman himself, (the landlord of the house,) a coarse, rough, heavy built fellow, who, while the songs were proceeding, rolled his eyes hither and thither, and, seeming to give himself up to joviality, had an eye for everything that was done, and an ear for everything that was said—and sharp ones, too. Near him were the singers: receiving, with professional indifference, the compliments of the company, and applying themselves, in turn, to a dozen proffered glasses of spirits and water, tendered by their more boisterous admirers; whose countenances, expressive of almost every vice in almost every grade, irresistibly attracted the attention, by their very repulsiveness. Cunning, ferocity, and drunkeness in all its stages, were there, in their strongest aspect; and women: some with the last lingering tinge of their early freshness almost fading as you looked: others with every mark and stamp of their sex utterly beaten out, and presenting but one loathsome blank of profligacy and crime; some mere girls, others but young women, and none past the prime of life; formed the darkest and saddest portion of this dreary picture.
It was interesting to notice some faces that really stood out from the group. There was the chairman himself, the landlord of the place, a big, rough guy who, while the songs played, rolled his eyes around, seeming to get lost in the fun, but had a lookout for everything happening and was listening closely to everything being said—sharp as a tack. Close to him were the singers, accepting the compliments from the crowd with a professional indifference, and in return, they were tackling a dozen offered glasses of spirits and water handed to them by their more rowdy fans; whose faces, showing almost every vice in various forms, drew attention with their sheer unattractiveness. Cunning, brutality, and drunkenness in all its stages were there, fully on display; and women: some with the last hints of their youthful beauty almost fading as you looked; others with every sign and mark of their gender completely worn down, showing nothing but a disgusting emptiness of immorality and crime; some were mere girls, others were young women, and none were past their prime; together, they formed the darkest and saddest part of this bleak scene.
Fagin, troubled by no grave emotions, looked eagerly from face to face while these proceedings were in progress; but apparently without meeting that of which he was in search. Succeeding, at length, in catching the eye of the man who occupied the chair, he beckoned to him slightly, and left the room, as quietly as he had entered it.
Fagin, unbothered by any heavy feelings, eagerly scanned the faces around him while things were happening, but he clearly wasn’t finding what he was looking for. Finally, after some time, he caught the eye of the man in the chair, gave him a slight signal, and exited the room as quietly as he had come in.
‘What can I do for you, Mr. Fagin?’ inquired the man, as he followed him out to the landing. ‘Won’t you join us? They’ll be delighted, every one of ‘em.’
‘What can I do for you, Mr. Fagin?’ asked the man as he followed him out to the landing. ‘Won’t you join us? They’ll all be thrilled to see you.’
The Jew shook his head impatiently, and said in a whisper, ‘Is he here?’
The Jew shook his head impatiently and whispered, 'Is he here?'
‘No,’ replied the man.
'No,' said the man.
‘And no news of Barney?’ inquired Fagin.
‘And no news of Barney?’ Fagin asked.
‘None,’ replied the landlord of the Cripples; for it was he. ‘He won’t stir till it’s all safe. Depend on it, they’re on the scent down there; and that if he moved, he’d blow upon the thing at once. He’s all right enough, Barney is, else I should have heard of him. I’ll pound it, that Barney’s managing properly. Let him alone for that.’
‘None,’ replied the landlord of the Cripples; for it was him. ‘He won’t move until it’s all safe. Trust me, they’re onto something down there; and if he moves, he’ll expose everything right away. He’s doing just fine, Barney is, or I would have heard about him. I’m sure that Barney’s handling things properly. Just leave him be for that.’
‘Will he be here to-night?’ asked the Jew, laying the same emphasis on the pronoun as before.
‘Will he be here tonight?’ asked the Jew, placing the same emphasis on the pronoun as before.
‘Monks, do you mean?’ inquired the landlord, hesitating.
“Monks, you mean?” the landlord asked, hesitating.
‘Hush!’ said the Jew. ‘Yes.’
‘Hush!’ said the man. ‘Yes.’
‘Certain,’ replied the man, drawing a gold watch from his fob; ‘I expected him here before now. If you’ll wait ten minutes, he’ll be—’
‘Sure,’ replied the man, pulling out a gold watch from his pocket. ‘I thought he’d be here by now. If you can wait ten minutes, he’ll be—’
‘No, no,’ said the Jew, hastily; as though, however desirous he might be to see the person in question, he was nevertheless relieved by his absence. ‘Tell him I came here to see him; and that he must come to me to-night. No, say to-morrow. As he is not here, to-morrow will be time enough.’
‘No, no,’ said the Jew quickly, as if, no matter how eager he was to see the person, he was still somewhat relieved that he wasn't there. ‘Tell him I came here to see him; and that he has to come to me tonight. No, say tomorrow. Since he’s not here, tomorrow will be soon enough.’
‘Good!’ said the man. ‘Nothing more?’
‘Good!’ said the man. ‘That’s it?’
‘Not a word now,’ said the Jew, descending the stairs.
‘Not a word now,’ said the Jew, going down the stairs.
‘I say,’ said the other, looking over the rails, and speaking in a hoarse whisper; ‘what a time this would be for a sell! I’ve got Phil Barker here: so drunk, that a boy might take him!’
‘I say,’ said the other, looking over the rails and speaking in a hoarse whisper, ‘what a time this would be for a prank! I’ve got Phil Barker here, so drunk that a kid could take him!’
‘Ah! But it’s not Phil Barker’s time,’ said the Jew, looking up. ‘Phil has something more to do, before we can afford to part with him; so go back to the company, my dear, and tell them to lead merry lives—while they last. Ha! ha! ha!’
‘Ah! But it’s not Phil Barker’s time,’ said the Jew, looking up. ‘Phil has more to do before we can afford to let him go; so go back to the group, my dear, and tell them to enjoy their lives—while they can. Ha! ha! ha!’
The landlord reciprocated the old man’s laugh; and returned to his guests. The Jew was no sooner alone, than his countenance resumed its former expression of anxiety and thought. After a brief reflection, he called a hack-cabriolet, and bade the man drive towards Bethnal Green. He dismissed him within some quarter of a mile of Mr. Sikes’s residence, and performed the short remainder of the distance, on foot.
The landlord chuckled back at the old man and went back to his guests. As soon as the Jew was alone, his face went back to its previous look of worry and deep thought. After thinking for a moment, he called a cab and told the driver to head towards Bethnal Green. He got out about a quarter of a mile away from Mr. Sikes’s house and walked the short distance the rest of the way.
‘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.’
‘Now,’ muttered the Jew, as he knocked at the door, ‘if there’s anything going on here, I’m going to find out, my girl, clever as you are.’
She was in her room, the woman said. Fagin crept softly upstairs, and entered it without any previous ceremony. The girl was alone; lying with her head upon the table, and her hair straggling over it.
She was in her room, the woman said. Fagin quietly walked upstairs and walked in without knocking. The girl was alone, lying with her head on the table, her hair spilling over it.
‘She has been drinking,’ thought the Jew, cooly, ‘or perhaps she is only miserable.’
‘She has been drinking,’ thought the Jew, calmly, ‘or maybe she’s just feeling really down.’
The old man turned to close the door, as he made this reflection; the noise thus occasioned, roused the girl. She eyed his crafty face narrowly, as she inquired to his recital of Toby Crackit’s story. When it was concluded, she sank into her former attitude, but spoke not a word. She pushed the candle impatiently away; and once or twice as she feverishly changed her position, shuffled her feet upon the ground; but this was all.
The old man turned to shut the door while he reflected on this; the noise caused by this action woke the girl. She looked closely at his sly face as she asked about his version of Toby Crackit’s story. When he finished, she went back to her previous position but didn’t say a word. She pushed the candle away in frustration and, a couple of times as she restlessly shifted her position, shuffled her feet on the ground; but that was all.
During the silence, the Jew looked restlessly about the room, as if to assure himself that there were no appearances of Sikes having covertly returned. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he coughed twice or thrice, and made as many efforts to open a conversation; but the girl heeded him no more than if he had been made of stone. At length he made another attempt; and rubbing his hands together, said, in his most conciliatory tone, ‘And where should you think Bill was now, my dear?’
During the quiet, the Jew scanned the room anxiously, as if to confirm that Sikes hadn’t sneakily come back. Apparently reassured by what he saw, he coughed a couple of times and tried to start a conversation, but the girl ignored him completely, as if he were just a statue. Finally, he tried again, rubbing his hands together and saying in his friendliest tone, “So, where do you think Bill is now, my dear?”
The girl moaned out some half intelligible reply, that she could not tell; and seemed, from the smothered noise that escaped her, to be crying.
The girl let out a half-understandable response that she couldn’t quite express; and from the muffled sounds that came from her, it seemed like she was 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!’
‘And the boy, too,’ said the Jew, squinting to see her face. ‘Poor little child! Left in a ditch, Nance; just think about it!’
‘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.’
‘The kid,’ said the girl, suddenly looking up, ‘is better off where he is, than with us; and if Bill doesn’t get hurt from it, I hope he’s lying dead in the ditch and that his young bones can rot there.’
‘What!’ cried the Jew, in amazement.
‘What!’ exclaimed the Jew, in shock.
‘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.’
‘Yes, I do,’ the girl replied, meeting his gaze. ‘I’ll be glad to have him out of my sight and to know that the worst is behind us. I can’t stand having him around. Just seeing him makes me feel awful about myself and everyone else.’
‘Pooh!’ said the Jew, scornfully. ‘You’re drunk.’
‘Pooh!’ said the Jew, mockingly. ‘You’re drunk.’
‘Am I?’ cried the girl bitterly. ‘It’s no fault of yours, if I am not! You’d never have me anything else, if you had your will, except now;—the humour doesn’t suit you, doesn’t it?’
‘Am I?’ the girl shouted, feeling hurt. ‘It’s not your fault if I’m not! You’d never want me to be anything else, if you had your way, except for now;—the mood doesn’t fit you, does it?’
‘No!’ rejoined the Jew, furiously. ‘It does not.’
‘No!’ the Jew replied angrily. ‘It doesn’t.’
‘Change it, then!’ responded the girl, with a laugh.
‘Change it, then!’ the girl replied with a laugh.
‘Change it!’ exclaimed the Jew, exasperated beyond all bounds by his companion’s unexpected obstinacy, and the vexation of the night, ‘I will change it! Listen to me, you drab. Listen to me, who with six words, can strangle Sikes as surely as if I had his bull’s throat between my fingers now. If he comes back, and leaves the boy behind him; if he gets off free, and dead or alive, fails to restore him to me; murder him yourself if you would have him escape Jack Ketch. And do it the moment he sets foot in this room, or mind me, it will be too late!’
‘Change it!’ shouted the Jew, completely frustrated by his companion’s unexpected stubbornness and the stress of the night. ‘I will change it! Listen to me, you worthless person. Listen to me, who can strangle Sikes with just six words as easily as if I had his throat in my hands right now. If he comes back and leaves the boy behind; if he gets away and, dead or alive, fails to bring him back to me; kill him yourself if you want him to escape Jack Ketch. And do it the moment he steps into this room, or trust me, it will be too late!’
‘What is all this?’ cried the girl involuntarily.
‘What’s going on?’ the girl exclaimed without thinking.
‘What is it?’ pursued Fagin, mad with rage. ‘When the boy’s worth hundreds of pounds to me, am I to lose what chance threw me in the way of getting safely, through the whims of a drunken gang that I could whistle away the lives of! And me bound, too, to a born devil that only wants the will, and has the power to, to—’
‘What is it?’ Fagin asked, furious. ‘When the kid is worth hundreds of pounds to me, am I really supposed to throw away my chance to get through the crazy antics of a drunken crew that I could easily deal with? And I’m stuck with a born devil who just needs the desire and has the ability to—’
Panting for breath, the old man stammered for a word; and in that instant checked the torrent of his wrath, and changed his whole demeanour. A moment before, his clenched hands had grasped the air; his eyes had dilated; and his face grown livid with passion; but now, he shrunk into a chair, and, cowering together, trembled with the apprehension of having himself disclosed some hidden villainy. After a short silence, he ventured to look round at his companion. He appeared somewhat reassured, on beholding her in the same listless attitude from which he had first roused her.
Gasping for breath, the old man struggled to find his words; and in that moment, he held back his anger and completely changed his demeanor. Just a moment before, his fists were clenched and shaking; his eyes wide; and his face pale with rage; but now, he shrank into a chair, huddled together, trembling with the fear that he might have revealed some hidden wrongdoing. After a brief silence, he dared to glance at his companion. He looked a bit reassured when he saw her in the same uninterested position from which he had first woken her.
‘Nancy, dear!’ croaked the Jew, in his usual voice. ‘Did you mind me, dear?’
‘Nancy, sweetheart!’ croaked the Jew, in his usual voice. ‘Did you miss me, darling?’
‘Don’t worry me now, Fagin!’ replied the girl, raising her head languidly. ‘If Bill has not done it this time, he will another. He has done many a good job for you, and will do many more when he can; and when he can’t he won’t; so no more about that.’
‘Don’t stress me out right now, Fagin!’ the girl replied, lifting her head wearily. ‘If Bill hasn’t messed up this time, he will next time. He’s done plenty of good work for you, and he’ll do a lot more when he’s able; and when he can’t, he won’t; so let's drop it.’
‘Regarding this boy, my dear?’ said the Jew, rubbing the palms of his hands nervously together.
‘About this boy, my dear?’ said the Jew, nervously rubbing his hands together.
‘The boy must take his chance with the rest,’ interrupted Nancy, hastily; ‘and I say again, I hope he is dead, and out of harm’s way, and out of yours,—that is, if Bill comes to no harm. And if Toby got clear off, Bill’s pretty sure to be safe; for Bill’s worth two of Toby any time.’
‘The boy has to take his shot like everyone else,’ interrupted Nancy quickly; ‘and I’ll say it again, I hope he’s dead, safe from danger, and away from you—assuming Bill stays safe. And if Toby gets away, Bill’s likely to be okay; because Bill’s twice as good as Toby any day.’
‘And about what I was saying, my dear?’ observed the Jew, keeping his glistening eye steadily upon her.
‘And about what I was saying, my dear?’ remarked the Jew, keeping his shining eye locked onto her.
‘Your must say it all over again, if it’s anything you want me to do,’ rejoined Nancy; ‘and if it is, you had better wait till to-morrow. You put me up for a minute; but now I’m stupid again.’
‘You have to say it all over again if there’s anything you want me to do,’ replied Nancy; ‘and if there is, you might as well wait until tomorrow. You got me thinking for a minute, but now I’m back to being clueless again.’
Fagin put several other questions: all with the same drift of ascertaining whether the girl had profited by his unguarded hints; but, she answered them so readily, and was withal so utterly unmoved by his searching looks, that his original impression of her being more than a trifle in liquor, was confirmed. Nancy, indeed, was not exempt from a failing which was very common among the Jew’s female pupils; and in which, in their tenderer years, they were rather encouraged than checked. Her disordered appearance, and a wholesale perfume of Geneva which pervaded the apartment, afforded strong confirmatory evidence of the justice of the Jew’s supposition; and when, after indulging in the temporary display of violence above described, she subsided, first into dullness, and afterwards into a compound of feelings: under the influence of which she shed tears one minute, and in the next gave utterance to various exclamations of ‘Never say die!’ and divers calculations as to what might be the amount of the odds so long as a lady or gentleman was happy, Mr. Fagin, who had had considerable experience of such matters in his time, saw, with great satisfaction, that she was very far gone indeed.
Fagin asked a few more questions, all aimed at figuring out if the girl had taken in his unguarded hints. But she responded so quickly and was so completely unfazed by his intense gaze that his initial impression of her being slightly drunk was confirmed. Nancy, in fact, wasn't immune to a weakness that was quite common among the Jew’s female students, and in their younger years, they were more encouraged than discouraged. Her messy appearance and the strong smell of gin that filled the room strongly supported the Jew’s assumption. After showing a brief burst of aggression, she settled down first into a dull state and then into a mix of emotions that caused her to cry one minute and shout things like "Never give up!" and ponder what the odds might be as long as a lady or gentleman was happy. Mr. Fagin, who had a lot of experience with such situations, was very pleased to see that she was indeed very far gone.
Having eased his mind by this discovery; and having accomplished his twofold object of imparting to the girl what he had, that night, heard, and of ascertaining, with his own eyes, that Sikes had not returned, Mr. Fagin again turned his face homeward: leaving his young friend asleep, with her head upon the table.
Having calmed his mind with this discovery and having achieved his two goals of telling the girl what he had heard that night and confirming with his own eyes that Sikes hadn’t come back, Mr. Fagin once again headed homeward, leaving his young friend asleep with her head on the table.
It was within an hour of midnight. The weather being dark, and piercing cold, he had no great temptation to loiter. The sharp wind that scoured the streets, seemed to have cleared them of passengers, as of dust and mud, for few people were abroad, and they were to all appearance hastening fast home. It blew from the right quarter for the Jew, however, and straight before it he went: trembling, and shivering, as every fresh gust drove him rudely on his way.
It was about an hour before midnight. The weather was dark and biting cold, giving him no real reason to linger. The cutting wind that swept through the streets seemed to have emptied them of people, just like it cleared away dust and mud, as very few folks were out, and they all looked like they were rushing home. However, the wind was just right for the Jew, and he walked directly into it, shaking and shivering as each new gust pushed him roughly along his path.
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.
He had reached the corner of his street and was already digging in his pocket for the door key when a dark figure appeared from a shadowy entrance and quietly crossed the street to approach him without being noticed.
‘Fagin!’ whispered a voice close to his ear.
‘Fagin!’ whispered a voice right next to his ear.
‘Ah!’ said the Jew, turning quickly round, ‘is that—’
‘Ah!’ said the Jew, turning quickly around, ‘is that—’
‘Yes!’ interrupted the stranger. ‘I have been lingering here these two hours. Where the devil have you been?’
‘Yes!’ interrupted the stranger. ‘I’ve been waiting here for two hours. Where the hell have you been?’
‘On your business, my dear,’ replied the Jew, glancing uneasily at his companion, and slackening his pace as he spoke. ‘On your business all night.’
‘About your business, my dear,’ replied the Jew, glancing nervously at his companion and slowing down as he spoke. ‘About your business all night.’
‘Oh, of course!’ said the stranger, with a sneer. ‘Well; and what’s come of it?’
‘Oh, of course!’ said the stranger, with a smirk. ‘So, what’s happened because of that?’
‘Nothing good,’ said the Jew.
‘Nothing good,’ said the man.
‘Nothing bad, I hope?’ said the stranger, stopping short, and turning a startled look on his companion.
‘Nothing wrong, I hope?’ said the stranger, pausing abruptly, and giving a startled look to his companion.
The Jew shook his head, and was about to reply, when the stranger, interrupting him, motioned to the house, before which they had by this time arrived: remarking, that he had better say what he had got to say, under cover: for his blood was chilled with standing about so long, and the wind blew through him.
The Jew shook his head and was about to respond when the stranger interrupted him, pointing to the house they had just reached. He suggested that it would be better to talk inside since he was feeling cold from standing outside for so long, and the wind was cutting through him.
Fagin looked as if he could have willingly excused himself from taking home a visitor at that unseasonable hour; and, indeed, muttered something about having no fire; but his companion repeating his request in a peremptory manner, he unlocked the door, and requested him to close it softly, while he got a light.
Fagin looked like he would have gladly skipped taking a guest home at that late hour; in fact, he mumbled something about not having a fire. However, when his companion insisted on the request firmly, he unlocked the door and asked him to close it gently while he got a light.
‘It’s as dark as the grave,’ said the man, groping forward a few steps. ‘Make haste!’
‘It’s as dark as a tomb,’ said the man, feeling his way forward a few steps. ‘Hurry up!’
‘Shut the door,’ whispered Fagin from the end of the passage. As he spoke, it closed with a loud noise.
‘Shut the door,’ Fagin whispered from the end of the hallway. As he spoke, it slammed shut with a loud noise.
‘That wasn’t my doing,’ said the other man, feeling his way. ‘The wind blew it to, or it shut of its own accord: one or the other. Look sharp with the light, or I shall knock my brains out against something in this confounded hole.’
‘That wasn’t my fault,’ said the other man, carefully feeling his way. ‘The wind blew it shut, or it closed on its own: one or the other. Be careful with the light, or I’ll end up smashing my head against something in this damn dark place.’
Fagin stealthily descended the kitchen stairs. After a short absence, he returned with a lighted candle, and the intelligence that Toby Crackit was asleep in the back room below, and that the boys were in the front one. Beckoning the man to follow him, he led the way upstairs.
Fagin quietly went down the kitchen stairs. After a brief moment, he came back with a lit candle and the news that Toby Crackit was asleep in the back room below and that the boys were in the front room. Motioning for the man to follow him, he led the way upstairs.
‘We can say the few words we’ve got to say in here, my dear,’ said the Jew, throwing open a door on the first floor; ‘and as there are holes in the shutters, and we never show lights to our neighbours, we’ll set the candle on the stairs. There!’
‘We can say the few things we need to say in here, my dear,’ said the Jew, opening a door on the first floor; ‘and since there are gaps in the shutters, and we never show lights to our neighbors, we’ll put the candle on the stairs. There!’
With those words, the Jew, stooping down, placed the candle on an upper flight of stairs, exactly opposite to the room door. This done, he led the way into the apartment; which was destitute of all movables save a broken arm-chair, and an old couch or sofa without covering, which stood behind the door. Upon this piece of furniture, the stranger sat himself with the air of a weary man; and the Jew, drawing up the arm-chair opposite, they sat face to face. It was not quite dark; the door was partially open; and the candle outside, threw a feeble reflection on the opposite wall.
With those words, the Jew bent down and placed the candle on the top step, directly across from the room's door. After that, he led the way into the apartment, which had nothing in it except a broken armchair and an old, uncovered couch that was positioned behind the door. The stranger sat down on the couch, looking like a tired man, while the Jew pulled up the armchair across from him, and they sat facing each other. It wasn't completely dark; the door was slightly open, and the candle outside cast a faint reflection on the wall across from them.
They conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the conversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that the latter was in a state of considerable irritation. They might have been talking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or more, when Monks—by which name the Jew had designated the strange man several times in the course of their colloquy—said, raising his voice a little, ‘I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?’
They whispered to each other for a while. Although most of their conversation was hard to catch, with just a few scattered words here and there, anyone listening would have noticed that Fagin seemed to be defending himself against some comments from the stranger, who was clearly quite irritated. They might have been at it for fifteen minutes or more when Monks— which was the name the Jew had used for the strange man several times during their talk—said, raising his voice slightly, ‘I’m telling you again, it was a bad plan. Why didn’t you just keep him here with the others and turn him into a sneaky, sniveling pickpocket right away?’
‘Only hear him!’ exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders.
‘Just listen to him!’ exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders.
‘Why, do you mean to say you couldn’t have done it, if you had chosen?’ demanded Monks, sternly. ‘Haven’t you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn’t you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?’
‘What do you mean you couldn’t have done it if you wanted to?’ Monks asked sharply. ‘Haven’t you done it with other boys dozens of times? If you had just been patient for a year at most, couldn’t you have gotten him convicted and sent away safely from the kingdom, maybe for life?’
‘Whose turn would that have served, my dear?’ inquired the Jew humbly.
“Whose turn would that have been, my dear?” the Jew asked politely.
‘Mine,’ replied Monks.
“Mine,” Monks replied.
‘But not mine,’ said the Jew, submissively. ‘He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?’
‘But not mine,’ said the Jew, humbly. ‘He could have been useful to me. When two parties are involved in a deal, it's only fair that both their interests should be considered; isn't that right, my good friend?’
‘What then?’ demanded Monks.
"What now?" demanded Monks.
‘I saw it was not easy to train him to the business,’ replied the Jew; ‘he was not like other boys in the same circumstances.’
‘I realized it wasn’t easy to teach him the business,’ replied the Jew; ‘he wasn’t like other boys in similar situations.’
‘Curse him, no!’ muttered the man, ‘or he would have been a thief, long ago.’
‘Curse him, no!’ the man muttered, ‘or he would have been a thief a long time ago.’
‘I had no hold upon him to make him worse,’ pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. ‘His hand was not in. I had nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have in the beginning, or we labour in vain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all.’
‘I didn’t have any power over him to make him behave worse,’ the Jew continued, anxiously watching his companion's face. ‘He wasn’t involved. I had nothing to scare him with; which we always need at the start, or we’re just wasting our time. What could I do? Send him off with the Dodger and Charley? We had more than enough of that at first, my dear; I was terrified for all of us.’
‘That was not my doing,’ observed Monks.
That wasn’t my fault, Monks said.
‘No, no, my dear!’ renewed the Jew. ‘And I don’t quarrel with it now; because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you were looking for. Well! I got him back for you by means of the girl; and then she begins to favour him.’
‘No, no, my dear!’ the Jew insisted. ‘And I’m not arguing about it now; because if it had never happened, you might never have noticed the boy, and that wouldn’t have led to discovering that he was the one you were looking for. Well! I got him back for you through the girl; and then she starts to like him.’
‘Throttle the girl!’ said Monks, impatiently.
‘Choke the girl!’ said Monks, impatiently.
‘Why, we can’t afford to do that just now, my dear,’ replied the Jew, smiling; ‘and, besides, that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one of these days, I might be glad to have it done. I know what these girls are, Monks, well. As soon as the boy begins to harden, she’ll care no more for him, than for a block of wood. You want him made a thief. If he is alive, I can make him one from this time; and, if—if—’ said the Jew, drawing nearer to the other,—‘it’s not likely, mind,—but if the worst comes to the worst, and he is dead—’
“Why, we can’t afford to do that right now, my dear,” replied the Jew, smiling. “And besides, that kind of thing isn’t really our style; though, maybe one of these days, I might be glad to have it done. I know what these girls are like, Monks. As soon as the boy starts to toughen up, she’ll care about him as much as a block of wood. You want him to become a thief. If he’s alive, I can make that happen from now on; and, if—if—” said the Jew, leaning closer to the other, “it’s not likely, just so you know—but if the worst comes to the worst, and he is dead—”
‘It’s no fault of mine if he is!’ interposed the other man, with a look of terror, and clasping the Jew’s arm with trembling hands. ‘Mind that. Fagin! I had no hand in it. Anything but his death, I told you from the first. I won’t shed blood; it’s always found out, and haunts a man besides. If they shot him dead, I was not the cause; do you hear me? Fire this infernal den! What’s that?’
‘It’s not my fault if he is!’ the other man interrupted, looking terrified and gripping the Jew’s arm with shaky hands. ‘Just remember that, Fagin! I had nothing to do with it. I told you from the start, anything but his death. I won’t spill blood; it always gets found out and haunts a person later. If they shot him dead, I wasn’t the cause; do you hear me? Burn this hellhole down! What’s happening?’
‘What!’ cried the Jew, grasping the coward round the body, with both arms, as he sprung to his feet. ‘Where?’
‘What!’ shouted the Jew, grabbing the coward around the body with both arms as he jumped to his feet. ‘Where?’
‘Yonder! replied the man, glaring at the opposite wall. ‘The shadow! I saw the shadow of a woman, in a cloak and bonnet, pass along the wainscot like a breath!’
‘Over there!’ replied the man, staring at the opposite wall. ‘The shadow! I saw the shadow of a woman, in a cloak and bonnet, move along the wainscot like a whisper!’
The Jew released his hold, and they rushed tumultuously from the room. The candle, wasted by the draught, was standing where it had been placed. It showed them only the empty staircase, and their own white faces. They listened intently: a profound silence reigned throughout the house.
The Jew let go of his grip, and they hurried chaotically out of the room. The candle, blown out by the draft, was sitting where it had been set. It only illuminated the empty staircase and their pale faces. They listened closely: a deep silence filled the house.
‘It’s your fancy,’ said the Jew, taking up the light and turning to his companion.
‘It’s your choice,’ said the Jew, picking up the light and turning to his companion.
‘I’ll swear I saw it!’ replied Monks, trembling. ‘It was bending forward when I saw it first; and when I spoke, it darted away.’
"I swear I saw it!" Monks replied, shaking. "It was leaning forward when I first saw it, and when I spoke, it took off."
The Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate, and, telling him he could follow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs. They looked into all the rooms; they were cold, bare, and empty. They descended into the passage, and thence into the cellars below. The green damp hung upon the low walls; the tracks of the snail and slug glistened in the light of the candle; but all was still as death.
The Jew looked down his nose at his associate's pale face and told him he could come along if he wanted. Then he went up the stairs. They checked all the rooms, which were cold, bare, and empty. They went down the hallway and into the cellars below. The green damp clung to the low walls; the trails of snails and slugs shimmered in the candlelight, but everything was completely silent.
‘What do you think now?’ said the Jew, when they had regained the passage. ‘Besides ourselves, there’s not a creature in the house except Toby and the boys; and they’re safe enough. See here!’
‘What do you think now?’ said the Jew when they were back in the hallway. ‘Besides us, there’s no one in the house except Toby and the boys; and they’re fine. Look at this!’
As a proof of the fact, the Jew drew forth two keys from his pocket; and explained, that when he first went downstairs, he had locked them in, to prevent any intrusion on the conference.
As proof of this, the Jew pulled two keys from his pocket and explained that when he first went downstairs, he had locked them in to prevent anyone from interrupting the meeting.
This accumulated testimony effectually staggered Mr. Monks. His protestations had gradually become less and less vehement as they proceeded in their search without making any discovery; and, now, he gave vent to several very grim laughs, and confessed it could only have been his excited imagination. He declined any renewal of the conversation, however, for that night: suddenly remembering that it was past one o’clock. And so the amiable couple parted.
This gathered evidence completely stunned Mr. Monks. His protests had slowly become less intense as they continued their search without finding anything; now, he let out a few dark laughs and admitted it must have just been his overactive imagination. However, he didn't want to continue the conversation that night, suddenly realizing it was past one o'clock. And so, the friendly couple went their separate ways.
CHAPTER XXVII — ATONES FOR THE UNPOLITENESS OF A FORMER CHAPTER; WHICH DESERTED A LADY, MOST UNCEREMONIOUSLY
As it would be, by no means, seemly in a humble author to keep so mighty a personage as a beadle waiting, with his back to the fire, and the skirts of his coat gathered up under his arms, until such time as it might suit his pleasure to relieve him; and as it would still less become his station, or his gallantry to involve in the same neglect a lady on whom that beadle had looked with an eye of tenderness and affection, and in whose ear he had whispered sweet words, which, coming from such a quarter, might well thrill the bosom of maid or matron of whatsoever degree; the historian whose pen traces these words—trusting that he knows his place, and that he entertains a becoming reverence for those upon earth to whom high and important authority is delegated—hastens to pay them that respect which their position demands, and to treat them with all that duteous ceremony which their exalted rank, and (by consequence) great virtues, imperatively claim at his hands. Towards this end, indeed, he had purposed to introduce, in this place, a dissertation touching the divine right of beadles, and elucidative of the position, that a beadle can do no wrong: which could not fail to have been both pleasurable and profitable to the right-minded reader but which he is unfortunately compelled, by want of time and space, to postpone to some more convenient and fitting opportunity; on the arrival of which, he will be prepared to show, that a beadle properly constituted: that is to say, a parochial beadle, attached to a parochial workhouse, and attending in his official capacity the parochial church: is, in right and virtue of his office, possessed of all the excellences and best qualities of humanity; and that to none of those excellences, can mere companies’ beadles, or court-of-law beadles, or even chapel-of-ease beadles (save the last, and they in a very lowly and inferior degree), lay the remotest sustainable claim.
As it wouldn't be appropriate for a humble author to keep a significant figure like a beadle waiting, standing with his back to the fire and his coat gathered up under his arms, until it suits his convenience to let him go; and as it would be even more inappropriate for him, or his sense of honor, to neglect a lady whom that beadle gazed at with affection and whose ear he had whispered sweet words to—words that, coming from someone like him, could easily resonate with any woman, young or old—this writer, who pens these words, trusting that he understands his position and respects those on earth who hold high authority, is eager to give them the respect their status deserves and treat them with the proper ceremony that their elevated rank and associated virtues rightfully demand from him. To that end, he intended to include here a discussion about the divine right of beadles, illustrating the idea that a beadle can do no wrong, which would surely be delightful and beneficial to any sensible reader. Unfortunately, due to time and space constraints, he must postpone it to a more appropriate occasion; at that time, he will be ready to demonstrate that a properly appointed beadle, specifically a parochial beadle linked to a parochial workhouse and fulfilling his official role at the parochial church, possesses all the best qualities and virtues of humanity. He will also argue that none of those qualities can be claimed by mere company beadles, court beadles, or even chapel beadles (except for the latter, and even then in a very minor and inferior way).
Mr. Bumble had re-counted the teaspoons, re-weighed the sugar-tongs, made a closer inspection of the milk-pot, and ascertained to a nicety the exact condition of the furniture, down to the very horse-hair seats of the chairs; and had repeated each process full half a dozen times; before he began to think that it was time for Mrs. Corney to return. Thinking begets thinking; as there were no sounds of Mrs. Corney’s approach, it occured to Mr. Bumble that it would be an innocent and virtuous way of spending the time, if he were further to allay his curiousity by a cursory glance at the interior of Mrs. Corney’s chest of drawers.
Mr. Bumble had counted the teaspoons again, weighed the sugar tongs, given the milk pot a closer look, and checked the furniture carefully, right down to the horsehair seats of the chairs; and he had gone through each of these routines at least six times before he started to think it was time for Mrs. Corney to come back. One thought led to another; since there were no signs of Mrs. Corney approaching, Mr. Bumble figured it would be a harmless and good way to pass the time if he took a quick peek inside Mrs. Corney’s chest of drawers.
Having listened at the keyhole, to assure himself that nobody was approaching the chamber, Mr. Bumble, beginning at the bottom, proceeded to make himself acquainted with the contents of the three long drawers: which, being filled with various garments of good fashion and texture, carefully preserved between two layers of old newspapers, speckled with dried lavender: seemed to yield him exceeding satisfaction. Arriving, in course of time, at the right-hand corner drawer (in which was the key), and beholding therein a small padlocked box, which, being shaken, gave forth a pleasant sound, as of the chinking of coin, Mr. Bumble returned with a stately walk to the fireplace; and, resuming his old attitude, said, with a grave and determined air, ‘I’ll do it!’ He followed up this remarkable declaration, by shaking his head in a waggish manner for ten minutes, as though he were remonstrating with himself for being such a pleasant dog; and then, he took a view of his legs in profile, with much seeming pleasure and interest.
Having listened at the keyhole to make sure no one was coming to the room, Mr. Bumble started from the bottom and began to check out the contents of the three long drawers. Filled with various stylish and well-made clothes, carefully stored between two layers of old newspapers sprinkled with dried lavender, they seemed to give him great satisfaction. Eventually reaching the right-hand corner drawer (which held the key), he saw a small padlocked box inside that, when shaken, made a pleasing sound like clinking coins. Mr. Bumble walked back to the fireplace with a proud stride and, taking up his old position, declared with a serious and resolute expression, “I’ll do it!” He followed this notable statement by shaking his head playfully for ten minutes, as if he were scolding himself for being such a charming fellow; then, he admired his legs in profile with much apparent enjoyment and interest.
He was still placidly engaged in this latter survey, when Mrs. Corney, hurrying into the room, threw herself, in a breathless state, on a chair by the fireside, and covering her eyes with one hand, placed the other over her heart, and gasped for breath.
He was still calmly involved in this latter observation when Mrs. Corney rushed into the room, collapsed breathlessly into a chair by the fireplace, and covering her eyes with one hand, placed the other over her heart and gasped for air.
‘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.’
‘Mrs. Corney,’ said Mr. Bumble, leaning over the matron, ‘what's going on, ma’am? Did something happen, ma’am? Please answer me: I’m on—on—’ Mr. Bumble, in his panic, couldn't immediately come up with the word ‘tenterhooks,’ so he said ‘broken bottles.’
‘Oh, Mr. Bumble!’ cried the lady, ‘I have been so dreadfully put out!’
‘Oh, Mr. Bumble!’ the lady exclaimed, ‘I have been so incredibly upset!’
‘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!’
‘Put it out, ma’am!’ exclaimed Mr. Bumble; ‘who has dared to—? I know!’ said Mr. Bumble, stopping himself, with natural authority, ‘these are those wicked poor people!’
‘It’s dreadful to think of!’ said the lady, shuddering.
“It’s awful to think about!” said the woman, shuddering.
‘Then don’t think of it, ma’am,’ rejoined Mr. Bumble.
‘Then don’t think about it, ma’am,’ Mr. Bumble replied.
‘I can’t help it,’ whimpered the lady.
‘I can’t help it,’ the lady said, sounding upset.
‘Then take something, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bumble soothingly. ‘A little of the wine?’
‘Then take something, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bumble in a calming tone. ‘A little of the wine?’
‘Not for the world!’ replied Mrs. Corney. ‘I couldn’t,—oh! The top shelf in the right-hand corner—oh!’ Uttering these words, the good lady pointed, distractedly, to the cupboard, and underwent a convulsion from internal spasms. Mr. Bumble rushed to the closet; and, snatching a pint green-glass bottle from the shelf thus incoherently indicated, filled a tea-cup with its contents, and held it to the lady’s lips.
‘Not for the world!’ replied Mrs. Corney. ‘I couldn’t,—oh! The top shelf in the right-hand corner—oh!’ Saying this, the good lady pointed frantically to the cupboard and experienced a spasm of pain. Mr. Bumble rushed to the closet, grabbed a pint green glass bottle from the shelf she had pointed to, filled a teacup with its contents, and held it to the lady’s lips.
‘I’m better now,’ said Mrs. Corney, falling back, after drinking half of it.
‘I’m feeling good now,’ said Mrs. Corney, leaning 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.
Mr. Bumble looked up at the ceiling with a grateful expression, and, bringing his gaze back to the edge of the cup, brought it up to his nose.
‘Peppermint,’ exclaimed Mrs. Corney, in a faint voice, smiling gently on the beadle as she spoke. ‘Try it! There’s a little—a little something else in it.’
‘Peppermint,’ Mrs. Corney said softly, smiling gently at 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.
Mr. Bumble took a sip of the medicine, looking unsure; smacked his lips; took another sip; and set the empty cup down.
‘It’s very comforting,’ said Mrs. Corney.
“It’s really comforting,” Mrs. Corney said.
‘Very much so indeed, ma’am,’ said the beadle. As he spoke, he drew a chair beside the matron, and tenderly inquired what had happened to distress her.
‘Absolutely, ma’am,’ said the beadle. As he spoke, he pulled up a chair next to the matron and gently asked what had upset her.
‘Nothing,’ replied Mrs. Corney. ‘I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur.’
“Nothing,” replied Mrs. Corney. “I’m just a silly, emotional, weak person.”
‘Not weak, ma’am,’ retorted Mr. Bumble, drawing his chair a little closer. ‘Are you a weak creetur, Mrs. Corney?’
‘Not weak, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Bumble, moving his chair a bit closer. ‘Are you a weak creature, Mrs. Corney?’
‘We are all weak creeturs,’ said Mrs. Corney, laying down a general principle.
‘We are all weak creatures,’ said Mrs. Corney, stating a general principle.
‘So we are,’ said the beadle.
‘So we are,’ said the beadle.
Nothing was said on either side, for a minute or two afterwards. By the expiration of that time, Mr. Bumble had illustrated the position by removing his left arm from the back of Mrs. Corney’s chair, where it had previously rested, to Mrs. Corney’s apron-string, round which it gradually became entwined.
Nothing was said by either of them for a minute or two afterward. After that time, Mr. Bumble demonstrated the situation by moving his left arm from the back of Mrs. Corney's chair, where it had been resting, to Mrs. Corney's apron string, which it slowly wrapped around.
‘We are all weak creeturs,’ said Mr. Bumble.
'We're all weak creatures,' said Mr. Bumble.
Mrs. Corney sighed.
Mrs. Corney sighed.
‘Don’t sigh, Mrs. Corney,’ said Mr. Bumble.
‘Don’t sigh, Mrs. Corney,’ said Mr. Bumble.
‘I can’t help it,’ said Mrs. Corney. And she sighed again.
‘I can’t help it,’ Mrs. Corney said, sighing once more.
‘This is a very comfortable room, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bumble looking round. ‘Another room, and this, ma’am, would be a complete thing.’
‘This is a really comfortable room, ma'am,’ said Mr. Bumble, looking around. ‘One more room, and this, ma'am, would be perfect.’
‘It would be too much for one,’ murmured the lady.
"It would be too much for one person," the lady whispered.
‘But not for two, ma’am,’ rejoined Mr. Bumble, in soft accents. ‘Eh, Mrs. Corney?’
‘But not for two, ma’am,’ Mr. Bumble replied gently. ‘Right, Mrs. Corney?’
Mrs. Corney drooped her head, when the beadle said this; the beadle drooped his, to get a view of Mrs. Corney’s face. Mrs. Corney, with great propriety, turned her head away, and released her hand to get at her pocket-handkerchief; but insensibly replaced it in that of Mr. Bumble.
Mrs. Corney lowered her head when the beadle said this; the beadle lowered his to see Mrs. Corney’s face. Mrs. Corney, acting with great decorum, turned her head away and let go of her hand to reach for her tissue; but without realizing it, she placed it back in Mr. Bumble's hand.
‘The board allows you coals, don’t they, Mrs. Corney?’ inquired the beadle, affectionately pressing her hand.
‘The board gives you coals, right, Mrs. Corney?’ asked the beadle, affectionately squeezing her hand.
‘And candles,’ replied Mrs. Corney, slightly returning the pressure.
‘And candles,’ replied Mrs. Corney, lightly pushing back.
‘Coals, candles, and house-rent free,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘Oh, Mrs. Corney, what an Angel you are!’
‘Coals, candles, and free rent,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘Oh, Mrs. Corney, what an angel you are!’
The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She sank into Mr. Bumble’s arms; and that gentleman in his agitation, imprinted a passionate kiss upon her chaste nose.
The woman couldn't resist this wave of emotion. She fell into Mr. Bumble's arms; and in his excitement, he placed a passionate kiss on her innocent nose.
‘Such porochial perfection!’ exclaimed Mr. Bumble, rapturously. ‘You know that Mr. Stout is worse to-night, my fascinator?’
‘Such local perfection!’ exclaimed Mr. Bumble, enthusiastically. ‘You know that Mr. Stout is worse tonight, my charm?’
‘Yes,’ replied Mrs. Corney, bashfully.
"Yeah," replied Mrs. Corney, shyly.
‘He can’t live a week, the doctor says,’ pursued Mr. Bumble. ‘He is the master of this establishment; his death will cause a wacancy; that wacancy must be filled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this opens! What a opportunity for a jining of hearts and housekeepings!’
‘He can’t make it through the week, the doctor says,’ continued Mr. Bumble. ‘He is in charge of this place; his death will leave a vacancy; that vacancy needs to be filled. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a future this presents! What a chance for a joining of hearts and household!’
Mrs. Corney sobbed.
Mrs. Corney cried.
‘The little word?’ said Mr. Bumble, bending over the bashful beauty. ‘The one little, little, little word, my blessed Corney?’
‘The little word?’ said Mr. Bumble, leaning over the shy beauty. ‘The one tiny, tiny, tiny word, my dear Corney?’
‘Ye—ye—yes!’ sighed out the matron.
"Yes!" sighed the matron.
‘One more,’ pursued the beadle; ‘compose your darling feelings for only one more. When is it to come off?’
‘One more,’ continued the beadle; ‘hold your emotions in check just this once. When is it going to happen?’
Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak: and twice failed. At length summoning up courage, she threw her arms around Mr. Bumble’s neck, and said, it might be as soon as ever he pleased, and that he was ‘a irresistible duck.’
Mrs. Corney tried to talk twice but couldn't. Finally, gathering her courage, she wrapped her arms around Mr. Bumble's neck and said that it could be whenever he wanted and that he was 'an irresistible duck.'
Matters being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged, the contract was solemnly ratified in another teacupful of the peppermint mixture; which was rendered the more necessary, by the flutter and agitation of the lady’s spirits. While it was being disposed of, she acquainted Mr. Bumble with the old woman’s decease.
Matters being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged, the contract was solemnly confirmed with another cup of the peppermint mixture, which was even more necessary due to the lady’s nervousness. While she was finishing it, she informed Mr. Bumble about the old woman's death.
‘Very good,’ said that gentleman, sipping his peppermint; ‘I’ll call at Sowerberry’s as I go home, and tell him to send to-morrow morning. Was it that as frightened you, love?’
“Very good,” said that guy, sipping his peppermint. “I’ll stop by Sowerberry’s on my way home and tell him to send it tomorrow morning. Was that what scared you, love?”
‘It wasn’t anything particular, dear,’ said the lady evasively.
“It wasn’t anything specific, dear,” the lady said vaguely.
‘It must have been something, love,’ urged Mr. Bumble. ‘Won’t you tell your own B.?’
‘It must have been something, love,’ insisted Mr. Bumble. ‘Won’t you tell your own B.?’
‘Not now,’ rejoined the lady; ‘one of these days. After we’re married, dear.’
‘Not now,’ replied 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—’
‘After we’re married!’ exclaimed Mr. Bumble. ‘It wasn’t any disrespect from any of those male beggars that—’
‘No, no, love!’ interposed the lady, hastily.
‘No, no, babe!’ the lady quickly interrupted.
‘If I thought it was,’ continued Mr. Bumble; ‘if I thought as any one of ‘em had dared to lift his wulgar eyes to that lovely countenance—’
‘If I thought it was,’ continued Mr. Bumble; ‘if I thought any one of them had dared to lift their vulgar eyes to that beautiful face—’
‘They wouldn’t have dared to do it, love,’ responded the lady.
“They wouldn’t have dared to do that, dear,” replied 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!’
‘They better not!’ said Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist. ‘Let me see any man, local or otherwise, who would dare to do it; and I can assure him he wouldn’t do it a second time!’
Unembellished by any violence of gesticulation, this might have seemed no very high compliment to the lady’s charms; but, as Mr. Bumble accompanied the threat with many warlike gestures, she was much touched with this proof of his devotion, and protested, with great admiration, that he was indeed a dove.
Unaccompanied by any exaggerated gestures, this might not have seemed like a significant compliment to the woman's beauty; however, since Mr. Bumble accompanied the threat with many dramatic gestures, she was quite moved by this display of his devotion and remarked, with much admiration, that he truly was 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.
The dove then turned up his coat collar and put on his tricorn hat; after sharing a long and affectionate embrace with his future partner, he once again faced the cold night wind. He paused for a few minutes in the male paupers’ ward to belittle them a bit, wanting to reassure himself that he could handle the job of workhouse master with the necessary harshness. Confident in his abilities, Mr. Bumble left the building feeling lighthearted, filled with bright visions of his future promotion, which kept him company until he reached the undertaker's shop.
Now, Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry having gone out to tea and supper: and Noah Claypole not being at any time disposed to take upon himself a greater amount of physical exertion than is necessary to a convenient performance of the two functions of eating and drinking, the shop was not closed, although it was past the usual hour of shutting-up. Mr. Bumble tapped with his cane on the counter several times; but, attracting no attention, and beholding a light shining through the glass-window of the little parlour at the back of the shop, he made bold to peep in and see what was going forward; and when he saw what was going forward, he was not a little surprised.
Now, Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry had gone out for tea and dinner, and Noah Claypole was never keen on doing any more physical work than necessary for eating and drinking, so the shop was still open even though it was past the usual closing time. Mr. Bumble tapped his cane on the counter a few times, but when he got no response and noticed a light shining through the glass window of the small parlor at the back of the shop, he decided to peek in and see what was going on. When he saw what was happening, he was quite surprised.
The cloth was laid for supper; the table was covered with bread and butter, plates and glasses; a porter-pot and a wine-bottle. At the upper end of the table, Mr. Noah Claypole lolled negligently in an easy-chair, with his legs thrown over one of the arms: an open clasp-knife in one hand, and a mass of buttered bread in the other. Close beside him stood Charlotte, opening oysters from a barrel: which Mr. Claypole condescended to swallow, with remarkable avidity. A more than ordinary redness in the region of the young gentleman’s nose, and a kind of fixed wink in his right eye, denoted that he was in a slight degree intoxicated; these symptoms were confirmed by the intense relish with which he took his oysters, for which nothing but a strong appreciation of their cooling properties, in cases of internal fever, could have sufficiently accounted.
The cloth was set for dinner; the table was filled with bread and butter, plates and glasses; a pitcher and a wine bottle. At the head of the table, Mr. Noah Claypole lounged casually in an armchair, with his legs draped over one of the arms: an open pocket knife in one hand, and a chunk of buttered bread in the other. Right next to him stood Charlotte, opening oysters from a barrel, which Mr. Claypole eagerly devoured. A notable flush on the young man's nose and a kind of fixed blink in his right eye indicated that he was a bit drunk; these signs were further confirmed by the enthusiasm with which he consumed his oysters, which could only be explained by a strong appreciation for their refreshing qualities, especially in cases of internal heat.
Original
‘Here’s a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!’ said Charlotte; ‘try him, do; only this one.’
‘Here’s a tasty big one, Noah, dear!’ said Charlotte; ‘go ahead, try it; just 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?’
‘What a delicious thing an oyster is!’ Mr. Claypole said after he swallowed it. ‘Isn't it a shame that a bunch of them can ever make you feel uncomfortable? Right, Charlotte?’
‘It’s quite a cruelty,’ said Charlotte.
"It's really cruel," Charlotte said.
‘So it is,’ acquiesced Mr. Claypole. ‘An’t yer fond of oysters?’
‘So it is,’ agreed Mr. Claypole. ‘Aren’t you a fan of oysters?’
‘Not overmuch,’ replied Charlotte. ‘I like to see you eat ‘em, Noah dear, better than eating ‘em myself.’
‘Not too much,’ replied Charlotte. ‘I prefer watching you eat them, Noah dear, than eating them myself.’
‘Lor!’ said Noah, reflectively; ‘how queer!’
‘Wow!’ said Noah, thoughtfully; ‘how strange!’
‘Have another,’ said Charlotte. ‘Here’s one with such a beautiful, delicate beard!’
“Have another,” said Charlotte. “Here’s one with such a beautiful, delicate beard!”
‘I can’t manage any more,’ said Noah. ‘I’m very sorry. Come here, Charlotte, and I’ll kiss yer.’
‘I can’t handle it anymore,’ said Noah. ‘I’m really sorry. Come here, Charlotte, and I’ll kiss you.’
‘What!’ said Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room. ‘Say that again, sir.’
‘What!’ Mr. Bumble exclaimed as he burst into the room. ‘Say that again, sir.’
Charlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face in her apron. Mr. Claypole, without making any further change in his position than suffering his legs to reach the ground, gazed at the beadle in drunken terror.
Charlotte screamed and buried her face in her apron. Mr. Claypole, without changing his position except for letting his legs touch the ground, stared at the beadle in a drunken panic.
‘Say it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘How dare you mention such a thing, sir? And how dare you encourage him, you insolent minx? Kiss her!’ exclaimed Mr. Bumble, in strong indignation. ‘Faugh!’
“Say it again, you wild, bold guy!” said Mr. Bumble. “How dare you bring that up, sir? And how dare you encourage him, you disrespectful girl? Kiss her!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, clearly upset. “Ugh!”
‘I didn’t mean to do it!’ said Noah, blubbering. ‘She’s always a-kissing of me, whether I like it, or not.’
‘I didn't mean to do it!’ said Noah, crying. ‘She’s always kissing me, whether I like it or not.’
‘Oh, Noah,’ cried Charlotte, reproachfully.
“Oh, Noah,” Charlotte exclaimed, reproachfully.
‘Yer are; yer know yer are!’ retorted Noah. ‘She’s always a-doin’ of it, Mr. Bumble, sir; she chucks me under the chin, please, sir; and makes all manner of love!’
"You're right; you know you are!" Noah shot back. "She’s always doing that, Mr. Bumble, sir; she pinches me under the chin, please, sir; and acts all affectionate!"
‘Silence!’ cried Mr. Bumble, sternly. ‘Take yourself downstairs, ma’am. Noah, you shut up the shop; say another word till your master comes home, at your peril; and, when he does come home, tell him that Mr. Bumble said he was to send a old woman’s shell after breakfast to-morrow morning. Do you hear sir? Kissing!’ cried Mr. Bumble, holding up his hands. ‘The sin and wickedness of the lower orders in this porochial district is frightful! If Parliament don’t take their abominable courses under consideration, this country’s ruined, and the character of the peasantry gone for ever!’ With these words, the beadle strode, with a lofty and gloomy air, from the undertaker’s premises.
‘Silence!’ shouted Mr. Bumble, seriously. ‘Go downstairs, ma’am. Noah, you close the shop; say another word until your boss gets home, and you’ll regret it; and when he does get home, tell him that Mr. Bumble said he needs to send an old woman’s shell after breakfast tomorrow morning. Do you hear me, sir? Kissing!’ yelled Mr. Bumble, raising his hands. ‘The sin and wickedness of the lower classes in this parish is terrifying! If Parliament doesn’t consider their outrageous behavior, this country’s doomed, and the reputation of the working class will be lost forever!’ With these words, the beadle strode away from the undertaker’s shop, looking proud and gloomy.
And now that we have accompanied him so far on his road home, and have made all necessary preparations for the old woman’s funeral, let us set on foot a few inquires after young Oliver Twist, and ascertain whether he be still lying in the ditch where Toby Crackit left him.
And now that we've gone along with him on his way home and taken care of everything needed for the old woman’s funeral, let’s start looking into young Oliver Twist and find out if he’s still lying in the ditch where Toby Crackit left him.
CHAPTER XXVIII — LOOKS AFTER OLIVER, AND PROCEEDS WITH HIS ADVENTURES
‘Wolves tear your throats!’ muttered Sikes, grinding his teeth. ‘I wish I was among some of you; you’d howl the hoarser for it.’
As Sikes growled forth this imprecation, with the most desperate ferocity that his desperate nature was capable of, he rested the body of the wounded boy across his bended knee; and turned his head, for an instant, to look back at his pursuers.
As Sikes snarled this curse, with the most intense rage his desperate nature could muster, he laid the body of the injured boy across his bent knee and briefly turned his head to glance back at his pursuers.
There was little to be made out, in the mist and darkness; but the loud shouting of men vibrated through the air, and the barking of the neighbouring dogs, roused by the sound of the alarm bell, resounded in every direction.
There wasn’t much to see in the mist and darkness, but the loud shouting of men echoed through the air, and the barking of nearby dogs, awakened by the sound of the alarm bell, rang out in every direction.
‘Stop, you white-livered hound!’ cried the robber, shouting after Toby Crackit, who, making the best use of his long legs, was already ahead. ‘Stop!’
‘Stop, you cowardly dog!’ shouted the robber, calling out to Toby Crackit, who, taking full advantage of his long legs, was already in front. ‘Stop!’
The repetition of the word, brought Toby to a dead stand-still. For he was not quite satisfied that he was beyond the range of pistol-shot; and Sikes was in no mood to be played with.
The repetition of the word brought Toby to a complete stop. He wasn't entirely sure he was out of pistol range, and Sikes was not in the mood to be messed with.
‘Bear a hand with the boy,’ cried Sikes, beckoning furiously to his confederate. ‘Come back!’
‘Help the boy,’ yelled Sikes, waving urgently to his partner. ‘Come back!’
Toby made a show of returning; but ventured, in a low voice, broken for want of breath, to intimate considerable reluctance as he came slowly along.
Toby pretended to come back; but quietly, struggling to catch his breath, he hinted at his strong hesitation as he walked slowly.
‘Quicker!’ cried Sikes, laying the boy in a dry ditch at his feet, and drawing a pistol from his pocket. ‘Don’t play booty with me.’
‘Faster!’ shouted Sikes, placing the boy in a dry ditch at his feet and pulling a pistol from his pocket. ‘Don’t mess with me.’
At this moment the noise grew louder. Sikes, again looking round, could discern that the men who had given chase were already climbing the gate of the field in which he stood; and that a couple of dogs were some paces in advance of them.
At this moment, the noise got louder. Sikes, looking around again, could see that the men who had pursued him were already climbing over the gate of the field where he was standing, and a couple of dogs were a few paces ahead of them.
‘It’s all up, Bill!’ cried Toby; ‘drop the kid, and show ‘em your heels.’ With this parting advice, Mr. Crackit, preferring the chance of being shot by his friend, to the certainty of being taken by his enemies, fairly turned tail, and darted off at full speed. Sikes clenched his teeth; took one look around; threw over the prostrate form of Oliver, the cape in which he had been hurriedly muffled; ran along the front of the hedge, as if to distract the attention of those behind, from the spot where the boy lay; paused, for a second, before another hedge which met it at right angles; and whirling his pistol high into the air, cleared it at a bound, and was gone.
‘It’s all clear, Bill!’ shouted Toby; ‘drop the kid and run!’ With this last piece of advice, Mr. Crackit, choosing the risk of being shot by his friend over the certainty of getting caught by his enemies, turned tail and raced off at full speed. Sikes gritted his teeth; glanced around; threw the cape that had hurriedly covered Oliver over his motionless body; ran along the front of the hedge, trying to divert the attention of those behind from where the boy lay; paused for a moment before another hedge that met it at a right angle; and, swinging his pistol high into the air, cleared it in one leap, and was gone.
‘Ho, ho, there!’ cried a tremulous voice in the rear. ‘Pincher! Neptune! Come here, come here!’
'Hey, hey, back there!' cried a shaky voice from the back. 'Pincher! Neptune! Come here, come here!'
The dogs, who, in common with their masters, seemed to have no particular relish for the sport in which they were engaged, readily answered to the command. Three men, who had by this time advanced some distance into the field, stopped to take counsel together.
The dogs, like their owners, didn't seem particularly enthusiastic about the activity they were involved in, and they quickly responded to the command. Three men, who had by now wandered a fair distance into the field, paused to discuss things among themselves.
‘My advice, or, leastways, I should say, my orders, is,’ said the fattest man of the party, ‘that we ‘mediately go home again.’
‘My advice, or, at least, I should say, my orders, is,’ said the fattest man in the group, ‘that we should go home immediately.’
‘I am agreeable to anything which is agreeable to Mr. Giles,’ said a shorter man; who was by no means of a slim figure, and who was very pale in the face, and very polite: as frightened men frequently are.
‘I’m okay with anything that Mr. Giles is okay with,’ said a shorter man, who was definitely not slender, very pale in the face, and overly polite, as often happens with scared people.
‘I shouldn’t wish to appear ill-mannered, gentlemen,’ said the third, who had called the dogs back, ‘Mr. Giles ought to know.’
‘I don’t want to come off as rude, gentlemen,’ said the third man, who had called the dogs back, ‘Mr. Giles should be aware.’
‘Certainly,’ replied the shorter man; ‘and whatever Mr. Giles says, it isn’t our place to contradict him. No, no, I know my sitiwation! Thank my stars, I know my sitiwation.’ To tell the truth, the little man did seem to know his situation, and to know perfectly well that it was by no means a desirable one; for his teeth chattered in his head as he spoke.
“Of course,” replied the shorter man, “and whatever Mr. Giles says, it’s not our place to argue with him. No, no, I know my situation! Thank my lucky stars, I know my situation.” Honestly, the little man did seem to recognize his situation and knew very well it was anything but desirable; his teeth rattled in his head as he spoke.
‘You are afraid, Brittles,’ said Mr. Giles.
‘You’re scared, Brittles,’ said Mr. Giles.
‘I an’t,’ said Brittles.
"I ain't," said Brittles.
‘You are,’ said Giles.
"You are," said Giles.
‘You’re a falsehood, Mr. Giles,’ said Brittles.
‘You’re a liar, Mr. Giles,’ said Brittles.
‘You’re a lie, Brittles,’ said Mr. Giles.
‘You’re a lie, Brittles,’ Mr. Giles said.
Now, these four retorts arose from Mr. Giles’s taunt; and Mr. Giles’s taunt had arisen from his indignation at having the responsibility of going home again, imposed upon himself under cover of a compliment. The third man brought the dispute to a close, most philosophically.
Now, these four comebacks came from Mr. Giles’s insult; and Mr. Giles’s insult stemmed from his anger at being forced to take the responsibility of going home again, disguised as a compliment. The third man ended the argument in a very philosophical way.
‘I’ll tell you what it is, gentlemen,’ said he, ‘we’re all afraid.’
‘I’ll tell you what it is, guys,’ he said, ‘we’re all scared.’
‘Speak for yourself, sir,’ said Mr. Giles, who was the palest of the party.
“Speak for yourself, sir,” said Mr. Giles, who was the palest of the group.
‘So I do,’ replied the man. ‘It’s natural and proper to be afraid, under such circumstances. I am.’
‘So I do,’ replied the man. ‘It’s natural and right to be scared in situations like this. I am.’
‘So am I,’ said Brittles; ‘only there’s no call to tell a man he is, so bounceably.’
‘So am I,’ said Brittles; ‘but there’s no reason to tell someone that so bluntly.’
These frank admissions softened Mr. Giles, who at once owned that he was afraid; upon which, they all three faced about, and ran back again with the completest unanimity, until Mr. Giles (who had the shortest wind of the party, as was encumbered with a pitchfork) most handsomely insisted on stopping, to make an apology for his hastiness of speech.
These honest admissions softened Mr. Giles, who immediately admitted that he was scared; upon this, all three of them turned around and ran back together, completely in agreement, until Mr. Giles (who had the least endurance in the group, since he was carrying a pitchfork) graciously insisted on stopping to apologize for his hasty words.
‘But it’s wonderful,’ said Mr. Giles, when he had explained, ‘what a man will do, when his blood is up. I should have committed murder—I know I should—if we’d caught one of them rascals.’
‘But it’s amazing,’ said Mr. Giles, after he had explained, ‘what a person will do when they’re really fired up. I definitely would have committed murder—I know I would—if we’d caught one of those rascals.’
As the other two were impressed with a similar presentiment; and as their blood, like his, had all gone down again; some speculation ensued upon the cause of this sudden change in their temperament.
As the other two also felt a similar sense of foreboding, and since their blood, like his, had all settled down again, they began to wonder about the reason for this sudden shift in their mood.
‘I know what it was,’ said Mr. Giles; ‘it was the gate.’
‘I know what it was,’ Mr. Giles said; ‘it was the gate.’
‘I shouldn’t wonder if it was,’ exclaimed Brittles, catching at the idea.
"I wouldn't be surprised if it was," exclaimed Brittles, grasping the idea.
‘You may depend upon it,’ said Giles, ‘that that gate stopped the flow of the excitement. I felt all mine suddenly going away, as I was climbing over it.’
‘You can count on it,’ said Giles, ‘that gate killed the vibe. I felt all my excitement fade away as I was climbing over it.’
By a remarkable coincidence, the other two had been visited with the same unpleasant sensation at that precise moment. It was quite obvious, therefore, that it was the gate; especially as there was no doubt regarding the time at which the change had taken place, because all three remembered that they had come in sight of the robbers at the instant of its occurance.
By an amazing coincidence, the other two had also experienced the same unpleasant feeling at that exact moment. It was clear that it was the gate, especially since there was no doubt about the timing of the change, as all three recalled that they had seen the robbers the moment it happened.
This dialogue was held between the two men who had surprised the burglars, and a travelling tinker who had been sleeping in an outhouse, and who had been roused, together with his two mongrel curs, to join in the pursuit. Mr. Giles acted in the double capacity of butler and steward to the old lady of the mansion; Brittles was a lad of all-work: who, having entered her service a mere child, was treated as a promising young boy still, though he was something past thirty.
This conversation took place between the two men who had caught the burglars and a traveling handyman who had been sleeping in a shed and was woken up, along with his two mixed-breed dogs, to join the chase. Mr. Giles served as both the butler and manager for the elderly lady of the house, while Brittles was a general helper who, having started working for her as a child, was still seen as a promising young man even though he was well over thirty.
Encouraging each other with such converse as this; but, keeping very close together, notwithstanding, and looking apprehensively round, whenever a fresh gust rattled through the boughs; the three men hurried back to a tree, behind which they had left their lantern, lest its light should inform the thieves in what direction to fire. Catching up the light, they made the best of their way home, at a good round trot; and long after their dusky forms had ceased to be discernible, the light might have been seen twinkling and dancing in the distance, like some exhalation of the damp and gloomy atmosphere through which it was swiftly borne.
Encouraging each other with chatter like this; but sticking very close together, nonetheless, and looking around anxiously whenever a new gust rustled through the branches; the three men hurried back to a tree, where they had left their lantern, in case its light would give away to the thieves where to shoot. Grabbing the light, they hurried home at a quick pace; and long after their shadowy figures were no longer visible, the light could still be seen flickering and swaying in the distance, like some vapor rising from the damp and gloomy air that carried it swiftly away.
The air grew colder, as day came slowly on; and the mist rolled along the ground like a dense cloud of smoke. The grass was wet; the pathways, and low places, were all mire and water; the damp breath of an unwholesome wind went languidly by, with a hollow moaning. Still, Oliver lay motionless and insensible on the spot where Sikes had left him.
The air got colder as the day slowly approached, and the mist rolled along the ground like a thick cloud of smoke. The grass was wet; the paths and low areas were all mud and water; the chilly breath of an unhealthy wind drifted lazily by, making a hollow moaning sound. Still, Oliver lay still and unconscious in the spot where Sikes had left him.
Morning drew on apace. The air become more sharp and piercing, as its first dull hue—the death of night, rather than the birth of day—glimmered faintly in the sky. The objects which had looked dim and terrible in the darkness, grew more and more defined, and gradually resolved into their familiar shapes. The rain came down, thick and fast, and pattered noisily among the leafless bushes. But, Oliver felt it not, as it beat against him; for he still lay stretched, helpless and unconscious, on his bed of clay.
Morning approached quickly. The air became sharper and more intense, as its first dull color—the end of night, not the beginning of day—flickered faintly in the sky. The things that had seemed dim and frightening in the dark became clearer and slowly took on their familiar forms. The rain fell heavily and rapidly, creating a noisy patter among the leafless bushes. But Oliver didn’t feel it as it hit him; he still lay stretched out, powerless and unaware, on his bed of clay.
At length, a low cry of pain broke the stillness that prevailed; and uttering it, the boy awoke. His left arm, rudely bandaged in a shawl, hung heavy and useless at his side; the bandage was saturated with blood. He was so weak, that he could scarcely raise himself into a sitting posture; when he had done so, he looked feebly round for help, and groaned with pain. Trembling in every joint, from cold and exhaustion, he made an effort to stand upright; but, shuddering from head to foot, fell prostrate on the ground.
At last, a quiet cry of pain shattered the silence; and with that, the boy woke up. His left arm, awkwardly wrapped in a shawl, hung heavy and useless at his side; the bandage was soaked with blood. He felt so weak that he could barely sit up; once he managed to do so, he weakly looked around for help and groaned in pain. Shaking with cold and exhaustion, he tried to stand up straight, but trembling all over, he collapsed to the ground.
After a short return of the stupor in which he had been so long plunged, Oliver: urged by a creeping sickness at his heart, which seemed to warn him that if he lay there, he must surely die: got upon his feet, and essayed to walk. His head was dizzy, and he staggered to and fro like a drunken man. But he kept up, nevertheless, and, with his head drooping languidly on his breast, went stumbling onward, he knew not whither.
After a brief return to the daze he had been stuck in for so long, Oliver, driven by a nagging sickness in his heart that seemed to warn him he would surely die if he stayed there, got up and tried to walk. His head was spinning, and he swayed back and forth like a drunk person. But he kept going anyway, and with his head hanging weakly on his chest, he stumbled onward, not knowing where he was headed.
And now, hosts of bewildering and confused ideas came crowding on his mind. He seemed to be still walking between Sikes and Crackit, who were angrily disputing—for the very words they said, sounded in his ears; and when he caught his own attention, as it were, by making some violent effort to save himself from falling, he found that he was talking to them. Then, he was alone with Sikes, plodding on as on the previous day; and as shadowy people passed them, he felt the robber’s grasp upon his wrist. Suddenly, he started back at the report of firearms; there rose into the air, loud cries and shouts; lights gleamed before his eyes; all was noise and tumult, as some unseen hand bore him hurriedly away. Through all these rapid visions, there ran an undefined, uneasy consciousness of pain, which wearied and tormented him incessantly.
And now, a flood of confusing and bewildering thoughts rushed through his mind. It felt like he was still walking between Sikes and Crackit, who were arguing—he could hear their exact words in his ears; and when he made a strong effort to keep himself from falling, he realized he was talking to them. Then, he was alone with Sikes, trudging along just like the day before; and as shadowy figures passed by, he felt the robber's grip on his wrist. Suddenly, he jumped back at the sound of gunfire; loud cries and shouts filled the air; lights flashed before his eyes; everything was chaotic and noisy, as if some unseen force was pulling him away quickly. Through all these rapid images, there was a vague, unsettling awareness of pain that constantly wore him down and tormented him.
Thus he staggered on, creeping, almost mechanically, between the bars of gates, or through hedge-gaps as they came in his way, until he reached a road. Here the rain began to fall so heavily, that it roused him.
Thus he staggered on, moving almost like a robot, slipping between the bars of gates or through gaps in hedges as they appeared, until he reached a road. Here, the rain started pouring down so hard that it snapped him out of his daze.
He looked about, and saw that at no great distance there was a house, which perhaps he could reach. Pitying his condition, they might have compassion on him; and if they did not, it would be better, he thought, to die near human beings, than in the lonely open fields. He summoned up all his strength for one last trial, and bent his faltering steps towards it.
He looked around and saw a house not far away, which he might be able to reach. Feeling sorry for his situation, they might show him some kindness; and if they didn’t, he thought it would be better to die near people than in the empty fields. He gathered all his strength for one last effort and began to walk towards it.
As he drew nearer to this house, a feeling come over him that he had seen it before. He remembered nothing of its details; but the shape and aspect of the building seemed familiar to him.
As he got closer to this house, he felt like he had seen it before. He couldn't recall any details about it, but the shape and look of the building felt familiar to him.
That garden wall! On the grass inside, he had fallen on his knees last night, and prayed the two men’s mercy. It was the very house they had attempted to rob.
That garden wall! On the grass inside, he had dropped to his knees last night and begged for the mercy of the two men. It was the exact house they had tried to rob.
Oliver felt such fear come over him when he recognised the place, that, for the instant, he forgot the agony of his wound, and thought only of flight. Flight! He could scarcely stand: and if he were in full possession of all the best powers of his slight and youthful frame, whither could he fly? He pushed against the garden-gate; it was unlocked, and swung open on its hinges. He tottered across the lawn; climbed the steps; knocked faintly at the door; and, his whole strength failing him, sunk down against one of the pillars of the little portico.
Oliver was overwhelmed with fear when he recognized the place, so much so that for a moment, he forgot about the pain of his wound and thought only about escaping. Escape! He could barely stand, and even if he had all the strength of his slender, youthful body, where could he go? He pushed against the garden gate; it was unlocked and swung open on its hinges. He staggered across the lawn, climbed the steps, knocked weakly on the door, and as his strength gave out, he collapsed against one of the pillars of the small porch.
It happened that about this time, Mr. Giles, Brittles, and the tinker, were recruiting themselves, after the fatigues and terrors of the night, with tea and sundries, in the kitchen. Not that it was Mr. Giles’s habit to admit to too great familiarity the humbler servants: towards whom it was rather his wont to deport himself with a lofty affability, which, while it gratified, could not fail to remind them of his superior position in society. But, death, fires, and burglary, make all men equals; so Mr. Giles sat with his legs stretched out before the kitchen fender, leaning his left arm on the table, while, with his right, he illustrated a circumstantial and minute account of the robbery, to which his bearers (but especially the cook and housemaid, who were of the party) listened with breathless interest.
It just so happened that around this time, Mr. Giles, Brittles, and the tinker were unwinding from the stresses and scares of the night with tea and snacks in the kitchen. It wasn’t usually Mr. Giles’s style to be too familiar with the lower-ranking servants; he tended to treat them with a kind of lofty affability that, while flattering, served as a constant reminder of his higher status in society. However, death, fire, and burglary make everyone equal, so Mr. Giles was sitting with his legs stretched out in front of the kitchen hearth, leaning his left arm on the table while using his right hand to give a detailed and thorough account of the robbery. His audience (especially the cook and the housemaid, who were part of the group) listened with rapt attention.
‘It was about half-past two,’ said Mr. Giles, ‘or I wouldn’t swear that it mightn’t have been a little nearer three, when I woke up, and, turning round in my bed, as it might be so, (here Mr. Giles turned round in his chair, and pulled the corner of the table-cloth over him to imitate bed-clothes,) I fancied I heerd a noise.’
‘It was around two-thirty,’ said Mr. Giles, ‘or I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a bit closer to three, when I woke up, and, turning over in my bed, like this,’ (here Mr. Giles turned in his chair and pulled the edge of the tablecloth over him to mimic blankets,) ‘I thought I heard 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.
At this point in the story, the cook went pale and asked the housemaid to close the door; she asked Brittles, who asked the tinker, who pretended not to hear.
‘—Heerd a noise,’ continued Mr. Giles. ‘I says, at first, “This is illusion”; and was composing myself off to sleep, when I heerd the noise again, distinct.’
‘—I heard a noise,’ continued Mr. Giles. ‘I thought at first, “This is just my imagination”; and was working on falling asleep again, when I heard the noise again, clear as day.’
‘What sort of a noise?’ asked the cook.
‘What kind of noise?’ asked the cook.
‘A kind of a busting noise,’ replied Mr. Giles, looking round him.
“A sort of popping sound,” Mr. Giles replied, glancing around him.
‘More like the noise of powdering a iron bar on a nutmeg-grater,’ suggested Brittles.
‘More like the sound of grinding an 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.’
‘It was, when you heard it, sir,’ replied Mr. Giles; ‘but at that moment, it had a crashing sound. I pulled down the covers,’ continued Giles, rolling back the tablecloth, ‘sat up in bed; and listened.’
The cook and housemaid simultaneously ejaculated ‘Lor!’ and drew their chairs closer together.
The cook and housemaid both exclaimed, "Wow!" and pulled 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.”’
‘I heard it now, pretty clearly,’ Mr. Giles continued. ‘“Someone,” I said, “is trying to force a door or a window; what should we do? I’ll wake that poor kid, Brittles, and save him from getting killed in his sleep; otherwise,” I said, “his throat might get cut from one ear to the other, and he wouldn’t even realize it.”’
Here, all eyes were turned upon Brittles, who fixed his upon the speaker, and stared at him, with his mouth wide open, and his face expressive of the most unmitigated horror.
Here, everyone was looking at Brittles, who locked his gaze on the speaker, staring at him with his mouth wide open and his face showing pure horror.
‘I tossed off the clothes,’ said Giles, throwing away the table-cloth, and looking very hard at the cook and housemaid, ‘got softly out of bed; drew on a pair of—’
‘I took off the clothes,’ said Giles, tossing aside the tablecloth and looking intently at the cook and housemaid, ‘quietly got out of bed; put on a pair of—’
‘Ladies present, Mr. Giles,’ murmured the tinker.
‘Ladies present, Mr. Giles,’ whispered the handyman.
‘—Of shoes, sir,’ said Giles, turning upon him, and laying great emphasis on the word; ‘seized the loaded pistol that always goes upstairs with the plate-basket; and walked on tiptoes to his room. “Brittles,” I says, when I had woke him, “don’t be frightened!”’
‘—Of shoes, sir,’ said Giles, spinning around to face him and stressing the word; ‘grabbed the loaded pistol that always goes upstairs with the plate-basket; and quietly walked to his room. “Brittles,” I said when I had woken him, “don’t be scared!”’
‘So you did,’ observed Brittles, in a low voice.
‘So you did,’ Brittles noted softly.
‘“We’re dead men, I think, Brittles,” I says,’ continued Giles; ‘“but don’t be frightened.”’
‘“We’re dead men, I think, Brittles,” I said,’ continued Giles; ‘“but don’t be scared.”’
‘Was he frightened?’ asked the cook.
“Was he scared?” asked the cook.
‘Not a bit of it,’ replied Mr. Giles. ‘He was as firm—ah! pretty near as firm as I was.’
‘Not at all,’ replied Mr. Giles. ‘He was pretty much as firm as I was.’
‘I should have died at once, I’m sure, if it had been me,’ observed the housemaid.
‘I’m sure I would have died right away if it had been me,’ said the housemaid.
‘You’re a woman,’ retorted Brittles, plucking up a little.
‘You’re a woman,’ Brittles shot back, gaining a bit of confidence.
‘Brittles is right,’ said Mr. Giles, nodding his head, approvingly; ‘from a woman, nothing else was to be expected. We, being men, took a dark lantern that was standing on Brittle’s hob, and groped our way downstairs in the pitch dark,—as it might be so.’
‘Brittles is right,’ said Mr. Giles, nodding his head in agreement; ‘nothing else could be expected from a woman. We, being men, grabbed a dark lantern that was sitting on Brittle’s stove and felt our way downstairs in total darkness—as it might be.’
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.
Mr. Giles had gotten up from his seat and taken two steps with his eyes closed to add some drama to his story when he suddenly jumped back, just like everyone else in the room, and rushed back to his chair. The cook and housemaid screamed.
‘It was a knock,’ said Mr. Giles, assuming perfect serenity. ‘Open the door, somebody.’
‘It was a knock,’ Mr. Giles said, remaining completely calm. ‘Somebody open the door.’
Nobody moved.
No one moved.
‘It seems a strange sort of a thing, a knock coming at such a time in the morning,’ said Mr. Giles, surveying the pale faces which surrounded him, and looking very blank himself; ‘but the door must be opened. Do you hear, somebody?’
‘It seems odd to have a knock at this time in the morning,’ said Mr. Giles, looking at the pale faces around him, and appearing quite confused himself; ‘but we have to open the door. Do you hear me, someone?’
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.
Mr. Giles, while he spoke, glanced at Brittles; but that young man, being naturally modest, probably thought of himself as nobody, and so figured that the question didn’t apply to him; in any case, he didn’t respond. Mr. Giles shot an imploring look at the tinker; but he had suddenly fallen asleep. The women were not an option.
‘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.’
‘If Brittles would prefer to open the door in front of witnesses,’ said Mr. Giles, after a brief pause, ‘I’m willing to make that happen.’
‘So am I,’ said the tinker, waking up, as suddenly as he had fallen asleep.
‘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 upstairs; with the dogs in front. The two women, who were afraid to stay below, brought up the rear. By the advice of Mr. Giles, they all talked very loud, to warn any evil-disposed person outside, that they were strong in numbers; and by a master-stoke of policy, originating in the brain of the same ingenious gentleman, the dogs’ tails were well pinched, in the hall, to make them bark savagely.
Brittles agreed to these terms, and the group, feeling a bit more secure after discovering it was now broad daylight when they opened the shutters, headed upstairs, with the dogs leading the way. The two women, too scared to stay below, followed behind. Following Mr. Giles's advice, they all spoke loudly to let anyone with bad intentions outside know that they were a large group. Additionally, as part of a clever plan from Mr. Giles, they made sure to pinch the dogs' tails in the hall to get them to bark ferociously.
These precautions having been taken, Mr. Giles held on fast by the tinker’s arm (to prevent his running away, as he pleasantly said), and gave the word of command to open the door. Brittles obeyed; the group, peeping timorously over each other’s shoulders, beheld no more formidable object than poor little Oliver Twist, speechless and exhausted, who raised his heavy eyes, and mutely solicited their compassion.
These precautions having been taken, Mr. Giles held tightly onto the tinker’s arm (to keep him from running away, as he joked), and gave the command to open the door. Brittles complied; the group, peering nervously over each other’s shoulders, saw nothing more intimidating than poor little Oliver Twist, speechless and worn out, who raised his tired eyes and silently sought their compassion.
Original
‘A boy!’ exclaimed Mr. Giles, valiantly, pushing the tinker into the background. ‘What’s the matter with the—eh?—Why—Brittles—look here—don’t you know?’
‘A boy!’ exclaimed Mr. Giles, bravely pushing the tinker into the background. ‘What’s going on with the—eh?—Why—Brittles—look here—don’t you know?’
Brittles, who had got behind the door to open it, no sooner saw Oliver, than he uttered a loud cry. Mr. Giles, seizing the boy by one leg and one arm (fortunately not the broken limb) lugged him straight into the hall, and deposited him at full length on the floor thereof.
Brittles, who had gotten behind the door to open it, hardly saw Oliver before he let out a loud scream. Mr. Giles grabbed the boy by one leg and one arm (thankfully not the broken one) and dragged him right into the hallway, dropping him flat on the floor.
‘Here he is!’ bawled Giles, calling in a state of great excitement, up the staircase; ‘here’s one of the thieves, ma’am! Here’s a thief, miss! Wounded, miss! I shot him, miss; and Brittles held the light.’
‘Here he is!’ yelled Giles, calling up the staircase in a state of high excitement; ‘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.
‘—In a lantern, miss,’ shouted Brittles, cupping one hand around his mouth to make his voice carry better.
The two women-servants ran upstairs to carry the intelligence that Mr. Giles had captured a robber; and the tinker busied himself in endeavouring to restore Oliver, lest he should die before he could be hanged. In the midst of all this noise and commotion, there was heard a sweet female voice, which quelled it in an instant.
The two maidservants ran upstairs to deliver the news that Mr. Giles had caught a thief; and the tinker was busy trying to help Oliver recover, worried he might die before being executed. Amid all the noise and chaos, a beautiful female voice was heard, instantly silencing everything.
‘Giles!’ whispered the voice from the stair-head.
‘Giles!’ whispered the voice from the top of the stairs.
‘I’m here, miss,’ replied Mr. Giles. ‘Don’t be frightened, miss; I ain’t much injured. He didn’t make a very desperate resistance, miss! I was soon too many for him.’
‘I’m here, miss,’ replied Mr. Giles. ‘Don’t be scared, miss; I’m not hurt too badly. He didn’t put up much of a fight, miss! I quickly had the upper hand.’
‘Hush!’ replied the young lady; ‘you frighten my aunt as much as the thieves did. Is the poor creature much hurt?’
‘Hush!’ said the young woman. ‘You're scaring my aunt just like the thieves did. Is she badly hurt?’
‘Wounded desperate, miss,’ replied Giles, with indescribable complacency.
‘Wounded and desperate, miss,’ replied Giles, with an indescribable sense of satisfaction.
‘He looks as if he was a-going, miss,’ bawled Brittles, in the same manner as before. ‘Wouldn’t you like to come and look at him, miss, in case he should?’
‘He looks like he’s about to go, miss,’ shouted Brittles, just like before. ‘Wouldn’t you want to come and see him, miss, in case he does?’
‘Hush, pray; there’s a good man!’ rejoined the lady. ‘Wait quietly only one instant, while I speak to aunt.’
‘Hush, please; there’s a good man!’ replied the lady. ‘Just wait quietly for a moment while I talk to aunt.’
With a footstep as soft and gentle as the voice, the speaker tripped away. She soon returned, with the direction that the wounded person was to be carried, carefully, upstairs to Mr. Giles’s room; and that Brittles was to saddle the pony and betake himself instantly to Chertsey: from which place, he was to despatch, with all speed, a constable and doctor.
With a footstep as soft and gentle as her voice, the speaker walked away. She soon came back, giving instructions for the wounded person to be carried carefully upstairs to Mr. Giles’s room, and told Brittles to saddle the pony and head straight to Chertsey. From there, he was to quickly send for a constable and a doctor.
‘But won’t you take one look at him, first, miss?’ asked Mr. Giles, with as much pride as if Oliver were some bird of rare plumage, that he had skilfully brought down. ‘Not one little peep, miss?’
‘But won't you take a look at him first, miss?’ asked Mr. Giles, with as much pride as if Oliver were some rare bird that he had skillfully hunted down. ‘Not even a little peek, miss?’
‘Not now, for the world,’ replied the young lady. ‘Poor fellow! Oh! treat him kindly, Giles for my sake!’
‘Not right now, for the world,’ replied the young lady. ‘Poor guy! Oh! please be nice to him, Giles, for my sake!’
The old servant looked up at the speaker, as she turned away, with a glance as proud and admiring as if she had been his own child. Then, bending over Oliver, he helped to carry him upstairs, with the care and solicitude of a woman.
The elderly servant looked up at the speaker as she turned away, with a look as proud and admiring as if she were his own child. Then, bending over Oliver, he helped carry him upstairs with the same care and concern as a woman would.
CHAPTER XXIX — HAS AN INTRODUCTORY ACCOUNT OF THE INMATES OF THE HOUSE, TO WHICH OLIVER RESORTED
In a handsome room: though its furniture had rather the air of old-fashioned comfort, than of modern elegance: there sat two ladies at a well-spread breakfast-table. Mr. Giles, dressed with scrupulous care in a full suit of black, was in attendance upon them. He had taken his station some half-way between the side-board and the breakfast-table; and, with his body drawn up to its full height, his head thrown back, and inclined the merest trifle on one side, his left leg advanced, and his right hand thrust into his waist-coat, while his left hung down by his side, grasping a waiter, looked like one who laboured under a very agreeable sense of his own merits and importance.
In an attractive room, although its furniture had more of a cozy, old-fashioned vibe than modern elegance, two ladies were seated at a nicely set breakfast table. Mr. Giles, meticulously dressed in a full black suit, attended to them. He had positioned himself about halfway between the sideboard and the breakfast table, standing tall with his head held high and slightly tilted to one side, his left leg forward, right hand tucked into his waistcoat, while his left hand hung by his side holding a tray, looking like someone who felt quite pleased with himself and his significance.
Of the two ladies, one was well advanced in years; but the high-backed oaken chair in which she sat, was not more upright than she. Dressed with the utmost nicety and precision, in a quaint mixture of by-gone costume, with some slight concessions to the prevailing taste, which rather served to point the old style pleasantly than to impair its effect, she sat, in a stately manner, with her hands folded on the table before her. Her eyes (and age had dimmed but little of their brightness) were attentively upon her young companion.
Of the two women, one was quite old; however, the high-backed oak chair she sat in was just as upright as she was. Dressed with great care and precision, in a unique blend of old-fashioned attire with slight nods to current trends, which enhanced the vintage look rather than detracting from it, she sat in a dignified manner, with her hands folded on the table in front of her. Her eyes (age had dulled their brightness only slightly) were focused intently on her younger companion.
The younger lady was in the lovely bloom and spring-time of womanhood; at that age, when, if ever angels be for God’s good purposes enthroned in mortal forms, they may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in such as hers.
The young woman was in the beautiful prime of her womanhood; at that age when, if ever there are angels appointed by God to inhabit mortal bodies for good purposes, they might, without disrespect, be thought to dwell in someone like her.
She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould; so mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, nor its rough creatures her fit companions. The very intelligence that shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon her noble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of the world; and yet the changing expression of sweetness and good humour, the thousand lights that played about the face, and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside peace and happiness.
She was just under seventeen. With such a delicate and beautiful figure; so mild and gentle; so pure and lovely; it seemed like the earth wasn't her true place, and its rough creatures weren't her ideal friends. The intelligence that shined in her deep blue eyes and was marked on her noble forehead felt almost beyond her years, or from another world; and yet the ever-changing expressions of kindness and good humor, the countless glimmers dancing across her face, leaving no shadow behind; especially, the smile, the bright, happy smile, were meant for home, and the peace and joy of the fireside.
She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her.
She was busy with little tasks at the table. As she happened to glance up and noticed the older woman watching her, she playfully tucked her hair, which was simply braided across her forehead, and filled her bright expression with such warmth and natural beauty that it could have brought a smile to even the most angelic beings.
‘And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?’ asked the old lady, after a pause.
‘So Brittles has been gone for over an hour, huh?’ 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.
‘An hour and twelve minutes, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Giles, pulling out a silver watch attached to a black ribbon.
‘He is always slow,’ remarked the old lady.
‘He is always slow,’ said the old lady.
‘Brittles always was a slow boy, ma’am,’ replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one.
‘Brittles has always been a slow guy, ma’am,’ replied the attendant. And noticing, by the way, that Brittles had been a slow guy for over thirty years, there didn’t seem to be much chance of him ever being a fast one.
‘He gets worse instead of better, I think,’ said the elder lady.
‘I think he's getting worse instead of better,’ said the older lady.
‘It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys,’ said the young lady, smiling.
‘It’s really unacceptable for him to stop and play with any other boys,’ said the young lady, smiling.
Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a respectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate: out of which there jumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door: and who, getting quickly into the house by some mysterious process, burst into the room, and nearly overturned Mr. Giles and the breakfast-table together.
Mr. Giles seemed to be thinking about whether he should also indulge in a polite smile when a carriage pulled up to the garden gate. A plump man jumped out and hurried straight to the door. He managed to get into the house through some mysterious means and burst into the room, almost knocking over both Mr. Giles and the breakfast table.
‘I never heard of such a thing!’ exclaimed the fat gentleman. ‘My dear Mrs. Maylie—bless my soul—in the silence of the night, too—I never heard of such a thing!’
‘I’ve never heard of anything like that!’ exclaimed the overweight gentleman. ‘My dear Mrs. Maylie—goodness gracious—in the dead of night, too—I have 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.
With these words of sympathy, the heavyset man shook hands with both women, then pulled up a chair and asked how they were doing.
‘You ought to be dead; positively dead with the fright,’ said the fat gentleman. ‘Why didn’t you send? Bless me, my man should have come in a minute; and so would I; and my assistant would have been delighted; or anybody, I’m sure, under such circumstances. Dear, dear! So unexpected! In the silence of the night, too!’
‘You should be dead; absolutely dead from the fright,’ said the fat gentleman. ‘Why didn’t you send for help? Goodness, my servant would have been here in a minute; so would I; and my assistant would have been thrilled; or anyone, I’m sure, in such a situation. Oh dear! So unexpected! Especially in the quiet of the night, too!’
The doctor seemed expecially troubled by the fact of the robbery having been unexpected, and attempted in the night-time; as if it were the established custom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact business at noon, and to make an appointment, by post, a day or two previous.
The doctor appeared particularly disturbed by the robbery being unexpected and occurring at night, as if it were the usual practice for gentlemen involved in burglary to conduct their business at noon and to schedule an appointment by mail a day or two in advance.
‘And you, Miss Rose,’ said the doctor, turning to the young lady, ‘I—’
‘And you, Miss Rose,’ said the doctor, turning to the young woman, ‘I—’
‘Oh! very much so, indeed,’ said Rose, interrupting him; ‘but there is a poor creature upstairs, whom aunt wishes you to see.’
‘Oh! Absolutely,’ said Rose, interrupting him; ‘but there’s a poor person upstairs that my aunt wants you to see.’
‘Ah! to be sure,’ replied the doctor, ‘so there is. That was your handiwork, Giles, I understand.’
‘Oh! of course,’ replied the doctor, ‘so there is. That was your doing, Giles, I get it.’
Mr. Giles, who had been feverishly putting the tea-cups to rights, blushed very red, and said that he had had that honour.
Mr. Giles, who had been hurriedly arranging the tea cups, turned very red and said that he had that honor.
‘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.’
‘Honor, huh?’ said the doctor; ‘well, I don’t know; maybe it’s just as honorable to hit a thief in a back kitchen as it is to hit your opponent at twelve paces. Imagine he fired into the air, and you’ve had a duel, Giles.’
Mr. Giles, who thought this light treatment of the matter an unjust attempt at diminishing his glory, answered respectfully, that it was not for the like of him to judge about that; but he rather thought it was no joke to the opposite party.
Mr. Giles, who considered this casual approach to the issue an unfair attempt to undermine his reputation, replied politely that he wasn’t in a position to make that judgment; however, he believed it wasn’t a joke to the other side.
‘Gad, that’s true!’ said the doctor. ‘Where is he? Show me the way. I’ll look in again, as I come down, Mrs. Maylie. That’s the little window that he got in at, eh? Well, I couldn’t have believed it!’
‘Wow, that’s true!’ said the doctor. ‘Where is he? Show me the way. I’ll check in again on my way down, Mrs. Maylie. That’s the little window he came in through, right? Well, I couldn’t have believed it!’
Talking all the way, he followed Mr. Giles upstairs; and while he is going upstairs, the reader may be informed, that Mr. Losberne, a surgeon in the neighbourhood, known through a circuit of ten miles round as ‘the doctor,’ had grown fat, more from good-humour than from good living: and was as kind and hearty, and withal as eccentric an old bachelor, as will be found in five times that space, by any explorer alive.
Talking the whole way, he followed Mr. Giles upstairs; and while he's going up, the reader should know that Mr. Losberne, a surgeon in the area known as ‘the doctor’ within a ten-mile radius, had gained weight, more from being good-natured than from good food. He was as kind and cheerful, and also as eccentric, as any old bachelor you'd find in a much larger area, by any living explorer.
The doctor was absent, much longer than either he or the ladies had anticipated. A large flat box was fetched out of the gig; and a bedroom bell was rung very often; and the servants ran up and down stairs perpetually; from which tokens it was justly concluded that something important was going on above. At length he returned; and in reply to an anxious inquiry after his patient; looked very mysterious, and closed the door, carefully.
The doctor was gone much longer than he or the ladies expected. A large flat box was brought out of the carriage, and they rang the bedroom bell repeatedly; the servants were constantly running up and down the stairs. From these signs, it was clear that something significant was happening upstairs. Finally, he came back, and when asked anxiously about his patient, he looked very mysterious and carefully closed the door.
‘This is a very extraordinary thing, Mrs. Maylie,’ said the doctor, standing with his back to the door, as if to keep it shut.
‘This is quite an unusual thing, Mrs. Maylie,’ said the doctor, standing with his back to the door, as if to keep it closed.
‘He is not in danger, I hope?’ said the old lady.
‘He’s not in danger, I hope?’ said the old lady.
‘Why, that would not be an extraordinary thing, under the circumstances,’ replied the doctor; ‘though I don’t think he is. Have you seen the thief?’
‘Well, that wouldn’t not be an extraordinary thing, considering the situation,’ replied the doctor; ‘though I doubt it. Have you seen the thief?’
‘No,’ rejoined the old lady.
"No," replied the old lady.
‘Nor heard anything about him?’
"Have you heard anything about him?"
‘No.’
‘No.’
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am, interposed Mr. Giles; ‘but I was going to tell you about him when Doctor Losberne came in.’
"I apologize, ma'am," Mr. Giles interrupted. "But I was about to tell you about him when Doctor Losberne walked in."
The fact was, that Mr. Giles had not, at first, been able to bring his mind to the avowal, that he had only shot a boy. Such commendations had been bestowed upon his bravery, that he could not, for the life of him, help postponing the explanation for a few delicious minutes; during which he had flourished, in the very zenith of a brief reputation for undaunted courage.
The truth was, Mr. Giles had initially struggled to admit that he had only shot a boy. He had received so much praise for his bravery that he couldn't bring himself to explain it for a few delightful minutes, during which he relished being at the peak of his short-lived reputation for fearless courage.
‘Rose wished to see the man,’ said Mrs. Maylie, ‘but I wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘Rose wanted to see the man,’ Mrs. Maylie said, ‘but I wouldn’t allow it.’
‘Humph!’ rejoined the doctor. ‘There is nothing very alarming in his appearance. Have you any objection to see him in my presence?’
‘Humph!’ the doctor replied. ‘There’s nothing too concerning about his appearance. Do you have any issue with seeing him while I’m here?’
‘If it be necessary,’ replied the old lady, ‘certainly not.’
‘If it’s necessary,’ replied the old lady, ‘definitely not.’
‘Then I think it is necessary,’ said the doctor; ‘at all events, I am quite sure that you would deeply regret not having done so, if you postponed it. He is perfectly quiet and comfortable now. Allow me—Miss Rose, will you permit me? Not the slightest fear, I pledge you my honour!’
‘Then I think it’s necessary,’ said the doctor; ‘either way, I’m certain you’ll really regret not doing it if you wait. He’s perfectly calm and comfortable right now. Let me—Miss Rose, will you allow me? There’s not the slightest reason to worry, I promise you!’
CHAPTER XXX — RELATES WHAT OLIVER’S NEW VISITORS THOUGHT OF HIM
With many loquacious assurances that they would be agreeably surprised in the aspect of the criminal, the doctor drew the young lady’s arm through one of his; and offering his disengaged hand to Mrs. Maylie, led them, with much ceremony and stateliness, upstairs.
With plenty of chatty promises that they would be pleasantly surprised by the look of the criminal, the doctor took the young lady’s arm with one of his; and extending his free hand to Mrs. Maylie, he led them both upstairs with a lot of formality and grace.
‘Now,’ said the doctor, in a whisper, as he softly turned the handle of a bedroom-door, ‘let us hear what you think of him. He has not been shaved very recently, but he don’t look at all ferocious notwithstanding. Stop, though! Let me first see that he is in visiting order.’
‘Now,’ the doctor said quietly as he gently turned the handle of a bedroom door, ‘let's hear what you think of him. He hasn’t been shaved recently, but he doesn’t look fierce at all. Wait, though! Let me make sure he’s ready for visitors first.’
Stepping before them, he looked into the room. Motioning them to advance, he closed the door when they had entered; and gently drew back the curtains of the bed. Upon it, in lieu of the dogged, black-visaged ruffian they had expected to behold, there lay a mere child: worn with pain and exhaustion, and sunk into a deep sleep. His wounded arm, bound and splintered up, was crossed upon his breast; his head reclined upon the other arm, which was half hidden by his long hair, as it streamed over the pillow.
Stepping in front of them, he glanced into the room. He signaled for them to come forward, then closed the door once they entered and gently pulled back the bed curtains. Instead of the grim, intimidating criminal they had anticipated, there lay a mere child: worn out from pain and exhaustion, deeply asleep. His injured arm, bandaged and splintered, rested across his chest; his head leaned on the other arm, partially hidden by his long hair that cascaded over the pillow.
The honest gentleman held the curtain in his hand, and looked on, for a minute or so, in silence. Whilst he was watching the patient thus, the younger lady glided softly past, and seating herself in a chair by the bedside, gathered Oliver’s hair from his face. As she stooped over him, her tears fell upon his forehead.
The honest gentleman held the curtain in his hand and watched in silence for a minute or so. While he was observing the patient, the younger lady quietly slipped past, sat down in a chair by the bedside, and brushed Oliver’s hair away from his face. As she leaned over him, her tears fell onto his forehead.
The boy stirred, and smiled in his sleep, as though these marks of pity and compassion had awakened some pleasant dream of a love and affection he had never known. Thus, a strain of gentle music, or the rippling of water in a silent place, or the odour of a flower, or the mention of a familiar word, will sometimes call up sudden dim remembrances of scenes that never were, in this life; which vanish like a breath; which some brief memory of a happier existence, long gone by, would seem to have awakened; which no voluntary exertion of the mind can ever recall.
The boy stirred and smiled in his sleep, as if the signs of kindness and compassion had triggered a nice dream of love and affection he had never experienced. Just like a soft melody, the sound of water in a quiet place, the scent of a flower, or the mention of a familiar word can sometimes bring back fleeting vague memories of moments that never happened in this life; memories that disappear like a breath; memories that seem to have been stirred by a brief recollection of a happier time, long past, which no amount of conscious effort can ever bring back.
‘What can this mean?’ exclaimed the elder lady. ‘This poor child can never have been the pupil of robbers!’
‘What does this mean?’ exclaimed the older lady. ‘This poor child could never have been taught by criminals!’
‘Vice,’ said the surgeon, replacing the curtain, ‘takes up her abode in many temples; and who can say that a fair outside shell not enshrine her?’
‘Vice,’ said the surgeon, pulling the curtain back, ‘makes its home in many places; and who can say that a beautiful exterior doesn’t hide it?’
‘But at so early an age!’ urged Rose.
‘But at such a young age!’ insisted Rose.
‘My dear young lady,’ rejoined the surgeon, mournfully shaking his head; ‘crime, like death, is not confined to the old and withered alone. The youngest and fairest are too often its chosen victims.’
‘My dear young lady,’ the surgeon replied, sadly shaking his head; ‘crime, like death, isn’t limited to the old and frail. The youngest and most beautiful are often its most frequent victims.’
‘But, can you—oh! can you really believe that this delicate boy has been the voluntary associate of the worst outcasts of society?’ said Rose.
‘But, can you—oh! can you really believe that this delicate boy has chosen to associate with the worst outcasts of society?’ said Rose.
The surgeon shook his head, in a manner which intimated that he feared it was very possible; and observing that they might disturb the patient, led the way into an adjoining apartment.
The surgeon shook his head, suggesting that he was quite worried it was very possible; and noticing that they might disturb the patient, he led the way into a nearby room.
‘But even if he has been wicked,’ pursued Rose, ‘think how young he is; think that he may never have known a mother’s love, or the comfort of a home; that ill-usage and blows, or the want of bread, may have driven him to herd with men who have forced him to guilt. Aunt, dear aunt, for mercy’s sake, think of this, before you let them drag this sick child to a prison, which in any case must be the grave of all his chances of amendment. Oh! as you love me, and know that I have never felt the want of parents in your goodness and affection, but that I might have done so, and might have been equally helpless and unprotected with this poor child, have pity upon him before it is too late!’
‘But even if he’s done wrong,’ Rose continued, ‘consider how young he is; think about the fact that he may have never experienced a mother’s love or the comfort of a home; that abuse and hunger may have pushed him to associate with people who led him to make bad choices. Aunt, dear aunt, for mercy’s sake, keep this in mind before you allow them to take this sick child to a prison, which will only destroy any chance he has for change. Oh! As you love me, and know that I’ve never felt the absence of parents because of your kindness and affection, but that I could have been in his position, equally helpless and unprotected, have compassion for him before it’s too late!’
‘My dear love,’ said the elder lady, as she folded the weeping girl to her bosom, ‘do you think I would harm a hair of his head?’
‘My dear love,’ said the older woman, as she held the crying girl to her chest, ‘do you really think I would hurt a single hair on his head?’
‘Oh, no!’ replied Rose, eagerly.
‘Oh, no!’ Rose replied, eagerly.
‘No, surely,’ said the old lady; ‘my days are drawing to their close: and may mercy be shown to me as I show it to others! What can I do to save him, sir?’
‘No, surely,’ said the old lady; ‘my days are coming to an end: and may mercy be given to me as I give it to others! What can I do to save him, sir?’
‘Let me think, ma’am,’ said the doctor; ‘let me think.’
‘Let me think, ma’am,’ the doctor said. ‘Give me a moment to think.’
Mr. Losberne thrust his hands into his pockets, and took several turns up and down the room; often stopping, and balancing himself on his toes, and frowning frightfully. After various exclamations of ‘I’ve got it now’ and ‘no, I haven’t,’ and as many renewals of the walking and frowning, he at length made a dead halt, and spoke as follows:
Mr. Losberne shoved his hands into his pockets and paced back and forth across the room; he frequently stopped, balanced on his toes, and frowned intensely. After a series of exclamations like “I’ve got it now” and “no, I haven’t,” along with more walking and frowning, he finally came to a complete stop and said the following:
‘I think if you give me a full and unlimited commission to bully Giles, and that little boy, Brittles, I can manage it. Giles is a faithful fellow and an old servant, I know; but you can make it up to him in a thousand ways, and reward him for being such a good shot besides. You don’t object to that?’
‘I think if you give me a full and unlimited commission to push Giles around, and that little boy, Brittles, I can handle it. Giles is a loyal guy and a longtime servant, I know; but you can make it up to him in a thousand ways and reward him for being such a good shot too. You don’t mind that, right?’
‘Unless there is some other way of preserving the child,’ replied Mrs. Maylie.
‘Unless there’s some other way to protect the child,’ replied Mrs. Maylie.
‘There is no other,’ said the doctor. ‘No other, take my word for it.’
'There isn't anyone else,' said the doctor. 'No one else, believe me.'
‘Then my aunt invests you with full power,’ said Rose, smiling through her tears; ‘but pray don’t be harder upon the poor fellows than is indispensably necessary.’
‘Then my aunt gives you complete authority,’ said Rose, smiling through her tears; ‘but please don’t be too tough on the poor guys unless it’s absolutely necessary.’
‘You seem to think,’ retorted the doctor, ‘that everybody is disposed to be hard-hearted to-day, except yourself, Miss Rose. I only hope, for the sake of the rising male sex generally, that you may be found in as vulnerable and soft-hearted a mood by the first eligible young fellow who appeals to your compassion; and I wish I were a young fellow, that I might avail myself, on the spot, of such a favourable opportunity for doing so, as the present.’
‘You seem to think,’ replied the doctor, ‘that everyone is being cold-hearted today, except you, Miss Rose. I really hope, for the sake of the up-and-coming young men out there, that you’ll be in as vulnerable and soft-hearted a mood when the first suitable young guy comes along who needs your compassion. I wish I were a young guy myself so I could take advantage of such a great opportunity right now.’
‘You are as great a boy as poor Brittles himself,’ returned Rose, blushing.
‘You’re just as great a boy as poor Brittles himself,’ Rose replied, blushing.
‘Well,’ said the doctor, laughing heartily, ‘that is no very difficult matter. But to return to this boy. The great point of our agreement is yet to come. He will wake in an hour or so, I dare say; and although I have told that thick-headed constable-fellow downstairs that he musn’t be moved or spoken to, on peril of his life, I think we may converse with him without danger. Now I make this stipulation—that I shall examine him in your presence, and that, if, from what he says, we judge, and I can show to the satisfaction of your cool reason, that he is a real and thorough bad one (which is more than possible), he shall be left to his fate, without any farther interference on my part, at all events.’
‘Well,’ the doctor laughed heartily, ‘that’s not too difficult. But let’s get back to this boy. The main point of our agreement is still to come. He should wake up in about an hour, I think; and even though I’ve told that thick-headed officer downstairs that he mustn’t be moved or spoken to, for his own safety, I believe we can talk to him without any risk. Now, I make this condition—that I’ll examine him in your presence, and if, based on what he says, we determine, and I can prove to your sound judgment, that he’s genuinely a bad one (which is quite possible), he will be left to face the consequences without any further interference from me, regardless.’
‘Oh no, aunt!’ entreated Rose.
“Oh no, Aunt!” Rose pleaded.
‘Oh yes, aunt!’ said the doctor. ‘Is is a bargain?’
‘Oh yes, aunt!’ said the doctor. ‘Is it a deal?’
‘He cannot be hardened in vice,’ said Rose; ‘It is impossible.’
‘He can’t be hardened in vice,’ said Rose; ‘That’s impossible.’
‘Very good,’ retorted the doctor; ‘then so much the more reason for acceding to my proposition.’
“Very good,” the doctor replied; “then that’s all the more reason to go along with my suggestion.”
Finally the treaty was entered into; and the parties thereunto sat down to wait, with some impatience, until Oliver should awake.
Finally, the treaty was signed, and the parties involved sat down to wait, a bit impatiently, for Oliver to wake up.
The patience of the two ladies was destined to undergo a longer trial than Mr. Losberne had led them to expect; for hour after hour passed on, and still Oliver slumbered heavily. It was evening, indeed, before the kind-hearted doctor brought them the intelligence, that he was at length sufficiently restored to be spoken to. The boy was very ill, he said, and weak from the loss of blood; but his mind was so troubled with anxiety to disclose something, that he deemed it better to give him the opportunity, than to insist upon his remaining quiet until next morning: which he should otherwise have done.
The patience of the two ladies was about to be tested longer than Mr. Losberne had led them to believe; for hour after hour went by, and Oliver still slept heavily. It was only in the evening that the kind-hearted doctor brought them the news that he was finally well enough to talk. The boy was very sick, he said, and weak from blood loss; but he was so anxious to share something that the doctor thought it was better to let him speak rather than insist he stay quiet until the next morning, which he would have done otherwise.
The conference was a long one. Oliver told them all his simple history, and was often compelled to stop, by pain and want of strength. It was a solemn thing, to hear, in the darkened room, the feeble voice of the sick child recounting a weary catalogue of evils and calamities which hard men had brought upon him. Oh! if when we oppress and grind our fellow-creatures, we bestowed but one thought on the dark evidences of human error, which, like dense and heavy clouds, are rising, slowly it is true, but not less surely, to Heaven, to pour their after-vengeance on our heads; if we heard but one instant, in imagination, the deep testimony of dead men’s voices, which no power can stifle, and no pride shut out; where would be the injury and injustice, the suffering, misery, cruelty, and wrong, that each day’s life brings with it!
The conference was lengthy. Oliver shared his simple story with everyone, often needing to pause due to pain and fatigue. It was a somber experience to listen to the weak voice of the sick child in the dimly lit room as he detailed a tiring list of misfortunes and hardships inflicted upon him by cruel people. Oh! If only, when we oppress and take advantage of others, we paused to consider the dark reminders of human mistakes, which, like thick and heavy clouds, are rising—slowly, yes, but surely—to the heavens, ready to unleash their vengeance upon us; if we could just momentarily imagine the profound echoes of dead voices, which no power can silence and no pride can ignore; where would all the harm and injustice, suffering, misery, cruelty, and wrong that each day brings, be?
Oliver’s pillow was smoothed by gentle hands that night; and loveliness and virtue watched him as he slept. He felt calm and happy, and could have died without a murmur.
Oliver’s pillow was smoothed by gentle hands that night; and beauty and goodness watched over him as he slept. He felt at peace and content, and could have passed away without a sound.
The momentous interview was no sooner concluded, and Oliver composed to rest again, than the doctor, after wiping his eyes, and condemning them for being weak all at once, betook himself downstairs to open upon Mr. Giles. And finding nobody about the parlours, it occurred to him, that he could perhaps originate the proceedings with better effect in the kitchen; so into the kitchen he went.
The important interview had barely ended, and Oliver settled down to rest again, when the doctor, after wiping his eyes and scolding himself for being so emotional, headed downstairs to confront Mr. Giles. Finding no one in the living areas, he thought that he might have more success starting things off in the kitchen, so he went there instead.
There were assembled, in that lower house of the domestic parliament, the women-servants, Mr. Brittles, Mr. Giles, the tinker (who had received a special invitation to regale himself for the remainder of the day, in consideration of his services), and the constable. The latter gentleman had a large staff, a large head, large features, and large half-boots; and he looked as if he had been taking a proportionate allowance of ale—as indeed he had.
There were gathered in that lower house of the household assembly, the female servants, Mr. Brittles, Mr. Giles, the tinker (who had received a special invitation to enjoy himself for the rest of the day, due to his contributions), and the constable. This gentleman had a big staff, a large head, prominent features, and hefty half-boots; and he appeared as if he had been drinking a fair amount of ale—which he indeed had.
The adventures of the previous night were still under discussion; for Mr. Giles was expatiating upon his presence of mind, when the doctor entered; Mr. Brittles, with a mug of ale in his hand, was corroborating everything, before his superior said it.
The events of the previous night were still being talked about; Mr. Giles was going on about how composed he had been when the doctor walked in; Mr. Brittles, holding a mug of ale, was backing him up on everything before his boss even said it.
‘Sit still!’ said the doctor, waving his hand.
‘Sit still!’ said the doctor, waving his hand.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mr. Giles. ‘Misses wished some ale to be given out, sir; and as I felt no ways inclined for my own little room, sir, and was disposed for company, I am taking mine among ‘em here.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mr. Giles. ‘The ladies wanted some ale to be served, sir; and since I wasn’t really up for my own little room, sir, and felt like being social, I’m having mine with them here.’
Brittles headed a low murmur, by which the ladies and gentlemen generally were understood to express the gratification they derived from Mr. Giles’s condescension. Mr. Giles looked round with a patronising air, as much as to say that so long as they behaved properly, he would never desert them.
Brittles led a low murmur, which the ladies and gentlemen understood as their way of showing appreciation for Mr. Giles’s condescension. Mr. Giles looked around with a patronizing attitude, as if to say that as long as they acted appropriately, he would never abandon them.
‘How is the patient to-night, sir?’ asked Giles.
‘How is the patient tonight, sir?’ asked Giles.
‘So-so’; returned the doctor. ‘I am afraid you have got yourself into a scrape there, Mr. Giles.’
“Not great,” the doctor replied. “I’m afraid you’ve gotten yourself into a mess there, Mr. Giles.”
‘I hope you don’t mean to say, sir,’ said Mr. Giles, trembling, ‘that he’s going to die. If I thought it, I should never be happy again. I wouldn’t cut a boy off: no, not even Brittles here; not for all the plate in the county, sir.’
‘I hope you don’t mean to say, sir,’ said Mr. Giles, trembling, ‘that he’s going to die. If I thought that, I would never be happy again. I wouldn’t turn a boy away: no, not even Brittles here; not for all the silver in the county, sir.’
‘That’s not the point,’ said the doctor, mysteriously. ‘Mr. Giles, are you a Protestant?’
‘That’s not the point,’ the doctor said, with a hint of mystery. ‘Mr. Giles, are you a Protestant?’
‘Yes, sir, I hope so,’ faltered Mr. Giles, who had turned very pale.
‘Yeah, sir, I hope so,’ stammered Mr. Giles, who had gone very pale.
‘And what are you, boy?’ said the doctor, turning sharply upon Brittles.
‘And what are you, kid?’ said the doctor, turning sharply to Brittles.
‘Lord bless me, sir!’ replied Brittles, starting violently; ‘I’m the same as Mr. Giles, sir.’
‘Lord bless me, sir!’ replied Brittles, jumping in shock; ‘I’m just like Mr. Giles, sir.’
‘Then tell me this,’ said the doctor, ‘both of you, both of you! Are you going to take upon yourselves to swear, that that boy upstairs is the boy that was put through the little window last night? Out with it! Come! We are prepared for you!’
‘Then tell me this,’ said the doctor, ‘both of you! Are you going to swear that the boy upstairs is the same boy who was put through the small window last night? Spit it out! Come on! We’re ready for you!’
The doctor, who was universally considered one of the best-tempered creatures on earth, made this demand in such a dreadful tone of anger, that Giles and Brittles, who were considerably muddled by ale and excitement, stared at each other in a state of stupefaction.
The doctor, who was widely seen as one of the kindest people on the planet, made this request in such an awful tone of anger that Giles and Brittles, who were pretty tipsy from beer and excitement, looked at each other in shock.
‘Pay attention to the reply, constable, will you?’ said the doctor, shaking his forefinger with great solemnity of manner, and tapping the bridge of his nose with it, to bespeak the exercise of that worthy’s utmost acuteness. ‘Something may come of this before long.’
‘Pay attention to the response, officer, will you?’ said the doctor, shaking his finger with a serious expression and tapping the bridge of his nose with it to encourage the officer to be at his most alert. ‘Something important might come of this soon.’
The constable looked as wise as he could, and took up his staff of office: which had been reclining indolently in the chimney-corner.
The constable appeared as wise as possible and picked up his staff of office, which had been lazily resting in the corner of the fireplace.
‘It’s a simple question of identity, you will observe,’ said the doctor.
“It’s a straightforward question of identity, as you’ll notice,” said the doctor.
‘That’s what it is, sir,’ replied the constable, coughing with great violence; for he had finished his ale in a hurry, and some of it had gone the wrong way.
‘That’s what it is, sir,’ replied the officer, coughing hard; he had chugged his beer too quickly, and some of it had gone down the wrong pipe.
‘Here’s the house broken into,’ said the doctor, ‘and a couple of men catch one moment’s glimpse of a boy, in the midst of gunpowder smoke, and in all the distraction of alarm and darkness. Here’s a boy comes to that very same house, next morning, and because he happens to have his arm tied up, these men lay violent hands upon him—by doing which, they place his life in great danger—and swear he is the thief. Now, the question is, whether these men are justified by the fact; if not, in what situation do they place themselves?’
"Here’s the house that was broken into," the doctor said. "A couple of men catch a brief glimpse of a boy amidst the smoke and chaos. Then, the next morning, that same boy appears at the house, and because his arm is bandaged, these men grab him roughly—putting his life at serious risk—and claim he’s the thief. Now, the question is whether these men are justified in their actions; if not, what does that say about their situation?"
The constable nodded profoundly. He said, if that wasn’t law, he would be glad to know what was.
The constable nodded seriously. He said that if that wasn't the law, he would be happy to find out what was.
‘I ask you again,’ thundered the doctor, ‘are you, on your solemn oaths, able to identify that boy?’
‘I ask you again,’ shouted the doctor, ‘can you, under your serious oath, identify that boy?’
Brittles looked doubtfully at Mr. Giles; Mr. Giles looked doubtfully at Brittles; the constable put his hand behind his ear, to catch the reply; the two women and the tinker leaned forward to listen; the doctor glanced keenly round; when a ring was heard at the gate, and at the same moment, the sound of wheels.
Brittles looked unsurely at Mr. Giles; Mr. Giles looked unsurely at Brittles; the constable put his hand behind his ear to catch the reply; the two women and the tinker leaned in to listen; the doctor glanced around intently; when a chime was heard at the gate, and at the same moment, the sound of wheels.
‘It’s the runners!’ cried Brittles, to all appearance much relieved.
"It’s the runners!" Brittles yelled, looking visibly relieved.
‘The what?’ exclaimed the doctor, aghast in his turn.
‘The what?’ exclaimed the doctor, shocked in return.
‘The Bow Street officers, sir,’ replied Brittles, taking up a candle; ‘me and Mr. Giles sent for ‘em this morning.’
‘The Bow Street officers, sir,’ replied Brittles, picking up a candle; ‘Mr. Giles and I called for them this morning.’
‘What?’ cried the doctor.
"What?" yelled the doctor.
‘Yes,’ replied Brittles; ‘I sent a message up by the coachman, and I only wonder they weren’t here before, sir.’
‘Yes,’ replied Brittles; ‘I sent a message up with the coach driver, and I just wonder why they weren't here sooner, sir.’
‘You did, did you? Then confound your—slow coaches down here; that’s all,’ said the doctor, walking away.
'You really did, huh? Then screw your—slowpokes down here; that’s all,' said the doctor, walking away.
CHAPTER XXXI — INVOLVES A CRITICAL POSITION
‘Who’s that?’ inquired Brittles, opening the door a little way, with the chain up, and peeping out, shading the candle with his hand.
‘Open the door,’ replied a man outside; ‘it’s the officers from Bow Street, as was sent to to-day.’
‘Open the door,’ said a man outside; ‘it’s the officers from Bow Street, as they were sent today.’
Much comforted by this assurance, Brittles opened the door to its full width, and confronted a portly man in a great-coat; who walked in, without saying anything more, and wiped his shoes on the mat, as coolly as if he lived there.
Much reassured by this promise, Brittles opened the door wide and faced a hefty man in a long coat; who walked in without saying anything else, wiping his shoes on the mat as casually as if he lived there.
‘Just send somebody out to relieve my mate, will you, young man?’ said the officer; ‘he’s in the gig, a-minding the prad. Have you got a coach ‘us here, that you could put it up in, for five or ten minutes?’
‘Just send someone out to take over for my friend, would you, young man?’ said the officer; ‘he’s in the carriage, watching the horse. Do you have a coach house here where you could put it up for five or ten minutes?’
Brittles replying in the affirmative, and pointing out the building, the portly man stepped back to the garden-gate, and helped his companion to put up the gig: while Brittles lighted them, in a state of great admiration. This done, they returned to the house, and, being shown into a parlour, took off their great-coats and hats, and showed like what they were.
Brittles answered yes and pointed to the building. The stout man stepped back to the garden gate and helped his friend to set up the gig while Brittles lit them with great admiration. Once that was done, they went back to the house, and after being shown into a parlor, they took off their coats and hats, revealing who they truly 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.
The man who had knocked at the door was a stout individual of average height, around fifty years old. He had shiny black hair cropped quite short, half-whiskers, a round face, and sharp eyes. The other man was red-headed and bony, wearing top-boots. He had a rather unpleasant appearance and a turned-up, sinister-looking nose.
‘Tell your governor that Blathers and Duff is here, will you?’ said the stouter man, smoothing down his hair, and laying a pair of handcuffs on the table. ‘Oh! Good-evening, master. Can I have a word or two with you in private, if you please?’
‘Tell your governor that Blathers and Duff are here, will you?’ said the stouter man, smoothing his hair and placing a pair of handcuffs on the table. ‘Oh! Good evening, sir. Can I have a word or two with you in private, please?’
This was addressed to Mr. Losberne, who now made his appearance; that gentleman, motioning Brittles to retire, brought in the two ladies, and shut the door.
This was directed to Mr. Losberne, who now walked in; he signaled for Brittles to leave, brought in the two ladies, and closed the door.
‘This is the lady of the house,’ said Mr. Losberne, motioning towards Mrs. Maylie.
‘This is the lady of the house,’ said Mr. Losberne, pointing to Mrs. Maylie.
Mr. Blathers made a bow. Being desired to sit down, he put his hat on the floor, and taking a chair, motioned to Duff to do the same. The latter gentleman, who did not appear quite so much accustomed to good society, or quite so much at his ease in it—one of the two—seated himself, after undergoing several muscular affections of the limbs, and the head of his stick into his mouth, with some embarrassment.
Mr. Blathers bowed. When asked to sit down, he placed his hat on the floor, took a chair, and gestured for Duff to do the same. Duff, who didn’t seem as comfortable in polite company—either that or he just wasn’t used to it—sat down after awkwardly shifting his limbs and putting the head of his cane in his mouth, looking a bit embarrassed.
‘Now, with regard to this here robbery, master,’ said Blathers. ‘What are the circumstances?’
‘Now, about this robbery, sir,’ said Blathers. ‘What are the details?’
Mr. Losberne, who appeared desirous of gaining time, recounted them at great length, and with much circumlocution. Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked very knowing meanwhile, and occasionally exchanged a nod.
Mr. Losberne, who seemed eager to buy some time, went on and on about them, using a lot of words. Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked quite knowledgeable during this, occasionally sharing a knowing nod.
‘I can’t say, for certain, till I see the work, of course,’ said Blathers; ‘but my opinion at once is,—I don’t mind committing myself to that extent,—that this wasn’t done by a yokel; eh, Duff?’
‘I can’t say for sure until I see the work, of course,’ said Blathers; ‘but my immediate opinion is,—I don’t mind saying that much,—that this wasn’t done by a country bumpkin; right, Duff?’
‘Certainly not,’ replied Duff.
"Definitely 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.
"And, translating the word yokel for the ladies, I think what you mean is that this attempt wasn't made by someone from the countryside?" Mr. Losberne said with a smile.
‘That’s it, master,’ replied Blathers. ‘This is all about the robbery, is it?’
‘That’s it, boss,’ replied Blathers. ‘This is all about the robbery, right?’
‘All,’ replied the doctor.
"All," said the doctor.
‘Now, what is this, about this here boy that the servants are a-talking on?’ said Blathers.
‘Now, what’s going on with this boy that the servants are chatting about?’ 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.’
‘Nothing at all,’ replied the doctor. ‘One of the scared servants decided to convince himself that he was involved in this break-in attempt; but it’s nonsense: pure absurdity.’
‘Wery easy disposed of, if it is,’ remarked Duff.
"Very easily taken care of, if it is," remarked Duff.
‘What he says is quite correct,’ observed Blathers, nodding his head in a confirmatory way, and playing carelessly with the handcuffs, as if they were a pair of castanets. ‘Who is the boy? What account does he give of himself? Where did he come from? He didn’t drop out of the clouds, did he, master?’
‘What he says is absolutely right,’ Blathers remarked, nodding his head in agreement and casually fiddling with the handcuffs like they were a pair of castanets. ‘Who is the boy? What does he say about himself? Where did he come from? He didn’t just fall out of the sky, did he, boss?’
‘Of course not,’ replied the doctor, with a nervous glance at the two ladies. ‘I know his whole history: but we can talk about that presently. You would like, first, to see the place where the thieves made their attempt, I suppose?’
‘Of course not,’ replied the doctor, glancing nervously at the two ladies. ‘I know his entire history, but we can discuss that later. You'd like to see the spot where the thieves tried to break in, right?’
‘Certainly,’ rejoined Mr. Blathers. ‘We had better inspect the premises first, and examine the servants afterwards. That’s the usual way of doing business.’
‘Sure,’ replied Mr. Blathers. ‘We should check out the place first and talk to the staff afterwards. That’s the standard procedure.’
Lights were then procured; and Messrs. Blathers and Duff, attended by the native constable, Brittles, Giles, and everybody else in short, went into the little room at the end of the passage and looked out at the window; and afterwards went round by way of the lawn, and looked in at the window; and after that, had a candle handed out to inspect the shutter with; and after that, a lantern to trace the footsteps with; and after that, a pitchfork to poke the bushes with. This done, amidst the breathless interest of all beholders, they came in again; and Mr. Giles and Brittles were put through a melodramatic representation of their share in the previous night’s adventures: which they performed some six times over: 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 knottiest point in medicine, would be mere child’s play.
Lights were then gathered, and Messrs. Blathers and Duff, along with the local constable, Brittles, Giles, and everyone else, went into the small room at the end of the hallway and looked out the window. After that, they walked around to the lawn and looked in through the window. Then, they had a candle brought out to check the shutter, followed by a lantern to follow the footprints, and then a pitchfork to poke the bushes. Once that was done, with everyone watching in eager anticipation, they came back inside. Mr. Giles and Brittles were then put through a dramatic reenactment of their part in the previous night’s events, which they performed about six times, contradicting each other not more than once in a major detail the first time, and about a dozen times by the last. Once this was over, Blathers and Duff cleared the room and held an extended private discussion, marked by secrecy and seriousness, that would put a meeting of top doctors debating a complicated medical issue to shame.
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.
Meanwhile, the doctor paced back and forth in the next room, looking very uneasy, while Mrs. Maylie and Rose watched with worried expressions.
‘Upon my word,’ he said, making a halt, after a great number of very rapid turns, ‘I hardly know what to do.’
‘Honestly,’ he said, pausing after making a lot of quick turns, ‘I barely know what to do.’
‘Surely,’ said Rose, ‘the poor child’s story, faithfully repeated to these men, will be sufficient to exonerate him.’
‘Surely,’ said Rose, ‘the poor child’s story, honestly shared with these men, will be enough to clear him.’
‘I doubt it, my dear young lady,’ said the doctor, shaking his head. ‘I don’t think it would exonerate him, either with them, or with legal functionaries of a higher grade. What is he, after all, they would say? A runaway. Judged by mere worldly considerations and probabilities, his story is a very doubtful one.’
‘I doubt it, my dear young lady,’ said the doctor, shaking his head. ‘I don’t think it would clear him, either with them or with higher legal authorities. After all, what is he? A runaway. Judged by ordinary considerations and probabilities, his story is quite questionable.’
‘You believe it, surely?’ interrupted Rose.
‘You believe it, right?’ interrupted Rose.
‘I believe it, strange as it is; and perhaps I may be an old fool for doing so,’ rejoined the doctor; ‘but I don’t think it is exactly the tale for a practical police-officer, nevertheless.’
'I believe it, no matter how odd it sounds; and maybe I’m just an old fool for thinking that,’ the doctor replied; ‘but I don’t think it’s really the kind of story for a practical police officer, anyway.’
‘Why not?’ demanded Rose.
"Why not?" Rose asked.
‘Because, my pretty cross-examiner,’ replied the doctor: ‘because, viewed with their eyes, there are many ugly points about it; he can only prove the parts that look ill, and none of those that look well. Confound the fellows, they will have the why and the wherefore, and will take nothing for granted. On his own showing, you see, he has been the companion of thieves for some time past; he has been carried to a police-officer, on a charge of picking a gentleman’s pocket; he has been taken away, forcibly, from that gentleman’s house, to a place which he cannot describe or point out, and of the situation of which he has not the remotest idea. He is brought down to Chertsey, by men who seem to have taken a violent fancy to him, whether he will or no; and is put through a window to rob a house; and then, just at the very moment when he is going to alarm the inmates, and so do the very thing that would set him all to rights, there rushes into the way, a blundering dog of a half-bred butler, and shoots him! As if on purpose to prevent his doing any good for himself! Don’t you see all this?’
‘Because, my pretty cross-examiner,’ replied the doctor, ‘because, from their perspective, there are a lot of ugly aspects to it; he can only prove the parts that look bad, and none that look good. Damn those guys, they just have to know the why and how, and they won’t accept anything without evidence. Clearly, he has been hanging out with thieves for a while now; he was taken to a police officer for allegedly picking a gentleman’s pocket; he was forcibly taken from that gentleman’s house to a place he can neither describe nor recognize, and he has no clue where it is. He’s brought down to Chertsey by guys who seem to have taken a strange liking to him, against his will; and then he’s put through a window to steal from a house; and just when he’s about to alert the people inside, and do the very thing that would clear everything up, a clumsy half-bred butler rushes in and shoots him! As if to make sure he can’t help himself! Don’t you see all this?’
‘I see it, of course,’ replied Rose, smiling at the doctor’s impetuosity; ‘but still I do not see anything in it, to criminate the poor child.’
“I get it, of course,” Rose replied, smiling at the doctor’s eagerness; “but I still don’t see anything in it that would blame the poor child.”
‘No,’ replied the doctor; ‘of course not! Bless the bright eyes of your sex! They never see, whether for good or bad, more than one side of any question; and that is, always, the one which first presents itself to them.’
‘No,’ replied the doctor; ‘of course not! Bless the bright eyes of your gender! They never see, whether for good or bad, more than one side of any issue; and that is always the one that first comes to their attention.’
Having given vent to this result of experience, the doctor put his hands into his pockets, and walked up and down the room with even greater rapidity than before.
Having expressed this outcome of his experience, the doctor put his hands in his pockets and paced back and forth in the room even faster than before.
‘The more I think of it,’ said the doctor, ‘the more I see that it will occasion endless trouble and difficulty if we put these men in possession of the boy’s real story. I am certain it will not be believed; and even if they can do nothing to him in the end, still the dragging it forward, and giving publicity to all the doubts that will be cast upon it, must interfere, materially, with your benevolent plan of rescuing him from misery.’
‘The more I think about it,’ said the doctor, ‘the more I realize it will cause endless trouble and difficulty if we let these men know the boy’s true story. I’m sure they won’t believe it; and even if they end up doing nothing to him, just bringing it up and making all the doubts public will seriously interfere with your kind plan to save him from suffering.’
‘Oh! what is to be done?’ cried Rose. ‘Dear, dear! why did they send for these people?’
‘Oh! what are we going to do?’ cried Rose. ‘Oh no! why did they call for these people?’
‘Why, indeed!’ exclaimed Mrs. Maylie. ‘I would not have had them here, for the world.’
‘Why, indeed!’ exclaimed Mrs. Maylie. ‘I wouldn’t have wanted them here for anything.’
‘All I know is,’ said Mr. Losberne, at last: sitting down with a kind of desperate calmness, ‘that we must try and carry it off with a bold face. The object is a good one, and that must be our excuse. The boy has strong symptoms of fever upon him, and is in no condition to be talked to any more; that’s one comfort. We must make the best of it; and if bad be the best, it is no fault of ours. Come in!’
‘All I know is,’ said Mr. Losberne, finally sitting down with a kind of desperate calm, ‘that we need to handle this with confidence. The goal is a good one, and that should justify us. The boy has clear symptoms of fever and isn’t in any shape to talk anymore; that’s one silver lining. We have to make the most of it; if the worst is the best we can do, it’s not our fault. 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.’
‘Well, boss,’ said Blathers, entering the room with his colleague and locking the door before he continued. ‘This wasn't a setup.’
‘And what the devil’s a put-up thing?’ demanded the doctor, impatiently.
'And what the heck is a put-up thing?' the doctor asked, impatiently.
‘We call it a put-up robbery, ladies,’ said Blathers, turning to them, as if he pitied their ignorance, but had a contempt for the doctor’s, ‘when the servants is in it.’
‘We call it a setup robbery, ladies,’ said Blathers, turning to them, as if he felt sorry for their ignorance but looked down on the doctor’s, ‘when the servants are involved.’
‘Nobody suspected them, in this case,’ said Mrs. Maylie.
‘Nobody suspected them in this situation,’ said Mrs. Maylie.
‘Wery likely not, ma’am,’ replied Blathers; ‘but they might have been in it, for all that.’
‘Probably not, ma’am,’ replied Blathers; ‘but they could have been in it, nonetheless.’
‘More likely on that wery account,’ said Duff.
‘More likely for that very reason,’ said Duff.
‘We find it was a town hand,’ said Blathers, continuing his report; ‘for the style of work is first-rate.’
‘We’ve found it was a town handyman,’ said Blathers, continuing his report; ‘because the quality of the work is top-notch.’
‘Wery pretty indeed it is,’ remarked Duff, in an undertone.
‘It’s really pretty,’ Duff said quietly.
‘There was two of ‘em in it,’ continued Blathers; ‘and they had a boy with ‘em; that’s plain from the size of the window. That’s all to be said at present. We’ll see this lad that you’ve got upstairs at once, if you please.’
‘There were two of them in it,’ continued Blathers; ‘and they had a boy with them; that’s clear from the size of the window. That’s all for now. We’ll see this boy you have upstairs right away, if you don’t mind.’
‘Perhaps they will take something to drink first, Mrs. Maylie?’ said the doctor: his face brightening, as if some new thought had occurred to him.
‘Maybe they’ll grab something to drink first, Mrs. Maylie?’ the doctor said, his face lighting up as if a new idea had just struck him.
‘Oh! to be sure!’ exclaimed Rose, eagerly. ‘You shall have it immediately, if you will.’
‘Oh! for sure!’ exclaimed Rose, eagerly. ‘You’ll have it right away, if you want.’
‘Why, thank you, miss!’ said Blathers, drawing his coat-sleeve across his mouth; ‘it’s dry work, this sort of duty. Anythink that’s handy, miss; don’t put yourself out of the way, on our accounts.’
‘Thanks a lot, miss!’ said Blathers, wiping his mouth with his coat sleeve; ‘this job can be pretty tough. Anything you can manage, miss; don’t stress yourself out for our sake.’
‘What shall it be?’ asked the doctor, following the young lady to the sideboard.
‘What will it be?’ asked the doctor, following the young lady to the sideboard.
‘A little drop of spirits, master, if it’s all the same,’ replied Blathers. ‘It’s a cold ride from London, ma’am; and I always find that spirits comes home warmer to the feelings.’
‘A little drink, sir, if that's alright,’ Blathers replied. ‘It's a long, chilly ride from London, ma'am; and I always feel better after having a drink.’
This interesting communication was addressed to Mrs. Maylie, who received it very graciously. While it was being conveyed to her, the doctor slipped out of the room.
This intriguing message was directed to Mrs. Maylie, who received it very graciously. While it was being delivered to her, the doctor quietly left 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.’
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Blathers, not holding his wine glass by the stem, but gripping the bottom between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and placing it in front of his chest. ‘I have seen a lot of situations like this in my time, ladies.’
‘That crack down in the back lane at Edmonton, Blathers,’ said Mr. Duff, assisting his colleague’s memory.
‘That crack down in the back lane at Edmonton, Blathers,’ said Mr. Duff, helping his colleague remember.
‘That was something in this way, warn’t it?’ rejoined Mr. Blathers; ‘that was done by Conkey Chickweed, that was.’
‘That was something like that, wasn’t it?’ Mr. Blathers replied; ‘that was done by Conkey Chickweed, it was.’
‘You always gave that to him’ replied Duff. ‘It was the Family Pet, I tell you. Conkey hadn’t any more to do with it than I had.’
‘You always gave that to him,’ replied Duff. ‘It was the Family Pet, I swear. Conkey had nothing to do with it any more than I did.’
‘Get out!’ retorted Mr. Blathers; ‘I know better. Do you mind that time when Conkey was robbed of his money, though? What a start that was! Better than any novel-book I ever see!’
‘Get out!’ shot back Mr. Blathers; ‘I know better. Do you remember that time when Conkey got robbed of his money, though? What a shock that was! Better than any book I’ve ever read!’
‘What was that?’ inquired Rose: anxious to encourage any symptoms of good-humour in the unwelcome visitors.
‘What was that?’ asked Rose, eager to spark any signs of good humor in the unwelcome visitors.
‘It was a robbery, miss, that hardly anybody would have been down upon,’ said Blathers. ‘This here Conkey Chickweed—’
‘It was a robbery, miss, that hardly anyone would have been upset about,’ said Blathers. ‘This Conkey Chickweed—’
‘Conkey means Nosey, ma’am,’ interposed Duff.
‘Conkey means Nosey, ma’am,’ Duff interrupted.
‘Of course the lady knows that, don’t she?’ demanded Mr. Blathers. ‘Always interrupting, you are, partner! This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept a public-house over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar, where a good many young lords went to see cock-fighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a wery intellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I’ve seen ‘em off’en. He warn’t one of the family, at that time; and one night he was robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag, that was stole out of his bedroom in the dead of night, by a tall man with a black patch over his eye, who had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the robbery, jumped slap out of window: which was only a story high. He was wery quick about it. But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a blunderbuss arter him, and roused the neighbourhood. They set up a hue-and-cry, directly, and when they came to look about ‘em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there was traces of blood, all the way to some palings a good distance off; and there they lost ‘em. However, he had made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrupts; and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don’t know what all, was got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind about his loss, and went up and down the streets, for three or four days, a pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be going to make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house. “I see him, Spyers,” said Chickweed, “pass my house yesterday morning,” “Why didn’t you up, and collar him!” says Spyers. “I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,” says the poor man; “but we’re sure to have him; for between ten and eleven o’clock at night he passed again.” Spyers no sooner heard this, than he put some clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he should have to stop a day or two; and away he goes, and sets himself down at one of the public-house windows behind the little red curtain, with his hat on, all ready to bolt out, at a moment’s notice. He was smoking his pipe here, late at night, when all of a sudden Chickweed roars out, “Here he is! Stop thief! Murder!” Jem Spyers dashes out; and there he sees Chickweed, a-tearing down the street full cry. Away goes Spyers; on goes Chickweed; round turns the people; everybody roars out, “Thieves!” and Chickweed himself keeps on shouting, all the time, like mad. Spyers loses sight of him a minute as he turns a corner; shoots round; sees a little crowd; dives in; “Which is the man?” “D—me!” says Chickweed, “I’ve lost him again!” It was a remarkable occurrence, but he warn’t to be seen nowhere, so they went back to the public-house. Next morning, Spyers took his old place, and looked out, from behind the curtain, for a tall man with a black patch over his eye, till his own two eyes ached again. At last, he couldn’t help shutting ‘em, to ease ‘em a minute; and the very moment he did so, he hears Chickweed a-roaring out, “Here he is!” Off he starts once more, with Chickweed half-way down the street ahead of him; and after twice as long a run as the yesterday’s one, the man’s lost again! This was done, once or twice more, till one-half the neighbours gave out that Mr. Chickweed had been robbed by the devil, who was playing tricks with him arterwards; and the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweed had gone mad with grief.’
“Of course the lady knows that, doesn’t she?” demanded Mr. Blathers. “You’re always interrupting, partner! This Conkey Chickweed, miss, ran a pub over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar where a lot of young lords went to see cockfighting and badger-drawing and that sort of thing; the sports were run in a pretty intellectual way, because I’ve seen it often. He wasn’t part of the family at that time; one night, he was robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag that was stolen from his bedroom in the middle of the night by a tall man with a black eye patch, who had hidden himself under the bed. After committing the robbery, he jumped straight out of the window, which was only one story high. He was really quick about it. But Conkey was quick too; he fired a blunderbuss after him and alerted the neighborhood. They immediately raised a hue-and-cry, and when they started to look around, they found that Conkey had hit the robber; there were traces of blood all the way to some fences a good distance off, and that’s where they lost him. However, he had made off with the cash; as a result, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensed victualler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrupts; all sorts of benefits and subscriptions were organized for the poor man, who was feeling very low about his loss and wandered the streets for three or four days, pulling his hair out in such a desperate way that many people were worried he might harm himself. One day, he rushed into the office and had a private meeting with the magistrate, who, after a lot of discussion, rang the bell and called in Jem Spyers (Jem was an active officer), telling him to go assist Mr. Chickweed in capturing the man who robbed his house. “I saw him, Spyers,” said Chickweed, “pass my house yesterday morning.” “Why didn’t you stop him?” asked Spyers. “I was so shocked that you could have fractured my skull with a toothpick,” said the poor man; “but we’re sure to catch him, because he passed by again between ten and eleven o’clock at night.” As soon as Spyers heard this, he packed some clean clothes and a comb in his pocket, in case he had to stay a day or two; then he left and settled himself at one of the pub windows behind the little red curtain, with his hat on, ready to bolt out at a moment’s notice. He was smoking his pipe late at night when suddenly, Chickweed shouted, “Here he is! Stop thief! Murder!” Jem Spyers dashed out and saw Chickweed racing down the street at full speed. Spyers took off after him; they ran, and everyone shouted, “Thieves!” while Chickweed kept yelling like mad. Spyers lost sight of him for a moment as he turned a corner, so he shot around, saw a little crowd, dove in, and asked, “Which is the man?” “D—me!” said Chickweed, “I’ve lost him again!” It was quite a remarkable happening, but he couldn’t be seen anywhere, so they went back to the pub. The next morning, Spyers took his old spot and looked out from behind the curtain for a tall man with a black eye patch until his own eyes ached. Finally, he couldn’t help but close them for a minute to ease the strain, and the very moment he did, he heard Chickweed shouting, “Here he is!” Off he went again, with Chickweed halfway down the street ahead of him; and after a run twice as long as the day before, the man was gone again! This happened a few more times until half the neighbors said Mr. Chickweed had been robbed by the devil, who was playing tricks on him afterward; and the other half claimed poor Mr. Chickweed had gone mad with grief.”
‘What did Jem Spyers say?’ inquired the doctor; who had returned to the room shortly after the commencement of the story.
‘What did Jem Spyers say?’ asked the doctor, who had come back to the room shortly after the story began.
‘Jem Spyers,’ resumed the officer, ‘for a long time said nothing at all, and listened to everything without seeming to, which showed he understood his business. But, one morning, he walked into the bar, and taking out his snuffbox, says “Chickweed, I’ve found out who done this here robbery.” “Have you?” said Chickweed. “Oh, my dear Spyers, only let me have wengeance, and I shall die contented! Oh, my dear Spyers, where is the villain!” “Come!” said Spyers, offering him a pinch of snuff, “none of that gammon! You did it yourself.” So he had; and a good bit of money he had made by it, too; and nobody would never have found it out, if he hadn’t been so precious anxious to keep up appearances!’ said Mr. Blathers, putting down his wine-glass, and clinking the handcuffs together.
‘Jem Spyers,’ the officer continued, ‘had been quiet for a long time, listening closely without drawing attention to himself, which showed he knew what he was doing. But one morning, he walked into the bar, and pulling out his snuffbox, said, “Chickweed, I’ve figured out who did this robbery.” “Really?” Chickweed responded. “Oh, my dear Spyers, just let me have my revenge, and I’ll die happy! Oh, my dear Spyers, where is the villain?” “Hold on!” Spyers replied, offering him a pinch of snuff, “none of that nonsense! You did it yourself.” And he had; he made quite a bit of money from it too; no one would have ever found out if he hadn’t been so eager to maintain appearances!’ said Mr. Blathers, setting down his wine glass and clinking the handcuffs together.
‘Very curious, indeed,’ observed the doctor. ‘Now, if you please, you can walk upstairs.’
‘Very curious, indeed,’ the doctor noted. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, you can walk upstairs.’
‘If you please, sir,’ returned Mr. Blathers. Closely following Mr. Losberne, the two officers ascended to Oliver’s bedroom; Mr. Giles preceding the party, with a lighted candle.
‘If you please, sir,’ replied Mr. Blathers. Following Mr. Losberne closely, the two officers went up to Oliver’s bedroom, with Mr. Giles leading the way, holding a lit candle.
Oliver had been dozing; but looked worse, and was more feverish than he had appeared yet. Being assisted by the doctor, he managed to sit up in bed for a minute or so; and looked at the strangers without at all understanding what was going forward—in fact, without seeming to recollect where he was, or what had been passing.
Oliver had been dozing, but he looked worse and was more feverish than he had so far. With the doctor’s help, he managed to sit up in bed for a minute or so and looked at the strangers without understanding what was happening—actually, he didn’t seem to remember where he was or what had been going on.
Original
‘This,’ said Mr. Losberne, speaking softly, but with great vehemence notwithstanding, ‘this is the lad, who, being accidently wounded by a spring-gun in some boyish trespass on Mr. What-d’ ye-call-him’s grounds, at the back here, comes to the house for assistance this morning, and is immediately laid hold of and maltreated, by that ingenious gentleman with the candle in his hand: who has placed his life in considerable danger, as I can professionally certify.’
‘This,’ said Mr. Losberne, speaking softly but with great intensity, ‘is the boy who, accidentally injured by a spring-gun while trespassing on Mr. What-d’ye-call-him’s property out back, came to the house for help this morning and was immediately grabbed and mistreated by that clever guy with the candle in his hand, who has put his life in serious danger, as I can professionally confirm.’
Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr. Giles, as he was thus recommended to their notice. The bewildered butler gazed from them towards Oliver, and from Oliver towards Mr. Losberne, with a most ludicrous mixture of fear and perplexity.
Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr. Giles as he was introduced to them. The confused butler stared from them to Oliver and then to Mr. Losberne, showing an incredibly amusing mix of fear and confusion.
‘You don’t mean to deny that, I suppose?’ said the doctor, laying Oliver gently down again.
“You're not trying to deny that, are you?” the doctor said, carefully laying Oliver back down again.
‘It was all done for the—for the best, sir,’ answered Giles. ‘I am sure I thought it was the boy, or I wouldn’t have meddled with him. I am not of an inhuman disposition, sir.’
‘It was all done for the—for the best, sir,’ replied Giles. ‘I really thought it was the boy, or I wouldn’t have gotten involved. I’m not heartless, sir.’
‘Thought it was what boy?’ inquired the senior officer.
“Thought it was what boy?” asked the senior officer.
‘The housebreaker’s boy, sir!’ replied Giles. ‘They—they certainly had a boy.’
‘The housebreaker's kid, sir!’ replied Giles. ‘They—they definitely had a kid.’
‘Well? Do you think so now?’ inquired Blathers.
‘Well? Do you think that now?’ Blathers asked.
‘Think what, now?’ replied Giles, looking vacantly at his questioner.
‘What are you talking about now?’ replied Giles, staring blankly at the person asking.
‘Think it’s the same boy, Stupid-head?’ rejoined Blathers, impatiently.
‘Do you think it's the same kid, Stupid-head?’ Blathers replied, impatiently.
‘I don’t know; I really don’t know,’ said Giles, with a rueful countenance. ‘I couldn’t swear to him.’
‘I don’t know; I really don’t know,’ said Giles, with a regretful expression. ‘I couldn’t guarantee that to him.’
‘What do you think?’ asked Mr. Blathers.
‘What do you think?’ asked Mr. Blathers.
‘I don’t know what to think,’ replied poor Giles. ‘I don’t think it is the boy; indeed, I’m almost certain that it isn’t. You know it can’t be.’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ replied poor Giles. ‘I don’t believe it’s the boy; in fact, I’m almost sure it isn’t. You know it can’t be.’
‘Has this man been a-drinking, sir?’ inquired Blathers, turning to the doctor.
“Has this man been drinking, sir?” Blathers asked, turning to the doctor.
‘What a precious muddle-headed chap you are!’ said Duff, addressing Mr. Giles, with supreme contempt.
‘What a clueless idiot you are!’ said Duff, speaking to Mr. Giles with total disdain.
Mr. Losberne had been feeling the patient’s pulse during this short dialogue; but he now rose from the chair by the bedside, and remarked, that if the officers had any doubts upon the subject, they would perhaps like to step into the next room, and have Brittles before them.
Mr. Losberne had been checking the patient's pulse during this brief conversation; but he now got up from the chair by the bedside and said that if the officers had any doubts about the matter, they might want to step into the next room and have Brittles come in.
Acting upon this suggestion, they adjourned to a neighbouring apartment, where Mr. Brittles, being called in, involved himself and his respected superior in such a wonderful maze of fresh contradictions and impossibilities, as tended to throw no particular light on anything, but the fact of his own strong mystification; except, indeed, his declarations that he shouldn’t know the real boy, if he were put before him that instant; that he had only taken Oliver to be he, because Mr. Giles had said he was; and that Mr. Giles had, five minutes previously, admitted in the kitchen, that he began to be very much afraid he had been a little too hasty.
Acting on this suggestion, they moved to a nearby room, where Mr. Brittles, when called in, got himself and his esteemed superior tangled in such a confusing web of new contradictions and impossibilities that it shed no real light on anything, except for his own strong confusion; other than, of course, his claims that he wouldn't recognize the real boy if he were standing in front of him right then; that he had only thought Oliver was the boy because Mr. Giles said he was; and that Mr. Giles had, just five minutes earlier, admitted in the kitchen that he was starting to be very afraid he had been a bit too quick to judge.
Among other ingenious surmises, the question was then raised, whether Mr. Giles had really hit anybody; and upon examination of the fellow pistol to that which he had fired, it turned out to have no more destructive loading than gunpowder and brown paper: a discovery which made a considerable impression on everybody but the doctor, who had drawn the ball about ten minutes before. Upon no one, however, did it make a greater impression than on Mr. Giles himself; who, after labouring, for some hours, under the fear of having mortally wounded a fellow-creature, eagerly caught at this new idea, and favoured it to the utmost. Finally, the officers, without troubling themselves very much about Oliver, left the Chertsey constable in the house, and took up their rest for that night in the town; promising to return the next morning.
Among other clever theories, the question came up whether Mr. Giles had actually hit anyone; and when they checked the other pistol that he fired, it turned out to have nothing more dangerous than gunpowder and brown paper in it. This discovery left a significant impression on everyone except the doctor, who had shot the bullet about ten minutes earlier. However, no one was more affected by this than Mr. Giles himself; after worrying for several hours that he might have seriously injured someone, he eagerly embraced this new idea and promoted it as much as possible. In the end, the officers, without paying much attention to Oliver, left the Chertsey constable in the house and rested for the night in the town, promising to come back the next morning.
With the next morning, there came a rumour, that two men and a boy were in the cage at Kingston, who had been apprehended over night under suspicious circumstances; and to Kingston Messrs. Blathers and Duff journeyed accordingly. The suspicious circumstances, however, resolving themselves, on investigation, into the one fact, that they had been discovered sleeping under a haystack; which, although a great crime, is only punishable by imprisonment, and is, in the merciful eye of the English law, and its comprehensive love of all the King’s subjects, held to be no satisfactory proof, in the absence of all other evidence, that the sleeper, or sleepers, have committed burglary accompanied with violence, and have therefore rendered themselves liable to the punishment of death; Messrs. Blathers and Duff came back again, as wise as they went.
The next morning, a rumor spread that two men and a boy were locked up in the cage at Kingston after being caught overnight under suspicious circumstances. So, Messrs. Blathers and Duff made their way to Kingston. However, the so-called suspicious circumstances turned out to be simply that they were found sleeping under a haystack. While this is considered a serious crime, it only results in imprisonment and, in the compassionate view of English law, which cares for all of the King’s subjects, is not seen as enough evidence—without any other proof—that the sleepers had committed burglary or violence and thus deserved the death penalty. As a result, Messrs. Blathers and Duff returned just as clueless as when they arrived.
In short, after some more examination, and a great deal more conversation, a neighbouring magistrate was readily induced to take the joint bail of Mrs. Maylie and Mr. Losberne for Oliver’s appearance if he should ever be called upon; and Blathers and Duff, being rewarded with a couple of guineas, returned to town with divided opinions on the subject of their expedition: the latter gentleman on a mature consideration of all the circumstances, inclining to the belief that the burglarious attempt had originated with the Family Pet; and the former being equally disposed to concede the full merit of it to the great Mr. Conkey Chickweed.
In short, after some more investigation and a lot more discussion, a nearby magistrate was easily persuaded to take the joint bail of Mrs. Maylie and Mr. Losberne for Oliver’s appearance if he was ever called upon; and Blathers and Duff, having received a couple of guineas as a reward, returned to town with mixed opinions about their mission: the latter gentleman, after carefully considering all the circumstances, leaning towards the belief that the burglary attempt had started with the Family Pet; while the former was equally inclined to give all the credit to the great Mr. Conkey Chickweed.
Meanwhile, Oliver gradually throve and prospered under the united care of Mrs. Maylie, Rose, and the kind-hearted Mr. Losberne. If fervent prayers, gushing from hearts overcharged with gratitude, be heard in heaven—and if they be not, what prayers are!—the blessings which the orphan child called down upon them, sunk into their souls, diffusing peace and happiness.
Meanwhile, Oliver gradually thrived and prospered under the combined care of Mrs. Maylie, Rose, and the kind-hearted Mr. Losberne. If heartfelt prayers, overflowing from hearts filled with gratitude, are heard in heaven—and if they aren't, what prayers are!—the blessings that the orphan child called down upon them sank into their souls, spreading peace and happiness.
CHAPTER XXXII — OF THE HAPPY LIFE OLIVER BEGAN TO LEAD WITH HIS KIND FRIENDS
Oliver’s ailings were neither slight nor few. In addition to the pain and delay attendant on a broken limb, his exposure to the wet and cold had brought on fever and ague: which hung about him for many weeks, and reduced him sadly. But, at length, he began, by slow degrees, to get better, and to be able to say sometimes, in a few tearful words, how deeply he felt the goodness of the two sweet ladies, and how ardently he hoped that when he grew strong and well again, he could do something to show his gratitude; only something, which would let them see the love and duty with which his breast was full; something, however slight, which would prove to them that their gentle kindness had not been cast away; but that the poor boy whom their charity had rescued from misery, or death, was eager to serve them with his whole heart and soul.
Oliver’s problems were many and serious. Besides the pain and delay from his broken leg, being exposed to the wet and cold had caused him to develop a fever and chills, which lasted for many weeks and left him weakened. But eventually, he began to recover slowly and could sometimes express in a few teary words how grateful he was to the two kind ladies. He hoped that once he was strong and healthy again, he could do something to show his appreciation—just anything that would let them see the love and respect he felt inside; something, no matter how small, that would prove to them their gentle kindness hadn’t gone unnoticed. The poor boy who had been saved from suffering or death by their charity was eager to serve them with all his heart and soul.
‘Poor fellow!’ said Rose, when Oliver had been one day feebly endeavouring to utter the words of thankfulness that rose to his pale lips; ‘you shall have many opportunities of serving us, if you will. We are going into the country, and my aunt intends that you shall accompany us. The quiet place, the pure air, and all the pleasure and beauties of spring, will restore you in a few days. We will employ you in a hundred ways, when you can bear the trouble.’
‘Poor fellow!’ said Rose, when Oliver had been trying to express his gratitude with weak words that barely made it to his pale lips; ‘you’ll have plenty of chances to help us if you want to. We’re heading to the countryside, and my aunt plans for you to come with us. The peaceful setting, fresh air, and all the joys and beauty of spring will heal you in just a few days. We’ll find a hundred things for you to do once you’re feeling up to it.’
‘The trouble!’ cried Oliver. ‘Oh! dear lady, if I could but work for you; if I could only give you pleasure by watering your flowers, or watching your birds, or running up and down the whole day long, to make you happy; what would I give to do it!’
‘The trouble!’ cried Oliver. ‘Oh! dear lady, if I could just work for you; if I could only make you happy by watering your flowers, or watching your birds, or running around all day to bring you joy; what would I give to be able to do it!’
‘You shall give nothing at all,’ said Miss Maylie, smiling; ‘for, as I told you before, we shall employ you in a hundred ways; and if you only take half the trouble to please us, that you promise now, you will make me very happy indeed.’
‘You won’t give anything at all,’ said Miss Maylie, smiling; ‘because, as I mentioned before, we’ll have you help us in a hundred ways; and if you put in even half the effort to make us happy that you’re promising now, you’ll make me very happy indeed.’
‘Happy, ma’am!’ cried Oliver; ‘how kind of you to say so!’
‘Happy, ma’am!’ Oliver exclaimed; ‘how nice of you to say that!’
‘You will make me happier than I can tell you,’ replied the young lady. ‘To think that my dear good aunt should have been the means of rescuing any one from such sad misery as you have described to us, would be an unspeakable pleasure to me; but to know that the object of her goodness and compassion was sincerely grateful and attached, in consequence, would delight me, more than you can well imagine. Do you understand me?’ she inquired, watching Oliver’s thoughtful face.
‘You will make me happier than I can say,’ replied the young lady. ‘To think that my dear good aunt could have helped someone escape the terrible misery you’ve told us about would give me immense joy; but knowing that the person she helped is genuinely grateful and feels connected as a result would make me even happier than you can imagine. Do you understand what I mean?’ she asked, observing Oliver’s thoughtful expression.
‘Oh yes, ma’am, yes!’ replied Oliver eagerly; ‘but I was thinking that I am ungrateful now.’
‘Oh yes, ma’am, yes!’ replied Oliver eagerly; ‘but I was thinking that I am ungrateful now.’
‘To whom?’ inquired the young lady.
‘To whom?’ asked the young lady.
‘To the kind gentleman, and the dear old nurse, who took so much care of me before,’ rejoined Oliver. ‘If they knew how happy I am, they would be pleased, I am sure.’
‘To the kind man and the dear old nurse who looked after me so well before,’ replied Oliver. ‘If they knew how happy I am, I’m sure they would be pleased.’
‘I am sure they would,’ rejoined Oliver’s benefactress; ‘and Mr. Losberne has already been kind enough to promise that when you are well enough to bear the journey, he will carry you to see them.’
‘I’m sure they would,’ replied Oliver’s benefactor; ‘and Mr. Losberne has already been kind enough to promise that when you’re well enough to travel, he will take you to see them.’
‘Has he, ma’am?’ cried Oliver, his face brightening with pleasure. ‘I don’t know what I shall do for joy when I see their kind faces once again!’
‘Has he, ma’am?’ Oliver exclaimed, his face lighting up with happiness. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do with joy when I see their kind faces again!’
In a short time Oliver was sufficiently recovered to undergo the fatigue of this expedition. One morning he and Mr. Losberne set out, accordingly, in a little carriage which belonged to Mrs. Maylie. When they came to Chertsey Bridge, Oliver turned very pale, and uttered a loud exclamation.
In a short time, Oliver was well enough to handle the strain of this trip. One morning, he and Mr. Losberne set off in a small carriage that belonged to Mrs. Maylie. When they reached Chertsey Bridge, Oliver went very pale and let out a loud shout.
‘What’s the matter with the boy?’ cried the doctor, as usual, all in a bustle. ‘Do you see anything—hear anything—feel anything—eh?’
‘What’s wrong with the boy?’ shouted the doctor, as always, in a hurry. ‘Do you see anything—hear anything—feel anything—huh?’
‘That, sir,’ cried Oliver, pointing out of the carriage window. ‘That house!’
‘That, sir,’ shouted Oliver, pointing out of the carriage window. ‘That house!’
‘Yes; well, what of it? Stop coachman. Pull up here,’ cried the doctor. ‘What of the house, my man; eh?’
‘Yes; well, what about it? Stop, driver. Pull over here,’ shouted the doctor. ‘What about the house, my friend; huh?’
‘The thieves—the house they took me to!’ whispered Oliver.
‘The thieves—the house they brought me to!’ whispered Oliver.
‘The devil it is!’ cried the doctor. ‘Hallo, there! let me out!’
‘It’s the devil!’ shouted the doctor. ‘Hey, let me out!’
But, before the coachman could dismount from his box, he had tumbled out of the coach, by some means or other; and, running down to the deserted tenement, began kicking at the door like a madman.
But, before the driver could get off his seat, he had somehow fallen out of the coach, and, running down to the vacant building, started kicking at the door like a crazy person.
‘Halloa?’ said a little ugly hump-backed man: opening the door so suddenly, that the doctor, from the very impetus of his last kick, nearly fell forward into the passage. ‘What’s the matter here?’
‘Hey?’ said a short, ugly man with a hunchback, opening the door so suddenly that the doctor, from the force of his last kick, nearly stumbled into the hallway. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Matter!’ exclaimed the other, collaring him, without a moment’s reflection. ‘A good deal. Robbery is the matter.’
‘What's wrong?’ exclaimed the other, grabbing him without a second thought. ‘A lot. Robbery is the problem.’
‘There’ll be Murder the matter, too,’ replied the hump-backed man, coolly, ‘if you don’t take your hands off. Do you hear me?’
‘There’s going to be trouble,’ replied the hunchbacked man calmly, ‘if you don’t take your hands off. Do you hear me?’
‘I hear you,’ said the doctor, giving his captive a hearty shake.
"I hear you," said the doctor, giving his captive a firm shake.
‘Where’s—confound the fellow, what’s his rascally name—Sikes; that’s it. Where’s Sikes, you thief?’
‘Where’s—damn that guy, what’s his sneaky name—Sikes; that’s it. Where’s Sikes, you thief?’
The hump-backed man stared, as if in excess of amazement and indignation; then, twisting himself, dexterously, from the doctor’s grasp, growled forth a volley of horrid oaths, and retired into the house. Before he could shut the door, however, the doctor had passed into the parlour, without a word of parley.
The hunchbacked man stared, seeming both shocked and angry; then, skillfully wriggling free from the doctor's hold, he spat out a stream of terrible curses and went back inside the house. Before he could slam the door, though, the doctor walked into the living room without saying a word.
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!
He looked around nervously; there wasn't a single piece of furniture; not a trace of anything, living or non-living; not even the location of the cabinets matched 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?’
‘Now!’ said the hunchbacked man, who had been watching him closely, ‘what do you mean by barging into my house like this? Are you trying to rob me, or are you here to kill 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.
‘Did you ever know a guy to come out and do either of those things in a chariot and pair, you ridiculous old vampire?’ said the irritable doctor.
‘What do you want, then?’ demanded the hunchback. ‘Will you take yourself off, before I do you a mischief? Curse you!’
‘What do you want, then?’ the hunchback asked. ‘Are you going to leave, or am I going to make you regret staying? Damn 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.’
‘As soon as I think it's appropriate,’ said Mr. Losberne, looking into the other room; which, like the first one, looked nothing like Oliver described. ‘I'll track you down someday, my friend.’
‘Will you?’ sneered the ill-favoured cripple. ‘If you ever want me, I’m here. I haven’t lived here mad and all alone, for five-and-twenty years, to be scared by you. You shall pay for this; you shall pay for this.’ And so saying, the mis-shapen little demon set up a yell, and danced upon the ground, as if wild with rage.
‘Will you?’ sneered the ugly cripple. ‘If you ever need me, I’m right here. I haven’t spent twenty-five years living here, crazy and all alone, just to be frightened by you. You will pay for this; you will pay for this.’ And saying that, the deformed little creature let out a scream and danced on the ground, as if out of control with anger.
‘Stupid enough, this,’ muttered the doctor to himself; ‘the boy must have made a mistake. Here! Put that in your pocket, and shut yourself up again.’ With these words he flung the hunchback a piece of money, and returned to the carriage.
‘How foolish this is,’ the doctor muttered to himself; ‘the boy must have messed up. Here! Put this in your pocket and go back inside.’ With that, he tossed a coin to the hunchback and went back to the carriage.
The man followed to the chariot door, uttering the wildest imprecations and curses all the way; but as Mr. Losberne turned to speak to the driver, he looked into the carriage, and eyed Oliver for an instant with a glance so sharp and fierce and at the same time so furious and vindictive, that, waking or sleeping, he could not forget it for months afterwards. He continued to utter the most fearful imprecations, until the driver had resumed his seat; and when they were once more on their way, they could see him some distance behind: beating his feet upon the ground, and tearing his hair, in transports of real or pretended rage.
The man followed to the chariot door, shouting the craziest insults and curses the whole way; but as Mr. Losberne turned to talk to the driver, he glanced into the carriage and looked at Oliver for a moment with a stare so intense and fierce, and at the same time so angry and vengeful, that whether awake or asleep, he couldn’t forget it for months afterward. He kept shouting the most terrifying curses until the driver got back in his seat; and when they were on their way again, they could see him some distance behind, stomping his feet on the ground and pulling at his hair, in fits of real or fake rage.
‘I am an ass!’ said the doctor, after a long silence. ‘Did you know that before, Oliver?’
‘I’m such a fool!’ said the doctor, after a long silence. ‘Did you know that before, Oliver?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Nope.’
‘Then don’t forget it another time.’
‘Then don't forget it next time.’
‘An ass,’ said the doctor again, after a further silence of some minutes. ‘Even if it had been the right place, and the right fellows had been there, what could I have done, single-handed? And if I had had assistance, I see no good that I should have done, except leading to my own exposure, and an unavoidable statement of the manner in which I have hushed up this business. That would have served me right, though. I am always involving myself in some scrape or other, by acting on impulse. It might have done me good.’
‘An idiot,’ the doctor said again, after a pause of a few minutes. ‘Even if it had been the right place, and the right people had been there, what could I have done on my own? And if I had help, I don’t see how it would have done any good, except to expose me and force me to explain how I’ve covered up this whole thing. That would have been just what I deserved, though. I always end up in some trouble or another by acting on impulse. It might have been good for me.’
Now, the fact was that the excellent doctor had never acted upon anything but impulse all through his life, and it was no bad compliment to the nature of the impulses which governed him, that so far from being involved in any peculiar troubles or misfortunes, he had the warmest respect and esteem of all who knew him. If the truth must be told, he was a little out of temper, for a minute or two, at being disappointed in procuring corroborative evidence of Oliver’s story on the very first occasion on which he had a chance of obtaining any. He soon came round again, however; and finding that Oliver’s replies to his questions, were still as straightforward and consistent, and still delivered with as much apparent sincerity and truth, as they had ever been, he made up his mind to attach full credence to them, from that time forth.
Now, the truth was that the excellent doctor had always acted on impulse throughout his life, and it was a testament to the quality of those impulses that he was not caught up in any unusual troubles or misfortunes. He enjoyed the warmest respect and esteem from everyone who knew him. To be honest, he was a bit irritated for a minute or two at being let down in finding supporting evidence for Oliver’s story on the very first chance he had to get any. However, he quickly got over it; and noticing that Oliver’s answers to his questions were still as clear and consistent, and delivered with as much apparent sincerity and truth as ever, he decided to fully believe them from that point on.
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.
As Oliver knew the name of the street where Mr. Brownlow lived, they were able to drive right there. When the coach turned onto it, his heart raced so much that he could hardly catch his breath.
‘Now, my boy, which house is it?’ inquired Mr. Losberne.
‘Now, my boy, which house is it?’ asked 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.’
‘That! That!’ replied Oliver, pointing excitedly out of the window. ‘The white house. Oh! Hurry! Please hurry! I feel like I’m going to die: it makes me shake so much.’
‘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.’
‘Come on, come on!’ said the kind doctor, giving him a pat on the shoulder. ‘You'll see them soon, and they'll be so happy to find you safe and sound.’
‘Oh! I hope so!’ cried Oliver. ‘They were so good to me; so very, very good to me.’
‘Oh! I really hope so!’ exclaimed Oliver. ‘They were so kind to me; so incredibly, incredibly good to me.’
The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house; the next door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face.
The coach continued down the road. It came to a halt. No; that was the wrong house; it was the one next door. It moved a few more steps and stopped again. Oliver gazed up at the windows, with tears of joyful anticipation streaming down his face.
Alas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the window. ‘To Let.’
Alas! The white house was empty, and there was a sign in the window. ‘For Rent.’
‘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?’
‘Knock on the next door,’ shouted Mr. Losberne, grabbing Oliver's arm. ‘Do you know what happened to Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the house next door?’
The servant did not know; but would go and inquire. She presently returned, and said, that Mr. Brownlow had sold off his goods, and gone to the West Indies, six weeks before. Oliver clasped his hands, and sank feebly backward.
The servant didn’t know but would go ask. She quickly returned and said that Mr. Brownlow had sold off his belongings and left for the West Indies six weeks ago. Oliver clasped his hands and sank weakly backward.
‘Has his housekeeper gone too?’ inquired Mr. Losberne, after a moment’s pause.
“Has his housekeeper left too?” Mr. Losberne asked after a brief pause.
‘Yes, sir’; replied the servant. ‘The old gentleman, the housekeeper, and a gentleman who was a friend of Mr. Brownlow’s, all went together.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied the servant. ‘The old gentleman, the housekeeper, and a gentleman who was a friend of Mr. Brownlow’s all went together.’
‘Then turn towards home again,’ said Mr. Losberne to the driver; ‘and don’t stop to bait the horses, till you get out of this confounded London!’
‘Then head back home,’ said Mr. Losberne to the driver; ‘and don’t stop to rest the horses until you’re out of this damn London!’
‘The book-stall keeper, sir?’ said Oliver. ‘I know the way there. See him, pray, sir! Do see him!’
‘The book stall owner, sir?’ said Oliver. ‘I know how to get there. Please, go see him! Do see him!’
‘My poor boy, this is disappointment enough for one day,’ said the doctor. ‘Quite enough for both of us. If we go to the book-stall keeper’s, we shall certainly find that he is dead, or has set his house on fire, or run away. No; home again straight!’ And in obedience to the doctor’s impulse, home they went.
‘My poor boy, this is more disappointment than we can handle today,’ said the doctor. ‘Definitely enough for both of us. If we go to the book stall owner’s, we’ll probably find out he’s dead, or has burned his house down, or has just fled. No; let’s go straight home!’ And following the doctor’s lead, they headed home.
This bitter disappointment caused Oliver much sorrow and grief, even in the midst of his happiness; for he had pleased himself, many times during his illness, with thinking of all that Mr. Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin would say to him: and what delight it would be to tell them how many long days and nights he had passed in reflecting on what they had done for him, and in bewailing his cruel separation from them. The hope of eventually clearing himself with them, too, and explaining how he had been forced away, had buoyed him up, and sustained him, under many of his recent trials; and now, the idea that they should have gone so far, and carried with them the belief that he was an impostor and a robber—a belief which might remain uncontradicted to his dying day—was almost more than he could bear.
This deep disappointment brought Oliver a lot of sadness and grief, even while he was happy; he had often entertained himself during his illness by imagining what Mr. Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin would say to him. He thought about how wonderful it would be to share with them how many long days and nights he spent reflecting on what they had done for him and mourning his harsh separation from them. The hope of eventually clearing things up with them and explaining how he had been forced away kept him going and supported him through many recent challenges. Now, the thought that they had gone so far and believed he was a fraud and a thief— a belief that might remain unchallenged until he died— was almost more than he could handle.
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.
The situation didn’t change how his benefactors acted. After another two weeks, when the nice warm weather was in full swing and every tree and flower was sprouting its new leaves and vibrant blossoms, they started getting ready to leave the house in Chertsey for a few months.
Sending the plate, which had so excited Fagin’s cupidity, to the banker’s; and leaving Giles and another servant in care of the house, they departed to a cottage at some distance in the country, and took Oliver with them.
Sending the plate, which had so excited Fagin’s greed, to the banker’s; and leaving Giles and another servant in charge of the house, they left for a cottage a ways out in the country, taking Oliver with them.
Who can describe the pleasure and delight, the peace of mind and soft tranquillity, the sickly boy felt in the balmy air, and among the green hills and rich woods, of an inland village! Who can tell how scenes of peace and quietude sink into the minds of pain-worn dwellers in close and noisy places, and carry their own freshness, deep into their jaded hearts! Men who have lived in crowded, pent-up streets, through lives of toil, and who have never wished for change; men, to whom custom has indeed been second nature, and who have come almost to love each brick and stone that formed the narrow boundaries of their daily walks; even they, with the hand of death upon them, have been known to yearn at last for one short glimpse of Nature’s face; and, carried far from the scenes of their old pains and pleasures, have seemed to pass at once into a new state of being. Crawling forth, from day to day, to some green sunny spot, they have had such memories wakened up within them by the sight of the sky, and hill and plain, and glistening water, that a foretaste of heaven itself has soothed their quick decline, and they have sunk into their tombs, as peacefully as the sun whose setting they watched from their lonely chamber window but a few hours before, faded from their dim and feeble sight! The memories which peaceful country scenes call up, are not of this world, nor of its thoughts and hopes. Their gentle influence may teach us how to weave fresh garlands for the graves of those we loved: may purify our thoughts, and bear down before it old enmity and hatred; but beneath all this, there lingers, in the least reflective mind, a vague and half-formed consciousness of having held such feelings long before, in some remote and distant time, which calls up solemn thoughts of distant times to come, and bends down pride and worldliness beneath it.
Who can describe the joy and happiness, the peace of mind and gentle calm, the sickly boy felt in the warm air, surrounded by green hills and lush woods of a quiet village? Who can explain how scenes of tranquility sink into the minds of weary souls living in cramped, noisy areas, bringing a sense of renewal deep into their tired hearts? Even those who have spent their lives in crowded streets, toiling away without ever wanting change; those who have come to accept their surroundings as second nature, and who have grown fond of each brick and stone within the narrow paths they walk daily; even they, when faced with the end, have been known to long for just one brief glimpse of Nature’s beauty. Transported far from the familiar pains and joys of their past, they seem to enter a new state of existence. Emerging day by day to some sunny green spot, they have memories stirred within them by the sight of the sky, hills, fields, and shimmering water, so much so that a taste of heaven itself has eased their rapid decline, allowing them to slip into their graves as peacefully as the sun they watched set from their lonely window just hours before faded from their dim and weak sight! The memories that peaceful country scenes evoke are not of this world, nor are they of its thoughts and hopes. Their gentle presence may teach us how to create fresh wreaths for the graves of our loved ones; they may purify our thoughts and help us let go of long-standing grudges and resentments. But beneath all this, there lingers, in even the least reflective mind, a vague and half-formed awareness of having experienced such feelings long ago, in some distant past, which brings about solemn thoughts of futures yet to come and tempers pride and materialism beneath it.
It was a lovely spot to which they repaired. Oliver, whose days had been spent among squalid crowds, and in the midst of noise and brawling, seemed to enter on a new existence there. The rose and honeysuckle clung to the cottage walls; the ivy crept round the trunks of the trees; and the garden-flowers perfumed the air with delicious odours. Hard by, was a little churchyard; not crowded with tall unsightly gravestones, but full of humble mounds, covered with fresh turf and moss: beneath which, the old people of the village lay at rest. Oliver often wandered here; and, thinking of the wretched grave in which his mother lay, would sometimes sit him down and sob unseen; but, when he raised his eyes to the deep sky overhead, he would cease to think of her as lying in the ground, and would weep for her, sadly, but without pain.
It was a beautiful place they went to. Oliver, who had spent his days among filthy crowds and in the middle of noise and fighting, seemed to begin a new life there. The roses and honeysuckles clung to the cottage walls; the ivy wrapped around the tree trunks; and the garden flowers filled the air with sweet scents. Nearby was a small churchyard, not filled with tall, ugly gravestones, but with humble mounds covered in fresh grass and moss, where the village's elderly rested. Oliver often wandered here, and thinking of the miserable grave where his mother rested, he would sometimes sit down and cry quietly; but when he looked up at the vast sky above, he would stop thinking of her as lying underground and would weep for her, sadly, but without pain.
It was a happy time. The days were peaceful and serene; the nights brought with them neither fear nor care; no languishing in a wretched prison, or associating with wretched men; nothing but pleasant and happy thoughts. Every morning he went to a white-headed old gentleman, who lived near the little church: who taught him to read better, and to write: and who spoke so kindly, and took such pains, that Oliver could never try enough to please him. Then, he would walk with Mrs. Maylie and Rose, and hear them talk of books; or perhaps sit near them, in some shady place, and listen whilst the young lady read: which he could have done, until it grew too dark to see the letters. Then, he had his own lesson for the next day to prepare; and at this, he would work hard, in a little room which looked into the garden, till evening came slowly on, when the ladies would walk out again, and he with them: listening with such pleasure to all they said: and so happy if they wanted a flower that he could climb to reach, or had forgotten anything he could run to fetch: that he could never be quick enough about it. When it became quite dark, and they returned home, the young lady would sit down to the piano, and play some pleasant air, or sing, in a low and gentle voice, some old song which it pleased her aunt to hear. There would be no candles lighted at such times as these; and Oliver would sit by one of the windows, listening to the sweet music, in a perfect rapture.
It was a joyful time. The days were calm and peaceful; the nights brought no fear or worries; no suffering in a miserable prison, or being around miserable people; just happy and pleasant thoughts. Every morning, he visited a kind, elderly man who lived near the little church, who taught him to read and write better. He was so kind and patient that Oliver always wanted to impress him. Then, he would stroll with Mrs. Maylie and Rose, listening to them talk about books; or maybe sit nearby in a shady spot, listening as the young lady read aloud, which he could do until it got too dark to see the words. After that, he had his lessons for the next day to get ready for, and he would work hard in a small room that looked out at the garden until evening came slowly, when the ladies would go out again, and he would join them, enjoying everything they talked about. He felt so happy if they wanted a flower that he could reach or if they forgot something he could run to get; he could never be quick enough. When it was completely dark, and they headed home, the young lady would sit at the piano and play a nice tune or sing softly some old song that her aunt loved to hear. No candles would be lit during these times; Oliver would sit by one of the windows, listening to the sweet music, completely mesmerized.
And when Sunday came, how differently the day was spent, from any way in which he had ever spent it yet! and how happily too; like all the other days in that most happy time! There was the little church, in the morning, with the green leaves fluttering at the windows: the birds singing without: and the sweet-smelling air stealing in at the low porch, and filling the homely building with its fragrance. The poor people were so neat and clean, and knelt so reverently in prayer, that it seemed a pleasure, not a tedious duty, their assembling there together; and though the singing might be rude, it was real, and sounded more musical (to Oliver’s ears at least) than any he had ever heard in church before. Then, there were the walks as usual, and many calls at the clean houses of the labouring men; and at night, Oliver read a chapter or two from the Bible, which he had been studying all the week, and in the performance of which duty he felt more proud and pleased, than if he had been the clergyman himself.
And when Sunday came, the day was spent so differently than any way he had ever spent it before! And how happily too, just like all the other days during that incredibly happy time! There was the little church in the morning, with the green leaves fluttering at the windows, birds singing outside, and the sweet-smelling air coming in through the low porch, filling the cozy building with its fragrance. The poor people looked so neat and clean, and knelt so reverently in prayer that it felt like a joy, not a tedious chore, for them to gather there; and even though the singing might have been a bit rough, it was genuine and sounded more beautiful (at least to Oliver’s ears) than anything he had ever heard in church before. Then there were the usual walks and many visits to the tidy homes of the working men; and at night, Oliver read a chapter or two from the Bible, which he had been studying all week, and while doing this, he felt prouder and more pleased than if he had been the clergyman himself.
In the morning, Oliver would be a-foot by six o’clock, roaming the fields, and plundering the hedges, far and wide, for nosegays of wild flowers, with which he would return laden, home; and which it took great care and consideration to arrange, to the best advantage, for the embellishment of the breakfast-table. There was fresh groundsel, too, for Miss Maylie’s birds, with which Oliver, who had been studying the subject under the able tuition of the village clerk, would decorate the cages, in the most approved taste. When the birds were made all spruce and smart for the day, there was usually some little commission of charity to execute in the village; or, failing that, there was rare cricket-playing, sometimes, on the green; or, failing that, there was always something to do in the garden, or about the plants, to which Oliver (who had studied this science also, under the same master, who was a gardener by trade,) applied himself with hearty good-will, until Miss Rose made her appearance: when there were a thousand commendations to be bestowed on all he had done.
In the morning, Oliver would be up by six o’clock, wandering the fields and rummaging through the hedges, gathering bouquets of wildflowers, with which he would return home heavily loaded. He took great care and thought to arrange them in the best way to beautify the breakfast table. There was also fresh groundsel for Miss Maylie’s birds, which Oliver, who had been learning about it from the village clerk, would use to decorate the cages in the most stylish way. Once the birds were all spruced up and ready for the day, there was usually some small act of kindness to carry out in the village; or if that didn’t come up, there was often the chance to play cricket on the green; or if that didn’t happen, there was always something to do in the garden or with the plants, on which Oliver (who had learned this too from the same teacher, who was a gardener by profession) dedicated himself eagerly until Miss Rose arrived: then there were a thousand praises to be given for everything he had done.
So three months glided away; three months which, in the life of the most blessed and favoured of mortals, might have been unmingled happiness, and which, in Oliver’s were true felicity. With the purest and most amiable generosity on one side; and the truest, warmest, soul-felt gratitude on the other; it is no wonder that, by the end of that short time, Oliver Twist had become completely domesticated with the old lady and her niece, and that the fervent attachment of his young and sensitive heart, was repaid by their pride in, and attachment to, himself.
So three months flew by; three months that, in the life of the luckiest and most blessed of people, could have been nothing but pure happiness, and for Oliver, they were true joy. With the kindest and most generous spirit on one side, and the deepest, warmest, heartfelt gratitude on the other, it’s no surprise that by the end of that short time, Oliver Twist had fully settled in with the old lady and her niece, and that the strong bond of his young and sensitive heart was matched by their pride in and affection for him.
CHAPTER XXXIII — WHEREIN THE HAPPINESS OF OLIVER AND HIS FRIENDS, EXPERIENCES A SUDDEN CHECK
Spring flew swiftly by, and summer came. If the village had been beautiful at first it was now in the full glow and luxuriance of its richness. The great trees, which had looked shrunken and bare in the earlier months, had now burst into strong life and health; and stretching forth their green arms over the thirsty ground, converted open and naked spots into choice nooks, where was a deep and pleasant shade from which to look upon the wide prospect, steeped in sunshine, which lay stretched beyond. The earth had donned her mantle of brightest green; and shed her richest perfumes abroad. It was the prime and vigour of the year; all things were glad and flourishing.
Spring rushed by, and summer arrived. The village, once beautiful, was now full of vibrant life and richness. The big trees, which had seemed small and bare in the earlier months, were now bursting with strength and health; reaching out their green branches over the dry ground, they turned open, bare areas into lovely spots with deep, pleasant shade where one could take in the sunny, expansive view beyond. The earth had put on her brightest green coat and was spreading her sweetest scents everywhere. It was the peak and energy of the year; everything was joyful and thriving.
Still, the same quiet life went on at the little cottage, and the same cheerful serenity prevailed among its inmates. Oliver had long since grown stout and healthy; but health or sickness made no difference in his warm feelings of a great many people. He was still the same gentle, attached, affectionate creature that he had been when pain and suffering had wasted his strength, and when he was dependent for every slight attention, and comfort on those who tended him.
Still, the same peaceful life continued at the little cottage, and the same cheerful calmness surrounded its residents. Oliver had long since become sturdy and healthy; however, whether healthy or unwell didn't change his warm feelings for many people. He was still the same kind, devoted, loving person he had been when pain and suffering had drained his strength, and when he relied on those caring for him for every small kindness and comfort.
One beautiful night, when they had taken a longer walk than was customary with them: for the day had been unusually warm, and there was a brilliant moon, and a light wind had sprung up, which was unusually refreshing. Rose had been in high spirits, too, and they had walked on, in merry conversation, until they had far exceeded their ordinary bounds. Mrs. Maylie being fatigued, they returned more slowly home. The young lady merely throwing off her simple bonnet, sat down to the piano as usual. After running abstractedly over the keys for a few minutes, she fell into a low and very solemn air; and as she played it, they heard a sound as if she were weeping.
One beautiful night, they took a longer walk than usual because the day had been unusually warm, the moon was bright, and a light wind had picked up, which felt really refreshing. Rose was in great spirits, and they continued their lively conversation until they had gone well beyond their usual limits. Since Mrs. Maylie was tired, they headed home at a slower pace. The young lady simply took off her plain bonnet and sat down at the piano as she usually did. After idly playing the keys for a few minutes, she transitioned into a soft and very serious melody; while she played, they heard a sound that made it seem like she was crying.
‘Rose, my dear!’ said the elder lady.
‘Rose, my dear!’ said the older woman.
Rose made no reply, but played a little quicker, as though the words had roused her from some painful thoughts.
Rose didn’t respond, but played a bit faster, as if the words had pulled her out of some troubling thoughts.
‘Rose, my love!’ cried Mrs. Maylie, rising hastily, and bending over her. ‘What is this? In tears! My dear child, what distresses you?’
‘Rose, my love!’ cried Mrs. Maylie, getting up quickly and leaning over her. ‘What’s wrong? You’re in tears! My dear child, what’s troubling you?’
‘Nothing, aunt; nothing,’ replied the young lady. ‘I don’t know what it is; I can’t describe it; but I feel—’
‘Nothing, aunt; nothing,’ replied the young lady. ‘I don’t know what it is; I can’t describe it; but I feel—’
‘Not ill, my love?’ interposed Mrs. Maylie.
‘Not sick, my love?’ Mrs. Maylie interrupted.
‘No, no! Oh, not ill!’ replied Rose: shuddering as though some deadly chillness were passing over her, while she spoke; ‘I shall be better presently. Close the window, pray!’
‘No, no! Oh, not sick!’ replied Rose, shuddering as if a deadly chill was creeping over her while she spoke; ‘I’ll feel better soon. Please close the window!’
Oliver hastened to comply with her request. The young lady, making an effort to recover her cheerfulness, strove to play some livelier tune; but her fingers dropped powerless over the keys. Covering her face with her hands, she sank upon a sofa, and gave vent to the tears which she was now unable to repress.
Oliver quickly agreed to her request. The young woman, trying to regain her cheerfulness, attempted to play a more upbeat tune; however, her fingers fell weakly over the keys. Covering her face with her hands, she sank onto a sofa and let the tears flow that she could no longer hold back.
‘My child!’ said the elderly lady, folding her arms about her, ‘I never saw you so before.’
‘My child!’ said the elderly lady, wrapping her arms around her, ‘I’ve never seen you like this 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.’
‘I wouldn’t want to worry you if I could help it,’ Rose replied; ‘but honestly, I’ve tried really hard, and I can’t avoid this. I’m afraid I am unwell, aunt.’
She was, indeed; for, when candles were brought, they saw that in the very short time which had elapsed since their return home, the hue of her countenance had changed to a marble whiteness. Its expression had lost nothing of its beauty; but it was changed; and there was an anxious haggard look about the gentle face, which it had never worn before. Another minute, and it was suffused with a crimson flush: and a heavy wildness came over the soft blue eye. Again this disappeared, like the shadow thrown by a passing cloud; and she was once more deadly pale.
She truly was; for when the candles were brought in, they saw that in the brief time since their return home, her face had turned a marble white. The expression was still beautiful, but it was different; an anxious, haggard look had appeared on her gentle features, which she had never shown before. In another minute, her face was flushed with a deep crimson color, and a heavy wildness crossed her soft blue eyes. Then, just as quickly, it vanished like the shadow of a passing cloud, and she was deadly pale once again.
Oliver, who watched the old lady anxiously, observed that she was alarmed by these appearances; and so in truth, was he; but seeing that she affected to make light of them, he endeavoured to do the same, and they so far succeeded, that when Rose was persuaded by her aunt to retire for the night, she was in better spirits; and appeared even in better health: assuring them that she felt certain she should rise in the morning, quite well.
Oliver, who watched the old lady nervously, noticed that she was worried about what was happening; and honestly, he was too. But seeing that she tried to act unaffected by it, he did his best to do the same. They managed to pull it off somewhat, so when Rose was convinced by her aunt to go to bed for the night, she seemed cheerier and even appeared healthier, reassuring them that she was sure she'd wake up in the morning feeling perfectly fine.
‘I hope,’ said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie returned, ‘that nothing is the matter? She don’t look well to-night, but—’
‘I hope,’ said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie returned, ‘that nothing is wrong? She doesn’t look well tonight, but—’
The old lady motioned to him not to speak; and sitting herself down in a dark corner of the room, remained silent for some time. At length, she said, in a trembling voice:
The old lady signaled for him to stay quiet; then she sat down in a dark corner of the room and stayed silent for a while. Finally, she spoke in a shaky voice:
‘I hope not, Oliver. I have been very happy with her for some years: too happy, perhaps. It may be time that I should meet with some misfortune; but I hope it is not this.’
‘I hope not, Oliver. I've been really happy with her for a few years now; maybe too happy. It might be time for me to face some misfortune, but I hope it's not this.’
‘What?’ inquired Oliver.
"What's up?" Oliver asked.
‘The heavy blow,’ said the old lady, ‘of losing the dear girl who has so long been my comfort and happiness.’
‘The heavy blow,’ said the old lady, ‘of losing the dear girl who has been my comfort and happiness for so long.’
‘Oh! God forbid!’ exclaimed Oliver, hastily.
‘Oh! God forbid!’ exclaimed Oliver, quickly.
‘Amen to that, my child!’ said the old lady, wringing her hands.
‘Amen to that, my child!’ said the old woman, wringing her hands.
‘Surely there is no danger of anything so dreadful?’ said Oliver. ‘Two hours ago, she was quite well.’
‘Surely there’s no way anything that bad could happen?’ said Oliver. ‘Two hours ago, she was totally fine.’
‘She is very ill now,’ rejoined Mrs. Maylies; ‘and will be worse, I am sure. My dear, dear Rose! Oh, what shall I do without her!’
‘She is really sick now,’ replied Mrs. Maylies; ‘and will get worse, I’m sure. My sweet, sweet Rose! Oh, what will I do without her!’
She gave way to such great grief, that Oliver, suppressing his own emotion, ventured to remonstrate with her; and to beg, earnestly, that, for the sake of the dear young lady herself, she would be more calm.
She was overwhelmed with such deep sadness that Oliver, holding back his own feelings, decided to gently confront her and sincerely plead that, for the sake of the dear young lady herself, she try to stay calmer.
‘And consider, ma’am,’ said Oliver, as the tears forced themselves into his eyes, despite of his efforts to the contrary. ‘Oh! consider how young and good she is, and what pleasure and comfort she gives to all about her. I am sure—certain—quite certain—that, for your sake, who are so good yourself; and for her own; and for the sake of all she makes so happy; she will not die. Heaven will never let her die so young.’
‘And please think about it, ma’am,’ said Oliver, tears streaming down his face despite his best efforts to hold them back. ‘Oh! think about how young and wonderful she is, and how much joy and comfort she brings to everyone around her. I’m sure—absolutely sure—that, for your sake, since you’re so kind yourself; and for her sake; and for all the people she makes so happy; she won’t die. Heaven wouldn’t allow her to die so young.’
‘Hush!’ said Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand on Oliver’s head. ‘You think like a child, poor boy. But you teach me my duty, notwithstanding. I had forgotten it for a moment, Oliver, but I hope I may be pardoned, for I am old, and have seen enough of illness and death to know the agony of separation from the objects of our love. I have seen enough, too, to know that it is not always the youngest and best who are spared to those that love them; but this should give us comfort in our sorrow; for Heaven is just; and such things teach us, impressively, that there is a brighter world than this; and that the passage to it is speedy. God’s will be done! I love her; and He knows how well!’
‘Hush!’ Mrs. Maylie said, placing her hand on Oliver’s head. ‘You think like a child, poor boy. But you remind me of my duty, nonetheless. I had momentarily forgotten it, Oliver, but I hope you'll forgive me, since I am old and have experienced enough illness and death to understand the pain of being separated from those we love. I've also seen that it's not always the youngest and the best who are left for those who care for them; but this should bring us comfort in our grief, because Heaven is just; and such experiences remind us, profoundly, that there's a brighter world beyond this one, and that the journey to it is quick. God’s will be done! I love her; and He knows how deeply!’
Oliver was surprised to see that as Mrs. Maylie said these words, she checked her lamentations as though by one effort; and drawing herself up as she spoke, became composed and firm. He was still more astonished to find that this firmness lasted; and that, under all the care and watching which ensued, Mrs. Maylie was ever ready and collected: performing all the duties which had devolved upon her, steadily, and, to all external appearances, even cheerfully. But he was young, and did not know what strong minds are capable of, under trying circumstances. How should he, when their possessors so seldom know themselves?
Oliver was surprised to see that as Mrs. Maylie said these words, she held back her sadness as if making a conscious effort; and as she spoke, she straightened up and became calm and resolute. He was even more astonished to find that this composure lasted; and that, despite all the care and attention that followed, Mrs. Maylie was always ready and collected: handling all the responsibilities that came her way steadily, and, to all outward appearances, even cheerfully. But he was young and didn’t understand what strong minds are capable of in tough situations. How could he, when even those who possess such strength often don’t realize it themselves?
An anxious night ensued. When morning came, Mrs. Maylie’s predictions were but too well verified. Rose was in the first stage of a high and dangerous fever.
An anxious night followed. When morning arrived, Mrs. Maylie’s predictions were unfortunately confirmed. Rose was in the early stages of a severe and dangerous fever.
‘We must be active, Oliver, and not give way to useless grief,’ said Mrs. Maylie, laying her finger on her lip, as she looked steadily into his face; ‘this letter must be sent, with all possible expedition, to Mr. Losberne. It must be carried to the market-town: which is not more than four miles off, by the footpath across the field: and thence dispatched, by an express on horseback, straight to Chertsey. The people at the inn will undertake to do this: and I can trust to you to see it done, I know.’
‘We need to take action, Oliver, and not give in to pointless sorrow,’ said Mrs. Maylie, placing her finger on her lips as she gazed steadily into his face. ‘This letter must be sent as quickly as possible to Mr. Losberne. It needs to be taken to the market town, which is only about four miles away by the footpath across the field, and from there sent out by horseback straight to Chertsey. The folks at the inn will handle this, and I trust you to make sure it gets done, I know.’
Oliver could make no reply, but looked his anxiety to be gone at once.
Oliver couldn’t respond, but his expression showed that he wanted his anxiety to disappear immediately.
‘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.’
‘Here’s another letter,’ said Mrs. Maylie, pausing to think; ‘but I’m not sure whether to send it now or wait until I see how Rose is doing. I wouldn’t send it unless I was really worried.’
‘Is it for Chertsey, too, ma’am?’ inquired Oliver; impatient to execute his commission, and holding out his trembling hand for the letter.
“Is this for Chertsey, too, ma’am?” Oliver asked, eager to complete his task and extending his shaking hand for the letter.
‘No,’ replied the old lady, giving it to him mechanically. Oliver glanced at it, and saw that it was directed to Harry Maylie, Esquire, at some great lord’s house in the country; where, he could not make out.
‘No,’ the old lady said, handing it to him robotically. Oliver looked at it and saw that it was addressed to Harry Maylie, Esquire, at some fancy lord’s house in the country; he couldn’t figure out where.
‘Shall it go, ma’am?’ asked Oliver, looking up, impatiently.
“Should we go, ma’am?” Oliver asked, looking up, impatiently.
‘I think not,’ replied Mrs. Maylie, taking it back. ‘I will wait until to-morrow.’
‘I don't think so,’ replied Mrs. Maylie, taking it back. ‘I'll wait until tomorrow.’
With these words, she gave Oliver her purse, and he started off, without more delay, at the greatest speed he could muster.
With that, she handed Oliver her purse, and he took off, without any more hesitation, as fast as he could.
Swiftly he ran across the fields, and down the little lanes which sometimes divided them: now almost hidden by the high corn on either side, and now emerging on an open field, where the mowers and haymakers were busy at their work: nor did he stop once, save now and then, for a few seconds, to recover breath, until he came, in a great heat, and covered with dust, on the little market-place of the market-town.
He quickly ran across the fields and down the narrow paths that sometimes separated them: sometimes almost hidden by the tall corn on either side, and other times coming out into an open field where the mowers and haymakers were busy working. He didn’t stop once, except occasionally, for a few seconds to catch his breath, until he arrived, sweating and covered in dust, at the small marketplace of the town.
Here he paused, and looked about for the inn. There were a white bank, and a red brewery, and a yellow town-hall; and in one corner there was a large house, with all the wood about it painted green: before which was the sign of ‘The George.’ To this he hastened, as soon as it caught his eye.
Here he stopped and looked around for the inn. There was a white bank, a red brewery, and a yellow town hall; and in one corner, there was a big house with all the wood painted green, in front of which was the sign of ‘The George.’ He quickly made his way there as soon as he spotted it.
He spoke to a postboy who was dozing under the gateway; and who, after hearing what he wanted, referred him to the ostler; who after hearing all he had to say again, referred him to the landlord; who was a tall gentleman in a blue neckcloth, a white hat, drab breeches, and boots with tops to match, leaning against a pump by the stable-door, picking his teeth with a silver toothpick.
He talked to a postboy who was napping under the gateway, and after hearing what he needed, the postboy directed him to the ostler. The ostler, after listening to everything he had to say, sent him to the landlord. The landlord was a tall guy in a blue necktie, a white hat, tan breeches, and matching boots, leaning against a pump by the stable door, using a silver toothpick.
This gentleman walked with much deliberation into the bar to make out the bill: which took a long time making out: and after it was ready, and paid, a horse had to be saddled, and a man to be dressed, which took up ten good minutes more. Meanwhile Oliver was in such a desperate state of impatience and anxiety, that he felt as if he could have jumped upon the horse himself, and galloped away, full tear, to the next stage. At length, all was ready; and the little parcel having been handed up, with many injunctions and entreaties for its speedy delivery, the man set spurs to his horse, and rattling over the uneven paving of the market-place, was out of the town, and galloping along the turnpike-road, in a couple of minutes.
This guy walked carefully into the bar to settle the bill, which took a long time to figure out. After it was ready and paid, a horse needed to be saddled, and a man had to get dressed, which took another ten good minutes. In the meantime, Oliver was in such a desperate state of impatience and anxiety that he felt like he could jump on the horse himself and ride full speed to the next stop. Finally, everything was ready; the little package was handed over with many requests and pleas for it to be delivered quickly. The man kicked his horse into gear and, clattering over the bumpy cobblestones of the market square, was out of town and racing down the highway in just a couple of minutes.
As it was something to feel certain that assistance was sent for, and that no time had been lost, Oliver hurried up the inn-yard, with a somewhat lighter heart. He was turning out of the gateway when he accidently stumbled against a tall man wrapped in a cloak, who was at that moment coming out of the inn door.
As it was reassuring to know that help was on the way and that no time had been wasted, Oliver hurried up the inn yard with a slightly lighter heart. He was about to step out of the gateway when he accidentally bumped into a tall man wrapped in a cloak, who was just coming out of the inn door.
‘Hah!’ cried the man, fixing his eyes on Oliver, and suddenly recoiling. ‘What the devil’s this?’
‘Hah!’ shouted the man, staring at Oliver and suddenly pulling back. ‘What the hell is this?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Oliver; ‘I was in a great hurry to get home, and didn’t see you were coming.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Oliver; ‘I was in a big rush to get home and didn’t see you were coming.’
‘Death!’ muttered the man to himself, glaring at the boy with his large dark eyes. ‘Who would have thought it! Grind him to ashes! He’d start up from a stone coffin, to come in my way!’
‘Death!’ the man muttered to himself, staring at the boy with his large dark eyes. ‘Who would’ve believed it! Turn him to ashes! He’d rise up from a stone coffin just to get in my way!’
‘I am sorry,’ stammered Oliver, confused by the strange man’s wild look. ‘I hope I have not hurt you!’
‘I’m sorry,’ Oliver stammered, confused by the strange man’s wild expression. ‘I hope I didn’t hurt you!’
‘Rot you!’ murmured the man, in a horrible passion; between his clenched teeth; ‘if I had only had the courage to say the word, I might have been free of you in a night. Curses on your head, and black death on your heart, you imp! What are you doing here?’
‘Damn you!’ the man whispered, filled with rage, through his clenched teeth; ‘if I had just had the guts to say the word, I could have been rid of you in one night. A curse on your head, and misery on your heart, you brat! What are you doing here?’
The man shook his fist, as he uttered these words incoherently. He advanced towards Oliver, as if with the intention of aiming a blow at him, but fell violently on the ground: writhing and foaming, in a fit.
The man shook his fist as he shouted these words incoherently. He moved toward Oliver, as if he planned to hit him, but then collapsed violently to the ground, writhing and foaming at the mouth in a fit.
Oliver gazed, for a moment, at the struggles of the madman (for such he supposed him to be); and then darted into the house for help. Having seen him safely carried into the hotel, he turned his face homewards, running as fast as he could, to make up for lost time: and recalling with a great deal of astonishment and some fear, the extraordinary behaviour of the person from whom he had just parted.
Oliver stared for a moment at the struggles of the madman (or at least he thought he was one); then he rushed into the house for help. After watching them carry him safely into the hotel, he turned to head home, running as fast as he could to make up for lost time. He felt a mix of astonishment and fear as he recalled the strange behavior of the person he had just left.
The circumstance did not dwell in his recollection long, however: for when he reached the cottage, there was enough to occupy his mind, and to drive all considerations of self completely from his memory.
The situation didn't stay in his mind for long, though: because when he got to the cottage, there was plenty to keep him busy and to push all thoughts of himself right out of his memory.
Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse; before mid-night she was delirious. A medical practitioner, who resided on the spot, was in constant attendance upon her; and after first seeing the patient, he had taken Mrs. Maylie aside, and pronounced her disorder to be one of a most alarming nature. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘it would be little short of a miracle, if she recovered.’
Rose Maylie's condition had quickly deteriorated; by midnight she was delirious. A local doctor was always by her side, and after initially examining her, he pulled Mrs. Maylie aside to say that her illness was extremely serious. "To be honest," he said, "it would be almost miraculous if she pulls through."
How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and stealing out, with noiseless footstep, to the staircase, listen for the slightest sound from the sick chamber! How often did a tremble shake his frame, and cold drops of terror start upon his brow, when a sudden trampling of feet caused him to fear that something too dreadful to think of, had even then occurred! And what had been the fervency of all the prayers he had ever muttered, compared with those he poured forth, now, in the agony and passion of his supplication for the life and health of the gentle creature, who was tottering on the deep grave’s verge!
How often did Oliver jump out of bed that night, quietly slipping out with silent footsteps to the staircase, listening for the slightest sound from the sick room! How often did a tremor shake his body, and cold drops of fear appear on his forehead when the sudden sound of footsteps made him afraid that something too terrible to imagine had already happened! And how fervently did all the prayers he had ever whispered compare to those he now offered up, in desperation and passion, pleading for the life and health of the gentle person who was teetering on the edge of the grave!
Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance! Oh! the racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat violently, and the breath come thick, by the force of the images they conjure up before it; the desperate anxiety to be doing something to relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to alleviate; the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what reflections or endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of the time, allay them!
Oh! the suspense, the intense, agonizing suspense, of standing by while the life of someone we love dearly hangs in the balance! Oh! the tormenting thoughts that flood the mind, making the heart race and the breath come fast, fueled by the images they bring to life; the desperate urge to do something to ease the pain or reduce the danger, which we are powerless to change; the crushing weight of sorrow and despair that the painful reminder of our helplessness brings; what suffering can compare to this? What thoughts or actions can, in the full tide and frenzy of the moment, lessen them!
Morning came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke in whispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to time; women and children went away in tears. All the livelong day, and for hours after it had grown dark, Oliver paced softly up and down the garden, raising his eyes every instant to the sick chamber, and shuddering to see the darkened window, looking as if death lay stretched inside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived. ‘It is hard,’ said the good doctor, turning away as he spoke; ‘so young; so much beloved; but there is very little hope.’
Morning arrived, and the little cottage felt empty and quiet. People talked in hushed tones; worried faces appeared at the gate now and then; women and children left in tears. All day long, and for hours after it got dark, Oliver walked softly back and forth in the garden, frequently glancing up at the sick room and shuddering at the darkened window, which seemed to suggest that death was inside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne showed up. “It’s tough,” said the kind doctor, turning away as he spoke; “so young; so well-loved; but there’s very little hope.”
Another morning. The sun shone brightly; as brightly as if it looked upon no misery or care; and, with every leaf and flower in full bloom about her; with life, and health, and sounds and sights of joy, surrounding her on every side: the fair young creature lay, wasting fast. Oliver crept away to the old churchyard, and sitting down on one of the green mounds, wept and prayed for her, in silence.
Another morning. The sun shone brightly, as if it were unaware of any misery or worries; and, with every leaf and flower in full bloom around her; with life, health, and sights and sounds of joy surrounding her on all sides: the beautiful young girl lay, fading quickly. Oliver quietly slipped away to the old churchyard, and sitting down on one of the green mounds, he wept and prayed for her in silence.
There was such peace and beauty in the scene; so much of brightness and mirth in the sunny landscape; such blithesome music in the songs of the summer birds; such freedom in the rapid flight of the rook, careering overhead; so much of life and joyousness in all; that, when the boy raised his aching eyes, and looked about, the thought instinctively occurred to him, that this was not a time for death; that Rose could surely never die when humbler things were all so glad and gay; that graves were for cold and cheerless winter: not for sunlight and fragrance. He almost thought that shrouds were for the old and shrunken; and that they never wrapped the young and graceful form in their ghastly folds.
There was so much peace and beauty in the scene; so much brightness and joy in the sunny landscape; such cheerful music in the songs of the summer birds; such freedom in the quick flight of the rook soaring overhead; so much life and happiness in everything; that when the boy lifted his tired eyes and looked around, he instinctively thought that this was not a time for death; that Rose could never die when simpler things were so happy and vibrant; that graves were for cold and gloomy winter, not for sunlight and fragrance. He almost believed that shrouds were for the old and frail, and that they never covered the young and graceful in their eerie folds.
A knell from the church bell broke harshly on these youthful thoughts. Another! Again! It was tolling for the funeral service. A group of humble mourners entered the gate: wearing white favours; for the corpse was young. They stood uncovered by a grave; and there was a mother—a mother once—among the weeping train. But the sun shone brightly, and the birds sang on.
A church bell's toll interrupted these youthful thoughts. Another one! Again! It was ringing for the funeral service. A group of simple mourners entered through the gate, wearing white ribbons because the deceased was young. They stood bareheaded by a grave, and among the weeping crowd was a mother—a mother once. But the sun shone brightly, and the birds kept singing.
Oliver turned homeward, thinking on the many kindnesses he had received from the young lady, and wishing that the time could come again, that he might never cease showing her how grateful and attached he was. He had no cause for self-reproach on the score of neglect, or want of thought, for he had been devoted to her service; and yet a hundred little occasions rose up before him, on which he fancied he might have been more zealous, and more earnest, and wished he had been. We need be careful how we deal with those about us, when every death carries to some small circle of survivors, thoughts of so much omitted, and so little done—of so many things forgotten, and so many more which might have been repaired! There is no remorse so deep as that which is unavailing; if we would be spared its tortures, let us remember this, in time.
Oliver headed home, reflecting on the many acts of kindness he had received from the young lady and wishing for another chance to show her just how grateful and attached he was. He felt no guilt about neglect or lack of thought since he had been dedicated to her service; yet a hundred small moments came to mind where he thought he could have been more enthusiastic and sincere, and he wished he had been. We need to be careful how we treat those around us because every death brings to a small circle of survivors thoughts of so much left unsaid and so little done—so many things forgotten, and many more that could have been made right! There’s no remorse deeper than that which cannot change the past; if we want to avoid its pain, let’s keep this in mind before it’s too late.
When he reached home Mrs. Maylie was sitting in the little parlour. Oliver’s heart sank at sight of her; for she had never left the bedside of her niece; and he trembled to think what change could have driven her away. He learnt that she had fallen into a deep sleep, from which she would waken, either to recovery and life, or to bid them farewell, and die.
When he got home, Mrs. Maylie was sitting in the small living room. Oliver's heart sank when he saw her; she had never left her niece's bedside, and he was scared to think about what could have happened to make her leave. He found out that she had fallen into a deep sleep, from which she would either wake up healthy and alive or say goodbye and pass away.
They sat, listening, and afraid to speak, for hours. The untasted meal was removed, with looks which showed that their thoughts were elsewhere, they watched the sun as he sank lower and lower, and, at length, cast over sky and earth those brilliant hues which herald his departure. Their quick ears caught the sound of an approaching footstep. They both involuntarily darted to the door, as Mr. Losberne entered.
They sat there, listening and too scared to speak, for hours. The untouched meal was taken away, and with expressions that showed their minds were elsewhere, they watched the sun sink lower and lower, eventually casting those brilliant colors across the sky and earth that signal his departure. Their sharp ears picked up the sound of an approaching footstep. They both instinctively rushed to the door as Mr. Losberne walked in.
‘What of Rose?’ cried the old lady. ‘Tell me at once! I can bear it; anything but suspense! Oh, tell me! in the name of Heaven!’
‘What about Rose?’ shouted the old lady. ‘Tell me right away! I can handle it; anything but not knowing! Oh, please tell me! for the love of God!’
‘You must compose yourself,’ said the doctor supporting her. ‘Be calm, my dear ma’am, pray.’
‘You need to gather yourself,’ said the doctor, helping her. ‘Stay calm, my dear, please.’
‘Let me go, in God’s name! My dear child! She is dead! She is dying!’
‘Let me go, for God’s sake! 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.’
‘No!’ the doctor shouted, passionately. ‘As He is good and merciful, she will live to bless us all for many years to come.’
The lady fell upon her knees, and tried to fold her hands together; but the energy which had supported her so long, fled up to Heaven with her first thanksgiving; and she sank into the friendly arms which were extended to receive her.
The lady fell to her knees and tried to clasp her hands together, but the strength that had kept her going fled to Heaven with her first thank you, and she collapsed into the welcoming arms that were there to catch her.
CHAPTER XXXIV — CONTAINS SOME INTRODUCTORY PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO NOW ARRIVES UPON THE SCENE; AND A NEW ADVENTURE WHICH HAPPENED TO OLIVER
It was almost too much happiness to bear. Oliver felt stunned and stupefied by the unexpected intelligence; he could not weep, or speak, or rest. He had scarcely the power of understanding anything that had passed, until, after a long ramble in the quiet evening air, a burst of tears came to his relief, and he seemed to awaken, all at once, to a full sense of the joyful change that had occurred, and the almost insupportable load of anguish which had been taken from his breast.
It was almost too much happiness to handle. Oliver felt shocked and dazed by the unexpected news; he couldn't cry, talk, or relax. He barely had the ability to comprehend anything that had happened until, after a long walk in the calm evening air, a flood of tears finally brought him relief, and he suddenly seemed to realize the joyful change that had taken place, along with the almost unbearable weight of sorrow that had been lifted from his heart.
The night was fast closing in, when he returned homeward: laden with flowers which he had culled, with peculiar care, for the adornment of the sick chamber. As he walked briskly along the road, he heard behind him, the noise of some vehicle, approaching at a furious pace. Looking round, he saw that it was a post-chaise, driven at great speed; and as the horses were galloping, and the road was narrow, he stood leaning against a gate until it should have passed him.
The night was quickly drawing in as he made his way home, carrying flowers he had carefully picked for the sick room. As he walked along the road, he heard the sound of a vehicle approaching fast behind him. Turning around, he saw it was a post-chaise racing by; with the horses galloping and the road being narrow, he leaned against a gate until it passed.
As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white nightcap, whose face seemed familiar to him, although his view was so brief that he could not identify the person. In another second or two, the nightcap was thrust out of the chaise-window, and a stentorian voice bellowed to the driver to stop: which he did, as soon as he could pull up his horses. Then, the nightcap once again appeared: and the same voice called Oliver by his name.
As it rushed by, Oliver caught sight of a man in a white nightcap, whose face looked familiar to him, though his glance was so quick that he couldn’t recognize the person. In another second or two, the nightcap was thrust out of the carriage window, and a loud voice shouted to the driver to stop: which he did as soon as he could bring his horses to a halt. Then, the nightcap reappeared, and the same voice called out Oliver's name.
‘Here!’ cried the voice. ‘Oliver, what’s the news? Miss Rose! Master O-li-ver!’
‘Here!’ shouted the voice. ‘Oliver, what’s the news? Miss Rose! Master O-li-ver!’
‘Is is you, Giles?’ cried Oliver, running up to the chaise-door.
‘Is that you, Giles?’ cried Oliver, running up to the carriage door.
Giles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some reply, when he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the other corner of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the news.
Giles took out his nightcap again, getting ready to respond, when he was suddenly pulled back by a young man sitting in the opposite corner of the chair, who eagerly asked what the news was.
‘In a word!’ cried the gentleman, ‘Better or worse?’
‘In a word!’ shouted the gentleman, ‘Better or worse?’
‘Better—much better!’ replied Oliver, hastily.
“Much better!” replied Oliver, quickly.
‘Thank Heaven!’ exclaimed the gentleman. ‘You are sure?’
“Thank goodness!” the man exclaimed. “Are you sure?”
‘Quite, sir,’ replied Oliver. ‘The change took place only a few hours ago; and Mr. Losberne says, that all danger is at an end.’
‘Sure, sir,’ replied Oliver. ‘The change happened just a few hours ago; and Mr. Losberne says that all danger is over.’
The gentleman said not another word, but, opening the chaise-door, leaped out, and taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside.
The man didn’t say anything else. He opened the carriage door, jumped out, and quickly took Oliver by the arm, pulling him aside.
‘You are quite certain? There is no possibility of any mistake on your part, my boy, is there?’ demanded the gentleman in a tremulous voice. ‘Do not deceive me, by awakening hopes that are not to be fulfilled.’
‘Are you really sure? There’s no chance you made a mistake, right, my boy?’ the gentleman asked in a shaky voice. ‘Don’t mislead me by raising hopes that won’t come true.’
‘I would not for the world, sir,’ replied Oliver. ‘Indeed you may believe me. Mr. Losberne’s words were, that she would live to bless us all for many years to come. I heard him say so.’
‘I wouldn’t want that for anything, sir,’ replied Oliver. ‘You can believe me. Mr. Losberne said that she would live to bless us all for many years to come. I heard him say it.’
The tears stood in Oliver’s eyes as he recalled the scene which was the beginning of so much happiness; and the gentleman turned his face away, and remained silent, for some minutes. Oliver thought he heard him sob, more than once; but he feared to interrupt him by any fresh remark—for he could well guess what his feelings were—and so stood apart, feigning to be occupied with his nosegay.
The tears filled Oliver's eyes as he remembered the moment that marked the start of so much happiness; the gentleman turned his face away and stayed quiet for several minutes. Oliver thought he heard him cry a few times, but he was hesitant to say anything that might break the silence—he could easily imagine what the gentleman was feeling—so he kept to himself, pretending to be focused on his bouquet.
All this time, Mr. Giles, with the white nightcap on, had been sitting on the steps of the chaise, supporting an elbow on each knee, and wiping his eyes with a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief dotted with white spots. That the honest fellow had not been feigning emotion, was abundantly demonstrated by the very red eyes with which he regarded the young gentleman, when he turned round and addressed him.
All this time, Mr. Giles, wearing a white nightcap, had been sitting on the steps of the carriage, resting an elbow on each knee and wiping his eyes with a blue cotton handkerchief covered in white spots. It was clear that the honest guy wasn't pretending to be emotional, as shown by the very red eyes with which he looked at the young man when he turned around to speak to him.
‘I think you had better go on to my mother’s in the chaise, Giles,’ said he. ‘I would rather walk slowly on, so as to gain a little time before I see her. You can say I am coming.’
‘I think you should go on to my mother’s in the carriage, Giles,’ he said. ‘I’d prefer to walk slowly ahead, so I have a bit more time before I see her. You can tell her I’m on my way.’
‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Harry,’ said Giles: giving a final polish to his ruffled countenance with the handkerchief; ‘but if you would leave the postboy to say that, I should be very much obliged to you. It wouldn’t be proper for the maids to see me in this state, sir; I should never have any more authority with them if they did.’
"I’m sorry, Mr. Harry," said Giles, giving a final wipe to his messy face with the handkerchief, "but I would really appreciate it if you could let the postboy handle that. It wouldn’t be right for the maids to see me like this, sir; I would lose all my authority with them if they did."
‘Well,’ rejoined Harry Maylie, smiling, ‘you can do as you like. Let him go on with the luggage, if you wish it, and do you follow with us. Only first exchange that nightcap for some more appropriate covering, or we shall be taken for madmen.’
‘Well,’ replied Harry Maylie, smiling, ‘you can do whatever you want. Let him handle the luggage if that’s what you wish, and you can follow us. But first, swap that nightcap for something more suitable, or we’ll look like crazy people.’
Mr. Giles, reminded of his unbecoming costume, snatched off and pocketed his nightcap; and substituted a hat, of grave and sober shape, which he took out of the chaise. This done, the postboy drove off; Giles, Mr. Maylie, and Oliver, followed at their leisure.
Mr. Giles, aware of his inappropriate outfit, quickly removed his nightcap and tucked it away. He replaced it with a serious-looking hat that he pulled from the carriage. Once he was done, the postboy took off; Giles, Mr. Maylie, and Oliver followed at a relaxed pace.
As they walked along, Oliver glanced from time to time with much interest and curiosity at the new comer. He seemed about five-and-twenty years of age, and was of the middle height; his countenance was frank and handsome; and his demeanor easy and prepossessing. Notwithstanding the difference between youth and age, he bore so strong a likeness to the old lady, that Oliver would have had no great difficulty in imagining their relationship, if he had not already spoken of her as his mother.
As they walked, Oliver occasionally stole glances at the newcomer with great interest and curiosity. He seemed to be around twenty-five years old and of average height; his face was open and attractive, and his manner was relaxed and appealing. Despite the age gap, he had such a strong resemblance to the old lady that Oliver wouldn't have had much trouble imagining their connection if he hadn't already referred to her as his mother.
Mrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to receive her son when he reached the cottage. The meeting did not take place without great emotion on both sides.
Mrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to see her son when he got to the cottage. The reunion was filled with strong emotions for both of them.
‘Mother!’ whispered the young man; ‘why did you not write before?’
‘Mom!’ whispered the young man; ‘why didn’t you write earlier?’
‘I did,’ replied Mrs. Maylie; ‘but, on reflection, I determined to keep back the letter until I had heard Mr. Losberne’s opinion.’
‘I did,’ replied Mrs. Maylie; ‘but after thinking it over, I decided to hold onto the letter until I had heard Mr. Losberne’s opinion.’
‘But why,’ said the young man, ‘why run the chance of that occurring which so nearly happened? If Rose had—I cannot utter that word now—if this illness had terminated differently, how could you ever have forgiven yourself! How could I ever have know happiness again!’
‘But why,’ said the young man, ‘why take the risk of what almost happened? If Rose had—I can’t even say it now—if this illness had ended differently, how could you have ever forgiven yourself? How could I ever find happiness again!’
‘If that had been the case, Harry,’ said Mrs. Maylie, ‘I fear your happiness would have been effectually blighted, and that your arrival here, a day sooner or a day later, would have been of very, very little import.’
‘If that had been the case, Harry,’ said Mrs. Maylie, ‘I’m afraid your happiness would have been seriously damaged, and that your arrival here, a day sooner or a day later, wouldn’t have mattered much at all.’
‘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!’
‘And who can blame me if that’s the case, mom?’ the young man replied. ‘Or why should I say, if?—It is—it is—you know it, mom—you have to know it!’
‘I know that she deserves the best and purest love the heart of man can offer,’ said Mrs. Maylie; ‘I know that the devotion and affection of her nature require no ordinary return, but one that shall be deep and lasting. If I did not feel this, and know, besides, that a changed behaviour in one she loved would break her heart, I should not feel my task so difficult of performance, or have to encounter so many struggles in my own bosom, when I take what seems to me to be the strict line of duty.’
“I know she deserves the best and purest love that a person can give,” said Mrs. Maylie. “I recognize that the loyalty and warmth in her nature demand more than just an ordinary response; they need something profound and lasting. If I didn’t feel this, and also understand that a change in the behavior of someone she loves would shatter her heart, I wouldn’t find my task so hard to manage, nor would I have to face so many internal conflicts when I take what I believe is the right course of action.”
‘This is unkind, mother,’ said Harry. ‘Do you still suppose that I am a boy ignorant of my own mind, and mistaking the impulses of my own soul?’
‘This is unfair, mom,’ said Harry. ‘Do you really still think that I’m a kid who doesn’t know his own mind and confuses the feelings of my own soul?’
‘I think, my dear son,’ returned Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand upon his shoulder, ‘that youth has many generous impulses which do not last; and that among them are some, which, being gratified, become only the more fleeting. Above all, I think’ said the lady, fixing her eyes on her son’s face, ‘that if an enthusiastic, ardent, and ambitious man marry a wife on whose name there is a stain, which, though it originate in no fault of hers, may be visited by cold and sordid people upon her, and upon his children also: and, in exact proportion to his success in the world, be cast in his teeth, and made the subject of sneers against him: he may, no matter how generous and good his nature, one day repent of the connection he formed in early life. And she may have the pain of knowing that he does so.’
“I think, my dear son,” Mrs. Maylie said, placing her hand on his shoulder, “that youth has many generous impulses that don’t last; and among them are some that, when satisfied, only become more fleeting. Above all, I think,” she continued, looking intently at her son’s face, “that if a passionate, ambitious man marries a woman with a stained reputation—one that is no fault of hers but is held against her by cold and petty people, and that might also affect his children: then, depending on his success in life, that stain could be thrown in his face and used to mock him. He might, no matter how kind and good-hearted he is, regret the connection he made when he was younger. And she could be left feeling the pain of knowing that he feels that way.”
‘Mother,’ said the young man, impatiently, ‘he would be a selfish brute, unworthy alike of the name of man and of the woman you describe, who acted thus.’
‘Mom,’ the young man said, impatiently, ‘he would be a selfish jerk, unworthy of the name of man and of the woman you’re talking about, if he acted like that.’
‘You think so now, Harry,’ replied his mother.
'You think that now, Harry,' his mother replied.
‘And ever will!’ said the young man. ‘The mental agony I have suffered, during the last two days, wrings from me the avowal to you of a passion which, as you well know, is not one of yesterday, nor one I have lightly formed. On Rose, sweet, gentle girl! my heart is set, as firmly as ever heart of man was set on woman. I have no thought, no view, no hope in life, beyond her; and if you oppose me in this great stake, you take my peace and happiness in your hands, and cast them to the wind. Mother, think better of this, and of me, and do not disregard the happiness of which you seem to think so little.’
‘And I always will!’ said the young man. ‘The mental anguish I’ve experienced over the last two days compels me to confess a passion that, as you know, isn’t new to me, nor one I've formed lightly. My heart is set on Rose, sweet, gentle girl! as firmly as any man’s heart has ever been set on a woman. I have no thoughts, no plans, no hopes in life, beyond her; and if you oppose me in this important matter, you will take my peace and happiness in your hands and throw them away. Mother, reconsider this, and me, and don’t underestimate the importance of happiness that you seem to dismiss so easily.’
‘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.’
‘Harry,’ said Mrs. Maylie, ‘it's because I care so much about warm and sensitive hearts that I want to protect them from being hurt. But we’ve talked enough, and more than enough, about this for 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?’
‘Let it rest with Rose, then,’ Harry interrupted. ‘You won’t push these extreme opinions of yours to the point of putting any obstacles in my way, will you?’
‘I will not,’ rejoined Mrs. Maylie; ‘but I would have you consider—’
‘I will not,’ replied Mrs. Maylie; ‘but I want you to think about—’
‘I have considered!’ was the impatient reply; ‘Mother, I have considered, years and years. I have considered, ever since I have been capable of serious reflection. My feelings remain unchanged, as they ever will; and why should I suffer the pain of a delay in giving them vent, which can be productive of no earthly good? No! Before I leave this place, Rose shall hear me.’
‘I have thought about it!’ was the impatient response; ‘Mom, I’ve thought about it for years. I’ve thought about it ever since I could seriously reflect. My feelings haven’t changed, and they never will; so why should I endure the pain of holding them back, which won’t do any good? No! Before I leave this place, Rose will hear me.’
‘She shall,’ said Mrs. Maylie.
"She will," said Mrs. Maylie.
‘There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she will hear me coldly, mother,’ said the young man.
‘There’s something in the way you act that makes it seem like she’ll react coldly to me, mom,’ said the young man.
‘Not coldly,’ rejoined the old lady; ‘far from it.’
‘Not coldly,’ replied the old lady; ‘nothing could be further from the truth.’
‘How then?’ urged the young man. ‘She has formed no other attachment?’
‘How is that possible?’ the young man pressed. ‘Has she not developed any other relationship?’
‘No, indeed,’ replied his mother; ‘you have, or I mistake, too strong a hold on her affections already. What I would say,’ resumed the old lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, ‘is this. Before you stake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried to the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my dear child, on Rose’s history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision: devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic.’
‘No, really,’ his mother replied. ‘You have, or I might be mistaken, too strong a grip on her feelings already. What I want to say,’ the old lady continued, pausing her son as he was about to speak, ‘is this. Before you put everything on the line for this chance; before you allow yourself to be swept away by hope; take a moment, my dear child, to think about Rose’s background, and consider how knowing about her uncertain parentage might affect her decision: as devoted as she is to us, with all the passion of her noble spirit, and with that complete selflessness which has always been her defining trait in every matter, big or small.’
‘What do you mean?’
"What do you mean?"
‘That I leave you to discover,’ replied Mrs. Maylie. ‘I must go back to her. God bless you!’
‘That I leave you to figure out,’ replied Mrs. Maylie. ‘I need to go back to her. God bless you!’
‘I shall see you again to-night?’ said the young man, eagerly.
"I'll see you again tonight?" said the young man, eagerly.
‘By and by,’ replied the lady; ‘when I leave Rose.’
‘Eventually,’ replied the lady; ‘when I leave Rose.’
‘You will tell her I am here?’ said Harry.
‘Will you let her know I’m here?’ said Harry.
‘Of course,’ replied Mrs. Maylie.
"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?’
‘And tell her how anxious I've been, how much I've suffered, and how much I miss her. You won't refuse to do this, will you, Mom?’
‘No,’ said the old lady; ‘I will tell her all.’ And pressing her son’s hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room.
‘No,’ said the old lady; ‘I’ll tell her everything.’ And squeezing her son’s hand affectionately, she hurried out of the room.
Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient’s situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver’s statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears.
Mr. Losberne and Oliver had stayed at the other end of the apartment while this quick conversation was happening. Mr. Losberne then reached out his hand to Harry Maylie, and they exchanged warm greetings. The doctor then shared, in response to various questions from his young friend, a clear update on his patient’s condition; it was as reassuring and full of hope as Oliver’s earlier report had led him to believe. Mr. Giles, who pretended to be occupied with the luggage, listened with keen interest.
‘Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?’ inquired the doctor, when he had concluded.
"Have you shot anything interesting lately, Giles?" the doctor asked when he had finished.
‘Nothing particular, sir,’ replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.
"Nothing special, sir," replied Mr. Giles, turning red to the tips of his ears.
‘Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?’ said the doctor.
‘So you didn't catch any thieves or identify any burglars?’ said the doctor.
‘None at all, sir,’ replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity.
‘Not at all, sir,’ replied Mr. Giles, very seriously.
‘Well,’ said the doctor, ‘I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?’
‘Well,’ the doctor said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that because you do that kind of thing exceptionally well. By the way, how is Brittles?’
‘The boy is very well, sir,’ said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; ‘and sends his respectful duty, sir.’
‘The boy is doing great, sir,’ Mr. Giles said, getting back to his usual tone of condescension; ‘and he sends his respectful regards, 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?’
‘That’s good,’ said the doctor. ‘Seeing you here reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before I was called away so suddenly, I carried out a small request in your favor at the behest of your kind mistress. Can you step into this corner for a moment?’
Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attempted robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, ‘No, no’; and that if they observed that he was at all haughty to his inferiors, he would thank them to tell him so. And then he made a great many other remarks, no less illustrative of his humility, which were received with equal favour and applause, and were, withal, as original and as much to the purpose, as the remarks of great men commonly are.
Mr. Giles walked over to the corner with a lot of importance and some curiosity, and had a brief whispered conversation with the doctor. Afterward, he bowed numerous times and left with an unusually grand stride. The details of this conversation weren’t shared in the parlor, but the kitchen quickly got the scoop; Mr. Giles went straight there, called for a mug of ale, and declared with a touch of majesty that his mistress, recognizing his brave actions during the attempted robbery, had deposited twenty-five pounds in the local savings bank just for him. At this, the two maids raised their hands and eyes in astonishment, and Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt frill, replied, "No, no,” adding that if they noticed him acting superior towards those beneath him, they should tell him. He then made many more comments, equally showing his humility, which were met with equal approval and applause, and were just as original and relevant as the remarks of great men usually are.
Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away; for the doctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or thoughtful Harry Maylie might have been at first, he was not proof against the worthy gentleman’s good humour, which displayed itself in a great variety of sallies and professional recollections, and an abundance of small jokes, which struck Oliver as being the drollest things he had ever heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately; to the evident satisfaction of the doctor, who laughed immoderately at himself, and made Harry laugh almost as heartily, by the very force of sympathy. So, they were as pleasant a party as, under the circumstances, they could well have been; and it was late before they retired, with light and thankful hearts, to take that rest of which, after the doubt and suspense they had recently undergone, they stood much in need.
Upstairs, the rest of the evening went by happily; the doctor was in great spirits, and no matter how tired or pensive Harry Maylie had been at first, he couldn’t resist the good humor of the amiable gentleman. The doctor shared a mix of anecdotes from his profession and a ton of small jokes that Oliver found to be the funniest things he had ever heard, making him laugh just as much. This clearly pleased the doctor, who laughed heartily at himself and made Harry chuckle almost as much through sheer sympathy. They formed as enjoyable a group as they could have been under the circumstances, and it was late when they finally retired, feeling light and grateful, needing the rest after the uncertainty and tension they had recently faced.
Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his usual occupations, with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many days. The birds were once more hung out, to sing, in their old places; and the sweetest wild flowers that could be found, were once more gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. The melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for days past, over every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic. The dew seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves; the air to rustle among them with a sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue and bright. Such is the influence which the condition of our own thoughts, exercise, even over the appearance of external objects. Men who look on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and gloomy, are in the right; but the sombre colours are reflections from their own jaundiced eyes and hearts. The real hues are delicate, and need a clearer vision.
Oliver got up the next morning feeling better and went about his usual activities with more hope and joy than he had felt in days. The birds were once again singing in their familiar spots, and the prettiest wildflowers were gathered to brighten Rose's day with their beauty. The sadness that had seemed to linger over everything, no matter how beautiful, was suddenly gone. The dew sparkled more brightly on the green leaves, the air rustled around them with sweeter sounds, and the sky looked bluer and brighter. This shows how our own thoughts can influence how we perceive the world around us. People who see nature and other people and say everything is dark and gloomy are right in their way; those dark colors mirror their own troubled hearts and minds. The true colors are delicate and require clearer vision to appreciate.
It is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it at the time, that his morning expeditions were no longer made alone. Harry Maylie, after the very first morning when he met Oliver coming laden home, was seized with such a passion for flowers, and displayed such a taste in their arrangement, as left his young companion far behind. If Oliver were behindhand in these respects, he knew where the best were to be found; and morning after morning they scoured the country together, and brought home the fairest that blossomed. The window of the young lady’s chamber was opened now; for she loved to feel the rich summer air stream in, and revive her with its freshness; but there always stood in water, just inside the lattice, one particular little bunch, which was made up with great care, every morning. Oliver could not help noticing that the withered flowers were never thrown away, although the little vase was regularly replenished; nor, could he help observing, that whenever the doctor came into the garden, he invariably cast his eyes up to that particular corner, and nodded his head most expressively, as he set forth on his morning’s walk. Pending these observations, the days were flying by; and Rose was rapidly recovering.
It’s worth noting, and Oliver recognized it at the time, that his morning outings were no longer solo. After the very first morning when he saw Oliver coming home with a load of flowers, Harry Maylie developed a strong passion for them and had a knack for arranging them that made Oliver seem less skilled. While Oliver might not have been as advanced in this area, he definitely knew where to find the best blooms. Day after day, they explored the countryside together and returned with the prettiest flowers available. The window of the young lady’s room was now opened; she loved to feel the warm summer air come in and refresh her. But there was always one special little bouquet, carefully arranged every morning, sitting in water just inside the window. Oliver couldn’t help but notice that the wilted flowers were never discarded, even though the little vase was consistently filled with fresh ones; he also observed that whenever the doctor came into the garden, he always glanced up at that specific corner and nodded his head in a meaningful way as he started his morning walk. Amid these observations, the days were passing quickly, and Rose was getting better fast.
Nor did Oliver’s time hang heavy on his hands, although the young lady had not yet left her chamber, and there were no evening walks, save now and then, for a short distance, with Mrs. Maylie. He applied himself, with redoubled assiduity, to the instructions of the white-headed old gentleman, and laboured so hard that his quick progress surprised even himself. It was while he was engaged in this pursuit, that he was greatly startled and distressed by a most unexpected occurrence.
Nor did Oliver feel bored, even though the young lady hadn’t left her room yet, and there weren’t any evening walks except for the occasional short one with Mrs. Maylie. He worked even harder on the lessons from the elderly gentleman, and he put in so much effort that he was surprised by how quickly he was learning. It was during this time, while he was focused on his studies, that he was shocked and upset by something completely unexpected.
The little room in which he was accustomed to sit, when busy at his books, was on the ground-floor, at the back of the house. It was quite a cottage-room, with a lattice-window: around which were clusters of jessamine and honeysuckle, that crept over the casement, and filled the place with their delicious perfume. It looked into a garden, whence a wicket-gate opened into a small paddock; all beyond, was fine meadow-land and wood. There was no other dwelling near, in that direction; and the prospect it commanded was very extensive.
The small room where he usually sat while working on his books was on the ground floor at the back of the house. It was a cozy cottage-style room with a lattice window surrounded by clusters of jasmine and honeysuckle that climbed over the frame, filling the space with their lovely scent. It overlooked a garden, with a gate leading into a small pasture; beyond that stretched beautiful meadows and woods. There were no other houses nearby in that direction, and the view was very wide-ranging.
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 asleep.
One beautiful evening, as the first hints of twilight started to settle over the land, Oliver sat by his window, focused on his books. He had been studying for a while, and since the day had been unusually hot and he had worked hard, it’s not a slight against the authors, whoever they were, to say that slowly and gradually, he drifted off to sleep.
There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it holds the body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of things about it, and enable it to ramble at its pleasure. So far as an overpowering heaviness, a prostration of strength, and an utter inability to control our thoughts or power of motion, can be called sleep, this is it; and yet, we have a consciousness of all that is going on about us, and, if we dream at such a time, words which are really spoken, or sounds which really exist at the moment, accommodate themselves with surprising readiness to our visions, until reality and imagination become so strangely blended that it is afterwards almost matter of impossibility to separate the two. Nor is this, the most striking phenomenon incidental to such a state. It is an undoubted fact, that although our senses of touch and sight be for the time dead, yet our sleeping thoughts, and the visionary scenes that pass before us, will be influenced and materially influenced, by the mere silent presence of some external object; which may not have been near us when we closed our eyes: and of whose vicinity we have had no waking consciousness.
There’s a type of sleep that sometimes comes over us where, even though our body is completely out, our mind remains aware of what’s happening around us, allowing it to wander freely. This can be described as sleep, characterized by an overwhelming heaviness, extreme fatigue, and a total lack of control over our thoughts or movements, yet we are still aware of everything going on around us. If we do dream during this time, the actual words spoken or sounds happening in that moment can fit surprisingly well into our visions, making it hard to distinguish between reality and imagination afterwards. This isn’t the only curious thing about this state. It’s a well-known fact that even when our senses of touch and sight are dulled, our sleeping thoughts and the dreamlike images we see can be significantly affected by the mere silent presence of something nearby, which we might not have even been aware of before we fell asleep.
Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that his books were lying on the table before him; that the sweet air was stirring among the creeping plants outside. And yet he was asleep. Suddenly, the scene changed; the air became close and confined; and he thought, with a glow of terror, that he was in the Jew’s house again. There sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed corner, pointing at him, and whispering to another man, with his face averted, who sat beside him.
Oliver knew very well that he was in his own little room, that his books were spread out on the table in front of him, and that the sweet air was moving among the climbing plants outside. And still, he was asleep. Suddenly, the scene shifted; the air turned stuffy and cramped; and he felt a wave of terror, thinking that he was back in the Jew’s house. There sat the ugly old man in his usual spot, pointing at him and whispering to another man, whose face was turned away, sitting next to him.
‘Hush, my dear!’ he thought he heard the Jew say; ‘it is he, sure enough. Come away.’
‘Hush, my dear!’ he thought he heard the Jew say; ‘it’s him, for sure. Let's go.’
‘He!’ the other man seemed to answer; ‘could I mistake him, think you? If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and he stood amongst them, there is something that would tell me how to point him out. If you buried him fifty feet deep, and took me across his grave, I fancy I should know, if there wasn’t a mark above it, that he lay buried there?’
‘Hey!’ the other man seemed to reply; ‘could I mistake him, you think? If a group of ghosts took on his exact appearance, and he stood among them, there’s something about him that would help me identify him. Even if you buried him fifty feet deep and took me over his grave, I bet I’d know, even if there wasn’t a marker above it, that he was buried there?’
The man seemed to say this, with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver awoke with the fear, and started up.
The man seemed to say this with such intense hatred that Oliver woke up in fear and jumped up.
Good Heaven! what was that, which sent the blood tingling to his heart, and deprived him of his voice, and of power to move! There—there—at the window—close before him—so close, that he could have almost touched him before he started back: with his eyes peering into the room, and meeting his: there stood the Jew! And beside him, white with rage or fear, or both, were the scowling features of the man who had accosted him in the inn-yard.
Good heavens! What was that that made his heart race and took away his voice and ability to move? There—right there—at the window—so close that he could almost reach out and touch him before he flinched back: with his eyes peering into the room and locking onto his, stood the Jew! Next to him, pale with anger, fear, or maybe a mix of both, were the scowling features of the man who had approached him in the inn yard.
It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and they were gone. But they had recognised him, and he them; and their look was as firmly impressed upon his memory, as if it had been deeply carved in stone, and set before him from his birth. He stood transfixed for a moment; then, leaping from the window into the garden, called loudly for help.
It was just a瞬間, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and then they were gone. But they had recognized him, and he them; and their look was etched in his memory, as if it had been deeply carved in stone, placed before him since birth. He stood frozen for a moment; then, jumping from the window into the garden, he called out for help loudly.
Original
CHAPTER XXXV — CONTAINING THE UNSATISFACTORY RESULT OF OLIVER’S ADVENTURE; AND A CONVERSATION OF SOME IMPORTANCE BETWEEN HARRY MAYLIE AND ROSE
When the inmates of the house, attracted by Oliver’s cries, hurried to the spot from which they proceeded, they found him, pale and agitated, pointing in the direction of the meadows behind the house, and scarcely able to articulate the words, ‘The Jew! the Jew!’
When the people in the house, drawn by Oliver’s shouts, rushed to the place where the sounds came from, they found him, pale and shaken, pointing toward the meadows behind the house, almost unable to say 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.
Mr. Giles was confused about what this commotion meant; but Harry Maylie, whose understanding was a bit sharper, and who had heard Oliver’s story from his mother, got it right away.
‘What direction did he take?’ he asked, catching up a heavy stick which was standing in a corner.
‘What direction did he go?’ he asked, grabbing a heavy stick that was leaning in a corner.
‘That,’ replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man had taken; ‘I missed them in an instant.’
‘That,’ replied Oliver, pointing out the direction the man had gone; ‘I lost sight of them in an instant.’
‘Then, they are in the ditch!’ said Harry. ‘Follow! And keep as near me, as you can.’ So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and darted off with a speed which rendered it matter of exceeding difficulty for the others to keep near him.
‘Then, they’re in the ditch!’ said Harry. ‘Follow me! And stay as close to me as you can.’ With that, he jumped over the hedge and took off at a speed that made it really hard for the others to keep up with 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.
Giles followed as best as he could; and Oliver followed too; and after a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had been out for a walk and had just returned, stumbled over the hedge after them. He got up with more agility than one would expect and joined the same path at quite a decent speed, shouting loudly the whole time to find out what was going on.
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.
On they all went; they didn’t stop once to catch their breath until the leader, turning into a corner of the field pointed out by Oliver, started to closely search the ditch and hedge nearby. This gave the rest of the group a chance to catch up and for Oliver to explain to Mr. Losberne the circumstances that had led to such a determined chase.
The search was all in vain. There were not even the traces of recent footsteps, to be seen. They stood now, on the summit of a little hill, commanding the open fields in every direction for three or four miles. There was the village in the hollow on the left; but, in order to gain that, after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed out, the men must have made a circuit of open ground, which it was impossible they could have accomplished in so short a time. A thick wood skirted the meadow-land in another direction; but they could not have gained that covert for the same reason.
The search was completely pointless. There weren't even any signs of recent footsteps. They were now standing on the top of a small hill, overlooking the open fields for three or four miles in every direction. The village was nestled in the valley on the left, but to reach it, after following the path Oliver had indicated, the men would have had to go around open ground, which was impossible for them to do in such a short time. A thick forest lined the meadow in another direction, but they couldn't have reached that cover for the same reason.
‘It must have been a dream, Oliver,’ said Harry Maylie.
‘It must have been a dream, Oliver,’ Harry Maylie said.
‘Oh no, indeed, sir,’ replied Oliver, shuddering at the very recollection of the old wretch’s countenance; ‘I saw him too plainly for that. I saw them both, as plainly as I see you now.’
‘Oh no, definitely not, sir,’ replied Oliver, shuddering at the memory of the old creep’s face; ‘I saw him too clearly for that. I saw them both, as clearly as I see you now.’
‘Who was the other?’ inquired Harry and Mr. Losberne, together.
"Who was the other one?" Harry and Mr. Losberne asked at the same time.
‘The very same man I told you of, who came so suddenly upon me at the inn,’ said Oliver. ‘We had our eyes fixed full upon each other; and I could swear to him.’
‘The exact same guy I mentioned, who appeared out of nowhere at the inn,’ said Oliver. ‘We were staring right at each other, and I could definitely recognize him.’
‘They took this way?’ demanded Harry: ‘are you sure?’
‘They took this route?’ Harry asked. ‘Are you sure?’
‘As I am that the men were at the window,’ replied Oliver, pointing down, as he spoke, to the hedge which divided the cottage-garden from the meadow. ‘The tall man leaped over, just there; and the Jew, running a few paces to the right, crept through that gap.’
‘As I was watching, the men were at the window,’ replied Oliver, pointing down as he spoke to the hedge that separated the cottage garden from the meadow. ‘The tall man jumped over right there; and the Jew, running a bit to the right, slipped through that gap.’
The two gentlemen watched Oliver’s earnest face, as he spoke, and looking from him to each other, seemed to feel satisfied of the accuracy of what he said. Still, in no direction were there any appearances of the trampling of men in hurried flight. The grass was long; but it was trodden down nowhere, save where their own feet had crushed it. The sides and brinks of the ditches were of damp clay; but in no one place could they discern the print of men’s shoes, or the slightest mark which would indicate that any feet had pressed the ground for hours before.
The two gentlemen watched Oliver’s serious expression as he spoke, and looking from him to each other, seemed convinced of the truth of what he said. Still, in any direction, there were no signs of people rushing in panic. The grass was tall, but it was flattened only where their own feet had stepped. The edges and banks of the ditches were made of wet clay, but in no spot could they see any footprints or even the faintest trace that anyone had been there for hours before.
‘This is strange!’ said Harry.
"This is weird!" said Harry.
‘Strange?’ echoed the doctor. ‘Blathers and Duff, themselves, could make nothing of it.’
‘Strange?’ the doctor repeated. ‘Blathers and Duff themselves couldn't figure it out.’
Notwithstanding the evidently useless nature of their search, they did not desist until the coming on of night rendered its further prosecution hopeless; and even then, they gave it up with reluctance. Giles was dispatched to the different ale-houses in the village, furnished with the best description Oliver could give of the appearance and dress of the strangers. Of these, the Jew was, at all events, sufficiently remarkable to be remembered, supposing he had been seen drinking, or loitering about; but Giles returned without any intelligence, calculated to dispel or lessen the mystery.
Despite the clear futility of their search, they didn’t stop until nightfall made it impossible to continue; even then, they gave up reluctantly. Giles was sent to the various pubs in the village, armed with the best description Oliver could provide of the strangers’ appearance and clothing. Among them, the Jew was certainly distinctive enough to be recognized if he had been seen drinking or hanging around; but Giles came back without any information that could clarify or reduce the mystery.
On the next day, fresh search was made, and the inquiries renewed; but with no better success. On the day following, Oliver and Mr. Maylie repaired to the market-town, in the hope of seeing or hearing something of the men there; but this effort was equally fruitless. After a few days, the affair began to be forgotten, as most affairs are, when wonder, having no fresh food to support it, dies away of itself.
On the next day, a new search was conducted, and the inquiries resumed; but there was still no better outcome. The following day, Oliver and Mr. Maylie went to the market town, hoping to see or hear something about the men there; but this attempt was just as unsuccessful. After a few days, people started to forget about the incident, as most situations do when curiosity, lacking new information, fades away on its own.
Meanwhile, Rose was rapidly recovering. She had left her room: was able to go out; and mixing once more with the family, carried joy into the hearts of all.
Meanwhile, Rose was quickly getting better. She had left her room, was able to go outside, and rejoined the family, bringing happiness to everyone.
But, although this happy change had a visible effect on the little circle; and although cheerful voices and merry laughter were once more heard in the cottage; there was at times, an unwonted restraint upon some there: even upon Rose herself: which Oliver could not fail to remark. Mrs. Maylie and her son were often closeted together for a long time; and more than once Rose appeared with traces of tears upon her face. After Mr. Losberne had fixed a day for his departure to Chertsey, these symptoms increased; and it became evident that something was in progress which affected the peace of the young lady, and of somebody else besides.
But even though this happy change had a noticeable effect on the little group, and cheerful voices and laughter could once again be heard in the cottage, there was sometimes an unusual tension among some of them; even Rose herself, which Oliver couldn't help but notice. Mrs. Maylie and her son often spent long hours together in private, and more than once, Rose came out with signs of having been crying. After Mr. Losberne set a date for his departure to Chertsey, these signs increased, and it became clear that something was happening that was troubling the young lady and someone else as well.
At length, one morning, when Rose was alone in the breakfast-parlour, Harry Maylie entered; and, with some hesitation, begged permission to speak with her for a few moments.
At last, one morning, when Rose was by herself in the breakfast room, Harry Maylie walked in and, with a bit of hesitation, asked if he could talk to her for a few moments.
‘A few—a very few—will suffice, Rose,’ said the young man, drawing his chair towards her. ‘What I shall have to say, has already presented itself to your mind; the most cherished hopes of my heart are not unknown to you, though from my lips you have not heard them stated.’
‘A few—a very few—will do, Rose,’ said the young man, pulling his chair closer to her. ‘What I need to say has already crossed your mind; the deepest hopes of my heart aren't a secret to you, even though you haven't heard them said by me.’
Rose had been very pale from the moment of his entrance; but that might have been the effect of her recent illness. She merely bowed; and bending over some plants that stood near, waited in silence for him to proceed.
Rose had looked very pale since he arrived, but that could have been because of her recent illness. She just nodded and leaned over some nearby plants, waiting quietly for him to continue.
‘I—I—ought to have left here, before,’ said Harry.
‘I should have left here earlier,’ said Harry.
‘You should, indeed,’ replied Rose. ‘Forgive me for saying so, but I wish you had.’
‘You really should,’ Rose replied. ‘Sorry to say this, but I wish you had.’
‘I was brought here, by the most dreadful and agonising of all apprehensions,’ said the young man; ‘the fear of losing the one dear being on whom my every wish and hope are fixed. You had been dying; trembling between earth and heaven. We know that when the young, the beautiful, and good, are visited with sickness, their pure spirits insensibly turn towards their bright home of lasting rest; we know, Heaven help us! that the best and fairest of our kind, too often fade in blooming.’
‘I came here because of the worst and most painful fear,’ said the young man; ‘the fear of losing the one person I care about most in the world. You were dying, caught between life and death. We know that when the young, beautiful, and good get sick, their pure spirits quietly reach for their eternal home; we know, God help us! that the best and brightest among us too often fade away too soon.’
There were tears in the eyes of the gentle girl, as these words were spoken; and when one fell upon the flower over which she bent, and glistened brightly in its cup, making it more beautiful, it seemed as though the outpouring of her fresh young heart, claimed kindred naturally, with the loveliest things in nature.
There were tears in the gentle girl's eyes as she heard these words, and when one drop fell onto the flower she was leaning over, it sparkled in its petals, making it even more beautiful. It felt like the emotion of her young heart naturally connected with the most beautiful things in nature.
‘A creature,’ continued the young man, passionately, ‘a creature as fair and innocent of guile as one of God’s own angels, fluttered between life and death. Oh! who could hope, when the distant world to which she was akin, half opened to her view, that she would return to the sorrow and calamity of this! Rose, Rose, to know that you were passing away like some soft shadow, which a light from above, casts upon the earth; to have no hope that you would be spared to those who linger here; hardly to know a reason why you should be; to feel that you belonged to that bright sphere whither so many of the fairest and the best have winged their early flight; and yet to pray, amid all these consolations, that you might be restored to those who loved you—these were distractions almost too great to bear. They were mine, by day and night; and with them, came such a rushing torrent of fears, and apprehensions, and selfish regrets, lest you should die, and never know how devotedly I loved you, as almost bore down sense and reason in its course. You recovered. Day by day, and almost hour by hour, some drop of health came back, and mingling with the spent and feeble stream of life which circulated languidly within you, swelled it again to a high and rushing tide. I have watched you change almost from death, to life, with eyes that turned blind with their eagerness and deep affection. Do not tell me that you wish I had lost this; for it has softened my heart to all mankind.’
“A creature,” the young man continued fervently, “a creature as beautiful and innocent as one of God’s own angels, hovered between life and death. Oh! who could hope, when the distant world she was connected to, was half in view, that she would return to the sorrow and misfortune of this? Rose, Rose, to know that you were fading away like a gentle shadow cast upon the earth by a light from above; to have no hope that you would be spared for those who remain here; barely to understand a reason why you should be; to feel that you belonged to that bright realm where so many of the fairest and the best have taken their early flight; and yet to pray, amid all these comforts, that you might be given back to those who love you—these were distractions almost too great to bear. They consumed me, day and night; and with them came a torrent of fears, worries, and selfish regrets, fearing that you might die without ever knowing how deeply I loved you, which almost overwhelmed my sense and reason. You recovered. Day by day, and almost hour by hour, some bit of health returned, and mingling with the weak and feeble flow of life that circulated slowly within you, it swelled again to a strong and rushing tide. I watched you transform almost from death to life, with eyes that went blind with eagerness and deep affection. Don’t tell me that you wish I hadn’t felt this; because it has opened my heart to all humanity.”
‘I did not mean that,’ said Rose, weeping; ‘I only wish you had left here, that you might have turned to high and noble pursuits again; to pursuits well worthy of you.’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ said Rose, crying; ‘I just wish you had left here so you could turn to high and noble pursuits again; to pursuits that are truly worthy of you.’
‘There is no pursuit more worthy of me: more worthy of the highest nature that exists: than the struggle to win such a heart as yours,’ said the young man, taking her hand. ‘Rose, my own dear Rose! For years—for years—I have loved you; hoping to win my way to fame, and then come proudly home and tell you it had been pursued only for you to share; thinking, in my daydreams, how I would remind you, in that happy moment, of the many silent tokens I had given of a boy’s attachment, and claim your hand, as in redemption of some old mute contract that had been sealed between us! That time has not arrived; but here, with not fame won, and no young vision realised, I offer you the heart so long your own, and stake my all upon the words with which you greet the offer.’
‘There’s no goal more worthy of me—none more fitting for the highest nature that exists—than the effort to win a heart like yours,’ said the young man, taking her hand. ‘Rose, my beloved Rose! For years—for years—I have loved you; dreaming of gaining fame and then coming home proudly to tell you it was all for you to share; envisioning, in my daydreams, how I would remind you, in that joyful moment, of the many silent signs I had shown of a boy’s affection, and ask for your hand as if fulfilling some old unspoken promise we had made! That moment hasn’t come yet; but here, without fame and with no youthful dreams realized, I offer you the heart that has long been yours, putting everything on the line with the words you use to respond to my offer.’
‘Your behaviour has ever been kind and noble.’ said Rose, mastering the emotions by which she was agitated. ‘As you believe that I am not insensible or ungrateful, so hear my answer.’
‘Your behavior has always been kind and noble,’ Rose said, calming the emotions that were stirring within her. ‘Since you believe that I am not unfeeling or ungrateful, please hear my response.’
‘It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, dear Rose?’
‘It's that I want to try to deserve you; it is, dear Rose?’
‘It is,’ replied Rose, ‘that you must endeavour to forget me; not as your old and dearly-attached companion, for that would wound me deeply; but, as the object of your love. Look into the world; think how many hearts you would be proud to gain, are there. Confide some other passion to me, if you will; I will be the truest, warmest, and most faithful friend you have.’
"It is," Rose replied, "that you should try to forget me; not as your old and cherished friend, because that would hurt me deeply; but as the person you love. Look at the world; think about how many hearts you could be proud to win over. Share some other passion with me if you want; I will be the truest, warmest, and most loyal friend you have."
There was a pause, during which, Rose, who had covered her face with one hand, gave free vent to her tears. Harry still retained the other.
There was a pause, during which Rose, who had covered her face with one hand, freely let her tears flow. Harry still held the other.
‘And your reasons, Rose,’ he said, at length, in a low voice; ‘your reasons for this decision?’
‘And your reasons, Rose,’ he said finally, in a quiet voice; ‘what are your reasons for this decision?’
‘You have a right to know them,’ rejoined Rose. ‘You can say nothing to alter my resolution. It is a duty that I must perform. I owe it, alike to others, and to myself.’
‘You have a right to know them,’ Rose replied. ‘You can't say anything to change my mind. It's a responsibility I have to fulfill. I owe it to both others and myself.’
‘To yourself?’
'To yourself?'
‘Yes, Harry. I owe it to myself, that I, a friendless, portionless, girl, with a blight upon my name, should not give your friends reason to suspect that I had sordidly yielded to your first passion, and fastened myself, a clog, on all your hopes and projects. I owe it to you and yours, to prevent you from opposing, in the warmth of your generous nature, this great obstacle to your progress in the world.’
'Yes, Harry. I owe it to myself that I, a friendless, penniless girl with a stain on my name, shouldn't give your friends a reason to think that I had greedily submitted to your initial feelings and attached myself as a burden to all your hopes and plans. I owe it to you and your family to stop you from letting this huge barrier get in the way of your success in the world.'
‘If your inclinations chime with your sense of duty—’ Harry began.
‘If your inclinations align with your sense of duty—’ Harry began.
‘They do not,’ replied Rose, colouring deeply.
‘They don’t,’ Rose replied, blushing deeply.
‘Then you return my love?’ said Harry. ‘Say but that, dear Rose; say but that; and soften the bitterness of this hard disappointment!’
‘So, you love me back?’ said Harry. ‘Just say that, dear Rose; just say that; and ease the sting of this tough disappointment!’
‘If I could have done so, without doing heavy wrong to him I loved,’ rejoined Rose, ‘I could have—’
‘If I could have done that without doing a great injustice to the person I loved,’ Rose replied, ‘I would have—’
‘Have received this declaration very differently?’ said Harry. ‘Do not conceal that from me, at least, Rose.’
‘Have you understood this declaration differently?’ Harry asked. ‘Please don’t hide that from me, at least, Rose.’
‘I could,’ said Rose. ‘Stay!’ she added, disengaging her hand, ‘why should we prolong this painful interview? Most painful to me, and yet productive of lasting happiness, notwithstanding; for it will be happiness to know that I once held the high place in your regard which I now occupy, and every triumph you achieve in life will animate me with new fortitude and firmness. Farewell, Harry! As we have met to-day, we meet no more; but in other relations than those in which this conversation have placed us, we may be long and happily entwined; and may every blessing that the prayers of a true and earnest heart can call down from the source of all truth and sincerity, cheer and prosper you!’
"I could," Rose said. "Stay!" she added, pulling her hand away. "Why should we drag out this painful conversation? It's most painful for me, but it will also bring lasting happiness, because it will be happy to know that I once held a special place in your heart that I still do now. Every success you achieve in life will give me new strength and determination. Goodbye, Harry! As we've met today, we won't meet again; but in other ways beyond this conversation, we may be happily intertwined for a long time. May every blessing that a true and sincere heart can call down from the source of all truth and honesty bring you joy and success!"
‘Another word, Rose,’ said Harry. ‘Your reason in your own words. From your own lips, let me hear it!’
‘Another word, Rose,’ said Harry. ‘Your own reasoning in your own words. From you, I want to hear it!’
‘The prospect before you,’ answered Rose, firmly, ‘is a brilliant one. All the honours to which great talents and powerful connections can help men in public life, are in store for you. But those connections are proud; and I will neither mingle with such as may hold in scorn the mother who gave me life; nor bring disgrace or failure on the son of her who has so well supplied that mother’s place. In a word,’ said the young lady, turning away, as her temporary firmness forsook her, ‘there is a stain upon my name, which the world visits on innocent heads. I will carry it into no blood but my own; and the reproach shall rest alone on me.’
‘The future ahead of you,’ Rose replied firmly, ‘is bright. All the accolades that great talent and strong connections can offer in public life are waiting for you. But those connections are arrogant; and I won't associate with anyone who might look down on the mother who gave me life; nor will I bring shame or failure upon the son of the woman who has taken such good care of me. In short,’ she said, turning away as her temporary resolve faded, ‘there's a stain on my name that the world puts on innocent people. I will not pass it on to anyone but myself; and the blame will rest solely on me.’
‘One word more, Rose. Dearest Rose! one more!’ cried Harry, throwing himself before her. ‘If I had been less—less fortunate, the world would call it—if some obscure and peaceful life had been my destiny—if I had been poor, sick, helpless—would you have turned from me then? Or has my probable advancement to riches and honour, given this scruple birth?’
‘One more word, Rose. My dearest Rose! Just one more!’ Harry exclaimed, throwing himself at her feet. ‘If I had been less—less fortunate, as the world would say—if a simple and quiet life had been my fate—if I had been poor, sick, or helpless—would you have rejected me then? Or has my likely rise to wealth and status caused this doubt to arise?’
‘Do not press me to reply,’ answered Rose. ‘The question does not arise, and never will. It is unfair, almost unkind, to urge it.’
‘Please don’t force me to answer,’ Rose responded. ‘That question doesn’t come up, and it never will. It’s unfair, almost cruel, to insist on it.’
‘If your answer be what I almost dare to hope it is,’ retorted Harry, ‘it will shed a gleam of happiness upon my lonely way, and light the path before me. It is not an idle thing to do so much, by the utterance of a few brief words, for one who loves you beyond all else. Oh, Rose: in the name of my ardent and enduring attachment; in the name of all I have suffered for you, and all you doom me to undergo; answer me this one question!’
‘If your answer is what I almost dare to hope it is,’ replied Harry, ‘it will bring a ray of happiness to my lonely journey and light the way ahead. It’s not a trivial thing to say so much with just a few words from someone who loves you more than anything. Oh, Rose: for the sake of my deep and lasting love; for everything I’ve suffered for you and all you make me endure; please answer this one question!’
‘Then, if your lot had been differently cast,’ rejoined Rose; ‘if you had been even a little, but not so far, above me; if I could have been a help and comfort to you in any humble scene of peace and retirement, and not a blot and drawback in ambitious and distinguished crowds; I should have been spared this trial. I have every reason to be happy, very happy, now; but then, Harry, I own I should have been happier.’
‘Then, if things had turned out differently for you,’ Rose replied; ‘if you had been just a bit, but not too much, above me; if I could have been a support and comfort to you in any simple, peaceful moments, and not a hindrance in ambitious and prominent groups; I wouldn’t have had to face this struggle. I have every reason to be happy, very happy, now; but honestly, Harry, I admit I would have been happier then.’
Busy recollections of old hopes, cherished as a girl, long ago, crowded into the mind of Rose, while making this avowal; but they brought tears with them, as old hopes will when they come back withered; and they relieved her.
Busy memories of old hopes, held dear from her girlhood, flooded Rose's mind as she made this confession; but they also brought tears, as old hopes do when they return faded; and they offered her some relief.
‘I cannot help this weakness, and it makes my purpose stronger,’ said Rose, extending her hand. ‘I must leave you now, indeed.’
‘I can't help this weakness, and it makes my purpose stronger,’ said Rose, extending her hand. ‘I have to leave you now, really.’
‘I ask one promise,’ said Harry. ‘Once, and only once more,—say within a year, but it may be much sooner,—I may speak to you again on this subject, for the last time.’
‘I ask one promise,’ said Harry. ‘Once, and only once more—say within a year, but it could be much sooner—I can talk to you again about this, for the last time.’
‘Not to press me to alter my right determination,’ replied Rose, with a melancholy smile; ‘it will be useless.’
‘Don’t try to make me change my decision,’ replied Rose, with a sad smile; ‘it won’t help.’
‘No,’ said Harry; ‘to hear you repeat it, if you will—finally repeat it! I will lay at your feet, whatever of station of fortune I may possess; and if you still adhere to your present resolution, will not seek, by word or act, to change it.’
‘No,’ said Harry; ‘if you’re willing to say it again—go ahead, say it! I will place at your feet everything I have in terms of status or wealth; and if you still stick to your decision, I won’t try to change your mind with words or actions.’
‘Then let it be so,’ rejoined Rose; ‘it is but one pang the more, and by that time I may be enabled to bear it better.’
‘Then let it be so,’ replied Rose; ‘it’s just one more pain, and by then I might be able to handle it better.’
She extended her hand again. But the young man caught her to his bosom; and imprinting one kiss on her beautiful forehead, hurried from the room.
She reached out her hand again. But the young man pulled her into his embrace; and placing a kiss on her lovely forehead, rushed out of the room.
CHAPTER XXXVI — IS A VERY SHORT ONE, AND MAY APPEAR OF NO GREAT IMPORTANCE IN ITS PLACE, BUT IT SHOULD BE READ NOTWITHSTANDING, AS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST, AND A KEY TO ONE THAT WILL FOLLOW WHEN ITS
TIME ARRIVES
‘And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning; eh?’ said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the breakfast-table. ‘Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two half-hours together!’
‘So you've decided to be my travel buddy this morning, huh?’ said the doctor as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the breakfast table. ‘Well, you can’t stick to the same plan or intention for more than half an hour!’
‘You will tell me a different tale one of these days,’ said Harry, colouring without any perceptible reason.
‘You’ll tell me a different story one of these days,’ said Harry, blushing for no clear reason.
‘I hope I may have good cause to do so,’ replied Mr. Losberne; ‘though I confess I don’t think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up your mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your mother, like a dutiful son, to the sea-side. Before noon, you announce that you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I go, on your road to London. And at night, you urge me, with great mystery, to start before the ladies are stirring; the consequence of which is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn’t it, Oliver?’
“I hope I have a good reason to do that,” replied Mr. Losberne, “but I honestly don’t think I will. Just yesterday morning, you hurriedly decided to stay here and go with your mother, like a good son, to the seaside. Before noon, you announced that you would be doing me the honor of traveling with me partway to London. And that night, you insisted, with great secrecy, that we should leave before the ladies are up; as a result, young Oliver here is stuck at breakfast when he should be out exploring the meadows for all kinds of plants. Too bad, right, Oliver?”
‘I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr. Maylie went away, sir,’ rejoined Oliver.
‘I would have been really upset if I wasn’t home when you and Mr. Maylie left, sir,’ Oliver replied.
‘That’s a fine fellow,’ said the doctor; ‘you shall come and see me when you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?’
‘That’s a great guy,’ said the doctor; ‘you should come and visit me when you get back. But seriously, Harry; has any message from the important people caused this sudden urge for you to leave?’
‘The great nobs,’ replied Harry, ‘under which designation, I presume, you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all, since I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it likely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate attendance among them.’
‘The important people,’ replied Harry, ‘and by that, I assume you mean my very distinguished uncle, haven't reached out to me at all since I've been here; and at this time of year, it’s unlikely that anything would happen that would require my immediate presence with them.’
‘Well,’ said the doctor, ‘you are a queer fellow. But of course they will get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political life. There’s something in that. Good training is always desirable, whether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes.’
‘Well,’ said the doctor, ‘you’re an odd one. But of course they’ll get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden changes are actually pretty good preparation for political life. There’s some truth to that. Good training is always a good thing, whether the race is for a position, a trophy, or a bet.’
Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but he contented himself with saying, ‘We shall see,’ and pursued the subject no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it packed.
Harry Maylie seemed like he could have followed this brief conversation with a comment or two that would have really surprised the doctor; instead, he just said, "We’ll see," and didn’t bring it up again. Soon after, the post-chaise pulled up to the door, and when Giles came in for the luggage, the good doctor hurried outside to help pack it.
‘Oliver,’ said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, ‘let me speak a word with you.’
‘Oliver,’ said Harry Maylie in a low voice, ‘can I talk to you for a second?’
Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him; much surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed.
Oliver stepped into the window nook where Mr. Maylie motioned for him; he was quite surprised by the blend of sadness and lively energy that his entire demeanor showed.
‘You can write well now?’ said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm.
“You can write well now?” Harry asked, placing his hand on his arm.
‘I hope so, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘I hope so, sir,’ Oliver replied.
‘I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write to me—say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?’
‘I won’t be home again, maybe for a while; I’d really like you to write to me—how about once every two weeks: every other Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?’
‘Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it,’ exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission.
‘Oh! Of course, sir; I'd be happy to do it,’ exclaimed Oliver, very excited about the task.
‘I should like to know how—how my mother and Miss Maylie are,’ said the young man; ‘and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she—they, I mean—seem happy and quite well. You understand me?’
'I would like to know how my mother and Miss Maylie are,' said the young man; 'and you can fill up a page by telling me what walks you take, what you talk about, and whether they seem happy and healthy. Do you understand me?'
‘Oh! quite, sir, quite,’ replied Oliver.
‘Oh! definitely, sir, definitely,’ replied Oliver.
‘I would rather you did not mention it to them,’ said Harry, hurrying over his words; ‘because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me; and mind you tell me everything! I depend upon you.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t bring it up with them,’ said Harry, rushing through his words; ‘because it might make my mom anxious to write to me more often, and that would be a hassle and worry for her. Let’s keep it a secret between us; and make sure to tell me everything! I’m counting on you.’
Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie took leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and protection.
Oliver, feeling excited and proud of his significance, promised to keep his communications private and clear. Mr. Maylie said goodbye to him, assuring him of his care and support.
The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should be left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants were in the garden, looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the latticed window, and jumped into the carriage.
The doctor was in the chair; Giles (who was supposed to stay behind) held the door open in his hand; and the female servants were in the garden, watching. Harry glanced briefly at the window with the lattice and hopped into the carriage.
‘Drive on!’ he cried, ‘hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing short of flying will keep pace with me, to-day.’
‘Drive on!’ he yelled, ‘hard, fast, at full speed! Nothing less than flying can keep up with me today.’
‘Halloa!’ cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great hurry, and shouting to the postillion; ‘something very short of flying will keep pace with me. Do you hear?’
‘Hey!’ shouted the doctor, quickly lowering the front window and calling to the driver, ‘something less than flying will keep up with me. Do you hear?’
Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible, and its rapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound its way along the road, almost hidden in a cloud of dust: now wholly disappearing, and now becoming visible again, as intervening objects, or the intricacies of the way, permitted. It was not until even the dusty cloud was no longer to be seen, that the gazers dispersed.
Jingling and clattering, until the distance made its noise inaudible, and its quick movement only noticeable to the eye, the vehicle made its way along the road, almost hidden in a cloud of dust: now completely disappearing, and now becoming visible again, as objects in the way or the twists and turns of the road allowed. It wasn’t until even the dusty cloud was gone that the onlookers finally left.
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.
And there was one person watching, who kept staring at the spot where the carriage had vanished, long after it was miles away; for, behind the white curtain that had hidden her from view when Harry looked up at the window, sat Rose herself.
‘He seems in high spirits and happy,’ she said, at length. ‘I feared for a time he might be otherwise. I was mistaken. I am very, very glad.’
‘He seems really happy and in good spirits,’ she said after a while. ‘I was worried for a bit that he might feel differently. I was wrong. I’m so, so 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.
Tears show both happiness and sadness; however, the ones streaming down Rose’s face, as she sat thoughtfully at the window, still looking out in the same direction, seemed to express more sorrow than joy.
CHAPTER XXXVII — IN WHICH THE READER MAY PERCEIVE A CONTRAST, NOT UNCOMMON IN MATRIMONIAL CASES
Mr. Bumble sat in the workhouse parlour, with his eyes moodily fixed on the cheerless grate, whence, as it was summer time, no brighter gleam proceeded, than the reflection of certain sickly rays of the sun, which were sent back from its cold and shining surface. A paper fly-cage dangled from the ceiling, to which he occasionally raised his eyes in gloomy thought; and, as the heedless insects hovered round the gaudy net-work, Mr. Bumble would heave a deep sigh, while a more gloomy shadow overspread his countenance. Mr. Bumble was meditating; it might be that the insects brought to mind, some painful passage in his own past life.
Mr. Bumble sat in the workhouse parlor, staring moodily at the lifeless fireplace, from which, since it was summer, no brighter light came than the reflection of a few weak rays of sunlight bouncing off its cold, shiny surface. A paper fly-cage hung from the ceiling, and he occasionally looked up at it in deep thought; as the careless insects buzzed around the colorful netting, Mr. Bumble would let out a deep sigh, and a darker look would spread across his face. Mr. Bumble was lost in thought; perhaps the insects reminded him of some painful moment from his own past.
Nor was Mr. Bumble’s gloom the only thing calculated to awaken a pleasing melancholy in the bosom of a spectator. There were not wanting other appearances, and those closely connected with his own person, which announced that a great change had taken place in the position of his affairs. The laced coat, and the cocked hat; where were they? He still wore knee-breeches, and dark cotton stockings on his nether limbs; but they were not the breeches. The coat was wide-skirted; and in that respect like the coat, but, oh how different! The mighty cocked hat was replaced by a modest round one. Mr. Bumble was no longer a beadle.
Nor was Mr. Bumble’s sadness the only thing that stirred a bittersweet feeling in the heart of an onlooker. There were also other signs, closely tied to him, that showed a significant change had happened in his situation. The laced coat and the cocked hat; where had they gone? He still wore knee breeches and dark cotton stockings on his legs, but they were not the breeches. The coat had wider skirts, and in that sense, it resembled the coat, but, oh, how different! The impressive cocked hat had been swapped for a simple round one. Mr. Bumble was no longer a beadle.
There are some promotions in life, which, independent of the more substantial rewards they offer, require peculiar value and dignity from the coats and waistcoats connected with them. A field-marshal has his uniform; a bishop his silk apron; a counsellor his silk gown; a beadle his cocked hat. Strip the bishop of his apron, or the beadle of his hat and lace; what are they? Men. Mere men. Dignity, and even holiness too, sometimes, are more questions of coat and waistcoat than some people imagine.
There are some promotions in life that, aside from the bigger rewards they bring, demand a certain value and dignity from the uniforms and attire associated with them. A field marshal has his uniform; a bishop his robe; a lawyer his gown; a beadle his hat. Take away the bishop's robe, or the beadle's hat and lace; what are they then? Just men. Simply men. Dignity, and even holiness at times, are often more about attire than some people realize.
Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney, and was master of the workhouse. Another beadle had come into power. On him the cocked hat, gold-laced coat, and staff, had all three descended.
Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney and was now in charge of the workhouse. Another beadle had taken over. The cocked hat, gold-laced coat, and staff had all passed to him.
‘And to-morrow two months it was done!’ said Mr. Bumble, with a sigh. ‘It seems a age.’
‘And tomorrow, it’s been two months since it was done!’ said Mr. Bumble, with a sigh. ‘It feels like forever.’
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.
Mr. Bumble might have meant that he had packed an entire life of happiness into just eight weeks; but the sigh—there was a lot of meaning in that sigh.
‘I sold myself,’ said Mr. Bumble, pursuing the same train of relection, ‘for six teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a milk-pot; with a small quantity of second-hand furniture, and twenty pound in money. I went very reasonable. Cheap, dirt cheap!’
‘I sold myself,’ said Mr. Bumble, continuing the same line of thought, ‘for six teaspoons, a pair of sugar tongs, and a milk jug; along with a bit of used furniture, and twenty pounds in cash. I went for a really good deal. Super cheap!’
‘Cheap!’ cried a shrill voice in Mr. Bumble’s ear: ‘you would have been dear at any price; and dear enough I paid for you, Lord above knows that!’
‘Cheap!’ cried a high-pitched voice in Mr. Bumble’s ear: ‘you would have been overpriced at any cost; and I paid a hefty amount for you, God knows that!’
Mr. Bumble turned, and encountered the face of his interesting consort, who, imperfectly comprehending the few words she had overheard of his complaint, had hazarded the foregoing remark at a venture.
Mr. Bumble turned and faced his intriguing partner, who, not fully grasping the few words she had caught of his complaint, had taken a chance with the previous comment.
‘Mrs. Bumble, ma’am!’ said Mr. Bumble, with a sentimental sternness.
‘Mrs. Bumble, ma’am!’ Mr. Bumble said, with a serious yet sentimental tone.
‘Well!’ cried the lady.
"Well!" exclaimed the lady.
‘Have the goodness to look at me,’ said Mr. Bumble, fixing his eyes upon her.
‘Please look at me,’ said Mr. Bumble, focusing his eyes on her.
‘If she stands such a eye as that,’ said Mr. Bumble to himself, ‘she can stand anything. It is a eye I never knew to fail with paupers. If it fails with her, my power is gone.’
‘If she has that kind of look,’ said Mr. Bumble to himself, ‘she can handle anything. It’s a look I’ve never seen fail with beggars. If it fails with her, I’ve lost my power.’
Whether an exceedingly small expansion of eye be sufficient to quell paupers, who, being lightly fed, are in no very high condition; or whether the late Mrs. Corney was particularly proof against eagle glances; are matters of opinion. The matter of fact, is, that the matron was in no way overpowered by Mr. Bumble’s scowl, but, on the contrary, treated it with great disdain, and even raised a laugh thereat, which sounded as though it were genuine.
Whether a tiny glance from the eye is enough to intimidate the poor, who are barely nourished and not in great shape; or whether the late Mrs. Corney was especially immune to intense stares; is open to interpretation. The truth is, the matron was not intimidated by Mr. Bumble's frown at all. Instead, she dismissed it with great contempt and even sparked a laugh that seemed real.
On hearing this most unexpected sound, Mr. Bumble looked, first incredulous, and afterwards amazed. He then relapsed into his former state; nor did he rouse himself until his attention was again awakened by the voice of his partner.
On hearing this totally unexpected sound, Mr. Bumble looked, first in disbelief, and then in astonishment. He then fell back into his previous state; he didn't snap out of it until he was again drawn in by his partner's voice.
‘Are you going to sit snoring there, all day?’ inquired Mrs. Bumble.
‘Are you going to just sit there snoring all day?’ Mrs. Bumble asked.
‘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.’
‘I’m going to stay here as long as I feel like it, ma’am,’ Mr. Bumble replied; ‘and even though I was not snoring, I will snore, yawn, sneeze, laugh, or cry, depending on my mood; that’s just my right.’
‘Your prerogative!’ sneered Mrs. Bumble, with ineffable contempt.
‘i>Your prerogative!’ mocked Mrs. Bumble, with utter disdain.
‘I said the word, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘The prerogative of a man is to command.’
‘I said the word, ma’am,’ Mr. Bumble replied. ‘It's a man's right to give orders.’
‘And what’s the prerogative of a woman, in the name of Goodness?’ cried the relict of Mr. Corney deceased.
‘And what’s a woman’s right, for the sake of Goodness?’ exclaimed the widow of Mr. Corney, who has passed away.
‘To obey, ma’am,’ thundered Mr. Bumble. ‘Your late unfortunate husband should have taught it you; and then, perhaps, he might have been alive now. I wish he was, poor man!’
‘To obey, ma’am,’ shouted Mr. Bumble. ‘Your late unfortunate husband should have taught you that; and then, maybe, he would still be alive. I wish he were, 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.
Mrs. Bumble, realizing immediately that the crucial moment had arrived, and that a blow for control from either side would be final and decisive, reacted to the mention of the deceased by collapsing into a chair. She let out a loud scream, calling Mr. Bumble a heartless brute, and fell into a fit of tears.
But, tears were not the things to find their way to Mr. Bumble’s soul; his heart was waterproof. Like washable beaver hats that improve with rain, his nerves were rendered stouter and more vigorous, by showers of tears, which, being tokens of weakness, and so far tacit admissions of his own power, pleased and exalted him. He eyed his good lady with looks of great satisfaction, and begged, in an encouraging manner, that she should cry her hardest: the exercise being looked upon, by the faculty, as strongly conducive to health.
But tears weren't something that could reach Mr. Bumble’s soul; his heart was impervious. Like washable beaver hats that get better with rain, his nerves became tougher and more energized with streams of tears, which, being signs of weakness and thus implicit acknowledgments of his own strength, delighted and uplifted him. He looked at his wife with great satisfaction and politely urged her to cry as much as she could, as this was considered very beneficial for health by medical professionals.
‘It opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises the eyes, and softens down the temper,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘So cry away.’
‘It opens up the lungs, refreshes the face, works out the eyes, and calms the temper,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘So go ahead and cry.’
As he discharged himself of this pleasantry, Mr. Bumble took his hat from a peg, and putting it on, rather rakishly, on one side, as a man might, who felt he had asserted his superiority in a becoming manner, thrust his hands into his pockets, and sauntered towards the door, with much ease and waggishness depicted in his whole appearance.
As he finished this playful remark, Mr. Bumble grabbed his hat off a hook and put it on, tilting it stylishly to one side like a man who believes he has confidently asserted his superiority. He shoved his hands into his pockets and strolled toward the door, exuding a sense of ease and a mischievous attitude in his entire demeanor.
Now, Mrs. Corney that was, had tried the tears, because they were less troublesome than a manual assault; but, she was quite prepared to make trial of the latter mode of proceeding, as Mr. Bumble was not long in discovering.
Now, Mrs. Corney, as she was known, had tried the tears, since they were less troublesome than physical confrontation; however, she was fully ready to attempt the latter approach, as Mr. Bumble soon found out.
The first proof he experienced of the fact, was conveyed in a hollow sound, immediately succeeded by the sudden flying off of his hat to the opposite end of the room. This preliminary proceeding laying bare his head, the expert lady, clasping him tightly round the throat with one hand, inflicted a shower of blows (dealt with singular vigour and dexterity) upon it with the other. This done, she created a little variety by scratching his face, and tearing his hair; and, having, by this time, inflicted as much punishment as she deemed necessary for the offence, she pushed him over a chair, which was luckily well situated for the purpose: and defied him to talk about his prerogative again, if he dared.
The first proof he got of what was happening came with a loud sound, followed immediately by his hat flying off to the other side of the room. With his head exposed, the skilled lady wrapped one hand tightly around his throat and unleashed a flurry of powerful and precise blows with her other hand. After that, she mixed things up by scratching his face and tugging at his hair. Having delivered as much punishment as she thought was needed for the offense, she pushed him over a conveniently placed chair and challenged him to talk about his rights again if he had the guts.
‘Get up!’ said Mrs. Bumble, in a voice of command. ‘And take yourself away from here, unless you want me to do something desperate.’
‘Get up!’ said Mrs. Bumble, in a commanding tone. ‘And get yourself out of here, unless you want me to do something drastic.’
Mr. Bumble rose with a very rueful countenance: wondering much what something desperate might be. Picking up his hat, he looked towards the door.
Mr. Bumble got up with a really sorry expression, wondering what a desperate situation could be. Picking up his hat, he glanced at the door.
‘Are you going?’ demanded Mrs. Bumble.
‘Are you going?’ asked Mrs. Bumble.
‘Certainly, my dear, certainly,’ rejoined Mr. Bumble, making a quicker motion towards the door. ‘I didn’t intend to—I’m going, my dear! You are so very violent, that really I—’
‘Of course, my dear, of course,’ Mr. Bumble replied, making a quicker move toward the door. ‘I didn’t mean to—I’m going, my dear! You’re being so intense that really I—’
At this instant, Mrs. Bumble stepped hastily forward to replace the carpet, which had been kicked up in the scuffle. Mr. Bumble immediately darted out of the room, without bestowing another thought on his unfinished sentence: leaving the late Mrs. Corney in full possession of the field.
At that moment, Mrs. Bumble rushed forward to fix the carpet that had been kicked up during the fight. Mr. Bumble quickly left the room, not giving another thought to his unfinished sentence, leaving the former Mrs. Corney in complete control of the situation.
Mr. Bumble was fairly taken by surprise, and fairly beaten. He had a decided propensity for bullying: derived no inconsiderable pleasure from the exercise of petty cruelty; and, consequently, was (it is needless to say) a coward. This is by no means a disparagement to his character; for many official personages, who are held in high respect and admiration, are the victims of similar infirmities. The remark is made, indeed, rather in his favour than otherwise, and with a view of impressing the reader with a just sense of his qualifications for office.
Mr. Bumble was completely caught off guard and thoroughly defeated. He had a strong tendency to bully and got quite a bit of pleasure from being petty and cruel, which made him, needless to say, a coward. This doesn’t take away from his character; many respected officials struggle with the same weaknesses. The comment is actually meant to reflect positively on him and to help the reader understand his capabilities for holding office.
But, the measure of his degradation was not yet full. After making a tour of the house, and thinking, for the first time, that the poor-laws really were too hard on people; and that men who ran away from their wives, leaving them chargeable to the parish, ought, in justice to be visited with no punishment at all, but rather rewarded as meritorious individuals who had suffered much; Mr. Bumble came to a room where some of the female paupers were usually employed in washing the parish linen: when the sound of voices in conversation, now proceeded.
But his degradation wasn't complete yet. After checking around the house and finally realizing that the welfare system was actually too tough on people, he thought that men who abandoned their wives, leaving them dependent on the parish, shouldn't face any punishment at all. In fact, they should be recognized as deserving individuals who had endured a lot. Mr. Bumble walked into a room where some of the female paupers usually worked washing the parish laundry, and he heard the sound of voices chatting.
‘Hem!’ said Mr. Bumble, summoning up all his native dignity. ‘These women at least shall continue to respect the prerogative. Hallo! hallo there! What do you mean by this noise, you hussies?’
‘Ahem!’ said Mr. Bumble, gathering all his natural authority. ‘These women will continue to respect the prerogative. Hey! Hey there! What do you mean by this noise, you troublemakers?’
Original
With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door, and walked in with a very fierce and angry manner: which was at once exchanged for a most humiliated and cowering air, as his eyes unexpectedly rested on the form of his lady wife.
With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door and walked in with a fierce and angry attitude, which quickly turned into a very submissive and nervous demeanor when his eyes unexpectedly landed on his wife.
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Bumble, ‘I didn’t know you were here.’
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Bumble, ‘I didn’t realize you were here.’
‘Didn’t know I was here!’ repeated Mrs. Bumble. ‘What do you do here?’
‘Didn’t know I was here!’ repeated Mrs. Bumble. ‘What do you do here?’
‘I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their work properly, my dear,’ replied Mr. Bumble: glancing distractedly at a couple of old women at the wash-tub, who were comparing notes of admiration at the workhouse-master’s humility.
‘I thought they were talking way too much to get their work done properly, my dear,’ replied Mr. Bumble, glancing distractedly at a couple of old women at the wash-tub, who were sharing compliments about the workhouse master’s humility.
‘You thought they were talking too much?’ said Mrs. Bumble. ‘What business is it of yours?’
‘i>You thought they were talking too much?’ said Mrs. Bumble. ‘What does it matter to you?’
‘Why, my dear—’ urged Mr. Bumble submissively.
‘Why, my dear—’ urged Mr. Bumble politely.
‘What business is it of yours?’ demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.
‘What’s it to you?’ demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.
‘It’s very true, you’re matron here, my dear,’ submitted Mr. Bumble; ‘but I thought you mightn’t be in the way just then.’
‘It’s definitely true, you’re in charge here, my dear,’ Mr. Bumble said; ‘but I thought you might not want to be interrupted right now.’
‘I’ll tell you what, Mr. Bumble,’ returned his lady. ‘We don’t want any of your interference. You’re a great deal too fond of poking your nose into things that don’t concern you, making everybody in the house laugh, the moment your back is turned, and making yourself look like a fool every hour in the day. Be off; come!’
‘I’ll tell you what, Mr. Bumble,’ she responded. ‘We don’t need your interference. You’re way too into sticking your nose into things that aren’t your business, making everyone in the house laugh as soon as you’re not around, and embarrassing yourself every hour of the day. Get lost; come on!’
Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings, the delight of the two old paupers, who were tittering together most rapturously, hesitated for an instant. Mrs. Bumble, whose patience brooked no delay, caught up a bowl of soap-suds, and motioning him towards the door, ordered him instantly to depart, on pain of receiving the contents upon his portly person.
Mr. Bumble, feeling a mix of intense emotions as he watched the two old beggars happily laughing together, paused for a moment. Mrs. Bumble, whose patience could not handle any waiting, grabbed a bowl of soapy water and pointed towards the door, telling him to leave immediately or risk getting the contents splashed all over his plump self.
What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked dejectedly round, and slunk away; and, as he reached the door, the titterings of the paupers broke into a shrill chuckle of irrepressible delight. It wanted but this. He was degraded in their eyes; he had lost caste and station before the very paupers; he had fallen from all the height and pomp of beadleship, to the lowest depth of the most snubbed hen-peckery.
What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked around in despair and quietly left; and, as he reached the door, the snickers of the poor turned into loud laughter of uncontrollable joy. This was all he needed. He felt humiliated in their eyes; he had lost his position and status right in front of the very paupers; he had dropped from all the authority and prestige of being a beadle to the lowest level of being completely disrespected.
‘All in two months!’ said Mr. Bumble, filled with dismal thoughts. ‘Two months! No more than two months ago, I was not only my own master, but everybody else’s, so far as the porochial workhouse was concerned, and now!—’
‘All in two months!’ said Mr. Bumble, overwhelmed with gloomy thoughts. ‘Two months! No more than two months ago, I was not just my own boss, but everyone else's as far as the workhouse was concerned, and now!—’
It was too much. Mr. Bumble boxed the ears of the boy who opened the gate for him (for he had reached the portal in his reverie); and walked, distractedly, into the street.
It was overwhelming. Mr. Bumble slapped the ears of the boy who opened the gate for him (since he had arrived at the entrance lost in thought); and walked, absent-mindedly, into the street.
He walked up one street, and down another, until exercise had abated the first passion of his grief; and then the revulsion of feeling made him thirsty. He passed a great many public-houses; but, at length paused before one in a by-way, whose parlour, as he gathered from a hasty peep over the blinds, was deserted, save by one solitary customer. It began to rain, heavily, at the moment. This determined him. Mr. Bumble stepped in; and ordering something to drink, as he passed the bar, entered the apartment into which he had looked from the street.
He walked up one street and down another until his initial grief had lessened from the exercise; then the change in his emotions made him feel thirsty. He passed by quite a few pubs, but eventually stopped in front of one in a side street, whose lounge, from a quick glance over the blinds, appeared empty except for one lone patron. Just then, it started to rain heavily. This made up his mind. Mr. Bumble stepped inside, ordered a drink as he passed the bar, and entered the room he had seen from the street.
The man who was seated there, was tall and dark, and wore a large cloak. He had the air of a stranger; and seemed, by a certain haggardness in his look, as well as by the dusty soils on his dress, to have travelled some distance. He eyed Bumble askance, as he entered, but scarcely deigned to nod his head in acknowledgment of his salutation.
The man sitting there was tall and dark, wearing a large cloak. He had the vibe of a stranger and appeared somewhat worn out, both from the haggard look on his face and the dust on his clothes, suggesting he had traveled a long way. He gave Bumble a sideways glance when he entered but barely nodded to acknowledge his greeting.
Mr. Bumble had quite dignity enough for two; supposing even that the stranger had been more familiar: so he drank his gin-and-water in silence, and read the paper with great show of pomp and circumstance.
Mr. Bumble had more than enough dignity for two people, even if the stranger had been more familiar. So he drank his gin and water in silence and read the newspaper with a grand display of pomp and circumstance.
It so happened, however: as it will happen very often, when men fall into company under such circumstances: that Mr. Bumble felt, every now and then, a powerful inducement, which he could not resist, to steal a look at the stranger: and that whenever he did so, he withdrew his eyes, in some confusion, to find that the stranger was at that moment stealing a look at him. Mr. Bumble’s awkwardness was enhanced by the very remarkable expression of the stranger’s eye, which was keen and bright, but shadowed by a scowl of distrust and suspicion, unlike anything he had ever observed before, and repulsive to behold.
It happened, though, as it often does when people find themselves in such situations, that Mr. Bumble felt an irresistible urge to glance at the stranger. And whenever he did, he quickly looked away, feeling embarrassed to see that the stranger was also looking at him. Mr. Bumble’s awkwardness was heightened by the strangely intense expression in the stranger’s eyes, which were sharp and bright but clouded by a look of distrust and suspicion that he had never seen before and found hard to look at.
When they had encountered each other’s glance several times in this way, the stranger, in a harsh, deep voice, broke silence.
When they had caught each other’s gaze several times like this, the stranger, in a gruff, deep voice, finally spoke up.
‘Were you looking for me,’ he said, ‘when you peered in at the window?’
“Were you looking for me,” he said, “when you looked in at the window?”
‘Not that I am aware of, unless you’re Mr.—’ Here Mr. Bumble stopped short; for he was curious to know the stranger’s name, and thought in his impatience, he might supply the blank.
‘Not that I know of, unless you’re Mr.—’ Here Mr. Bumble paused abruptly; he was eager to find out the stranger’s name and thought, in his impatience, he might fill in the gap.
‘I see you were not,’ said the stranger; an expression of quiet sarcasm playing about his mouth; ‘or you have known my name. You don’t know it. I would recommend you not to ask for it.’
‘I see you weren’t,’ said the stranger, a quiet smirk on his lips. ‘Or you already know my name. You don’t know it, do you? I’d suggest you don’t ask for it.’
‘I meant no harm, young man,’ observed Mr. Bumble, majestically.
‘I meant no harm, young man,’ Mr. Bumble said grandly.
‘And have done none,’ said the stranger.
‘And I haven’t done any,’ said the stranger.
Another silence succeeded this short dialogue: which was again broken by the stranger.
Another silence followed this brief conversation, which was once again interrupted by the stranger.
‘I have seen you before, I think?’ said he. ‘You were differently dressed at that time, and I only passed you in the street, but I should know you again. You were beadle here, once; were you not?’
‘I think I’ve seen you before,’ he said. ‘You were dressed differently then, and I just walked past you on the street, but I’d recognize you again. You used to be the beadle here, didn’t you?’
‘I was,’ said Mr. Bumble, in some surprise; ‘porochial beadle.’
‘I was,’ said Mr. Bumble, somewhat surprised; ‘a parish beadle.’
‘Just so,’ rejoined the other, nodding his head. ‘It was in that character I saw you. What are you now?’
‘Exactly,’ the other person replied, nodding his head. ‘That's how I recognized you. Who 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!’
‘Master of the workhouse,’ Mr. Bumble replied, slowly and with emphasis, to prevent any inappropriate familiarity the stranger might otherwise show. ‘Master of the workhouse, young man!’
‘You have the same eye to your own interest, that you always had, I doubt not?’ resumed the stranger, looking keenly into Mr. Bumble’s eyes, as he raised them in astonishment at the question.
‘You still have the same concern for your own interests that you’ve always had, right?’ the stranger continued, gazing intently into Mr. Bumble’s eyes as he looked up in surprise at the question.
‘Don’t scruple to answer freely, man. I know you pretty well, you see.’
"Don't hesitate to speak your mind, man. I know you well enough, you know."
‘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.’
‘I guess a married man,’ replied Mr. Bumble, shielding his eyes with his hand and looking the stranger up and down in clear confusion, ‘isn’t any less willing to earn an honest buck when he can than a single guy. Parish officials don’t get paid enough to turn down any little extra money when it’s offered to them in a polite and proper way.’
The stranger smiled, and nodded his head again: as much to say, he had not mistaken his man; then rang the bell.
The stranger smiled and nodded his head again, as if to say he had identified the right person; then he rang the bell.
‘Fill this glass again,’ he said, handing Mr. Bumble’s empty tumbler to the landlord. ‘Let it be strong and hot. You like it so, I suppose?’
‘Fill this glass again,’ he said, handing Mr. Bumble’s empty tumbler to the landlord. ‘Make it strong and hot. You like it that way, I assume?’
‘Not too strong,’ replied Mr. Bumble, with a delicate cough.
“Not too strong,” replied Mr. Bumble, clearing his throat gently.
‘You understand what that means, landlord!’ said the stranger, drily.
‘You know what that means, landlord!’ said the stranger, dryly.
The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a steaming jorum: of which, the first gulp brought the water into Mr. Bumble’s eyes.
The host smiled, vanished, and soon came back with a steaming bowl, the first sip of which brought tears to Mr. Bumble's eyes.
‘Now listen to me,’ said the stranger, after closing the door and window. ‘I came down to this place, to-day, to find you out; and, by one of those chances which the devil throws in the way of his friends sometimes, you walked into the very room I was sitting in, while you were uppermost in my mind. I want some information from you. I don’t ask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is. Put up that, to begin with.’
‘Now listen to me,’ said the stranger, after shutting the door and window. ‘I came to this place today to find you; and by one of those chances that fate throws in front of us, you walked into the very room I was in, just when you were on my mind. I need some information from you. I’m not asking you to give it away for free, no matter how small it is. Let’s start with that.’
As he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to his companion, carefully, as though unwilling that the chinking of money should be heard without. When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins, to see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with much satisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on:
As he talked, he slid a couple of gold coins across the table to his friend, cautiously, as if he didn't want the sound of money being counted to be heard outside. Once Mr. Bumble had carefully checked the coins to ensure they were real, and had placed them, feeling quite pleased, in his waistcoat pocket, he continued:
‘Carry your memory back—let me see—twelve years, last winter.’
‘Think back—let me see—twelve years, last winter.’
‘It’s a long time,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘Very good. I’ve done it.’
‘It’s been a while,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘Alright. I’ve accomplished it.’
‘The scene, the workhouse.’
‘The setting, the workhouse.’
‘Good!’
"Awesome!"
‘And the time, night.’
"And it's night time."
‘Yes.’
‘Yeah.’
‘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!’
‘And the place, that crazy hole, wherever it was, where miserable women brought forth the life and health they so often denied themselves—gave birth to crying babies for the parish to raise; and hid their shame, rot them in the grave!’
‘The lying-in room, I suppose?’ said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the stranger’s excited description.
'The delivery room, I guess?' said Mr. Bumble, not fully grasping the stranger's enthusiastic description.
‘Yes,’ said the stranger. ‘A boy was born there.’
‘Yeah,’ said the stranger. ‘A boy was born there.’
‘A many boys,’ observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head, despondingly.
‘So many boys,’ observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head sadly.
‘A murrain on the young devils!’ cried the stranger; ‘I speak of one; a meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down here, to a coffin-maker—I wish he had made his coffin, and screwed his body in it—and who afterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed.
‘A plague on the young devils!’ shouted the stranger; ‘I’m talking about one; a quiet-looking, pale-faced boy who was apprenticed here to a coffin maker—I wish he had made his own coffin and locked himself in it—and who later ran away to London, or so it was believed.
‘Why, you mean Oliver! Young Twist!’ said Mr. Bumble; ‘I remember him, of course. There wasn’t a obstinater young rascal—’
‘Why, you mean Oliver! Young Twist!’ said Mr. Bumble; ‘I remember him, of course. There wasn’t a more stubborn young rascal—’
‘It’s not of him I want to hear; I’ve heard enough of him,’ said the stranger, stopping Mr. Bumble in the outset of a tirade on the subject of poor Oliver’s vices. ‘It’s of a woman; the hag that nursed his mother. Where is she?’
‘It’s not him I want to hear about; I’ve heard enough about him,’ said the stranger, interrupting Mr. Bumble at the start of a rant about poor Oliver’s faults. ‘I want to know about a woman; the hag who nursed his mother. Where is she?’
‘Where is she?’ said Mr. Bumble, whom the gin-and-water had rendered facetious. ‘It would be hard to tell. There’s no midwifery there, whichever place she’s gone to; so I suppose she’s out of employment, anyway.’
‘Where is she?’ said Mr. Bumble, who had become a bit silly from the gin-and-water. ‘It’s tough to say. There’s no midwifery there, wherever she’s gone; so I guess she’s out of work, at least.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded the stranger, sternly.
“What do you mean?” the stranger asked, sternly.
‘That she died last winter,’ rejoined Mr. Bumble.
‘She died last winter,’ Mr. Bumble replied.
The man looked fixedly at him when he had given this information, and although he did not withdraw his eyes for some time afterwards, his gaze gradually became vacant and abstracted, and he seemed lost in thought. For some time, he appeared doubtful whether he ought to be relieved or disappointed by the intelligence; but at length he breathed more freely; and withdrawing his eyes, observed that it was no great matter. With that he rose, as if to depart.
The man stared intently at him after he shared this information, and even though he didn’t look away for a while, his gaze slowly turned vacant and distracted, as if he was deep in thought. For a while, he seemed unsure whether to feel relieved or disappointed by the news; but eventually, he exhaled more easily and, pulling his eyes away, noted that it wasn’t a big deal. With that, he stood up, as if to leave.
But Mr. Bumble was cunning enough; and he at once saw that an opportunity was opened, for the lucrative disposal of some secret in the possession of his better half. He well remembered the night of old Sally’s death, which the occurrences of that day had given him good reason to recollect, as the occasion on which he had proposed to Mrs. Corney; and although that lady had never confided to him the disclosure of which she had been the solitary witness, he had heard enough to know that it related to something that had occurred in the old woman’s attendance, as workhouse nurse, upon the young mother of Oliver Twist. Hastily calling this circumstance to mind, he informed the stranger, with an air of mystery, that one woman had been closeted with the old harridan shortly before she died; and that she could, as he had reason to believe, throw some light on the subject of his inquiry.
But Mr. Bumble was clever enough; and he immediately realized that a chance had arisen for him to profit from a secret his wife had. He clearly remembered the night of old Sally’s death, which the events of that day had given him good reason to recall, as the moment he had proposed to Mrs. Corney. And although she had never shared with him the secret she had alone witnessed, he had heard enough to know it was related to something that happened while the old woman was working as a nurse for Oliver Twist's young mother. Quickly bringing this to mind, he told the stranger, with a mysterious air, that one woman had been alone with the old hag just before she died, and that she could, as he believed, shed some light on the matter he was asking about.
‘How can I find her?’ said the stranger, thrown off his guard; and plainly showing that all his fears (whatever they were) were aroused afresh by the intelligence.
‘How can I find her?’ said the stranger, caught off guard; and it was clear that all his fears (whatever they were) were stirred up again by the news.
‘Only through me,’ rejoined Mr. Bumble.
‘Only through me,’ replied Mr. Bumble.
‘When?’ cried the stranger, hastily.
"When?" shouted the stranger, urgently.
‘To-morrow,’ rejoined Bumble.
‘Tomorrow,’ replied Bumble.
‘At nine in the evening,’ said the stranger, producing a scrap of paper, and writing down upon it, an obscure address by the water-side, in characters that betrayed his agitation; ‘at nine in the evening, bring her to me there. I needn’t tell you to be secret. It’s your interest.’
‘At nine o'clock tonight,’ said the stranger, pulling out a piece of paper and writing down a vague address by the water, his handwriting showing his nervousness; ‘at nine o'clock tonight, bring her to me there. I don’t need to remind you to keep this quiet. It's in your best interest.’
With these words, he led the way to the door, after stopping to pay for the liquor that had been drunk. Shortly remarking that their roads were different, he departed, without more ceremony than an emphatic repetition of the hour of appointment for the following night.
With these words, he walked to the door, after pausing to pay for the drinks they had consumed. He briefly mentioned that their paths were different before leaving, without any more formalities than a strong reminder of the time they had agreed to meet the next 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.
On looking at the address, the local official noticed that it had no name. The stranger hadn't gone far, so he followed him to ask for it.
‘What do you want?’ cried the man, turning quickly round, as Bumble touched him on the arm. ‘Following me?’
‘What do you want?’ the man shouted, spinning around quickly as Bumble touched his arm. ‘Are you following me?’
‘Only to ask a question,’ said the other, pointing to the scrap of paper. ‘What name am I to ask for?’
‘Just to ask a question,’ the other replied, gesturing to the piece of paper. ‘What name should I ask for?’
‘Monks!’ rejoined the man; and strode hastily away.
‘Monks!’ the man replied, and walked away quickly.
CHAPTER XXXVIII — CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN MR. AND MRS. BUMBLE, AND MR. MONKS, AT THEIR NOCTURNAL INTERVIEW
It was a dull, close, overcast summer evening. The clouds, which had been threatening all day, spread out in a dense and sluggish mass of vapour, already yielded large drops of rain, and seemed to presage a violent thunder-storm, when Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, turning out of the main street of the town, directed their course towards a scattered little colony of ruinous houses, distant from it some mile and a-half, or thereabouts, and erected on a low unwholesome swamp, bordering upon the river.
It was a dull, humid, overcast summer evening. The clouds, which had been threatening all day, spread out in a thick and sluggish mass of vapor, already dropping large drops of rain, and seemed to signal a violent thunderstorm. Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, turning off the main street of the town, headed toward a small cluster of dilapidated houses, about a mile and a half away, built on a low, unhealthy swamp next to the river.
They were both wrapped in old and shabby outer garments, which might, perhaps, serve the double purpose of protecting their persons from the rain, and sheltering them from observation. The husband carried a lantern, from which, however, no light yet shone; and trudged on, a few paces in front, as though—the way being dirty—to give his wife the benefit of treading in his heavy footprints. They went on, in profound silence; every now and then, Mr. Bumble relaxed his pace, and turned his head as if to make sure that his helpmate was following; then, discovering that she was close at his heels, he mended his rate of walking, and proceeded, at a considerable increase of speed, towards their place of destination.
They were both bundled up in old, worn-out clothes that might serve the dual purpose of keeping them dry from the rain and hiding them from view. The husband carried a lantern, but no light was shining from it yet, and he trudged a few steps ahead, as if—the path being muddy—he wanted his wife to benefit from stepping in his deep footprints. They continued in complete silence; occasionally, Mr. Bumble slowed down and looked back to check if his wife was following. Once he saw she was right behind him, he picked up his pace and hurried towards their destination.
This was far from being a place of doubtful character; for it had long been known as the residence of none but low ruffians, who, under various pretences of living by their labour, subsisted chiefly on plunder and crime. It was a collection of mere hovels: some, hastily built with loose bricks: others, of old worm-eaten ship-timber: jumbled together without any attempt at order or arrangement, and planted, for the most part, within a few feet of the river’s bank. A few leaky boats drawn up on the mud, and made fast to the dwarf wall which skirted it: and here and there an oar or coil of rope: appeared, at first, to indicate that the inhabitants of these miserable cottages pursued some avocation on the river; but a glance at the shattered and useless condition of the articles thus displayed, would have led a passer-by, without much difficulty, to the conjecture that they were disposed there, rather for the preservation of appearances, than with any view to their being actually employed.
This was definitely not a place with a good reputation; it had long been known as home to nothing but lowlifes who, under various excuses of working for a living, mostly survived on theft and crime. It was a hodgepodge of rundown shacks: some hastily put together with loose bricks, others made from old, rotting ship wood, all thrown together without any sense of order, mostly just a few feet from the riverbank. A few leaky boats were pulled up on the mud, tied to the short wall that bordered the river, and here and there lay an oar or length of rope. At first glance, these seemed to suggest that the people in these shabby cottages were involved in some kind of work on the river, but a quick look at the broken and useless state of the items on display would easily lead any passerby to guess that they were there more to maintain appearances than for actual use.
In the heart of this cluster of huts; and skirting the river, which its upper stories overhung; stood a large building, formerly used as a manufactory of some kind. It had, in its day, probably furnished employment to the inhabitants of the surrounding tenements. But it had long since gone to ruin. The rat, the worm, and the action of the damp, had weakened and rotted the piles on which it stood; and a considerable portion of the building had already sunk down into the water; while the remainder, tottering and bending over the dark stream, seemed to wait a favourable opportunity of following its old companion, and involving itself in the same fate.
In the center of this group of huts, alongside the river that flowed beneath it, stood a large building that used to be a factory of some sort. In its prime, it likely provided jobs for the people living in the nearby homes. But it had long fallen into disrepair. Rats, worms, and dampness had weakened and rotted the supports beneath it, and a significant part of the building had already sunk into the water. The rest of it, leaning and swaying over the dark stream, seemed to be waiting for the right moment to follow its old companion and share the same fate.
It was before this ruinous building that the worthy couple paused, as the first peal of distant thunder reverberated in the air, and the rain commenced pouring violently down.
It was in front of this crumbling building that the respectable couple stopped, as the first rumble of distant thunder echoed in the air, and the rain started pouring down fiercely.
‘The place should be somewhere here,’ said Bumble, consulting a scrap of paper he held in his hand.
‘The place should be around here,’ said Bumble, looking at a piece of paper he held in his hand.
‘Halloa there!’ cried a voice from above.
‘Hey there!’ shouted a voice from above.
Following the sound, Mr. Bumble raised his head and descried a man looking out of a door, breast-high, on the second story.
Following the sound, Mr. Bumble lifted his head and spotted a man peering out of a door, waist-high, on the second floor.
‘Stand still, a minute,’ cried the voice; ‘I’ll be with you directly.’ With which the head disappeared, and the door closed.
‘Hold on a second,’ shouted the voice; ‘I’ll be right with you.’ With that, the head vanished, and the door shut.
‘Is that the man?’ asked Mr. Bumble’s good lady.
‘Is that the guy?’ asked Mr. Bumble’s wife.
Mr. Bumble nodded in the affirmative.
Mr. Bumble nodded.
‘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.’
‘Then, remember what I told you,’ said the matron: ‘and be careful to say as little as possible, or you’ll expose us immediately.’
Mr. Bumble, who had eyed the building with very rueful looks, was apparently about to express some doubts relative to the advisability of proceeding any further with the enterprise just then, when he was prevented by the appearance of Monks: who opened a small door, near which they stood, and beckoned them inwards.
Mr. Bumble, who had looked at the building with a very unhappy expression, was clearly about to voice some concerns about whether it was wise to continue with the project at that moment when he was interrupted by Monks, who opened a small door nearby and signaled for them to come inside.
‘Come in!’ he cried impatiently, stamping his foot upon the ground. ‘Don’t keep me here!’
‘Come in!’ he shouted, tapping his foot on the ground. ‘Don’t make me wait here!’
The woman, who had hesitated at first, walked boldly in, without any other invitation. Mr. Bumble, who was ashamed or afraid to lag behind, followed: obviously very ill at ease and with scarcely any of that remarkable dignity which was usually his chief characteristic.
The woman, who had hesitated at first, walked in confidently, without needing any further invitation. Mr. Bumble, feeling embarrassed or scared to stay behind, followed: clearly very uncomfortable and lacking the remarkable dignity that was usually his main trait.
‘What the devil made you stand lingering there, in the wet?’ said Monks, turning round, and addressing Bumble, after he had bolted the door behind them.
‘What on earth made you hang around there in the rain?’ said Monks, turning around and addressing Bumble after he had locked the door behind them.
‘We—we were only cooling ourselves,’ stammered Bumble, looking apprehensively about him.
‘We—we were just cooling ourselves,’ stammered Bumble, glancing nervously around him.
‘Cooling yourselves!’ retorted Monks. ‘Not all the rain that ever fell, or ever will fall, will put as much of hell’s fire out, as a man can carry about with him. You won’t cool yourself so easily; don’t think it!’
‘Cooling yourselves!’ retorted Monks. ‘Not all the rain that’s ever fallen, or ever will fall, can put out as much of hell’s fire as a person can carry inside them. You won’t cool off so easily; don’t think that!’
With this agreeable speech, Monks turned short upon the matron, and bent his gaze upon her, till even she, who was not easily cowed, was fain to withdraw her eyes, and turn them towards the ground.
With this pleasant speech, Monks quickly turned to the woman, fixing his stare on her, until even she, who wasn’t easily intimidated, felt compelled to look away and direct her eyes to the ground.
‘This is the woman, is it?’ demanded Monks.
‘Is this the woman?’ demanded Monks.
‘Hem! That is the woman,’ replied Mr. Bumble, mindful of his wife’s caution.
‘Ahem! That is the woman,’ replied Mr. Bumble, keeping his wife’s warning in mind.
‘You think women never can keep secrets, I suppose?’ said the matron, interposing, and returning, as she spoke, the searching look of Monks.
‘You think women can never keep secrets, right?’ said the matron, interjecting and giving Monks a probing look as she spoke.
‘I know they will always keep one till it’s found out,’ said Monks.
‘I know they’ll always keep one until it’s discovered,’ said Monks.
‘And what may that be?’ asked the matron.
‘And what could that be?’ asked the matron.
‘The loss of their own good name,’ replied Monks. ‘So, by the same rule, if a woman’s a party to a secret that might hang or transport her, I’m not afraid of her telling it to anybody; not I! Do you understand, mistress?’
‘The loss of their own reputation,’ Monks replied. ‘So, by the same logic, if a woman knows a secret that could get her hanged or sent away, I’m not worried about her telling anyone; not at all! Do you get what I mean, ma'am?’
‘No,’ rejoined the matron, slightly colouring as she spoke.
‘No,’ replied the matron, slightly blushing as she spoke.
‘Of course you don’t!’ said Monks. ‘How should you?’
‘Of course you don’t!’ said Monks. ‘How could you?’
Bestowing something half-way between a smile and a frown upon his two companions, and again beckoning them to follow him, the man hastened across the apartment, which was of considerable extent, but low in the roof. He was preparing to ascend a steep staircase, or rather ladder, leading to another floor of warehouses above: when a bright flash of lightning streamed down the aperture, and a peal of thunder followed, which shook the crazy building to its centre.
Bestowing something between a smile and a frown on his two companions and beckoning them to follow, the man hurried across the room, which was quite large but had a low ceiling. He was about to climb a steep staircase, or rather a ladder, leading to another level of warehouses above when a bright flash of lightning shot through the opening, followed by a loud clap of thunder that shook the rickety building to its core.
‘Hear it!’ he cried, shrinking back. ‘Hear it! Rolling and crashing on as if it echoed through a thousand caverns where the devils were hiding from it. I hate the sound!’
‘Listen to it!’ he shouted, pulling back. ‘Listen to it! It rolls and crashes like it’s echoing through a thousand caves where the devils are hiding from it. I hate that sound!’
He remained silent for a few moments; and then, removing his hands suddenly from his face, showed, to the unspeakable discomposure of Mr. Bumble, that it was much distorted and discoloured.
He stayed quiet for a few moments; then, suddenly pulling his hands away from his face, revealed, to Mr. Bumble's utter shock, that it was greatly misshapen and discolored.
‘These fits come over me, now and then,’ said Monks, observing his alarm; ‘and thunder sometimes brings them on. Don’t mind me now; it’s all over for this once.’
‘These episodes hit me every now and then,’ said Monks, noticing his anxiety; ‘and storms sometimes trigger them. Don’t worry about me right now; it’s all passed for this time.’
Thus speaking, he led the way up the ladder; and hastily closing the window-shutter of the room into which it led, lowered a lantern which hung at the end of a rope and pulley passed through one of the heavy beams in the ceiling: and which cast a dim light upon an old table and three chairs that were placed beneath it.
Thus speaking, he climbed up the ladder and quickly shut the window of the room it led to. He then lowered a lantern that was hanging from a rope and pulley attached to one of the heavy beams in the ceiling, casting a faint light on an old table and three chairs positioned underneath it.
‘Now,’ said Monks, when they had all three seated themselves, ‘the sooner we come to our business, the better for all. The woman know what it is, does she?’
‘Now,’ said Monks, when all three of them had taken a seat, ‘the sooner we get down to business, the better for everyone. Does the woman know what it is?’
The question was addressed to Bumble; but his wife anticipated the reply, by intimating that she was perfectly acquainted with it.
The question was directed at Bumble, but his wife jumped in with the answer, suggesting that she already knew it perfectly well.
‘He is right in saying that you were with this hag the night she died; and that she told you something—’
‘He is correct in saying that you were with this old woman the night she died; and that she told you something—’
‘About the mother of the boy you named,’ replied the matron interrupting him. ‘Yes.’
‘About the boy's mother that you mentioned,’ the matron replied, cutting him off. ‘Yes.’
‘The first question is, of what nature was her communication?’ said Monks.
‘The first question is, what was the nature of her communication?’ said Monks.
‘That’s the second,’ observed the woman with much deliberation. ‘The first is, what may the communication be worth?’
‘That’s the second,’ the woman noted thoughtfully. ‘The first is, how valuable can the communication be?’
‘Who the devil can tell that, without knowing of what kind it is?’ asked Monks.
“Who the hell can say that without knowing what kind it is?” asked Monks.
‘Nobody better than you, I am persuaded,’ answered Mrs. Bumble: who did not want for spirit, as her yoke-fellow could abundantly testify.
‘Nobody is better than you, I’m sure,’ replied Mrs. Bumble, who was not lacking in spirit, as her partner could easily confirm.
‘Humph!’ said Monks significantly, and with a look of eager inquiry; ‘there may be money’s worth to get, eh?’
‘Humph!’ said Monks meaningfully, his expression full of keen curiosity; ‘there could be something to gain, right?’
‘Perhaps there may,’ was the composed reply.
“Maybe there might be,” was the calm response.
‘Something that was taken from her,’ said Monks. ‘Something that she wore. Something that—’
‘Something that was taken from her,’ said Monks. ‘Something that she wore. Something that—’
‘You had better bid,’ interrupted Mrs. Bumble. ‘I have heard enough, already, to assure me that you are the man I ought to talk to.’
‘You should definitely place a bid,’ interrupted Mrs. Bumble. ‘I’ve heard enough already to know that you’re the person I need to talk to.’
Mr. Bumble, who had not yet been admitted by his better half into any greater share of the secret than he had originally possessed, listened to this dialogue with outstretched neck and distended eyes: which he directed towards his wife and Monks, by turns, in undisguised astonishment; increased, if possible, when the latter sternly demanded, what sum was required for the disclosure.
Mr. Bumble, who still hadn't been let in on any more of the secret than he originally knew, listened to this conversation with his neck stretched out and his eyes wide open. He switched his gaze between his wife and Monks in pure astonishment, which grew even more intense when Monks coldly asked how much money was needed for the reveal.
‘What’s it worth to you?’ asked the woman, as collectedly as before.
‘What’s it worth to you?’ the woman asked, just as composed as before.
‘It may be nothing; it may be twenty pounds,’ replied Monks. ‘Speak out, and let me know which.’
‘It might be nothing; it might be twenty pounds,’ Monks replied. ‘Just say it, and let me know which one it is.’
‘Add five pounds to the sum you have named; give me five-and-twenty pounds in gold,’ said the woman; ‘and I’ll tell you all I know. Not before.’
‘Add five pounds to the amount you mentioned; give me twenty-five pounds in gold,’ said the woman; ‘and I’ll tell you everything I know. Not before.’
‘Five-and-twenty pounds!’ exclaimed Monks, drawing back.
‘Twenty-five pounds!’ exclaimed Monks, pulling back.
‘I spoke as plainly as I could,’ replied Mrs. Bumble. ‘It’s not a large sum, either.’
‘I spoke as clearly as I could,’ replied Mrs. Bumble. ‘It’s not a big amount, either.’
‘Not a large sum for a paltry secret, that may be nothing when it’s told!’ cried Monks impatiently; ‘and which has been lying dead for twelve years past or more!’
‘Not a big amount for a worthless secret, that might mean nothing once it's shared!’ cried Monks impatiently; ‘and which has been buried for over twelve years!’
‘Such matters keep well, and, like good wine, often double their value in course of time,’ answered the matron, still preserving the resolute indifference she had assumed. ‘As to lying dead, there are those who will lie dead for twelve thousand years to come, or twelve million, for anything you or I know, who will tell strange tales at last!’
‘Such matters hold up over time, and, like fine wine, often increase in value,’ replied the matron, maintaining the determined indifference she had adopted. ‘As for lying dead, there are those who will remain dead for twelve thousand years, or twelve million, for all we know, who will eventually tell strange stories!’
‘What if I pay it for nothing?’ asked Monks, hesitating.
‘What if I pay it for nothing?’ Monks asked, pausing.
‘You can easily take it away again,’ replied the matron. ‘I am but a woman; alone here; and unprotected.’
'You can easily take it away again,' replied the matron. 'I'm just a woman, here alone and unprotected.'
‘Not alone, my dear, nor unprotected, neither,’ submitted Mr. Bumble, in a voice tremulous with fear: ‘I am here, my dear. And besides,’ said Mr. Bumble, his teeth chattering as he spoke, ‘Mr. Monks is too much of a gentleman to attempt any violence on porochial persons. Mr. Monks is aware that I am not a young man, my dear, and also that I am a little run to seed, as I may say; bu he has heerd: I say I have no doubt Mr. Monks has heerd, my dear: that I am a very determined officer, with very uncommon strength, if I’m once roused. I only want a little rousing; that’s all.’
"Not alone, my dear, and definitely not unprotected," Mr. Bumble said, his voice shaking with fear. "I’m here, my dear. And besides," he continued, his teeth chattering as he spoke, "Mr. Monks is too much of a gentleman to try any violence against local people. Mr. Monks knows that I’m not a young man, my dear, and that I’ve seen better days, as they say; but he has heard—yes, I’m sure Mr. Monks has heard, my dear—that I’m a very determined officer with quite unusual strength, once I’m provoked. I just need a little provocation; that’s all."
As Mr. Bumble spoke, he made a melancholy feint of grasping his lantern with fierce determination; and plainly showed, by the alarmed expression of every feature, that he did want a little rousing, and not a little, prior to making any very warlike demonstration: unless, indeed, against paupers, or other person or persons trained down for the purpose.
As Mr. Bumble spoke, he pretended to grip his lantern with intense determination; and it was obvious, from the worried look on his face, that he really needed a bit of motivation, and not just a little, before making any aggressive move: unless, of course, it was against beggars, or anyone else trained for that.
‘You are a fool,’ said Mrs. Bumble, in reply; ‘and had better hold your tongue.’
‘You’re a fool,’ Mrs. Bumble replied, ‘and you’d be better off keeping quiet.’
‘He had better have cut it out, before he came, if he can’t speak in a lower tone,’ said Monks, grimly. ‘So! He’s your husband, eh?’
‘He should have removed it before coming here if he can’t talk quietly,’ Monks said sternly. ‘So! He’s your husband, huh?’
‘He my husband!’ tittered the matron, parrying the question.
‘He’s my husband!’ giggled the matron, dodging the question.
‘I thought as much, when you came in,’ rejoined Monks, marking the angry glance which the lady darted at her spouse as she spoke. ‘So much the better; I have less hesitation in dealing with two people, when I find that there’s only one will between them. I’m in earnest. See here!’
‘I figured as much when you walked in,’ Monks replied, noticing the angry look the lady shot at her husband as she spoke. ‘That’s actually better; I feel less reluctant to deal with two people when it’s clear there’s only one will between them. I’m serious. Look here!’
He thrust his hand into a side-pocket; and producing a canvas bag, told out twenty-five sovereigns on the table, and pushed them over to the woman.
He reached into a side pocket, pulled out a canvas bag, counted out twenty-five sovereigns on the table, and slid them over to the woman.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘gather them up; and when this cursed peal of thunder, which I feel is coming up to break over the house-top, is gone, let’s hear your story.’
‘Now,’ he said, ‘gather them up; and when this annoying thunderstorm, which I can sense is about to hit the roof, passes, let’s hear your story.’
The thunder, which seemed in fact much nearer, and to shiver and break almost over their heads, having subsided, Monks, raising his face from the table, bent forward to listen to what the woman should say. The faces of the three nearly touched, as the two men leant over the small table in their eagerness to hear, and the woman also leant forward to render her whisper audible. The sickly rays of the suspended lantern falling directly upon them, aggravated the paleness and anxiety of their countenances: which, encircled by the deepest gloom and darkness, looked ghastly in the extreme.
The thunder, which felt like it was much closer and seemed to crack right above them, faded away. Monks lifted his face from the table and leaned in to hear what the woman would say. The three of them were almost touching, as the two men leaned over the small table, eager to listen, while the woman also leaned in to make her whisper clearer. The sickly light from the hanging lantern fell directly on them, highlighting the pale and anxious looks on their faces; surrounded by deep darkness, they looked extremely ghostly.
‘When this woman, that we called old Sally, died,’ the matron began, ‘she and I were alone.’
‘When this woman, we called old Sally, died,’ the matron began, ‘she and I were alone.’
‘Was there no one by?’ asked Monks, in the same hollow whisper; ‘No sick wretch or idiot in some other bed? No one who could hear, and might, by possibility, understand?’
“Was there nobody there?” Monks asked in the same hollow whisper. “No sick person or fool in another bed? No one who could hear and might, possibly, understand?”
‘Not a soul,’ replied the woman; ‘we were alone. I stood alone beside the body when death came over it.’
‘Not a soul,’ replied the woman; ‘we were alone. I stood alone beside the body when death covered it.’
‘Good,’ said Monks, regarding her attentively. ‘Go on.’
‘Good,’ said Monks, watching her closely. ‘Continue.’
‘She spoke of a young creature,’ resumed the matron, ‘who had brought a child into the world some years before; not merely in the same room, but in the same bed, in which she then lay dying.’
‘She spoke of a young girl,’ continued the matron, ‘who had given birth to a child some years earlier; not just in the same room, but in the same bed where she was now lying, dying.’
‘Ay?’ said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing over his shoulder, ‘Blood! How things come about!’
‘Huh?’ said Monks, with a trembling lip, glancing over his shoulder, ‘Blood! How do things happen!’
‘The child was the one you named to him last night,’ said the matron, nodding carelessly towards her husband; ‘the mother this nurse had robbed.’
‘The child was the one you referred to last night,’ said the matron, nodding dismissively toward her husband; ‘the mother that this nurse took from.’
‘In life?’ asked Monks.
"In life?" asked Monks.
‘In death,’ replied the woman, with something like a shudder. ‘She stole from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant’s sake.’
‘In death,’ replied the woman, with a slight shudder. ‘She took from the body, when it had barely become one, what the deceased mother had begged her, with her last breath, to keep for the sake of the infant.’
‘She sold it,’ cried Monks, with desperate eagerness; ‘did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?’
‘She sold it,’ cried Monks, with desperate eagerness; ‘did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long ago?’
‘As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this,’ said the matron, ‘she fell back and died.’
‘As she told me, with a lot of effort, that she had done this,’ said the matron, ‘she collapsed and died.’
‘Without saying more?’ cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very suppression, seemed only the more furious. ‘It’s a lie! I’ll not be played with. She said more. I’ll tear the life out of you both, but I’ll know what it was.’
‘Without saying more?’ shouted Monks, his voice, tight with restraint, sounding even angrier. ‘That’s a lie! I won’t let you toy with me. She said more. I’ll rip the life out of both of you, but I’m going to find out what it was.’
‘She didn’t utter another word,’ said the woman, to all appearance unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man’s violence; ‘but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper.’
‘She didn’t say another word,’ said the woman, seemingly unfazed (which Mr. Bumble definitely was not) by the strange man’s aggression; ‘but she grabbed my dress tightly with one hand, which was partly closed; and when I realized she was dead and pulled her hand away with force, I found it holding a piece of dirty paper.’
‘Which contained—’ interposed Monks, stretching forward.
‘Which contained—’ interjected Monks, leaning forward.
‘Nothing,’ replied the woman; ‘it was a pawnbroker’s duplicate.’
‘Nothing,’ replied the woman; ‘it was a pawnbroker’s duplicate.’
‘For what?’ demanded Monks.
"What's that for?" demanded Monks.
‘In good time I’ll tell you.’ said the woman. ‘I judge that she had kept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account; and then had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker’s interest year by year, and prevent its running out; so that if anything came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she died with the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in her hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too; and so redeemed the pledge.’
“In due time, I’ll tell you,” said the woman. “I think she held onto the trinket for a while, hoping to make something better out of it; then she pawned it and managed to save or scrape together enough money to pay the pawnbroker’s interest year after year, so it wouldn’t expire. That way, if something came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing ever came of it; and, as I mentioned, she died with the worn and tattered scrap of paper in her hand. The time was up in two days; I thought something might come of it eventually too; so I redeemed the pledge.”
‘Where is it now?’ asked Monks quickly.
‘Where is it now?’ Monks asked quickly.
‘There,’ replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it, she hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands. It contained a little gold locket: in which were two locks of hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring.
There,’ replied the woman. And, seeming pleased to get rid of it, she quickly tossed a small kid bag onto the table, barely big enough for a French watch. Monks leaped forward and tore it open with shaking hands. Inside, he found a small gold locket containing two locks of hair and a simple gold wedding ring.
‘It has the word “Agnes” engraved on the inside,’ said the woman.
“It has the name ‘Agnes’ engraved on the inside,” the woman said.
‘There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which is within a year before the child was born. I found out that.’
‘There’s a space for the last name; and then there’s the date, which is within a year before the child was born. I discovered that.’
‘And this is all?’ said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the contents of the little packet.
‘Is this all there is?’ said Monks, after closely and eagerly examining the contents of the small packet.
‘All,’ replied the woman.
"Everyone," replied the woman.
Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back again; and now he took courage to wipe the perspiration which had been trickling over his nose, unchecked, during the whole of the previous dialogue.
Mr. Bumble took a deep breath, relieved that the story was finished and there was no talk of returning the twenty-five pounds; now he felt brave enough to wipe away the sweat that had been running down his nose, uncontested, throughout the entire conversation.
‘I know nothing of the story, beyond what I can guess at,’ said his wife addressing Monks, after a short silence; ‘and I want to know nothing; for it’s safer not. But I may ask you two questions, may I?’
‘I know nothing about the story, other than what I can infer,’ his wife said to Monks after a brief pause. ‘And I don’t want to know anything, because it’s safer that way. But can I ask you two questions?’
‘You may ask,’ said Monks, with some show of surprise; ‘but whether I answer or not is another question.’
‘You might ask,’ said Monks, sounding a little surprised; ‘but whether I choose to answer is a different matter.’
‘—Which makes three,’ observed Mr. Bumble, essaying a stroke of facetiousness.
‘—Which makes three,’ commented Mr. Bumble, trying to be funny.
‘Is that what you expected to get from me?’ demanded the matron.
‘Is that what you thought you’d get from me?’ the matron asked.
‘It is,’ replied Monks. ‘The other question?’
‘It is,’ replied Monks. ‘What’s the other question?’
‘What do you propose to do with it? Can it be used against me?’
‘What do you plan to do with it? Can it be used against me?’
‘Never,’ rejoined Monks; ‘nor against me either. See here! But don’t move a step forward, or your life is not worth a bulrush.’
‘Never,’ replied Monks; ‘and not against me either. Look here! But don’t take a step forward, or your life isn’t worth a dime.’
With these words, he suddenly wheeled the table aside, and pulling an iron ring in the boarding, threw back a large trap-door which opened close at Mr. Bumble’s feet, and caused that gentleman to retire several paces backward, with great precipitation.
With that, he quickly pushed the table aside, and after grabbing an iron ring in the floorboards, lifted a large trapdoor that opened right at Mr. Bumble’s feet, making him step back several paces in a hurry.
Original
‘Look down,’ said Monks, lowering the lantern into the gulf. ‘Don’t fear me. I could have let you down, quietly enough, when you were seated over it, if that had been my game.’
‘Look down,’ said Monks, lowering the lantern into the abyss. ‘Don't be afraid of me. I could have let you down quietly enough while you were sitting over it, if that had been my plan.’
Thus encouraged, the matron drew near to the brink; and even Mr. Bumble himself, impelled by curiousity, ventured to do the same. The turbid water, swollen by the heavy rain, was rushing rapidly on below; and all other sounds were lost in the noise of its plashing and eddying against the green and slimy piles. There had once been a water-mill beneath; the tide foaming and chafing round the few rotten stakes, and fragments of machinery that yet remained, seemed to dart onward, with a new impulse, when freed from the obstacles which had unavailingly attempted to stem its headlong course.
Encouraged by this, the matron stepped closer to the edge, and even Mr. Bumble, driven by curiosity, decided to follow suit. The muddy water, swollen from the heavy rain, was rushing quickly below, drowning out all other sounds with the noise of its splashing and swirling against the green, slimy posts. There had once been a water mill underneath; the tide, foaming and churning around the few decaying stakes and bits of machinery that were still there, seemed to race forward with a new energy, now unimpeded by the barriers that had previously tried and failed to slow its swift flow.
‘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.
‘If you threw a man's body down there, where would it be tomorrow morning?’ said Monks, swinging the lantern back and forth in the dark well.
‘Twelve miles down the river, and cut to pieces besides,’ replied Bumble, recoiling at the thought.
"Twelve miles down the river, and chopped up too," replied Bumble, shuddering at the thought.
Monks drew the little packet from his breast, where he had hurriedly thrust it; and tying it to a leaden weight, which had formed a part of some pulley, and was lying on the floor, dropped it into the stream. It fell straight, and true as a die; clove the water with a scarcely audible splash; and was gone.
Monks took the small packet out from his chest, where he had quickly shoved it; and tying it to a heavy lead weight that was part of a pulley on the floor, he dropped it into the stream. It sank straight down, with barely a splash, and disappeared.
The three looking into each other’s faces, seemed to breathe more freely.
The three looking into each other’s faces seemed to breathe more easily.
‘There!’ said Monks, closing the trap-door, which fell heavily back into its former position. ‘If the sea ever gives up its dead, as books say it will, it will keep its gold and silver to itself, and that trash among it. We have nothing more to say, and may break up our pleasant party.’
‘There!’ said Monks, shutting the trap door, which slammed back into place. ‘If the sea ever returns its dead, as the books claim it will, it will keep its gold and silver to itself, along with that junk. We’ve got nothing else to discuss, so let’s wrap up our nice gathering.’
‘By all means,’ observed Mr. Bumble, with great alacrity.
“Of course,” said Mr. Bumble eagerly.
‘You’ll keep a quiet tongue in your head, will you?’ said Monks, with a threatening look. ‘I am not afraid of your wife.’
‘You’re going to keep your mouth shut, right?’ said Monks, with a threatening look. ‘I’m not scared of your wife.’
‘You may depend upon me, young man,’ answered Mr. Bumble, bowing himself gradually towards the ladder, with excessive politeness. ‘On everybody’s account, young man; on my own, you know, Mr. Monks.’
‘You can count on me, young man,’ replied Mr. Bumble, slowly bowing toward the ladder with exaggerated politeness. ‘For everyone’s sake, young man; for my own, you see, 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.’
“I’m glad to hear that for your sake,” said Monks. “Light your lantern! And get out of 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.
It was lucky that the conversation ended at that moment, or Mr. Bumble, who had bowed himself down to within six inches of the ladder, would have definitely fallen headfirst into the room below. He lit his lantern from the one Monks had taken off the rope and was now holding; making no attempt to continue the conversation, he went down in silence, followed by his wife. Monks brought up the end, after stopping on the steps to make sure there were no sounds other than the rain outside and the rushing water.
They traversed the lower room, slowly, and with caution; for Monks started at every shadow; and Mr. Bumble, holding his lantern a foot above the ground, walked not only with remarkable care, but with a marvellously light step for a gentleman of his figure: looking nervously about him for hidden trap-doors. The gate at which they had entered, was softly unfastened and opened by Monks; merely exchanging a nod with their mysterious acquaintance, the married couple emerged into the wet and darkness outside.
They cautiously made their way through the lower room, with Monks flinching at every shadow. Mr. Bumble, holding his lantern just above the ground, walked with surprising care and an oddly light step for a man of his size, nervously looking for hidden trap doors. Monks quietly unlatched and opened the gate they had entered, and after exchanging a nod with their enigmatic acquaintance, the married couple stepped out into the wet darkness outside.
They were no sooner gone, than Monks, who appeared to entertain an invincible repugnance to being left alone, called to a boy who had been hidden somewhere below. Bidding him go first, and bear the light, he returned to the chamber he had just quitted.
They had hardly left when Monks, who seemed to have an unshakeable dislike for being alone, called out to a boy who had been hiding somewhere below. He told the boy to go ahead and carry the light, and then he went back to the room he had just left.
CHAPTER XXXIX — INTRODUCES SOME RESPECTABLE CHARACTERS WITH WHOM THE READER IS ALREADY ACQUAINTED, AND SHOWS HOW MONKS AND THE JEW LAID THEIR WORTHY HEADS TOGETHER
On the evening following that upon which the three worthies mentioned in the last chapter, disposed of their little matter of business as therein narrated, Mr. William Sikes, awakening from a nap, drowsily growled forth an inquiry what time of night it was.
On the evening after the three gentlemen discussed their small business matter as described in the last chapter, Mr. William Sikes, waking up from a nap, groggily muttered a question about what time it was.
The room in which Mr. Sikes propounded this question, was not one of those he had tenanted, previous to the Chertsey expedition, although it was in the same quarter of the town, and was situated at no great distance from his former lodgings. It was not, in appearance, so desirable a habitation as his old quarters: being a mean and badly-furnished apartment, of very limited size; lighted only by one small window in the shelving roof, and abutting on a close and dirty lane. Nor were there wanting other indications of the good gentleman’s having gone down in the world of late: for a great scarcity of furniture, and total absence of comfort, together with the disappearance of all such small moveables as spare clothes and linen, bespoke a state of extreme poverty; while the meagre and attenuated condition of Mr. Sikes himself would have fully confirmed these symptoms, if they had stood in any need of corroboration.
The room where Mr. Sikes asked this question wasn't one of the places he had lived before the Chertsey trip, although it was in the same part of town and only a short distance from his old place. It didn’t look as nice as his previous home; it was a shabby and poorly furnished apartment, quite small, with only one tiny window in the sloping roof and stuck next to a narrow, dirty lane. There were also other signs that this gentleman had fallen on hard times lately: a noticeable lack of furniture, a complete absence of comfort, and the disappearance of small items like extra clothes and linens pointed to severe poverty; the thin and gaunt appearance of Mr. Sikes himself would have confirmed these signs if they needed any extra proof.
The housebreaker was lying on the bed, wrapped in his white great-coat, by way of dressing-gown, and displaying a set of features in no degree improved by the cadaverous hue of illness, and the addition of a soiled nightcap, and a stiff, black beard of a week’s growth. The dog sat at the bedside: now eyeing his master with a wistful look, and now pricking his ears, and uttering a low growl as some noise in the street, or in the lower part of the house, attracted his attention. Seated by the window, busily engaged in patching an old waistcoat which formed a portion of the robber’s ordinary dress, was a female: so pale and reduced with watching and privation, that there would have been considerable difficulty in recognising her as the same Nancy who has already figured in this tale, but for the voice in which she replied to Mr. Sikes’s question.
The burglar was lying on the bed, wrapped in his white overcoat like a robe, showing a face not improved by the pale look of illness, a dirty nightcap, and a week’s worth of unshaven stubble. The dog sat by the bedside, now looking at his owner with a sad expression, and now perking up his ears and growling softly at noises coming from the street or downstairs. Sitting by the window, focused on sewing up an old waistcoat that was part of the thief’s regular outfit, was a woman: so pale and worn from sleepless nights and hardships that it would have been hard to recognize her as the same Nancy who had appeared earlier in this story, if not for the way she answered Mr. Sikes’s question.
‘Not long gone seven,’ said the girl. ‘How do you feel to-night, Bill?’
‘It’s just past seven,’ the girl said. ‘How are you feeling tonight, 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.’
‘As weak as water,’ replied Mr. Sikes, with a curse in his eyes and limbs. ‘Hey; give us a hand, and let me get off this damn bed any way I can.’
Illness had not improved Mr. Sikes’s temper; for, as the girl raised him up and led him to a chair, he muttered various curses on her awkwardness, and struck her.
Illness had not made Mr. Sikes any nicer; as the girl helped him up and guided him to a chair, he muttered different curses about her clumsiness and hit 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?’
‘Are you whining?’ Sikes said. ‘Come on! Don't just stand there sniffling. If you can't do anything better than that, just leave. Do you hear me?’
‘I hear you,’ replied the girl, turning her face aside, and forcing a laugh. ‘What fancy have you got in your head now?’
"I hear you," the girl said, turning her face away and trying to laugh. "What idea do you have in your head now?"
‘Oh! you’ve thought better of it, have you?’ growled Sikes, marking the tear which trembled in her eye. ‘All the better for you, you have.’
‘Oh! changed your mind, have you?’ Sikes growled, noticing the tear that quivered in her eye. ‘That’s great for you, it is.’
‘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.
‘Why, you can’t be serious about being tough on me tonight, Bill,’ said the girl, putting her hand on his shoulder.
‘No!’ cried Mr. Sikes. ‘Why not?’
‘No!’ shouted Mr. Sikes. ‘Why not?’
‘Such a number of nights,’ said the girl, with a touch of woman’s tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to her voice: ‘such a number of nights as I’ve been patient with you, nursing and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the first that I’ve seen you like yourself; you wouldn’t have served me as you did just now, if you’d thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn’t.’
‘So many nights,’ said the girl, with a hint of tenderness that made her voice sound almost sweet: ‘so many nights I’ve spent being patient with you, taking care of you, as if you were a child: and this is the first time I’ve seen you act like yourself; you wouldn’t have treated me the way you just did if you had thought about that, right? Come on; just say you wouldn’t.’
‘Well, then,’ rejoined Mr. Sikes, ‘I wouldn’t. Why, damme, now, the girls’s whining again!’
‘Well, then,’ replied Mr. Sikes, ‘I wouldn’t. Why, damn it, now the girl is whining again!’
‘It’s nothing,’ said the girl, throwing herself into a chair. ‘Don’t you seem to mind me. It’ll soon be over.’
‘It’s nothing,’ said the girl, collapsing into a chair. ‘Don’t worry about me. It’ll be over soon.’
‘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.’
‘What’s going to be over?’ shouted Mr. Sikes in a fierce tone. ‘What nonsense are you up to now? Get up and get moving, and don’t come at me with your silly talk.’
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.
At any other time, this protest and the way it was delivered would have had the desired effect; but the girl, truly weak and exhausted, leaned her head over the back of the chair and fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the suitable curses he usually used to spice up his threats in similar situations. Not knowing exactly what to do in this unusual emergency—since Miss Nancy's hysterics were normally the kind where the person fights and struggles through it without much help—Mr. Sikes tried a little swearing: and when that approach proved completely useless, he called for help.
‘What’s the matter here, my dear?’ said Fagin, looking in.
‘What’s going on here, my dear?’ said Fagin, looking in.
‘Lend a hand to the girl, can’t you?’ replied Sikes impatiently. ‘Don’t stand chattering and grinning at me!’
‘Give the girl some help, will you?’ Sikes replied impatiently. ‘Don’t just stand there talking 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.
With a gasp of surprise, Fagin rushed to help the girl, while Mr. John Dawkins (also known as the Artful Dodger), who had followed his older friend into the room, quickly dropped a bundle he was carrying onto the floor. He then snatched a bottle from Master Charles Bates, who was right behind him, uncorked it in a flash with his teeth, and poured some of its contents down the patient’s throat, taking a sip himself first to avoid any mix-ups.
Original
‘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.’
"Let her take a breath of fresh air with the bellows, Charley," said Mr. Dawkins; "and you smack her hands, Fagin, while Bill takes off the petticoats."
These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially that department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in producing the desired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses; and, staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow: leaving Mr. Sikes to confront the new comers, in some astonishment at their unlooked-for appearance.
These combined remedies, given with great enthusiasm—especially the part handled by Master Bates, who seemed to find his role in the situation quite amusing—soon produced the desired effect. The girl slowly regained her senses and, stumbling to a chair by the bedside, buried her face in the pillow, leaving Mr. Sikes to face the newcomers, somewhat surprised by their unexpected arrival.
‘Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?’ he asked Fagin.
‘Why, what bad luck brought you here?’ he asked Fagin.
‘No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and I’ve brought something good with me, that you’ll be glad to see. Dodger, my dear, open the bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that we spent all our money on, this morning.’
‘No bad vibes at all, my dear, because bad vibes don’t help anyone; and I’ve brought something nice with me that you’ll be happy to see. Dodger, my dear, open the bag; and give Bill the little things we spent all our money on this morning.’
In compliance with Mr. Fagin’s request, the Artful untied this bundle, which was of large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed the articles it contained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed them on the table, with various encomiums on their rarity and excellence.
In line with Mr. Fagin’s request, the Artful untied this large bundle made from an old tablecloth and handed the items inside, one by one, to Charley Bates, who put them on the table while praising their uniqueness and quality.
‘Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill,’ exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to view a huge pasty; ‘sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs, Bill, that the wery bones melt in your mouth, and there’s no occasion to pick ‘em; half a pound of seven and six-penny green, so precious strong that if you mix it with biling water, it’ll go nigh to blow the lid of the tea-pot off; a pound and a half of moist sugar that the niggers didn’t work at all at, afore they got it up to sitch a pitch of goodness,—oh no! Two half-quartern brans; pound of best fresh; piece of double Glo’ster; and, to wind up all, some of the richest sort you ever lushed!’
“Check out this rabbit pie, Bill,” said that young guy, revealing a huge pastry; “such delicate creatures, with such tender limbs, Bill, that the very bones just melt in your mouth, and there’s no need to pick them out; half a pound of seven and six-penny green, so incredibly strong that if you mix it with boiling water, it’ll almost blow the lid off the teapot; a pound and a half of moist sugar that the workers didn’t put any effort into before it reached this level of goodness—oh no! Two half-quartern brans; a pound of the best fresh; a chunk of double Gloucester cheese; and, to top it all off, some of the richest stuff you’ve ever tasted!”
Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his extensive pockets, a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while Mr. Dawkins, at the same instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw spirits from the bottle he carried: which the invalid tossed down his throat without a moment’s hesitation.
Uttering this last compliment, Master Bates pulled out a full-sized wine bottle, carefully corked, from one of his many pockets. At the same time, Mr. Dawkins poured a glass of straight spirits from the bottle he had, which the invalid quickly downed without a second thought.
‘Ah!’ said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. ‘You’ll do, Bill; you’ll do now.’
‘Ah!’ said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. ‘You’ll do, Bill; you’ll do now.’
‘Do!’ exclaimed Mr. Sikes; ‘I might have been done for, twenty times over, afore you’d have done anything to help me. What do you mean by leaving a man in this state, three weeks and more, you false-hearted wagabond?’
‘Do!’ exclaimed Mr. Sikes; ‘I could have been in serious trouble twenty times by now, and you wouldn't have lifted a finger to help me. What are you thinking, leaving a man like this for over three weeks, you deceitful scoundrel?’
‘Only hear him, boys!’ said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. ‘And us come to bring him all these beau-ti-ful things.’
‘Just listen to him, guys!’ said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. ‘And here we are bringing him all these beautiful things.’
‘The things is well enough in their way,’ observed Mr. Sikes: a little soothed as he glanced over the table; ‘but what have you got to say for yourself, why you should leave me here, down in the mouth, health, blunt, and everything else; and take no more notice of me, all this mortal time, than if I was that ‘ere dog.—Drive him down, Charley!’
‘Things are fine in their own way,’ Mr. Sikes remarked, feeling a bit comforted as he looked around the table. ‘But what do you have to say for yourself about why you would leave me here, feeling down, sick, broke, and neglected, and not pay any more attention to me this whole time than if I was that dog there. —Get him out of here, Charley!’
‘I never see such a jolly dog as that,’ cried Master Bates, doing as he was desired. ‘Smelling the grub like a old lady a going to market! He’d make his fortun’ on the stage that dog would, and rewive the drama besides.’
‘I’ve never seen such a cheerful dog as that,’ exclaimed Master Bates, following the instruction. ‘Sniffing the food like an old lady going to the market! He’d make a fortune on stage, and revive the drama too.’
‘Hold your din,’ cried Sikes, as the dog retreated under the bed: still growling angrily. ‘What have you got to say for yourself, you withered old fence, eh?’
‘Quiet down,’ shouted Sikes, as the dog backed away under the bed, still growling angrily. ‘What do you have to say for yourself, you shriveled old fence, huh?’
‘I was away from London, a week and more, my dear, on a plant,’ replied the Jew.
‘I was away from London for over a week, my dear, on a business trip,’ replied the Jew.
‘And what about the other fortnight?’ demanded Sikes. ‘What about the other fortnight that you’ve left me lying here, like a sick rat in his hole?’
‘And what about the other two weeks?’ demanded Sikes. ‘What about the other two weeks that you’ve left me lying here, like a sick rat in his hole?’
‘I couldn’t help it, Bill. I can’t go into a long explanation before company; but I couldn’t help it, upon my honour.’
‘I couldn’t help it, Bill. I can’t give a long explanation with others around; but I really couldn’t help it, I swear.’
‘Upon your what?’ growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. ‘Here! Cut me off a piece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my mouth, or it’ll choke me dead.’
‘Upon your what?’ Sikes growled, clearly disgusted. ‘Hey! One of you boys, cut me off a piece of that pie to get that taste out of my mouth, or it’ll choke me to death.’
‘Don’t be out of temper, my dear,’ urged Fagin, submissively. ‘I have never forgot you, Bill; never once.’
‘Don’t lose your cool, my dear,’ Fagin urged, submissively. ‘I’ve never forgotten you, Bill; not even once.’
‘No! I’ll pound it that you han’t,’ replied Sikes, with a bitter grin. ‘You’ve been scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid shivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do that; and Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn’t been for the girl, I might have died.’
‘No! I’ll bet you didn’t,’ Sikes replied, with a bitter grin. ‘You’ve been planning and plotting the whole time I’ve been sitting here, shivering and burning; and Bill was supposed to do this; and Bill was supposed to do that; and Bill was supposed to do it all for next to nothing, as soon as he got better: and he was already poor enough for your schemes. If it hadn’t been for the girl, I might have died.’
‘There now, Bill,’ remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. ‘If it hadn’t been for the girl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the means of your having such a handy girl about you?’
‘There now, Bill,’ Fagin said eagerly, seizing the word. ‘If it hadn’t been for the girl! Who but poor old Fagin made sure you had such a handy girl around you?’
‘He says true enough there!’ said Nancy, coming hastily forward. ‘Let him be; let him be.’
‘He’s right about that!’ said Nancy, rushing forward. ‘Let him be; just leave him alone.’
Nancy’s appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys, receiving a sly wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor: of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better temper, by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, by laughing very heartily at one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make.
Nancy’s arrival changed the tone of the conversation; the boys, getting a sneaky wink from the cautious old Jew, started to offer her drinks, though she only sipped them lightly. Meanwhile, Fagin, behaving more cheerfully than usual, managed to lighten Mr. Sikes's mood by pretending to take his threats as mere joking. He even laughed heartily at a couple of crude jokes that Sikes, after several rounds of drinks, decided to share.
‘It’s all very well,’ said Mr. Sikes; ‘but I must have some blunt from you to-night.’
‘That’s all good and well,’ said Mr. Sikes; ‘but I need some cash from you tonight.’
‘I haven’t a piece of coin about me,’ replied the Jew.
‘I don’t have any money on me,’ replied the Jew.
‘Then you’ve got lots at home,’ retorted Sikes; ‘and I must have some from there.’
‘Then you've got plenty at home,’ shot back Sikes; ‘and I need to take some from there.’
‘Lots!’ cried Fagin, holding up is hands. ‘I haven’t so much as would—’
‘Loads!’ cried Fagin, holding up his hands. ‘I don't have even as much as would—’
‘I don’t know how much you’ve got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it,’ said Sikes; ‘but I must have some to-night; and that’s flat.’
‘I don’t know how much you have, and I bet you don’t really know either, since it would take quite a while to count it,’ said Sikes; ‘but I need some tonight; no two ways about it.’
‘Well, well,’ said Fagin, with a sigh, ‘I’ll send the Artful round presently.’
‘Well, well,’ said Fagin with a sigh, ‘I’ll send the Artful over soon.’
‘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.’
‘You’re not going to do anything like that,’ Mr. Sikes replied. ‘The Artful is way too sly and would either forget to come, get lost, be caught by traps, or come up with any excuse to avoid it if you suggested it. Nancy will go to the place and get it to make sure everything's done; I’ll just lie down and take a nap while she’s out.’
After a great deal of haggling and squabbling, Fagin beat down the amount of the required advance from five pounds to three pounds four and sixpence: protesting with many solemn asseverations that that would only leave him eighteen-pence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes sullenly remarking that if he couldn’t get any more he must accompany him home; with the Dodger and Master Bates put the eatables in the cupboard. The Jew then, taking leave of his affectionate friend, returned homeward, attended by Nancy and the boys: Mr. Sikes, meanwhile, flinging himself on the bed, and composing himself to sleep away the time until the young lady’s return.
After a lot of bargaining and arguing, Fagin managed to lower the required advance from five pounds to three pounds four and sixpence, insisting with many serious claims that this would only leave him eighteen pence to live on. Mr. Sikes grumpily commented that if he couldn’t get any more, he would have to go home with him. The Dodger and Master Bates then put the food in the cupboard. Fagin, saying goodbye to his dear friend, headed home with Nancy and the boys, while Mr. Sikes flopped down on the bed, settling in to sleep until the young lady returned.
In due course, they arrived at Fagin’s abode, where they found Toby Crackit and Mr. Chitling intent upon their fifteenth game at cribbage, which it is scarcely necessary to say the latter gentleman lost, and with it, his fifteenth and last sixpence: much to the amusement of his young friends. Mr. Crackit, apparently somewhat ashamed at being found relaxing himself with a gentleman so much his inferior in station and mental endowments, yawned, and inquiring after Sikes, took up his hat to go.
In time, they reached Fagin’s place, where they saw Toby Crackit and Mr. Chitling focused on their fifteenth game of cribbage, which, needless to say, Mr. Chitling lost, along with his fifteenth and final sixpence: much to the amusement of his younger friends. Mr. Crackit, seeming a bit embarrassed to be seen lounging with someone clearly beneath him in social status and intelligence, yawned and asked about Sikes before grabbing his hat to leave.
‘Has nobody been, Toby?’ asked Fagin.
‘Has nobody come, Toby?’ asked Fagin.
‘Not a living leg,’ answered Mr. Crackit, pulling up his collar; ‘it’s been as dull as swipes. You ought to stand something handsome, Fagin, to recompense me for keeping house so long. Damme, I’m as flat as a juryman; and should have gone to sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I hadn’t had the good natur’ to amuse this youngster. Horrid dull, I’m blessed if I an’t!’
‘Not a single living leg,’ replied Mr. Crackit, pulling up his collar. ‘It’s been as boring as can be. You should treat me to something nice, Fagin, to make up for all the time I’ve spent here. Honestly, I feel as flat as a juryman; I would’ve fallen asleep right away, like I was in Newgate, if I hadn’t been kind enough to entertain this kid. It’s really been awful dull, I swear!’
With these and other ejaculations of the same kind, Mr. Toby Crackit swept up his winnings, and crammed them into his waistcoat pocket with a haughty air, as though such small pieces of silver were wholly beneath the consideration of a man of his figure; this done, he swaggered out of the room, with so much elegance and gentility, that Mr. Chitling, bestowing numerous admiring glances on his legs and boots till they were out of sight, assured the company that he considered his acquaintance cheap at fifteen sixpences an interview, and that he didn’t value his losses the snap of his little finger.
With these and other exclamations of the same sort, Mr. Toby Crackit gathered up his winnings and stuffed them into his waistcoat pocket with an air of superiority, as if those small coins were completely beneath the notice of a man of his stature. Once he finished, he swaggered out of the room with such elegance and style that Mr. Chitling, casting numerous admiring glances at his legs and boots until they were out of sight, declared to the group that he thought his connection with him was worth every bit of the fifteen sixpences per meeting and that he didn't care about his losses at all.
‘Wot a rum chap you are, Tom!’ said Master Bates, highly amused by this declaration.
‘What a strange guy you are, Tom!’ said Master Bates, very entertained by this statement.
‘Not a bit of it,’ replied Mr. Chitling. ‘Am I, Fagin?’
‘Not at all,’ replied Mr. Chitling. ‘Am I, Fagin?’
‘A very clever fellow, my dear,’ said Fagin, patting him on the shoulder, and winking to his other pupils.
‘A really clever guy, my dear,’ said Fagin, giving him a pat on the shoulder and winking at his other students.
‘And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell; an’t he, Fagin?’ asked Tom.
‘And Mr. Crackit is a big deal; isn't he, Fagin?’ asked Tom.
‘No doubt at all of that, my dear.’
‘There's definitely no doubt about that, my dear.’
‘And it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance; an’t it, Fagin?’ pursued Tom.
‘And it's a good thing to know him, right, Fagin?’ Tom continued.
‘Very much so, indeed, my dear. They’re only jealous, Tom, because he won’t give it to them.’
‘Absolutely, my dear. They’re just jealous, Tom, because he won’t share it with 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?’
‘Ah!’ cried Tom, excitedly, ‘that’s where it is! He’s taken everything from me. But I can go earn some more whenever I want; right, Fagin?’
‘To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up your loss at once, and don’t lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It’s time you were on the lay. Come! It’s near ten, and nothing done yet.’
‘You definitely can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so figure out your loss right away and don’t waste any more time. Dodger! Charley! It’s time for you to get moving. Come on! It’s almost ten, and nothing’s happened yet.’
In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their hats, and left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging, as they went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct, it is but justice to say, there was nothing very conspicuous or peculiar: inasmuch as there are a great number of spirited young bloods upon town, who pay a much higher price than Mr. Chitling for being seen in good society: and a great number of fine gentlemen (composing the good society aforesaid) who established their reputation upon very much the same footing as flash Toby Crackit.
Following this cue, the boys nodded at Nancy, grabbed their hats, and left the room. The Dodger and his lively friend made several jokes at Mr. Chitling's expense as they went. It's only fair to say that there was nothing particularly remarkable or unusual about Mr. Chitling's behavior, since there are plenty of spirited young men in town who pay much more than he does to be seen in good company. And there are many fine gentlemen (who make up that so-called good society) who built their reputations on pretty much the same foundation as flashy Toby Crackit.
‘Now,’ said Fagin, when they had left the room, ‘I’ll go and get you that cash, Nancy. This is only the key of a little cupboard where I keep a few odd things the boys get, my dear. I never lock up my money, for I’ve got none to lock up, my dear—ha! ha! ha!—none to lock up. It’s a poor trade, Nancy, and no thanks; but I’m fond of seeing the young people about me; and I bear it all, I bear it all. Hush!’ he said, hastily concealing the key in his breast; ‘who’s that? Listen!’
“Okay,” Fagin said after they left the room, “I’ll go get you that cash, Nancy. This is just the key to a small cupboard where I keep some random stuff the boys bring me, my dear. I don’t lock up my money because I don’t have any to lock up, my dear—ha! ha! ha!—none to lock up. It’s a rough business, Nancy, and no appreciation; but I like having the young people around me; and I put up with it all, I put up with it all. Shh!” he said, quickly hiding the key in his chest pocket; “who’s that? Listen!”
The girl, who was sitting at the table with her arms folded, appeared in no way interested in the arrival: or to care whether the person, whoever he was, came or went: until the murmur of a man’s voice reached her ears. The instant she caught the sound, she tore off her bonnet and shawl, with the rapidity of lightning, and thrust them under the table. The Jew, turning round immediately afterwards, she muttered a complaint of the heat: in a tone of languor that contrasted, very remarkably, with the extreme haste and violence of this action: which, however, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towards her at the time.
The girl, sitting at the table with her arms crossed, seemed completely uninterested in the arrival and didn't care who it was or whether they stayed or left—until she heard a man's voice. The moment she caught the sound, she quickly took off her bonnet and shawl and shoved them under the table. The Jew turned around right after, and she complained about the heat in a weak tone that sharply contrasted with her earlier swift and forceful actions, which Fagin, sitting with his back to her, hadn’t noticed.
‘Bah!’ he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption; ‘it’s the man I expected before; he’s coming downstairs. Not a word about the money while he’s here, Nance. He won’t stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear.’
‘Bah!’ he whispered, as if irritated by the interruption; ‘it’s the guy I was expecting earlier; he’s coming downstairs. Don’t say a word about the money while he’s here, Nance. He won’t stay long. Not even ten minutes, my dear.’
Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the door, as a man’s step was heard upon the stairs without. He reached it, at the same moment as the visitor, who, coming hastily into the room, was close upon the girl before he observed her.
Laying his thin forefinger on his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the door as he heard someone's footsteps coming up the stairs. He reached it at the same time as the visitor, who rushed into the room and nearly bumped into the girl before he noticed her.
It was Monks.
It was Monks.
‘Only one of my young people,’ said Fagin, observing that Monks drew back, on beholding a stranger. ‘Don’t move, Nancy.’
‘Only one of my young people,’ said Fagin, noticing that Monks pulled back when he saw a stranger. ‘Don’t move, Nancy.’
The girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks with an air of careless levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin, she stole another look; so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if there had been any bystander to observe the change, he could hardly have believed the two looks to have proceeded from the same person.
The girl moved closer to the table and glanced at Monks with a casual air before looking away. But as he turned to Fagin, she sneaked another look—so intense and full of intent that anyone watching would hardly believe those two glances came from the same person.
‘Any news?’ inquired Fagin.
“Any updates?” Fagin asked.
‘Great.’
'Awesome.'
‘And—and—good?’ asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to vex the other man by being too sanguine.
‘And—and—good?’ asked Fagin, hesitating as if he was afraid of annoying the other man by being too optimistic.
‘Not bad, any way,’ replied Monks with a smile. ‘I have been prompt enough this time. Let me have a word with you.’
“Not bad, anyway,” Monks replied with a smile. “I’ve been prompt enough this time. Let me have a word with you.”
The girl drew closer to the table, and made no offer to leave the room, although she could see that Monks was pointing to her. The Jew: perhaps fearing she might say something aloud about the money, if he endeavoured to get rid of her: pointed upward, and took Monks out of the room.
The girl moved closer to the table and didn’t show any intention of leaving the room, even though she noticed Monks was pointing at her. The Jew, possibly worried she might say something about the money if he tried to send her away, gestured upward and took Monks out of the room.
‘Not that infernal hole we were in before,’ she could hear the man say as they went upstairs. Fagin laughed; and making some reply which did not reach her, seemed, by the creaking of the boards, to lead his companion to the second story.
‘Not that awful place we were in before,’ she could hear the man say as they went upstairs. Fagin laughed; and making some reply that didn’t reach her, seemed, by the creaking of the boards, to lead his companion to the second floor.
Before the sound of their footsteps had ceased to echo through the house, the girl had slipped off her shoes; and drawing her gown loosely over her head, and muffling her arms in it, stood at the door, listening with breathless interest. The moment the noise ceased, she glided from the room; ascended the stairs with incredible softness and silence; and was lost in the gloom above.
Before the sound of their footsteps had faded in the house, the girl had taken off her shoes; and pulling her dress loosely over her head and wrapping her arms in it, she stood at the door, listening with eager curiosity. As soon as the noise stopped, she slipped out of the room; climbed the stairs with unbelievable lightness and quietness; and disappeared into the darkness above.
The room remained deserted for a quarter of an hour or more; the girl glided back with the same unearthly tread; and, immediately afterwards, the two men were heard descending. Monks went at once into the street; and the Jew crawled upstairs again for the money. When he returned, the girl was adjusting her shawl and bonnet, as if preparing to be gone.
The room stayed empty for fifteen minutes or so; the girl glided back with the same eerie grace; and soon after, the two men could be heard coming down. The monks went straight out into the street, and the Jew climbed back upstairs for the money. When he got back, the girl was fixing her shawl and bonnet, as if getting ready to leave.
‘Why, Nance!’ exclaimed the Jew, starting back as he put down the candle, ‘how pale you are!’
‘Why, Nance!’ the Jew exclaimed, stepping back as he set down the candle, ‘you look so pale!’
‘Pale!’ echoed the girl, shading her eyes with her hands, as if to look steadily at him.
‘Pale!’ the girl echoed, shielding her eyes with her hands, as if trying to look directly at him.
‘Quite horrible. What have you been doing to yourself?’
‘That's pretty awful. What have you been doing to yourself?’
‘Nothing that I know of, except sitting in this close place for I don’t know how long and all,’ replied the girl carelessly. ‘Come! Let me get back; that’s a dear.’
‘Nothing that I know of, except sitting in this cramped space for I don’t know how long and all,’ replied the girl casually. ‘Come on! Let me get back; that’s a dear.’
With a sigh for every piece of money, Fagin told the amount into her hand. They parted without more conversation, merely interchanging a ‘good-night.’
With a sigh for every dollar, Fagin counted the money into her hand. They said goodbye without any further conversation, simply exchanging a 'good night.'
When the girl got into the open street, she sat down upon a doorstep; and seemed, for a few moments, wholly bewildered and unable to pursue her way. Suddenly she arose; and hurrying on, in a direction quite opposite to that in which Sikes was awaiting her returned, quickened her pace, until it gradually resolved into a violent run. After completely exhausting herself, she stopped to take breath: and, as if suddenly recollecting herself, and deploring her inability to do something she was bent upon, wrung her hands, and burst into tears.
When the girl reached the open street, she sat down on a doorstep and looked completely confused for a moment, unable to continue her way. Suddenly, she got up and hurried in the opposite direction from where Sikes was waiting for her, quickening her pace until it turned into a full sprint. After exhausting herself, she stopped to catch her breath and, as if just realizing something and feeling upset about her inability to do what she wanted, wrung her hands and started to cry.
It might be that her tears relieved her, or that she felt the full hopelessness of her condition; but she turned back; and hurrying with nearly as great rapidity in the contrary direction; partly to recover lost time, and partly to keep pace with the violent current of her own thoughts: soon reached the dwelling where she had left the housebreaker.
It could be that her tears brought her some relief, or maybe she fully felt the hopelessness of her situation; but she turned around and rushed back, moving almost as quickly in the opposite direction. This was partly to make up for lost time and partly to keep up with the chaotic flow of her own thoughts. Soon, she reached the place where she had left the burglar.
If she betrayed any agitation, when she presented herself to Mr. Sikes, he did not observe it; for merely inquiring if she had brought the money, and receiving a reply in the affirmative, he uttered a growl of satisfaction, and replacing his head upon the pillow, resumed the slumbers which her arrival had interrupted.
If she showed any signs of anxiety when she met Mr. Sikes, he didn't notice it. He simply asked if she had brought the money, and when she confirmed that she had, he let out a satisfied grunt, put his head back on the pillow, and went back to sleep, which her arrival had disturbed.
It was fortunate for her that the possession of money occasioned him so much employment next day in the way of eating and drinking; and withal had so beneficial an effect in smoothing down the asperities of his temper; that he had neither time nor inclination to be very critical upon her behaviour and deportment. That she had all the abstracted and nervous manner of one who is on the eve of some bold and hazardous step, which it has required no common struggle to resolve upon, would have been obvious to the lynx-eyed Fagin, who would most probably have taken the alarm at once; but Mr. Sikes lacking the niceties of discrimination, and being troubled with no more subtle misgivings than those which resolve themselves into a dogged roughness of behaviour towards everybody; and being, furthermore, in an unusually amiable condition, as has been already observed; saw nothing unusual in her demeanor, and indeed, troubled himself so little about her, that, had her agitation been far more perceptible than it was, it would have been very unlikely to have awakened his suspicions.
It was lucky for her that having money kept him so busy the next day with eating and drinking; it also helped calm his bad temper. Because of this, he had neither the time nor the desire to be very critical of her behavior and demeanor. It would have been clear to the sharp-eyed Fagin that she had the distracted and nervous manner of someone about to take a bold and risky step that required a considerable struggle to decide on. However, Mr. Sikes, lacking the ability to pick up on subtle clues and only having the blunt roughness of behavior toward everyone, and also being in an unusually good mood, noticed nothing unusual about her. In fact, he was so unconcerned about her that even if her agitation had been much more noticeable, it likely wouldn't have raised his suspicions.
As that day closed in, the girl’s excitement increased; and, when night came on, and she sat by, watching until the housebreaker should drink himself asleep, there was an unusual paleness in her cheek, and a fire in her eye, that even Sikes observed with astonishment.
As that day came to an end, the girl's excitement grew; and, when night fell and she sat by, waiting for the burglar to drink himself to sleep, there was an unusual paleness in her cheek and a spark in her eye that even Sikes noticed with surprise.
Mr. Sikes being weak from the fever, was lying in bed, taking hot water with his gin to render it less inflammatory; and had pushed his glass towards Nancy to be replenished for the third or fourth time, when these symptoms first struck him.
Mr. Sikes, feeling weak from the fever, was lying in bed, mixing hot water with his gin to make it less harsh; he had pushed his glass toward Nancy to be filled up for the third or fourth time when these symptoms first hit him.
‘Why, burn my body!’ said the man, raising himself on his hands as he stared the girl in the face. ‘You look like a corpse come to life again. What’s the matter?’
‘Why, burn my body!’ said the man, propping himself on his hands as he stared the girl in the face. ‘You look like a corpse brought back to life. What’s going on?’
‘Matter!’ replied the girl. ‘Nothing. What do you look at me so hard for?’
‘What's the matter?’ the girl replied. ‘Nothing. Why are you staring at me like that?’
‘What foolery is this?’ demanded Sikes, grasping her by the arm, and shaking her roughly. ‘What is it? What do you mean? What are you thinking of?’
‘What kind of nonsense is this?’ demanded Sikes, gripping her arm and shaking her roughly. ‘What is it? What do you mean? What are you thinking?’
‘Of many things, Bill,’ replied the girl, shivering, and as she did so, pressing her hands upon her eyes. ‘But, Lord! What odds in that?’
‘Of many things, Bill,’ the girl replied, shivering, and as she did so, pressing her hands over her eyes. ‘But honestly! What difference does that make?’
The tone of forced gaiety in which the last words were spoken, seemed to produce a deeper impression on Sikes than the wild and rigid look which had preceded them.
The tone of forced cheerfulness in which the last words were spoken seemed to leave a stronger impression on Sikes than the wild and stiff look that had come before them.
‘I tell you wot it is,’ said Sikes; ‘if you haven’t caught the fever, and got it comin’ on, now, there’s something more than usual in the wind, and something dangerous too. You’re not a-going to—. No, damme! you wouldn’t do that!’
‘I’m telling you what’s going on,’ said Sikes; ‘if you’re not starting to feel sick, then there’s definitely something unusual happening, and it’s dangerous too. You’re not going to—. No way! You wouldn’t do that!’
‘Do what?’ asked the girl.
“Do what?” asked the girl.
‘There ain’t,’ said Sikes, fixing his eyes upon her, and muttering the words to himself; ‘there ain’t a stauncher-hearted gal going, or I’d have cut her throat three months ago. She’s got the fever coming on; that’s it.’
‘There isn’t,’ said Sikes, staring at her and mumbling the words to himself; ‘there isn’t a braver girl out there, or I would have killed her three months ago. She’s starting to get the fever; that’s what it is.’
Fortifying himself with this assurance, Sikes drained the glass to the bottom, and then, with many grumbling oaths, called for his physic. The girl jumped up, with great alacrity; poured it quickly out, but with her back towards him; and held the vessel to his lips, while he drank off the contents.
Fortifying himself with this assurance, Sikes gulped down the glass completely, and then, with plenty of grumbling curses, asked for his medicine. The girl quickly jumped up, poured it out fast, but turned her back to him, and held the cup to his lips while he drank it all.
‘Now,’ said the robber, ‘come and sit aside of me, and put on your own face; or I’ll alter it so, that you won’t know it agin when you do want it.’
‘Now,’ said the robber, ‘come and sit next to me, and show me your real face; or I’ll change it in a way that you won’t recognize it when you need it again.’
The girl obeyed. Sikes, locking her hand in his, fell back upon the pillow: turning his eyes upon her face. They closed; opened again; closed once more; again opened. He shifted his position restlessly; and, after dozing again, and again, for two or three minutes, and as often springing up with a look of terror, and gazing vacantly about him, was suddenly stricken, as it were, while in the very attitude of rising, into a deep and heavy sleep. The grasp of his hand relaxed; the upraised arm fell languidly by his side; and he lay like one in a profound trance.
The girl complied. Sikes, holding her hand tightly, fell back onto the pillow, directing his gaze at her face. His eyes closed; they opened again; then closed once more; and opened again. He shifted restlessly; after dozing off for a few minutes, he would suddenly wake up, looking terrified and staring blankly around him. Then, as if he were about to get up, he was abruptly plunged into a deep, heavy sleep. His grip loosened; his raised arm dropped limply to his side, and he lay there completely in a deep trance.
‘The laudanum has taken effect at last,’ murmured the girl, as she rose from the bedside. ‘I may be too late, even now.’
‘The laudanum has finally taken effect,’ the girl whispered as she got up from the bedside. ‘I might already be too late.’
She hastily dressed herself in her bonnet and shawl: looking fearfully round, from time to time, as if, despite the sleeping draught, she expected every moment to feel the pressure of Sikes’s heavy hand upon her shoulder; then, stooping softly over the bed, she kissed the robber’s lips; and then opening and closing the room-door with noiseless touch, hurried from the house.
She quickly put on her bonnet and shawl, glancing around nervously as if, despite the sleeping medicine, she was expecting at any moment to feel Sikes’s heavy hand on her shoulder. Then, bending softly over the bed, she kissed the robber’s lips. After that, she opened and closed the room door quietly and hurried out of the house.
A watchman was crying half-past nine, down a dark passage through which she had to pass, in gaining the main thoroughfare.
A watchman was calling out half-past nine, down a dark passage she had to go through to reach the main street.
‘Has it long gone the half-hour?’ asked the girl.
“Has half an hour passed already?” asked the girl.
‘It’ll strike the hour in another quarter,’ said the man: raising his lantern to her face.
‘It’ll chime the hour in another fifteen minutes,’ 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.
‘And I can’t get there in less than an hour or more,’ muttered Nancy, brushing past him quickly and gliding 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.
Many of the shops were already closing in the back streets and avenues as she made her way from Spitalfields to the West End of London. The clock struck ten, heightening her impatience. She raced along the narrow sidewalk, pushing past pedestrians and darting almost under the horses’ heads, crossing busy streets where groups of people were eagerly waiting for their chance to do the same.
‘The woman is mad!’ said the people, turning to look after her as she rushed away.
‘The woman is crazy!’ said the people, turning to watch her as she hurried away.
When she reached the more wealthy quarter of the town, the streets were comparatively deserted; and here her headlong progress excited a still greater curiosity in the stragglers whom she hurried past. Some quickened their pace behind, as though to see whither she was hastening at such an unusual rate; and a few made head upon her, and looked back, surprised at her undiminished speed; but they fell off one by one; and when she neared her place of destination, she was alone.
When she got to the richer part of town, the streets were pretty empty; and here, her hurried pace sparked even more curiosity in the few people she rushed by. Some picked up their speed behind her, as if trying to find out where she was going in such a hurry; a few even approached her and turned back, surprised that she was still moving so fast; but they dropped off one by one; and by the time she got close to her destination, she was alone.
It was a family hotel in a quiet but handsome street near Hyde Park. As the brilliant light of the lamp which burnt before its door, guided her to the spot, the clock struck eleven. She had loitered for a few paces as though irresolute, and making up her mind to advance; but the sound determined her, and she stepped into the hall. The porter’s seat was vacant. She looked round with an air of incertitude, and advanced towards the stairs.
It was a family hotel on a quiet but nice street near Hyde Park. As the bright light of the lamp burning in front of the door guided her to the place, the clock struck eleven. She had hesitated for a moment, as if unsure, but the sound made her decide to move forward, and she stepped into the hall. The porter’s seat was empty. She looked around with a sense of uncertainty and walked towards the stairs.
‘Now, young woman!’ said a smartly-dressed female, looking out from a door behind her, ‘who do you want here?’
‘Now, young woman!’ said a well-dressed woman, glancing out from a door behind her, ‘who are you looking for?’
‘A lady who is stopping in this house,’ answered the girl.
‘A lady who is staying in this house,’ answered the girl.
‘A lady!’ was the reply, accompanied with a scornful look. ‘What lady?’
‘A lady!’ came the response, accompanied by a scornful look. ‘What lady?’
‘Miss Maylie,’ said Nancy.
‘Miss Maylie,’ Nancy said.
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.
The young woman, who had by now noticed her appearance, responded only with a look of virtuous disdain and called over a man to answer her. To him, Nancy repeated her request.
‘What name am I to say?’ asked the waiter.
‘What name should I use?’ asked the waiter.
‘It’s of no use saying any,’ replied Nancy.
‘It’s useless to say anything,’ replied Nancy.
‘Nor business?’ said the man.
"Not business?" said the man.
‘No, nor that neither,’ rejoined the girl. ‘I must see the lady.’
‘No, neither that,’ the girl replied. ‘I need to see the lady.’
‘Come!’ said the man, pushing her towards the door. ‘None of this. Take yourself off.’
‘Come on!’ the man said, pushing her towards the door. ‘Forget all this. Just leave.’
‘I shall be carried out if I go!’ said the girl violently; ‘and I can make that a job that two of you won’t like to do. Isn’t there anybody here,’ she said, looking round, ‘that will see a simple message carried for a poor wretch like me?’
‘I’ll be taken out if I go!’ said the girl fiercely; ‘and I can turn that into a task that neither of you would want to handle. Isn’t there anyone here,’ she asked, glancing around, ‘who would take a simple message for a poor soul like me?’
This appeal produced an effect on a good-tempered-faced man-cook, who with some of the other servants was looking on, and who stepped forward to interfere.
This request caught the attention of a good-natured cook, who, along with some of the other staff, was watching and stepped in to intervene.
‘Take it up for her, Joe; can’t you?’ said this person.
‘Can’t you take it up for her, Joe?’ said this person.
‘What’s the good?’ replied the man. ‘You don’t suppose the young lady will see such as her; do you?’
‘What’s the point?’ replied the man. ‘You don’t think the young lady will notice someone like 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.
This mention of Nancy’s questionable character stirred up a lot of righteous anger in four housemaids, who passionately noted that she was a disgrace to women and strongly suggested that she should be thrown out without mercy into the gutter.
‘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.’
‘Do whatever you want with me,’ said the girl, turning back to the men; ‘but please do what I ask first, and I’m asking you to deliver this message for the sake of God Almighty.’
The soft-hearted cook added his intercession, and the result was that the man who had first appeared undertook its delivery.
The kind-hearted cook stepped in, and as a result, the man who initially showed up took on the delivery.
‘What’s it to be?’ said the man, with one foot on the stairs.
‘What’s it going to be?’ said the man, with one foot on the stairs.
‘That a young woman earnestly asks to speak to Miss Maylie alone,’ said Nancy; ‘and that if the lady will only hear the first word she has to say, she will know whether to hear her business, or to have her turned out of doors as an impostor.’
‘A young woman urgently wants to speak to Miss Maylie alone,’ said Nancy; ‘and if the lady will just listen to the first word she has to say, she’ll know whether to consider her request or to have her thrown out as a fraud.’
‘I say,’ said the man, ‘you’re coming it strong!’
"I say," the man said, "you're really going for it!"
‘You give the message,’ said the girl firmly; ‘and let me hear the answer.’
‘You deliver the message,’ the girl said firmly; ‘and let me hear the response.’
The man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless, listening with quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn, of which the chaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they became still more so, when the man returned, and said the young woman was to walk upstairs.
The man ran upstairs. Nancy stayed behind, pale and nearly breathless, listening with a trembling lip to the clearly audible expressions of disdain from the housemaids, who were very vocal about it; and they got even more so when the man came back and said the young woman was to go upstairs.
‘It’s no good being proper in this world,’ said the first housemaid.
‘It’s pointless trying to be proper in this world,’ said the first housemaid.
‘Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire,’ said the second.
‘Brass can do better than the gold that has stood the test of fire,’ said the second.
The third contented herself with wondering ‘what ladies was made of’; and the fourth took the first in a quartette of ‘Shameful!’ with which the Dianas concluded.
The third entertained herself by thinking about ‘what ladies are made of’; and the fourth joined in the first of a quartet of ‘Shameful!’ that the Dianas ended with.
Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired.
Regardless of all this: for she had more important things on her mind: Nancy followed the man, her limbs shaking, to a small antechamber, illuminated by a lamp hanging from the ceiling. Here he left her and stepped away.
CHAPTER XL — A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER
The girl’s life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman’s original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview.
The girl’s life had been wasted in the streets and in the filthiest parts of London, but there was still a trace of her original nature left in her. When she heard a light step approaching the door opposite the one she had entered, and thought about the stark contrast the small room would soon hold, she felt overwhelmed by her deep shame and recoiled as if she could hardly tolerate the presence of the person she had come to meet.
But struggling with these better feelings was pride,—the vice of the lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself,—even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child.
But struggling with these better feelings was pride—the flaw of the lowest and most degraded beings as well as those who are high and self-confident. The miserable companion of thieves and crooks, the fallen outcast from seedy places, the associate of the dregs of jails and hulks, living in the shadow of the gallows itself—even this degraded person felt too proud to reveal a faint trace of the womanly emotion she regarded as a weakness, yet it was the only thing that still connected her to that humanity, from which her dwindling life had erased so many, many traces since she was a young child.
She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said:
She lifted her eyes just enough to see that the figure before her was a slim and beautiful girl; then, looking down at the ground, she tossed her head with feigned indifference and said:
‘It’s a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you’d have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason either.’
‘It’s tough to get a chance to see you, ma'am. If I had taken offense and left, like many would have, you’d regret it eventually, and not without good reason either.’
‘I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you,’ replied Rose. ‘Do not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you inquired for.’
“I’m really sorry if anyone has treated you poorly,” Rose replied. “Don’t focus on that. Just tell me why you wanted to see me. I’m the person you were looking 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.
The kind tone of this response, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, and the lack of any hint of arrogance or annoyance caught the girl completely off guard, and she started to cry.
‘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!’
‘Oh, ma'am, ma'am!’ she said, pressing her hands together passionately in front of her face, ‘if there were more people like you, there would be fewer like me—there would—there would!’
‘Sit down,’ said Rose, earnestly. ‘If you are in poverty or affliction I shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can,—I shall indeed. Sit down.’
‘Sit down,’ Rose said earnestly. ‘If you’re struggling with poverty or hardship, I’ll be really glad to help you if I can—I really will. Sit down.’
‘Let me stand, lady,’ said the girl, still weeping, ‘and do not speak to me so kindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is—is—that door shut?’
‘Let me stand, ma'am,’ said the girl, still crying, ‘and please don’t speak to me so kindly until you know me better. It's getting late. Is—is—that door closed?’
‘Yes,’ said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance in case she should require it. ‘Why?’
‘Yeah,’ Rose said, stepping back a little, as if to be closer to help in case she needed it. ‘Why?’
‘Because,’ said the girl, ‘I am about to put my life and the lives of others in your hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old Fagin’s on the night he went out from the house in Pentonville.’
‘Because,’ said the girl, ‘I’m about to put my life and the lives of others in your hands. I’m the girl who brought little Oliver back to old Fagin’s the night he left the house in Pentonville.’
‘You!’ said Rose Maylie.
"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.’
‘I, lady!’ replied the girl. ‘I’m the notorious person you’ve heard about, who lives among thieves, and since the very first moment I can remember opening my eyes and senses on the streets of London, I haven’t known any life better than this or heard kinder words than what they’ve given me, so help me God! Don’t worry about openly shrinking away from me, lady. I’m younger than you’d think, judging by how I look, but I’m used to it. The poorest women step back as I walk through the crowded sidewalk.’
‘What dreadful things are these!’ said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion.
‘What terrible things are these!’ said Rose, involuntarily stepping away from her strange companion.
‘Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady,’ cried the girl, ‘that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and—and—something worse than all—as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed.’
‘Thank God you had friends who cared for you during your childhood, dear lady,’ the girl exclaimed. ‘You were never surrounded by cold and hunger, chaos and drunkenness, and—and—something worse than all of that—like I have been since I was born. I can say this because the alley and the gutter have been my home, and they will be my deathbed.’
‘I pity you!’ said Rose, in a broken voice. ‘It wrings my heart to hear you!’
“I feel sorry for you!” Rose said in a shaky voice. “It breaks my heart to listen to you!”
‘Heaven bless you for your goodness!’ rejoined the girl. ‘If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?’
‘God bless you for your kindness!’ the girl replied. ‘If you knew what I can be sometimes, you would really feel sorry for me. But I've slipped away from those who would definitely hurt me if they found out I was here, to tell you what I've overheard. Do you know a guy named Monks?’
‘No,’ said Rose.
‘No,’ Rose said.
‘He knows you,’ replied the girl; ‘and knew you were here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out.’
‘He knows you,’ replied the girl; ‘and he knew you were here because I heard him mention the place, which is how I found you.’
‘I never heard the name,’ said Rose.
‘I’ve never heard that name,’ said Rose.
‘Then he goes by some other amongst us,’ rejoined the girl, ‘which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I—suspecting this man—listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks—the man I asked you about, you know—’
‘Then he goes by some other name among us,’ the girl replied, ‘which I suspected even more before. A while back, right after Oliver was brought to your house on the night of the robbery, I—suspicious of this guy—overheard a conversation between him and Fagin in the dark. I discovered, from what I heard, that Monks—the guy I asked you about, you know—’
‘Yes,’ said Rose, ‘I understand.’
“Yes,” Rose said, “I get it.”
‘—That Monks,’ pursued the girl, ‘had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn’t make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own.’
‘—That Monks,’ the girl continued, ‘had seen him by chance with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and recognized him as the same child he was looking for, though I couldn’t figure out why. A deal was made with Fagin that if Oliver was brought back, he would get a certain amount; and he would receive more for turning him into a thief, which this Monks wanted for his own reasons.’
‘For what purpose?’ asked Rose.
"What's the purpose?" asked Rose.
‘He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out,’ said the girl; ‘and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night.’
‘He saw my shadow on the wall while I was listening, hoping to find out,’ the girl said; ‘and there aren’t many people besides me who could have made it out of the way in time to avoid being discovered. But I did; and I didn’t see him again until last night.’
‘And what occurred then?’
"What happened next?"
‘I’ll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these: “So the only proofs of the boy’s identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.” They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had got the young devil’s money safely 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.’
‘I’ll tell you, lady. Last night he came back. They went upstairs again, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow wouldn’t give me away, listened by the door again. The first words I heard Monks say were these: “So the only proof of the boy’s identity is at the bottom of the river, and the old hag who got it from the mother is rotting in her grave.” They laughed and talked about his success in doing this; and Monks, getting very heated while talking about the boy, said that even though he had the young devil’s money now, he’d rather have had it another way; because, what a thrill it would have been to take down the father's will by dragging him through every jail in town, and then charging him with some serious crime that Fagin could easily handle, after making a good profit off of him too.’
‘What is all this!’ said Rose.
‘What is all this!’ said Rose.
‘The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips,’ replied the girl. ‘Then, he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that if he could gratify his hatred by taking the boy’s life without bringing his own neck in danger, he would; but, as he couldn’t, he’d be upon the watch to meet him at every turn in life; and if he took advantage of his birth and history, he might harm him yet. “In short, Fagin,” he says, “Jew as you are, you never laid such snares as I’ll contrive for my young brother, Oliver.”’
‘The truth, lady, even coming from me,’ replied the girl. ‘Then, he said, with curses familiar to me but strange to you, that if he could satisfy his hatred by killing the boy without putting himself at risk, he would; but since he couldn’t, he’d be on the lookout to cross paths with him at every opportunity in life; and if he leveraged his background and history, he might still hurt him. “In short, Fagin,” he says, “Jew though you are, you’ve never set traps like the ones I’ll create for my younger brother, Oliver.”’
‘His brother!’ exclaimed Rose.
“His brother!” Rose exclaimed.
‘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.’
‘Those were his words,’ Nancy said, looking around nervously, as she had been doing since she started speaking, because the image of Sikes never left her. ‘And more. When he mentioned you and the other lady and claimed it felt like some kind of setup by Heaven or the devil against him that Oliver ended up with you, he laughed and said there was a bit of comfort in that too, considering how many thousands, or even hundreds of thousands, of pounds you wouldn’t give, if you had them, to know who your two-legged spaniel was.’
‘You do not mean,’ said Rose, turning very pale, ‘to tell me that this was said in earnest?’
‘You can’t be serious,’ said Rose, turning very pale. ‘Are you really telling me that this was said for real?’
‘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.’
‘He spoke with a harsh and furious seriousness, like no one else I’ve ever heard,’ replied the girl, shaking her head. ‘He’s truly intense when he’s angry. I know plenty of people who do worse things; but I’d rather hear them all a dozen times than listen to that Monks even once. It’s getting late, and I need to get home without raising any suspicion about what I’ve been up to. I have to hurry back.’
‘But what can I do?’ said Rose. ‘To what use can I turn this communication without you? Back! Why do you wish to return to companions you paint in such terrible colors? If you repeat this information to a gentleman whom I can summon in an instant from the next room, you can be consigned to some place of safety without half an hour’s delay.’
‘But what can I do?’ said Rose. ‘How can I make use of this message without you? Come back! Why do you want to go back to friends you describe in such awful terms? If you share this information with a gentleman I can call in a moment from the next room, you could be sent to a safe place within half an hour.’
‘I wish to go back,’ said the girl. ‘I must go back, because—how can I tell such things to an innocent lady like you?—because among the men I have told you of, there is one: the most desperate among them all; that I can’t leave: no, not even to be saved from the life I am leading now.’
‘I want to go back,’ said the girl. ‘I have to go back because—how can I explain this to an innocent lady like you?—among the men I told you about, there’s one: the most hopeless of them all; I can’t leave him: no, not even to escape the life I’m living 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.’
‘You’ve helped this dear boy before,’ said Rose; ‘you’re risking so much by coming here to share what you’ve heard; your manner shows me that what you say is true; your clear remorse and sense of shame; all of it makes me think you could still be saved. Oh!’ said the earnest girl, folding her hands as tears streamed down her face, ‘please don’t ignore the pleas of someone of your own gender; the first—the very first, I believe, who has ever approached you with pity and compassion. Please listen to me, and let me help you for a better future.’
‘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!’
‘Lady,’ cried the girl, sinking to her knees, ‘dear, sweet, angel lady, you are the first person who has ever blessed me with such words, and if I had heard them years ago, they might have saved me from a life of sin and sorrow; but it’s too late, it’s too late!’
‘It is never too late,’ said Rose, ‘for penitence and atonement.’
‘It's never too late,’ said Rose, ‘for repentance and making amends.’
‘It is,’ cried the girl, writhing in agony of her mind; ‘I cannot leave him now! I could not be his death.’
‘It is,’ the girl exclaimed, twisting in emotional pain; ‘I can’t leave him now! I couldn’t be the reason for his death.’
‘Why should you be?’ asked Rose.
‘Why should you be?’ asked Rose.
‘Nothing could save him,’ cried the girl. ‘If I told others what I have told you, and led to their being taken, he would be sure to die. He is the boldest, and has been so cruel!’
‘Nothing could save him,’ the girl exclaimed. ‘If I shared what I’ve just told you and it led to others being caught, he would definitely die. He’s the bravest and has been so vicious!’
‘Is it possible,’ cried Rose, ‘that for such a man as this, you can resign every future hope, and the certainty of immediate rescue? It is madness.’
‘Is it possible,’ cried Rose, ‘that for a man like this, you can give up every future hope and the guarantee of immediate rescue? That’s insanity.’
‘I don’t know what it is,’ answered the girl; ‘I only know that it is so, and not with me alone, but with hundreds of others as bad and wretched as myself. I must go back. Whether it is God’s wrath for the wrong I have done, I do not know; but I am drawn back to him through every suffering and ill usage; and I should be, I believe, if I knew that I was to die by his hand at last.’
‘I don’t know what it is,’ the girl replied; ‘I just know that it’s this way not just for me, but for hundreds of others who are just as miserable as I am. I have to go back. Whether it’s God punishing me for my wrongdoings, I can’t say; but I feel pulled back to him through every pain and mistreatment. I think I would feel the same even if I knew I was going to die by his hand in the end.’
‘What am I to do?’ said Rose. ‘I should not let you depart from me thus.’
'What am I supposed to do?' Rose said. 'I shouldn't let you leave me like this.'
‘You should, lady, and I know you will,’ rejoined the girl, rising. ‘You will not stop my going because I have trusted in your goodness, and forced no promise from you, as I might have done.’
‘You should, ma'am, and I know you will,’ the girl replied, getting up. ‘You won't stop me from going because I've relied on your kindness and didn’t demand a promise from you, as I could have.’
‘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?’
‘What’s the point of the communication you’ve made?’ said Rose. ‘This mystery needs to be looked into, or how will revealing it to me help Oliver, whom you want to assist?’
‘You must have some kind gentleman about you that will hear it as a secret, and advise you what to do,’ rejoined the girl.
‘You must have some kind guy around who will keep it a secret and help you figure out what to do,’ replied the girl.
‘But where can I find you again when it is necessary?’ asked Rose. ‘I do not seek to know where these dreadful people live, but where will you be walking or passing at any settled period from this time?’
‘But where can I find you again when I need to?’ asked Rose. ‘I don’t want to know where these terrible people live, but where will you be going or passing by regularly from now on?’
‘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.
‘Will you promise me that you'll keep my secret safe, and come alone, or with the only other person who knows it? And that I won’t be watched or followed?’ asked the girl.
‘I promise you solemnly,’ answered Rose.
"I promise you seriously," Rose replied.
‘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.’
‘Every Sunday night, from eleven until midnight,’ said the girl confidently, ‘I will walk on London Bridge if I’m still alive.’
‘Stay another moment,’ interposed Rose, as the girl moved hurriedly towards the door. ‘Think once again on your own condition, and the opportunity you have of escaping from it. You have a claim on me: not only as the voluntary bearer of this intelligence, but as a woman lost almost beyond redemption. Will you return to this gang of robbers, and to this man, when a word can save you? What fascination is it that can take you back, and make you cling to wickedness and misery? Oh! is there no chord in your heart that I can touch! Is there nothing left, to which I can appeal against this terrible infatuation!’
“Stay for a moment,” Rose said as the girl rushed towards the door. “Think once more about your situation and the chance you have to change it. You have a claim on me—not only because I’m the one delivering this message, but as a woman who is almost lost forever. Will you go back to this group of thieves and to that man when a single word could save you? What is it that draws you back, making you hold on to this evil and suffering? Oh! Is there nothing in your heart that I can reach? Is there nothing left to which I can appeal against this awful obsession?”
‘When ladies as young, and good, and beautiful as you are,’ replied the girl steadily, ‘give away your hearts, love will carry you all lengths—even such as you, who have home, friends, other admirers, everything, to fill them. When such as I, who have no certain roof but the 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 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.’
‘When young, good, and beautiful women like you,’ the girl said firmly, ‘give away your hearts, love can take you anywhere—even you, who have a home, friends, other admirers, everything you need to feel fulfilled. When someone like me, who has no real home except a coffin, and no friend in sickness or death other than the hospital nurse, fixates on any man and lets him fill the emptiness that's been there my whole miserable life, who can possibly save us? Have compassion for us, lady—have compassion for having only one remaining feeling of womanhood, and for having that feeling, through harsh circumstances, turned from a source of comfort and pride into a new way of experiencing pain 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?’
"You will," Rose said after a pause, "take some money from me, which may help you live without being dishonest—at least until we meet again?"
‘Not a penny,’ replied the girl, waving her hand.
‘Not a penny,’ replied the girl, waving her hand.
‘Do not close your heart against all my efforts to help you,’ said Rose, stepping gently forward. ‘I wish to serve you indeed.’
‘Don’t shut your heart to all my attempts to help you,’ said Rose, stepping gently forward. ‘I really want to help you.’
‘You would serve me best, lady,’ replied the girl, wringing her hands, ‘if you could take my life at once; for I have felt more grief to think of what I am, to-night, than I ever did before, and it would be something not to die in the hell in which I have lived. God bless you, sweet lady, and send as much happiness on your head as I have brought shame on mine!’
‘You would help me the most, lady,’ replied the girl, wringing her hands, ‘if you could just end my life right here; because the grief I feel about who I am tonight is greater than anything I’ve felt before, and it would be a relief not to die in the hell I've been living in. God bless you, sweet lady, and may you receive as much happiness as I’ve brought shame to myself!’
Thus speaking, and sobbing aloud, the unhappy creature turned away; while Rose Maylie, overpowered by this extraordinary interview, which had more the semblance of a rapid dream than an actual occurrence, sank into a chair, and endeavoured to collect her wandering thoughts.
Thus speaking, and crying out loud, the miserable person turned away; while Rose Maylie, overwhelmed by this strange encounter, which felt more like a quick dream than a real event, sank into a chair and tried to gather her chaotic thoughts.
CHAPTER XLI — CONTAINING FRESH DISCOVERIES, AND SHOWING THAT SUPRISES, LIKE MISFORTUNES, SELDOM COME ALONE
Her situation was, indeed, one of no common trial and difficulty. While she felt the most eager and burning desire to penetrate the mystery in which Oliver’s history was enveloped, she could not but hold sacred the confidence which the miserable woman with whom she had just conversed, had reposed in her, as a young and guileless girl. Her words and manner had touched Rose Maylie’s heart; and, mingled with her love for her young charge, and scarcely less intense in its truth and fervour, was her fond wish to win the outcast back to repentance and hope.
Her situation was definitely not an ordinary trial or difficulty. While she had an intense and burning desire to uncover the mystery surrounding Oliver’s past, she couldn’t help but respect the trust that the miserable woman she had just spoken to had placed in her, as a young and innocent girl. The woman’s words and demeanor had moved Rose Maylie deeply; alongside her love for her young charge, she felt a strong and genuine desire to help the outcast find repentance and hope again.
They purposed remaining in London only three days, prior to departing for some weeks to a distant part of the coast. It was now midnight of the first day. What course of action could she determine upon, which could be adopted in eight-and-forty hours? Or how could she postpone the journey without exciting suspicion?
They planned to stay in London for only three days before heading off for several weeks to a far-off part of the coast. It was now midnight of the first day. What decision could she make that could be carried out in forty-eight hours? Or how could she delay the journey without raising suspicion?
Mr. Losberne was with them, and would be for the next two days; but Rose was too well acquainted with the excellent gentleman’s impetuosity, and foresaw too clearly the wrath with which, in the first explosion of his indignation, he would regard the instrument of Oliver’s recapture, to trust him with the secret, when her representations in the girl’s behalf could be seconded by no experienced person. These were all reasons for the greatest caution and most circumspect behaviour in communicating it to Mrs. Maylie, whose first impulse would infallibly be to hold a conference with the worthy doctor on the subject. As to resorting to any legal adviser, even if she had known how to do so, it was scarcely to be thought of, for the same reason. Once the thought occurred to her of seeking assistance from Harry; but this awakened the recollection of their last parting, and it seemed unworthy of her to call him back, when—the tears rose to her eyes as she pursued this train of reflection—he might have by this time learnt to forget her, and to be happier away.
Mr. Losberne was with them and would be for the next two days; however, Rose knew all too well about the kind gentleman's impulsiveness and could clearly see the anger with which he would view the person responsible for Oliver’s capture in his initial outburst. Because of this, she didn’t trust him with the secret, especially since her arguments on the girl's behalf couldn’t be supported by anyone with experience. These were all reasons to be extremely careful and discreet when telling Mrs. Maylie, whose instinct would surely be to discuss the matter with the good doctor. Turning to any legal advisor, even if she had known how to approach it, was hardly an option for the same reason. For a moment, she considered reaching out to Harry; but that reminded her of their last goodbye, and it felt unworthy of her to ask him to come back when—tears filled her eyes as she thought this—he might have moved on and found happiness without her.
Disturbed by these different reflections; inclining now to one course and then to another, and again recoiling from all, as each successive consideration presented itself to her mind; Rose passed a sleepless and anxious night. After more communing with herself next day, she arrived at the desperate conclusion of consulting Harry.
Disturbed by these conflicting thoughts, wavering between one idea and the next, and then pulling back from all of them as each new consideration came to her mind, Rose spent a restless and anxious night. After more self-reflection the next day, she reached the desperate decision to talk to Harry.
‘If it be painful to him,’ she thought, ‘to come back here, how painful it will be to me! But perhaps he will not come; he may write, or he may come himself, and studiously abstain from meeting me—he did when he went away. I hardly thought he would; but it was better for us both.’ And here Rose dropped the pen, and turned away, as though the very paper which was to be her messenger should not see her weep.
‘If it’s painful for him to come back here,’ she thought, ‘how painful will it be for me! But maybe he won’t come; he might write, or he could show up but totally avoid seeing me—he did that when he left. I didn’t really think he would; but it was better for both of us.’ And here Rose dropped the pen and turned away, as if the very paper that was meant to carry her message shouldn’t witness her tears.
She had taken up the same pen, and laid it down again fifty times, and had considered and reconsidered the first line of her letter without writing the first word, when Oliver, who had been walking in the streets, with Mr. Giles for a body-guard, entered the room in such breathless haste and violent agitation, as seemed to betoken some new cause of alarm.
She had picked up the same pen and put it down again fifty times, thinking and rethinking the first line of her letter without actually writing a single word, when Oliver, who had been walking the streets with Mr. Giles as a bodyguard, burst into the room in such a rush and with such intense agitation that it clearly indicated some new reason for concern.
‘What makes you look so flurried?’ asked Rose, advancing to meet him.
‘What has you looking so flustered?’ asked Rose, moving closer to him.
‘I hardly know how; I feel as if I should be choked,’ replied the boy. ‘Oh dear! To think that I should see him at last, and you should be able to know that I have told you the truth!’
‘I barely know how; I feel like I’m going to choke,’ replied the boy. ‘Oh dear! To think that I’m finally going to see him, and you’ll be able to know that I’ve told you the truth!’
‘I never thought you had told us anything but the truth,’ said Rose, soothing him. ‘But what is this?—of whom do you speak?’
‘I never thought you were anything but honest with us,’ said Rose, comforting him. ‘But what’s going on? Who are you talking about?’
‘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.’
‘I have seen the guy,’ replied Oliver, barely able to speak, ‘the guy who was so nice to me—Mr. Brownlow, the one we've talked about so often.’
‘Where?’ asked Rose.
"Where?" asked Rose.
‘Getting out of a coach,’ replied Oliver, shedding tears of delight, ‘and going into a house. I didn’t speak to him—I couldn’t speak to him, for he didn’t see me, and I trembled so, that I was not able to go up to him. But Giles asked, for me, whether he lived there, and they said he did. Look here,’ said Oliver, opening a scrap of paper, ‘here it is; here’s where he lives—I’m going there directly! Oh, dear me, dear me! What shall I do when I come to see him and hear him speak again!’
“Getting out of a coach,” Oliver said, tears of joy streaming down his face, “and going into a house. I didn’t talk to him—I couldn’t talk to him, because he didn’t see me, and I was shaking so much that I couldn’t approach him. But Giles asked, for me, if he lived there, and they said he did. Look,” Oliver said, pulling out a piece of paper, “here it is; here’s where he lives—I’m going there right now! Oh, goodness, oh goodness! What will I do when I see him again and hear him speak?”
With her attention not a little distracted by these and a great many other incoherent exclamations of joy, Rose read the address, which was Craven Street, in the Strand. She very soon determined upon turning the discovery to account.
With her attention somewhat divided by these and many other jumbled shouts of excitement, Rose read the address, which was Craven Street, in the Strand. She quickly decided to make the most of her discovery.
‘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.’
‘Quick!’ she said. ‘Tell them to get a cab, and be ready to go with me. I’ll take you there right away, without wasting any time. I’ll just tell my aunt that we’re stepping out for an hour, so make sure you’re ready as soon as you can.’
Oliver needed no prompting to despatch, and in little more than five minutes they were on their way to Craven Street. When they arrived there, Rose left Oliver in the coach, under pretence of preparing the old gentleman to receive him; and sending up her card by the servant, requested to see Mr. Brownlow on very pressing business. The servant soon returned, to beg that she would walk upstairs; and following him into an upper room, Miss Maylie was presented to an elderly gentleman of benevolent appearance, in a bottle-green coat. At no great distance from whom, was seated another old gentleman, in nankeen breeches and gaiters; who did not look particularly benevolent, and who was sitting with his hands clasped on the top of a thick stick, and his chin propped thereupon.
Oliver needed no encouragement to leave, and in just over five minutes, they were headed to Craven Street. When they arrived, Rose told Oliver to stay in the coach, claiming she needed to prepare the old gentleman for his visit. She sent up her card through the servant and asked to see Mr. Brownlow on urgent business. The servant quickly returned to ask her to go upstairs. Following him into an upper room, Miss Maylie met an elderly gentleman who had a kind face and wore a bottle-green coat. Not far from him sat another old gentleman, dressed in nankeen breeches and gaiters, who did not seem particularly kind. He had his hands clasped over a thick stick, with his chin resting on top of it.
‘Dear me,’ said the gentleman, in the bottle-green coat, hastily rising with great politeness, ‘I beg your pardon, young lady—I imagined it was some importunate person who—I beg you will excuse me. Be seated, pray.’
‘Oh dear,’ said the man in the bottle-green coat, quickly standing up with great politeness, ‘I’m so sorry, miss—I thought it was someone who was being pushy—I really apologize. Please, have a seat.’
‘Mr. Brownlow, I believe, sir?’ said Rose, glancing from the other gentleman to the one who had spoken.
‘Mr. Brownlow, is that you?’ Rose asked, shifting her gaze from the other man 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?’
'That’s my name,' said the old man. 'This is my friend, Mr. Grimwig. Grimwig, can you give us a few minutes alone?'
‘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.’
‘I believe,’ interjected Miss Maylie, ‘that at this point in our conversation, I don’t need to make that gentleman leave. If I’m correctly informed, he’s aware of the matter I want to discuss with you.’
Mr. Brownlow inclined his head. Mr. Grimwig, who had made one very stiff bow, and risen from his chair, made another very stiff bow, and dropped into it again.
Mr. Brownlow nodded. Mr. Grimwig, who had done one very formal bow and stood up from his chair, did another very formal bow and sat back down 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.’
‘I’m sure I’m going to surprise you,’ said Rose, feeling a bit embarrassed; ‘but you once showed a lot of kindness and generosity to a very dear young friend of mine, and I’m sure you’ll be interested in hearing about him again.’
‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Brownlow.
"Absolutely!" said Mr. Brownlow.
‘Oliver Twist you knew him as,’ replied Rose.
‘You knew him as Oliver Twist,’ replied Rose.
The words no sooner escaped her lips, than Mr. Grimwig, who had been affecting to dip into a large book that lay on the table, upset it with a great crash, and falling back in his chair, discharged from his features every expression but one of unmitigated wonder, and indulged in a prolonged and vacant stare; then, as if ashamed of having betrayed so much emotion, he jerked himself, as it were, by a convulsion into his former attitude, and looking out straight before him emitted a long deep whistle, which seemed, at last, not to be discharged on empty air, but to die away in the innermost recesses of his stomach.
The moment the words left her mouth, Mr. Grimwig, who had been pretending to read a large book on the table, knocked it over with a loud crash. He flopped back in his chair, his face showing nothing but pure amazement as he stared blankly for a long time. Then, as if embarrassed by showing so much emotion, he suddenly snapped back into his usual position and stared straight ahead, letting out a long, deep whistle that seemed to fade away, not into thin air, but deep within him.
Mr. Browlow was no less surprised, although his astonishment was not expressed in the same eccentric manner. He drew his chair nearer to Miss Maylie’s, and said,
Mr. Browlow was also surprised, but he didn't show it in such a strange way. He pulled his chair closer to Miss Maylie's and said,
‘Do me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the question that goodness and benevolence of which you speak, and of which nobody else knows anything; and if you have it in your power to produce any evidence which will alter the unfavourable opinion I was once induced to entertain of that poor child, in Heaven’s name put me in possession of it.’
“Please do me a favor, my dear young lady, and completely set aside that kindness and goodwill you mention, which no one else seems to know about; and if you have any proof that could change the negative view I previously had of that poor child, for Heaven's sake, share it with me.”
‘A bad one! I’ll eat my head if he is not a bad one,’ growled Mr. Grimwig, speaking by some ventriloquial power, without moving a muscle of his face.
‘A bad one! I’ll bet my head he’s not a good one,’ grumbled Mr. Grimwig, speaking with some ventriloquist-like ability, without moving a muscle in his face.
‘He is a child of a noble nature and a warm heart,’ said Rose, colouring; ‘and that Power which has thought fit to try him beyond his years, has planted in his breast affections and feelings which would do honour to many who have numbered his days six times over.’
‘He is a noble-hearted child with a kind nature,’ said Rose, blushing; ‘and that Power which has chosen to test him beyond his years has instilled in him feelings and affections that would bring honor to many who have lived six times as long.’
‘I’m only sixty-one,’ said Mr. Grimwig, with the same rigid face. ‘And, as the devil’s in it if this Oliver is not twelve years old at least, I don’t see the application of that remark.’
‘I’m only sixty-one,’ said Mr. Grimwig, with the same stern expression. ‘And, honestly, if this Oliver isn’t at least twelve years old, I don’t understand what you mean by that remark.’
‘Do not heed my friend, Miss Maylie,’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘he does not mean what he says.’
‘Don’t listen to my friend, Miss Maylie,’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘he doesn’t mean what he says.’
‘Yes, he does,’ growled Mr. Grimwig.
‘Yeah, he does,’ growled Mr. Grimwig.
‘No, he does not,’ said Mr. Brownlow, obviously rising in wrath as he spoke.
‘No, he doesn’t,’ said Mr. Brownlow, clearly getting angry as he spoke.
‘He’ll eat his head, if he doesn’t,’ growled Mr. Grimwig.
‘He’ll eat his head if he doesn’t,’ grumbled Mr. Grimwig.
‘He would deserve to have it knocked off, if he does,’ said Mr. Brownlow.
‘He would deserve to have it taken away if he does,’ said Mr. Brownlow.
‘And he’d uncommonly like to see any man offer to do it,’ responded Mr. Grimwig, knocking his stick upon the floor.
'And he'd really like to see anyone try to do it,' replied Mr. Grimwig, tapping his stick on the floor.
Having gone thus far, the two old gentlemen severally took snuff, and afterwards shook hands, according to their invariable custom.
Having come this far, the two old gentlemen individually took a pinch of snuff, and then shook hands, as was their usual custom.
‘Now, Miss Maylie,’ said Mr. Brownlow, ‘to return to the subject in which your humanity is so much interested. Will you let me know what intelligence you have of this poor child: allowing me to promise that I exhausted every means in my power of discovering him, and that since I have been absent from this country, my first impression that he had imposed upon me, and had been persuaded by his former associates to rob me, has been considerably shaken.’
‘Now, Miss Maylie,’ Mr. Brownlow said, ‘let’s get back to the topic that matters so much to you. Can you tell me what you know about this poor child? I promise I’ve done everything I can to find him, and since I’ve been away from this country, my initial belief that he tricked me and was convinced by his old friends to steal from me has really changed.’
Rose, who had had time to collect her thoughts, at once related, in a few natural words, all that had befallen Oliver since he left Mr. Brownlow’s house; reserving Nancy’s information for that gentleman’s private ear, and concluding with the assurance that his only sorrow, for some months past, had been not being able to meet with his former benefactor and friend.
Rose, who had time to gather her thoughts, quickly shared in a few simple words everything that had happened to Oliver since he left Mr. Brownlow’s house; keeping Nancy’s information for that gentleman’s private knowledge, and ending with the assurance that his only regret for the past few months had been not being able to see his former benefactor and friend.
‘Thank God!’ said the old gentleman. ‘This is great happiness to me, great happiness. But you have not told me where he is now, Miss Maylie. You must pardon my finding fault with you,—but why not have brought him?’
“Thank God!” said the old gentleman. “This makes me so happy, truly happy. But you haven't told me where he is now, Miss Maylie. I hope you don't mind me saying this, but why didn’t you bring him?”
‘He is waiting in a coach at the door,’ replied Rose.
‘He’s waiting in a carriage at the door,’ replied Rose.
‘At this door!’ cried the old gentleman. With which he hurried out of the room, down the stairs, up the coach-steps, and into the coach, without another word.
‘At this door!’ yelled the old man. With that, he rushed out of the room, down the stairs, up the coach steps, and into the coach, without saying anything else.
When the room-door closed behind him, Mr. Grimwig lifted up his head, and converting one of the hind legs of his chair into a pivot, described three distinct circles with the assistance of his stick and the table; sitting in it all the time. After performing this evolution, he rose and limped as fast as he could up and down the room at least a dozen times, and then stopping suddenly before Rose, kissed her without the slightest preface.
When the door closed behind him, Mr. Grimwig lifted his head and used one of the back legs of his chair as a pivot, making three distinct circles with the help of his cane and the table while still sitting in it. After doing this, he got up and limped as quickly as he could up and down the room at least twelve times, and then suddenly stopped in front of Rose and kissed her without any introduction.
‘Hush!’ he said, as the young lady rose in some alarm at this unusual proceeding. ‘Don’t be afraid. I’m old enough to be your grandfather. You’re a sweet girl. I like you. Here they are!’
‘Hush!’ he said, as the young lady stood up in surprise at this unexpected situation. ‘Don’t be scared. I’m old enough to be your grandfather. You’re a lovely girl. I like you. Here they are!’
In fact, as he threw himself at one dexterous dive into his former seat, Mr. Brownlow returned, accompanied by Oliver, whom Mr. Grimwig received very graciously; and if the gratification of that moment had been the only reward for all her anxiety and care in Oliver’s behalf, Rose Maylie would have been well repaid.
In fact, as he made a skillful dive back into his old seat, Mr. Brownlow came back, with Oliver in tow, who was warmly welcomed by Mr. Grimwig; and if that moment's joy had been the only compensation for all her worry and effort for Oliver, Rose Maylie would have felt it was worth it.
‘There is somebody else who should not be forgotten, by the bye,’ said Mr. Brownlow, ringing the bell. ‘Send Mrs. Bedwin here, if you please.’
‘There’s someone else we shouldn’t forget, by the way,’ said Mr. Brownlow, ringing the bell. ‘Please send for Mrs. Bedwin.’
The old housekeeper answered the summons with all dispatch; and dropping a curtsey at the door, waited for orders.
The old housekeeper responded promptly to the call; and after giving a quick curtsy at the door, she waited for instructions.
‘Why, you get blinder every day, Bedwin,’ said Mr. Brownlow, rather testily.
‘Why, you get blinder every day, Bedwin,’ said Mr. Brownlow, a bit irritated.
‘Well, that I do, sir,’ replied the old lady. ‘People’s eyes, at my time of life, don’t improve with age, sir.’
‘Well, I definitely do, sir,’ replied the old lady. ‘People’s eyesight, at my age, doesn’t get better, sir.’
‘I could have told you that,’ rejoined Mr. Brownlow; ‘but put on your glasses, and see if you can’t find out what you were wanted for, will you?’
‘I could have told you that,’ replied Mr. Brownlow; ‘but put on your glasses and see if you can figure out what you were needed for, okay?’
The old lady began to rummage in her pocket for her spectacles. But Oliver’s patience was not proof against this new trial; and yielding to his first impulse, he sprang into her arms.
The old lady started searching in her pocket for her glasses. But Oliver's patience couldn't handle this new challenge; giving in to his instinct, he jumped into her arms.
‘God be good to me!’ cried the old lady, embracing him; ‘it is my innocent boy!’
‘God, please be good to me!’ cried the old lady, hugging him; ‘it’s my sweet boy!’
‘My dear old nurse!’ cried Oliver.
‘My dear old nurse!’ shouted Oliver.
‘He would come back—I knew he would,’ said the old lady, holding him in her arms. ‘How well he looks, and how like a gentleman’s son he is dressed again! Where have you been, this long, long while? Ah! the same sweet face, but not so pale; the same soft eye, but not so sad. I have never forgotten them or his quiet smile, but have seen them every day, side by side with those of my own dear children, dead and gone since I was a lightsome young creature.’ Running on thus, and now holding Oliver from her to mark how he had grown, now clasping him to her and passing her fingers fondly through his hair, the good soul laughed and wept upon his neck by turns.
‘He would come back—I knew he would,’ said the old lady, holding him in her arms. ‘He looks great, and he’s dressed like a gentleman’s son again! Where have you been all this time? Ah! the same sweet face, but not so pale; the same soft eyes, but not so sad. I’ve never forgotten them or his quiet smile, and I see them every day, alongside my own dear children, who are gone since I was a carefree young woman.’ Talking like this, now pulling Oliver back to see how much he’s grown, now hugging him tight and running her fingers lovingly through his hair, the kind soul laughed and cried on his shoulder one moment and the next.
Leaving her and Oliver to compare notes at leisure, Mr. Brownlow led the way into another room; and there, heard from Rose a full narration of her interview with Nancy, which occasioned him no little surprise and perplexity. Rose also explained her reasons for not confiding in her friend Mr. Losberne in the first instance. The old gentleman considered that she had acted prudently, and readily undertook to hold solemn conference with the worthy doctor himself. To afford him an early opportunity for the execution of this design, it was arranged that he should call at the hotel at eight o’clock that evening, and that in the meantime Mrs. Maylie should be cautiously informed of all that had occurred. These preliminaries adjusted, Rose and Oliver returned home.
Leaving her and Oliver to chat casually, Mr. Brownlow led the way into another room, where he listened to Rose as she fully recounted her meeting with Nancy, which surprised and puzzled him. Rose also explained why she didn’t initially confide in her friend Mr. Losberne. The old gentleman felt she had acted wisely and readily agreed to have a serious discussion with the good doctor. To give him an early chance to carry out this plan, they arranged for him to visit the hotel at eight o’clock that evening, and in the meantime, Mrs. Maylie was to be carefully informed about everything that had happened. With these details settled, Rose and Oliver went back home.
Rose had by no means overrated the measure of the good doctor’s wrath. Nancy’s history was no sooner unfolded to him, than he poured forth a shower of mingled threats and execrations; threatened to make her the first victim of the combined ingenuity of Messrs. Blathers and Duff; and actually put on his hat preparatory to sallying forth to obtain the assistance of those worthies. And, doubtless, he would, in this first outbreak, have carried the intention into effect without a moment’s consideration of the consequences, if he had not been restrained, in part, by corresponding violence on the side of Mr. Brownlow, who was himself of an irascible temperament, and party by such arguments and representations as seemed best calculated to dissuade him from his hotbrained purpose.
Rose had definitely not underestimated the extent of the good doctor’s anger. As soon as Nancy’s story was revealed to him, he unleashed a flurry of threats and curses; he threatened to make her the first victim of the combined cleverness of Messrs. Blathers and Duff; and he actually put on his hat, getting ready to go out and seek help from those gentlemen. And surely, in this initial outburst, he would have acted on his intentions without a second thought about the consequences if he hadn’t been partly restrained by Mr. Brownlow, who was also quite short-tempered, and partly by arguments and explanations that seemed best suited to convince him to abandon his reckless plan.
‘Then what the devil is to be done?’ said the impetuous doctor, when they had rejoined the two ladies. ‘Are we to pass a vote of thanks to all these vagabonds, male and female, and beg them to accept a hundred pounds, or so, apiece, as a trifling mark of our esteem, and some slight acknowledgment of their kindness to Oliver?’
‘Then what on earth are we supposed to do?’ said the impulsive doctor when they reunited with the two ladies. ‘Should we give a vote of thanks to all these wanderers, both men and women, and ask them to take a hundred pounds each as a small gesture of our appreciation and a slight acknowledgment of their kindness to Oliver?’
‘Not exactly that,’ rejoined Mr. Brownlow, laughing; ‘but we must proceed gently and with great care.’
‘Not quite that,’ Mr. Brownlow replied with a laugh; ‘but we need to move forward slowly and very carefully.’
‘Gentleness and care,’ exclaimed the doctor. ‘I’d send them one and all to—’
‘Gentleness and care,’ the doctor exclaimed. ‘I’d send them all to—’
‘Never mind where,’ interposed Mr. Brownlow. ‘But reflect whether sending them anywhere is likely to attain the object we have in view.’
‘Never mind where,’ interrupted Mr. Brownlow. ‘But consider whether sending them anywhere will actually help us achieve our goal.’
‘What object?’ asked the doctor.
"What object?" the doctor asked.
‘Simply, the discovery of Oliver’s parentage, and regaining for him the inheritance of which, if this story be true, he has been fraudulently deprived.’
‘Basically, finding out who Oliver's parents are and getting back the inheritance that, if this story is true, he has been wrongfully denied.’
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Losberne, cooling himself with his pocket-handkerchief; ‘I almost forgot that.’
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Losberne, cooling himself with his pocket handkerchief; ‘I almost forgot that.’
‘You see,’ pursued Mr. Brownlow; ‘placing this poor girl entirely out of the question, and supposing it were possible to bring these scoundrels to justice without compromising her safety, what good should we bring about?’
'You see,' continued Mr. Brownlow, 'setting aside this poor girl completely, and assuming it was possible to bring these criminals to justice without putting her at risk, what benefit would we achieve?'
‘Hanging a few of them at least, in all probability,’ suggested the doctor, ‘and transporting the rest.’
‘Hanging at least a few of them, most likely,’ suggested the doctor, ‘and transporting the rest.’
‘Very good,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, smiling; ‘but no doubt they will bring that about for themselves in the fulness of time, and if we step in to forestall them, it seems to me that we shall be performing a very Quixotic act, in direct opposition to our own interest—or at least to Oliver’s, which is the same thing.’
‘Very good,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, smiling; ‘but I’m sure they will figure that out for themselves in due time, and if we jump in to stop them, it seems to me that we would be doing something quite foolish, directly against our own interest—or at least Oliver’s, which is the same thing.’
‘How?’ inquired the doctor.
"How?" asked the doctor.
‘Thus. It is quite clear that we shall have extreme difficulty in getting to the bottom of this mystery, unless we can bring this man, Monks, upon his knees. That can only be done by stratagem, and by catching him when he is not surrounded by these people. For, suppose he were apprehended, we have no proof against him. He is not even (so far as we know, or as the facts appear to us) concerned with the gang in any of their robberies. If he were not discharged, it is very unlikely that he could receive any further punishment than being committed to prison as a rogue and vagabond; and of course ever afterwards his mouth would be so obstinately closed that he might as well, for our purposes, be deaf, dumb, blind, and an idiot.’
‘So, it’s pretty clear that we’re going to have a really hard time figuring out this mystery unless we can get this guy, Monks, down on his knees. The only way to do that is through some clever tricks and by catching him when he’s not with these other people. Because, if he were caught, we don’t have any evidence against him. As far as we know, or as the facts seem to show, he isn’t involved with the gang in any of their robberies. If he isn’t released, it’s unlikely he’d face any punishment worse than being sent to jail as a vagrant; and after that, his mouth would be so tightly shut that for our purposes, he might as well be deaf, mute, blind, and stupid.’
‘Then,’ said the doctor impetuously, ‘I put it to you again, whether you think it reasonable that this promise to the girl should be considered binding; a promise made with the best and kindest intentions, but really—’
‘Then,’ the doctor said impulsively, ‘I ask you again, do you think it’s reasonable for this promise to the girl to be seen as binding? A promise made with the best and kindest intentions, but really—’
‘Do not discuss the point, my dear young lady, pray,’ said Mr. Brownlow, interrupting Rose as she was about to speak. ‘The promise shall be kept. I don’t think it will, in the slightest degree, interfere with our proceedings. But, before we can resolve upon any precise course of action, it will be necessary to see the girl; to ascertain from her whether she will point out this Monks, on the understanding that he is to be dealt with by us, and not by the law; or, if she will not, or cannot do that, to procure from her such an account of his haunts and description of his person, as will enable us to identify him. She cannot be seen until next Sunday night; this is Tuesday. I would suggest that in the meantime, we remain perfectly quiet, and keep these matters secret even from Oliver himself.’
“Please don’t discuss it, my dear young lady,” Mr. Brownlow said, interrupting Rose just as she was about to speak. “The promise will be kept. I don’t think it will affect our plans at all. However, before we can decide on a specific course of action, we need to see the girl to find out if she will identify this Monks, with the understanding that we will handle him and not the law. If she cannot or will not do that, we’ll need her to provide a description of his usual haunts and appearance, so we can recognize him. We can’t see her until next Sunday night; today is Tuesday. I suggest that, in the meantime, we stay completely quiet and keep these matters confidential, 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.
Although Mr. Losberne reacted with many grimaces to a proposal that involved a delay of five full days, he reluctantly admitted that he couldn’t think of a better option at the moment; and since both Rose and Mrs. Maylie strongly supported Mr. Brownlow, that gentleman's suggestion was accepted unanimously.
‘I should like,’ he said, ‘to call in the aid of my friend Grimwig. He is a strange creature, but a shrewd one, and might prove of material assistance to us; I should say that he was bred a lawyer, and quitted the Bar in disgust because he had only one brief and a motion of course, in twenty years, though whether that is recommendation or not, you must determine for yourselves.’
“I’d like,” he said, “to bring in my friend Grimwig. He’s an odd guy, but really smart, and he could be a big help to us. I’d say he trained as a lawyer but left the profession in frustration after only having one case and a standard motion in twenty years. Whether that’s a good recommendation or not, you’ll have to decide for yourselves.”
‘I have no objection to your calling in your friend if I may call in mine,’ said the doctor.
“I don’t mind you bringing your friend over if I can bring mine,” said the doctor.
‘We must put it to the vote,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, ‘who may he be?’
‘We need to vote on it,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, ‘who could 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.
‘That lady’s son, and this young lady’s—very old friend,’ said the doctor, gesturing towards Mrs. Maylie, and finishing with a meaningful look at her niece.
Rose blushed deeply, but she did not make any audible objection to this motion (possibly she felt in a hopeless minority); and Harry Maylie and Mr. Grimwig were accordingly added to the committee.
Rose blushed deeply, but she didn’t say anything against this motion (maybe she felt like she was in a hopeless minority); so Harry Maylie and Mr. Grimwig were added to the committee.
‘We stay in town, of course,’ said Mrs. Maylie, ‘while there remains the slightest prospect of prosecuting this inquiry with a chance of success. I will spare neither trouble nor expense in behalf of the object in which we are all so deeply interested, and I am content to remain here, if it be for twelve months, so long as you assure me that any hope remains.’
‘We’re staying in town, of course,’ said Mrs. Maylie, ‘as long as there’s even the slightest chance of continuing this investigation successfully. I won’t hold back on effort or expenses for the cause that we all care so much about, and I’m willing to be here, even if it takes twelve months, as long as you promise me that there’s still hope.’
‘Good!’ rejoined Mr. Brownlow. ‘And as I see on the faces about me, a disposition to inquire how it happened that I was not in the way to corroborate Oliver’s tale, and had so suddenly left the kingdom, let me stipulate that I shall be asked no questions until such time as I may deem it expedient to forestall them by telling my own story. Believe me, I make this request with good reason, for I might otherwise excite hopes destined never to be realised, and only increase difficulties and disappointments already quite numerous enough. Come! Supper has been announced, and young Oliver, who is all alone in the next room, will have begun to think, by this time, that we have wearied of his company, and entered into some dark conspiracy to thrust him forth upon the world.’
“Good!” Mr. Brownlow replied. “And as I see the expressions on the faces around me, a curiosity about why I wasn’t around to back up Oliver’s story and abruptly left the country, let me make it clear that I won’t be answering any questions until I decide it’s a good time to share my own story. Trust me, I have good reason for this request because otherwise, I might raise hopes that will never come true and only add to the difficulties and disappointments that are already too many. Now then! Supper has been announced, and young Oliver, who is all alone in the next room, must be starting to think that we’ve grown tired of him and are plotting to send him out into 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.
With that, the old gentleman took Mrs. Maylie's hand and walked her into the supper room. Mr. Losberne followed, guiding Rose; and for now, the gathering was effectively over.
CHAPTER XLII — AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE OF OLIVER’S, EXHIBITING DECIDED MARKS OF GENIUS, BECOMES A PUBLIC CHARACTER IN THE METROPOLIS
Upon the night when Nancy, having lulled Mr. Sikes to sleep, hurried on her self-imposed mission to Rose Maylie, there advanced towards London, by the Great North Road, two persons, upon whom it is expedient that this history should bestow some attention.
Upon the night when Nancy, having put Mr. Sikes to sleep, rushed to fulfill her self-assigned task for Rose Maylie, two individuals were making their way to London along the Great North Road, and it's important for this story to focus on them.
They were a man and woman; or perhaps they would be better described as a male and female: for the former was one of those long-limbed, knock-kneed, shambling, bony people, to whom it is difficult to assign any precise age,—looking as they do, when they are yet boys, like undergrown men, and when they are almost men, like overgrown boys. The woman was young, but of a robust and hardy make, as she need have been to bear the weight of the heavy bundle which was strapped to her back. Her companion was not encumbered with much luggage, as there merely dangled from a stick which he carried over his shoulder, a small parcel wrapped in a common handkerchief, and apparently light enough. This circumstance, added to the length of his legs, which were of unusual extent, enabled him with much ease to keep some half-dozen paces in advance of his companion, to whom he occasionally turned with an impatient jerk of the head: as if reproaching her tardiness, and urging her to greater exertion.
They were a man and a woman; or maybe it's more accurate to say a male and female: the man was one of those tall, awkward, gangly types whose exact age is hard to pin down—looking like little men when they're just boys, and like overgrown boys when they're nearly men. The woman was young, but strong and sturdy, which she needed to be to carry the heavy bundle strapped to her back. Her partner wasn’t weighed down by much; he just had a small parcel hanging from a stick over his shoulder, wrapped in a regular handkerchief and seemingly light. This, along with his long legs, which were unusually long, allowed him to easily keep a good six paces ahead of her, occasionally turning back with an impatient nod, as if blaming her for being slow and pushing her to pick up the pace.
Thus, they had toiled along the dusty road, taking little heed of any object within sight, save when they stepped aside to allow a wider passage for the mail-coaches which were whirling out of town, until they passed through Highgate archway; when the foremost traveller stopped and called impatiently to his companion,
Thus, they had worked their way down the dusty road, paying little attention to anything in sight, except when they moved aside to let the mail coaches rush out of town, until they went through the Highgate archway; then the lead traveler stopped and called out impatiently to his companion,
‘Come on, can’t yer? What a lazybones yer are, Charlotte.’
‘Come on, can’t you? What a lazybones you are, Charlotte.’
‘It’s a heavy load, I can tell you,’ said the female, coming up, almost breathless with fatigue.
“It’s a heavy load, I can tell you,” said the woman, approaching, almost out of breath from exhaustion.
‘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!’
‘Heavy! What are you talking about? What are you built for?’ replied the male traveler, shifting his small bundle to the other shoulder as he spoke. ‘Oh, there you are, resting again! Well, if you aren’t enough to test anyone’s patience, I don’t know what is!’
‘Is it much farther?’ asked the woman, resting herself against a bank, and looking up with the perspiration streaming from her face.
‘Is it much farther?’ asked the woman, leaning against a bank and looking up with sweat streaming down her face.
‘Much farther! Yer as good as there,’ said the long-legged tramper, pointing out before him. ‘Look there! Those are the lights of London.’
‘Much farther! You're almost there,’ said the long-legged traveler, pointing ahead. ‘Look! Those are the lights of London.’
‘They’re a good two mile off, at least,’ said the woman despondingly.
‘They’re at least a good two miles away,’ the woman said sadly.
‘Never mind whether they’re two mile off, or twenty,’ said Noah Claypole; for he it was; ‘but get up and come on, or I’ll kick yer, and so I give yer notice.’
‘It doesn’t matter if they’re two miles away or twenty,’ said Noah Claypole; for it was him; ‘but get up and come on, or I’ll kick you, and that’s your warning.’
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.
As Noah’s nose turned redder with anger, and as he walked across the road while talking, ready to follow through on his threat, the woman got up without saying anything more and continued on beside him.
‘Where do you mean to stop for the night, Noah?’ she asked, after they had walked a few hundred yards.
‘Where are you planning to stop for the night, Noah?’ she asked, after they had walked a few hundred yards.
‘How should I know?’ replied Noah, whose temper had been considerably impaired by walking.
‘How should I know?’ replied Noah, whose mood had really been annoyed by walking.
‘Near, I hope,’ said Charlotte.
“Close, I hope,” said Charlotte.
‘No, not near,’ replied Mr. Claypole. ‘There! Not near; so don’t think it.’
‘No, not close,’ replied Mr. Claypole. ‘There! Not close, so don’t think that.’
‘Why not?’
"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.
‘When I say I don’t intend to do something, that should be enough, without any explanations or reasons,’ replied Mr. Claypole with dignity.
‘Well, you needn’t be so cross,’ said his companion.
‘Well, you don’t have to be so upset,’ said his companion.
‘A pretty thing it would be, wouldn’t it to go and stop at the very first public-house outside the town, so that Sowerberry, if he come up after us, might poke in his old nose, and have us taken back in a cart with handcuffs on,’ said Mr. Claypole in a jeering tone. ‘No! I shall go and lose myself among the narrowest streets I can find, and not stop till we come to the very out-of-the-wayest house I can set eyes on. ‘Cod, yer may thanks yer stars I’ve got a head; for if we hadn’t gone, at first, the wrong road a purpose, and come back across country, yer’d have been locked up hard and fast a week ago, my lady. And serve yer right for being a fool.’
"A pretty picture that would be, right? Just stopping at the first pub outside of town, so if Sowerberry catches up with us, he could stick his old nose in and have us carted back in handcuffs," Mr. Claypole sneered. "No! I'm going to lose myself in the narrowest streets I can find and won't stop until we reach the most out-of-the-way place I can find. Thank your lucky stars I've got a brain; if we hadn’t deliberately taken the wrong road at first and crossed back through the countryside, you would have been locked up tight a week ago, my lady. And you'd deserve it for being a fool."
‘I know I ain’t as cunning as you are,’ replied Charlotte; ‘but don’t put all the blame on me, and say I should have been locked up. You would have been if I had been, any way.’
‘I know I’m not as clever as you are,’ replied Charlotte; ‘but don’t put all the blame on me and say I should have been locked up. You would have been if I had been, anyway.’
‘Yer took the money from the till, yer know yer did,’ said Mr. Claypole.
“Sure you took the money from the register, you know you did,” said Mr. Claypole.
‘I took it for you, Noah, dear,’ rejoined Charlotte.
‘I took it for you, Noah, dear,’ Charlotte replied.
‘Did I keep it?’ asked Mr. Claypole.
‘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.
‘No; you believed in me and let me handle it like a dear, and so you are,’ said the lady, playfully tapping him under the chin and linking her arm through his.
This was indeed the case; but as it was not Mr. Claypole’s habit to repose a blind and foolish confidence in anybody, it should be observed, in justice to that gentleman, that he had trusted Charlotte to this extent, in order that, if they were pursued, the money might be found on her: which would leave him an opportunity of asserting his innocence of any theft, and would greatly facilitate his chances of escape. Of course, he entered at this juncture, into no explanation of his motives, and they walked on very lovingly together.
This was definitely true; however, since it wasn't Mr. Claypole's style to blindly trust anyone, it's fair to point out that he had only trusted Charlotte to this extent so that if they were being followed, the money would be found on her. This would give him a chance to claim he wasn't involved in any theft and would greatly improve his chances of getting away. Naturally, he didn't provide any explanation for his motives at this moment, and they continued walking together quite affectionately.
In pursuance of this cautious plan, Mr. Claypole went on, without halting, until he arrived at the Angel at Islington, where he wisely judged, from the crowd of passengers and numbers of vehicles, that London began in earnest. Just pausing to observe which appeared the most crowded streets, and consequently the most to be avoided, he crossed into Saint John’s Road, and was soon deep in the obscurity of the intricate and dirty ways, which, lying between Gray’s Inn Lane and Smithfield, render that part of the town one of the lowest and worst that improvement has left in the midst of London.
In following this careful plan, Mr. Claypole continued on his way until he reached the Angel at Islington, where he wisely noted the busy crowd and many vehicles, indicating that he was truly entering London. He briefly stopped to see which streets were the most crowded and should be avoided. Then, he crossed into Saint John’s Road and soon found himself deep in the maze of dark and dirty alleys that lie between Gray’s Inn Lane and Smithfield, making that area one of the lowest and worst that development has left in the heart of London.
Through these streets, Noah Claypole walked, dragging Charlotte after him; now stepping into the kennel to embrace at a glance the whole external character of some small public-house; now jogging on again, as some fancied appearance induced him to believe it too public for his purpose. At length, he stopped in front of one, more humble in appearance and more dirty than any he had yet seen; and, having crossed over and surveyed it from the opposite pavement, graciously announced his intention of putting up there, for the night.
Through these streets, Noah Claypole walked, pulling Charlotte along behind him; sometimes stopping at a glance to take in the whole look of a small pub; other times moving on again, thinking that some place seemed too busy for what he had in mind. Finally, he stopped in front of one that looked even shabbier and dirtier than any he'd seen so far; after crossing the street and checking it out from across the way, he politely declared that he planned to stay there for the night.
‘So give us the bundle,’ said Noah, unstrapping it from the woman’s shoulders, and slinging it over his own; ‘and don’t yer speak, except when yer spoke to. What’s the name of the house—t-h-r—three what?’
‘So give us the bundle,’ Noah said, unstrapping it from the woman’s shoulders and tossing it over his own. ‘And don’t say a word unless someone talks to you. What’s the name of the house—t-h-r—three what?’
‘Cripples,’ said Charlotte.
"Disabled," 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.
‘Three Cripples,’ Noah repeated, ‘and that's a really good sign. Now, let’s go! Stick close to me and follow along.’ With that, he shouldered the rattling door and stepped into the house, his companion following him.
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.
There was nobody in the bar except for a young Jewish guy, who had both elbows on the counter, reading a grimy newspaper. He was staring intently at Noah, and Noah was staring right back at him.
If Noah had been attired in his charity-boy’s dress, there might have been some reason for the Jew opening his eyes so wide; but as he had discarded the coat and badge, and wore a short smock-frock over his leathers, there seemed no particular reason for his appearance exciting so much attention in a public-house.
If Noah had been wearing his charity-boy uniform, there might have been a reason for the Jew's surprise; but since he had taken off the coat and badge and was wearing a short smock over his leather pants, there didn't seem to be any specific reason for him to draw so much attention in a pub.
‘Is this the Three Cripples?’ asked Noah.
‘Is this the Three Cripples?’ Noah asked.
‘That is the dabe of this ‘ouse,’ replied the Jew.
‘That is the name of this house,’ replied the Jew.
‘A gentleman we met on the road, coming up from the country, recommended us here,’ said Noah, nudging Charlotte, perhaps to call her attention to this most ingenious device for attracting respect, and perhaps to warn her to betray no surprise. ‘We want to sleep here to-night.’
‘A guy we met on the road, coming up from the countryside, suggested we come here,’ said Noah, nudging Charlotte, maybe to point out this clever trick for earning respect, and maybe to remind her not to show any surprise. ‘We want to stay the night.’
‘I’b dot certaid you cad,’ said Barney, who was the attendant sprite; ‘but I’ll idquire.’
‘I’d be sure you can,’ said Barney, who was the attendant sprite; ‘but I’ll check.’
‘Show us the tap, and give us a bit of cold meat and a drop of beer while yer inquiring, will yer?’ said Noah.
‘Show us the tap, and give us some cold meat and a beer while you're asking, will you?’ said Noah.
Barney complied by ushering them into a small back-room, and setting the required viands before them; having done which, he informed the travellers that they could be lodged that night, and left the amiable couple to their refreshment.
Barney agreed and led them into a small back room, setting the necessary food in front of them. After that, he told the travelers that they could stay the night and left the pleasant couple to enjoy their meal.
Now, this back-room was immediately behind the bar, and some steps lower, so that any person connected with the house, undrawing a small curtain which concealed a single pane of glass fixed in the wall of the last-named apartment, about five feet from its flooring, could not only look down upon any guests in the back-room without any great hazard of being observed (the glass being in a dark angle of the wall, between which and a large upright beam the observer had to thrust himself), but could, by applying his ear to the partition, ascertain with tolerable distinctness, their subject of conversation. The landlord of the house had not withdrawn his eye from this place of espial for five minutes, and Barney had only just returned from making the communication above related, when Fagin, in the course of his evening’s business, came into the bar to inquire after some of his young pupils.
Now, this back room was right behind the bar and a few steps lower, so anyone connected to the house could pull back a small curtain that covered a single pane of glass fixed in the wall of that room, about five feet off the floor. This way, they could look down on any guests in the back room without much risk of being noticed (the glass was in a dark corner of the wall, and the observer had to position themselves between that and a large upright beam). By putting their ear to the partition, they could also hear the conversation fairly clearly. The landlord had kept an eye on this spying spot for five minutes, and Barney had just returned from delivering the earlier message when Fagin, during his evening business, walked into the bar to check on some of his young pupils.
‘Hush!’ said Barney: ‘stradegers id the next roob.’
‘Hush!’ said Barney: ‘Strangers in the next room.’
‘Strangers!’ repeated the old man in a whisper.
‘Strangers!’ the old man whispered again.
‘Ah! Ad rub uds too,’ added Barney. ‘Frob the cuttry, but subthig in your way, or I’b bistaked.’
‘Ah! Add rub you too,’ added Barney. ‘From the country, but something in your way, or I’m mistaken.’
Fagin appeared to receive this communication with great interest.
Fagin seemed to take this news with a lot of interest.
Mounting a stool, he cautiously applied his eye to the pane of glass, from which secret post he could see Mr. Claypole taking cold beef from the dish, and porter from the pot, and administering homeopathic doses of both to Charlotte, who sat patiently by, eating and drinking at his pleasure.
Mounting a stool, he carefully pressed his eye against the pane of glass, from which hidden spot he could see Mr. Claypole taking cold beef from the platter and porter from the jug, giving small bites of both to Charlotte, who sat patiently by, eating and drinking at his command.
‘Aha!’ he whispered, looking round to Barney, ‘I like that fellow’s looks. He’d be of use to us; he knows how to train the girl already. Don’t make as much noise as a mouse, my dear, and let me hear ‘em talk—let me hear ‘em.’
‘Aha!’ he whispered, glancing over at Barney, ‘I like that guy’s appearance. He’d be useful to us; he already knows how to train the girl. Don’t make a sound, my dear, and let me listen to them talk—let me hear them.’
He again applied his eye to the glass, and turning his ear to the partition, listened attentively: with a subtle and eager look upon his face, that might have appertained to some old goblin.
He put his eye back to the glass and leaned in to the partition, listening closely: with a keen and eager expression on his face that could belong to some ancient goblin.
‘So I mean to be a gentleman,’ said Mr. Claypole, kicking out his legs, and continuing a conversation, the commencement of which Fagin had arrived too late to hear. ‘No more jolly old coffins, Charlotte, but a gentleman’s life for me: and, if yer like, yer shall be a lady.’
‘So I plan to be a gentleman,’ said Mr. Claypole, kicking out his legs and continuing a conversation that Fagin had arrived too late to hear. ‘No more jolly old coffins, Charlotte, but a gentleman’s life for me: and, if you want, you can be a lady.’
‘I should like that well enough, dear,’ replied Charlotte; ‘but tills ain’t to be emptied every day, and people to get clear off after it.’
‘I’d like that just fine, dear,’ replied Charlotte; ‘but cash registers can’t just be emptied every day, and people can’t just walk away after that.’
‘Tills be blowed!’ said Mr. Claypole; ‘there’s more things besides tills to be emptied.’
‘To hell with that!’ said Mr. Claypole; ‘there’s more stuff besides cash registers to be emptied.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked his companion.
‘What do you mean?’ asked his friend.
‘Pockets, women’s ridicules, houses, mail-coaches, banks!’ said Mr. Claypole, rising with the porter.
‘Pockets, women’s purses, homes, mail coaches, banks!’ said Mr. Claypole, standing up with the porter.
‘But you can’t do all that, dear,’ said Charlotte.
‘But you can’t do all that, honey,’ said Charlotte.
‘I shall look out to get into company with them as can,’ replied Noah. ‘They’ll be able to make us useful some way or another. Why, you yourself are worth fifty women; I never see such a precious sly and deceitful creetur as yer can be when I let yer.’
‘I’ll make sure to find a way to hang out with them,’ replied Noah. ‘They’ll definitely be able to help us in some way. Honestly, you’re worth fifty women; I’ve never seen such a cunning and deceitful creature as you can be when I allow it.’
‘Lor, how nice it is to hear yer say so!’ exclaimed Charlotte, imprinting a kiss upon his ugly face.
“Wow, it’s so nice to hear you say that!” Charlotte exclaimed, planting a kiss on his not-so-attractive face.
‘There, that’ll do: don’t yer be too affectionate, in case I’m cross with yer,’ said Noah, disengaging himself with great gravity. ‘I should like to be the captain of some band, and have the whopping of ‘em, and follering ‘em about, unbeknown to themselves. That would suit me, if there was good profit; and if we could only get in with some gentleman of this sort, I say it would be cheap at that twenty-pound note you’ve got,—especially as we don’t very well know how to get rid of it ourselves.’
“Alright, that’s enough: don’t be too friendly, in case I get mad at you,” said Noah, pulling away with a serious expression. “I’d like to be the leader of some gang, rounding them up and trailing them around without them knowing. That would work for me, especially if there was a good payoff; and if we could connect with a gentleman like that, I’d say it would be worth that twenty-pound note you have—especially since we’re not really sure how to spend it ourselves.”
After expressing this opinion, Mr. Claypole looked into the porter-pot with an aspect of deep wisdom; and having well shaken its contents, nodded condescendingly to Charlotte, and took a draught, wherewith he appeared greatly refreshed. He was meditating another, when the sudden opening of the door, and the appearance of a stranger, interrupted him.
After sharing this opinion, Mr. Claypole peered into the porter-pot with a look of deep intelligence. After shaking its contents well, he nodded condescendingly at Charlotte and took a sip, which seemed to invigorate him greatly. He was considering another drink when the sudden opening of the door and the arrival of a stranger interrupted him.
The stranger was Mr. Fagin. And very amiable he looked, and a very low bow he made, as he advanced, and setting himself down at the nearest table, ordered something to drink of the grinning Barney.
The stranger was Mr. Fagin. He looked quite friendly, and he gave a deep bow as he approached, then sat down at the nearest table and ordered something to drink from the grinning Barney.
‘A pleasant night, sir, but cool for the time of year,’ said Fagin, rubbing his hands. ‘From the country, I see, sir?’
‘It’s a nice evening, sir, but a bit chilly for this time of year,’ said Fagin, rubbing his hands. ‘You’re from the countryside, I see, sir?’
‘How do yer see that?’ asked Noah Claypole.
‘How do you see that?’ asked Noah Claypole.
‘We have not so much dust as that in London,’ replied Fagin, pointing from Noah’s shoes to those of his companion, and from them to the two bundles.
‘We don’t have nearly as much dust as that in London,’ replied Fagin, pointing from Noah’s shoes to his companion's shoes, and from them to the two bundles.
‘Yer a sharp feller,’ said Noah. ‘Ha! ha! only hear that, Charlotte!’
"You're a clever guy," said Noah. "Ha! Ha! Just listen to that, Charlotte!"
‘Why, one need be sharp in this town, my dear,’ replied the Jew, sinking his voice to a confidential whisper; ‘and that’s the truth.’
‘You really have to be on your game in this town, my dear,’ replied the Jew, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper; ‘and that’s the truth.’
Fagin followed up this remark by striking the side of his nose with his right forefinger,—a gesture which Noah attempted to imitate, though not with complete success, in consequence of his own nose not being large enough for the purpose. However, Mr. Fagin seemed to interpret the endeavour as expressing a perfect coincidence with his opinion, and put about the liquor which Barney reappeared with, in a very friendly manner.
Fagin followed this comment by tapping the side of his nose with his right forefinger—a gesture that Noah tried to copy, but not quite successfully, as his own nose wasn’t big enough for it. Nevertheless, Mr. Fagin seemed to take Noah's attempt as a sign that he completely agreed with him, and he poured the drinks that Barney had brought back in a very friendly way.
Original
‘Good stuff that,’ observed Mr. Claypole, smacking his lips.
‘Good stuff,’ Mr. Claypole said, licking his lips.
‘Dear!’ said Fagin. ‘A man need be always emptying a till, or a pocket, or a woman’s reticule, or a house, or a mail-coach, or a bank, if he drinks it regularly.’
‘Dear!’ said Fagin. ‘A man needs to constantly empty a cash register, or a pocket, or a woman’s handbag, or a house, or a mail coach, or a bank, if he drinks it regularly.’
Mr. Claypole no sooner heard this extract from his own remarks than he fell back in his chair, and looked from the Jew to Charlotte with a countenance of ashy paleness and excessive terror.
Mr. Claypole barely heard this part of his own words before he collapsed back in his chair, looking from the Jew to Charlotte with a face that was ashen and filled with fear.
‘Don’t mind me, my dear,’ said Fagin, drawing his chair closer. ‘Ha! ha! it was lucky it was only me that heard you by chance. It was very lucky it was only me.’
‘Don’t mind me, my dear,’ said Fagin, pulling his chair closer. ‘Ha! ha! It was fortunate that it was just me who heard you by chance. It was really lucky it was only me.’
‘I didn’t take it,’ stammered Noah, no longer stretching out his legs like an independent gentleman, but coiling them up as well as he could under his chair; ‘it was all her doing; yer’ve got it now, Charlotte, yer know yer have.’
"I didn’t take it," Noah stammered, no longer stretching his legs out like an independent gentleman but curling them up as much as he could under his chair. "It was all her doing; you have it now, Charlotte, you know you do."
‘No matter who’s got it, or who did it, my dear,’ replied Fagin, glancing, nevertheless, with a hawk’s eye at the girl and the two bundles. ‘I’m in that way myself, and I like you for it.’
‘No matter who has it, or who did it, my dear,’ replied Fagin, still glancing with a hawk’s eye at the girl and the two bundles. ‘I’m into that myself, and I like you for it.’
‘In what way?’ asked Mr. Claypole, a little recovering.
‘In what way?’ asked Mr. Claypole, starting to recover a bit.
‘In that way of business,’ rejoined Fagin; ‘and so are the people of the house. You’ve hit the right nail upon the head, and are as safe here as you could be. There is not a safer place in all this town than is the Cripples; that is, when I like to make it so. And I have taken a fancy to you and the young woman; so I’ve said the word, and you may make your minds easy.’
‘In that line of business,’ replied Fagin, ‘and so are the people in this place. You’ve hit the nail on the head, and you’re as safe here as you could be. There isn’t a safer spot in this entire town than the Cripples; at least, when I decide it will be. And I’ve taken a liking to you and the young woman, so I’ve given the word, and you can rest easy.’
Noah Claypole’s mind might have been at ease after this assurance, but his body certainly was not; for he shuffled and writhed about, into various uncouth positions: eyeing his new friend meanwhile with mingled fear and suspicion.
Noah Claypole might have felt reassured after hearing that, but his body was definitely not relaxed; he fidgeted and twisted into awkward positions, glancing at his new friend with a mix of fear and suspicion.
‘I’ll tell you more,’ said Fagin, after he had reassured the girl, by dint of friendly nods and muttered encouragements. ‘I have got a friend that I think can gratify your darling wish, and put you in the right way, where you can take whatever department of the business you think will suit you best at first, and be taught all the others.’
‘I’ll share more with you,’ said Fagin, after he had calmed the girl with friendly nods and quiet words of encouragement. ‘I have a friend who I believe can help you fulfill your dream and guide you in the right direction, where you can choose whichever part of the business you think will work best for you at the start, and learn about all the others too.’
‘Yer speak as if yer were in earnest,’ replied Noah.
“Are you talking as if you’re serious?” replied Noah.
‘What advantage would it be to me to be anything else?’ inquired Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Here! Let me have a word with you outside.’
‘What would be the point of being anything else?’ Fagin asked, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Come on! I need to talk to you outside.’
‘There’s no occasion to trouble ourselves to move,’ said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again. ‘She’ll take the luggage upstairs the while. Charlotte, see to them bundles.’
‘There’s no need to worry about moving,’ said Noah, slowly getting his legs out again. ‘She’ll take the luggage upstairs in the meantime. Charlotte, take care of those bundles.’
This mandate, which had been delivered with great majesty, was obeyed without the slightest demur; and Charlotte made the best of her way off with the packages while Noah held the door open and watched her out.
This order, which was given with a lot of authority, was followed without any hesitation; and Charlotte hurriedly left with the packages while Noah held the door open and watched her go.
‘She’s kept tolerably well under, ain’t she?’ he asked as he resumed his seat: in the tone of a keeper who had tamed some wild animal.
‘She’s been doing pretty well, hasn’t she?’ he asked as he sat back down, sounding like a trainer who had tamed a wild animal.
‘Quite perfect,’ rejoined Fagin, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘You’re a genius, my dear.’
"Absolutely perfect," Fagin replied, giving him a pat on the shoulder. "You're a genius, my friend."
‘Why, I suppose if I wasn’t, I shouldn’t be here,’ replied Noah. ‘But, I say, she’ll be back if yer lose time.’
‘Well, I guess if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here,’ replied Noah. ‘But, I’m telling you, she’ll be back if you waste time.’
‘Now, what do you think?’ said Fagin. ‘If you was to like my friend, could you do better than join him?’
‘So, what do you think?’ said Fagin. ‘If you like my friend, could you do better than team up with him?’
‘Is he in a good way of business; that’s where it is!’ responded Noah, winking one of his little eyes.
‘Is he doing well in business? That’s the key!’ replied Noah, winking one of his little eyes.
‘The top of the tree; employs a power of hands; has the very best society in the profession.’
‘The pinnacle of the profession; utilizes a strong skill set; has the very best community in the field.’
‘Regular town-maders?’ asked Mr. Claypole.
"Regular town-makers?" asked Mr. Claypole.
‘Not a countryman among ‘em; and I don’t think he’d take you, even on my recommendation, if he didn’t run rather short of assistants just now,’ replied Fagin.
‘Not a countryman among them; and I don't think he'd take you, even on my recommendation, if he wasn't running a bit short on assistants right now,’ replied Fagin.
‘Should I have to hand over?’ said Noah, slapping his breeches-pocket.
‘Should I have to give it up?’ said Noah, slapping his pants pocket.
‘It couldn’t possibly be done without,’ replied Fagin, in a most decided manner.
‘It couldn’t possibly be done without,’ replied Fagin, in a very firm manner.
‘Twenty pound, though—it’s a lot of money!’
‘Twenty pounds, though—it’s a lot of money!’
‘Not when it’s in a note you can’t get rid of,’ retorted Fagin. ‘Number and date taken, I suppose? Payment stopped at the Bank? Ah! It’s not worth much to him. It’ll have to go abroad, and he couldn’t sell it for a great deal in the market.’
‘Not when it’s in a note you can’t get rid of,’ Fagin shot back. ‘Number and date noted, I guess? Payment stopped at the bank? Ah! It’s not worth much to him. It’ll have to go overseas, and he couldn’t sell it for much in the market.’
‘When could I see him?’ asked Noah doubtfully.
‘When can I see him?’ asked Noah, unsure.
‘To-morrow morning.’
‘Tomorrow morning.’
‘Where?’
'Where at?'
‘Here.’
'Here.'
‘Um!’ said Noah. ‘What’s the wages?’
‘Um!’ said Noah. ‘What’s the pay?’
‘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.
‘Live like a gentleman—food and housing, tobacco and drinks included—half of everything you earn, and half of what the young woman makes,’ 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.
Whether Noah Claypole, whose greed was quite extensive, would have agreed to these tempting terms, if he had been completely free to choose, is very much uncertain; but as he remembered that if he refused, his new acquaintance could turn him in to the authorities right away (and stranger things had happened), he slowly gave in and said he thought that would work for him.
‘But, yer see,’ observed Noah, ‘as she will be able to do a good deal, I should like to take something very light.’
‘But, you see,’ Noah remarked, ‘since she’ll be able to do quite a bit, I’d like to take something very light.’
‘A little fancy work?’ suggested Fagin.
‘A little creative touch?’ suggested Fagin.
‘Ah! something of that sort,’ replied Noah. ‘What do you think would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, you know. That’s the sort of thing!’
‘Ah! something like that,’ replied Noah. ‘What do you think would be good for me now? Something that’s not too demanding physically, and not too dangerous, you know. That’s what I mean!’
‘I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear,’ said Fagin. ‘My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much.’
‘I heard you mention something about spying on the others, my dear,’ said Fagin. ‘My friend is looking for someone who can do that really well.’
‘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.’
‘Yeah, I did mention that, and I wouldn’t mind trying it out sometimes,’ Mr. Claypole replied slowly; ‘but it wouldn’t be worth it on its own, you know.’
‘That’s true!’ observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate. ‘No, it might not.’
‘That’s true!’ the Jew noted, thinking or acting like he was thinking. ‘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, then?’ asked Noah, looking at him anxiously. ‘It seems like a sneaky approach, pretty safe and not much riskier than just being at home.’
‘What do you think of the old ladies?’ asked Fagin. ‘There’s a good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner.’
‘What do you think of the old ladies?’ asked Fagin. ‘There’s a lot of money to be made by grabbing their bags and parcels and then running around the corner.’
‘Don’t they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?’ asked Noah, shaking his head. ‘I don’t think that would answer my purpose. Ain’t there any other line open?’
‘Don’t they shout a lot and scratch sometimes?’ asked Noah, shaking his head. ‘I don’t think that would work for me. Is there any other option available?’
‘Stop!’ said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah’s knee. ‘The kinchin lay.’
‘Stop!’ said Fagin, placing his hand on Noah’s knee. ‘The kid is lying.’
‘What’s that?’ demanded Mr. Claypole.
"What's that?" demanded Mr. Claypole.
‘The kinchins, my dear,’ said Fagin, ‘is the young children that’s sent on errands by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the lay is just to take their money away—they’ve always got it ready in their hands,—then knock ‘em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there were nothing else the matter but a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!’
‘The kids, my dear,’ said Fagin, ‘are the young children sent on errands by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the plan is just to take their money away—they always have it ready in their hands—then knock them into the gutter, and walk off really slow, as if nothing else is wrong but a child who has fallen and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!’
‘Ha! ha!’ roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy. ‘Lord, that’s the very thing!’
‘Haha!’ laughed Mr. Claypole, kicking his legs in excitement. ‘Wow, that’s exactly it!’
‘To be sure it is,’ replied Fagin; ‘and you can have a few good beats chalked out in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and neighborhoods like that, where they’re always going errands; and you can upset as many kinchins as you want, any hour in the day. Ha! ha! ha!’
‘Of course it is,’ Fagin replied. ‘You can find a few good spots marked out in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and places like that, where they’re always running errands; and you can pickpocket as many kids as you want, any time of 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.
With that, Fagin nudged Mr. Claypole in the side, and they both erupted in a long and loud laugh.
‘Well, that’s all right!’ said Noah, when he had recovered himself, and Charlotte had returned. ‘What time to-morrow shall we say?’
‘Well, that’s fine!’ said Noah, after he had composed himself and Charlotte had come back. ‘What time shall we say for tomorrow?’
‘Will ten do?’ asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded assent, ‘What name shall I tell my good friend.’
‘Will ten work?’ asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded in agreement, ‘What name should I give my good friend?’
‘Mr. Bolter,’ replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such emergency. ‘Mr. Morris Bolter. This is Mrs. Bolter.’
‘Mr. Bolter,’ replied Noah, who had gotten ready for this situation. ‘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.’
‘Mrs. Bolter’s humble servant,’ said Fagin, bowing with exaggerated politeness. ‘I hope to get to know her better very soon.’
‘Do you hear the gentleman, Charlotte?’ thundered Mr. Claypole.
‘Do you hear the guy, Charlotte?’ shouted Mr. Claypole.
‘Yes, Noah, dear!’ replied Mrs. Bolter, extending her hand.
‘Yes, Noah, dear!’ Mrs. Bolter replied, reaching out her hand.
‘She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking,’ said Mr. Morris Bolter, late Claypole, turning to Fagin. ‘You understand?’
‘She calls me Noah, as a sort of affectionate nickname,’ said Mr. Morris Bolter, formerly Claypole, turning to Fagin. ‘You get it?’
‘Oh yes, I understand—perfectly,’ replied Fagin, telling the truth for once. ‘Good-night! Good-night!’
‘Oh yes, I get it—completely,’ replied Fagin, being honest for a change. ‘Goodnight! Goodnight!’
With many adieus and good wishes, Mr. Fagin went his way. Noah Claypole, bespeaking his good lady’s attention, proceeded to enlighten her relative to the arrangement he had made, with all that haughtiness and air of superiority, becoming, not only a member of the sterner sex, but a gentleman who appreciated the dignity of a special appointment on the kinchin lay, in London and its vicinity.
With many goodbyes and well wishes, Mr. Fagin went on his way. Noah Claypole, drawing his wife's attention, began to inform her about the arrangement he had made, with all the arrogance and air of superiority appropriate for not just a man but a gentleman who recognized the prestige of a special position on the kinchin lay in London and its surrounding areas.
CHAPTER XLIII — WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE ARTFUL DODGER GOT INTO TROUBLE
‘And so it was you that was your own friend, was it?’ asked Mr. Claypole, otherwise Bolter, when, by virtue of the compact entered into between them, he had removed next day to Fagin’s house. ‘’Cod, I thought as much last night!’
‘So, it was you who was your own friend, huh?’ asked Mr. Claypole, also known as Bolter, after he had moved into Fagin’s house the next day, as per their agreement. ‘I figured that out last night!’
‘Every man’s his own friend, my dear,’ replied Fagin, with his most insinuating grin. ‘He hasn’t as good a one as himself anywhere.’
‘Every man is his own friend, my dear,’ replied Fagin, with his most charming grin. ‘He doesn’t have a better one than himself anywhere.’
‘Except sometimes,’ replied Morris Bolter, assuming the air of a man of the world. ‘Some people are nobody’s enemies but their own, yer know.’
‘Except sometimes,’ replied Morris Bolter, acting like a seasoned person. ‘Some people are only their own enemies, you know.’
‘Don’t believe that,’ said Fagin. ‘When a man’s his own enemy, it’s only because he’s too much his own friend; not because he’s careful for everybody but himself. Pooh! pooh! There ain’t such a thing in nature.’
‘Don’t believe that,’ said Fagin. ‘When a man is his own enemy, it’s only because he’s too much of his own friend; not because he cares for everyone but himself. Nonsense! There’s no such thing in nature.’
‘There oughn’t to be, if there is,’ replied Mr. Bolter.
‘There shouldn't be, if there is,’ replied Mr. Bolter.
‘That stands to reason. Some conjurers say that number three is the magic number, and some say number seven. It’s neither, my friend, neither. It’s number one.
‘That makes sense. Some magicians say that three is the magic number, and some say seven. It’s neither, my friend, neither. It’s number one.
‘Ha! ha!’ cried Mr. Bolter. ‘Number one for ever.’
‘Ha! Ha!’ shouted Mr. Bolter. ‘Number one forever!’
‘In a little community like ours, my dear,’ said Fagin, who felt it necessary to qualify this position, ‘we have a general number one, without considering me too as the same, and all the other young people.’
‘In a small community like ours, my dear,’ said Fagin, who felt it important to explain further, ‘we have a main leader, not including me or the other young people.’
‘Oh, the devil!’ exclaimed Mr. Bolter.
‘Oh, shoot!’ exclaimed Mr. Bolter.
‘You see,’ pursued Fagin, affecting to disregard this interruption, ‘we are so mixed up together, and identified in our interests, that it must be so. For instance, it’s your object to take care of number one—meaning yourself.’
‘You see,’ continued Fagin, pretending to ignore this interruption, ‘we're so intertwined and aligned in our interests that it has to be this way. For example, your main concern is to look out for number one—meaning yourself.’
‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Bolter. ‘Yer about right there.’
"Of course," Mr. Bolter replied. "You’re definitely correct about that."
‘Well! You can’t take care of yourself, number one, without taking care of me, number one.’
‘Well! You can’t take care of yourself, first of all, without taking care of me, first of all.’
‘Number two, you mean,’ said Mr. Bolter, who was largely endowed with the quality of selfishness.
‘Number two, you mean,’ said Mr. Bolter, who was largely characterized by his selfishness.
‘No, I don’t!’ retorted Fagin. ‘I’m of the same importance to you, as you are to yourself.’
‘No, I don’t!’ Fagin shot back. ‘I’m just as important to you as you are to yourself.’
‘I say,’ interrupted Mr. Bolter, ‘yer a very nice man, and I’m very fond of yer; but we ain’t quite so thick together, as all that comes to.’
“I say,” interrupted Mr. Bolter, “you’re a really nice guy, and I like you a lot; but we aren’t as close as all that.”
‘Only think,’ said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders, and stretching out his hands; ‘only consider. You’ve done what’s a very pretty thing, and what I love you for doing; but what at the same time would put the cravat round your throat, that’s so very easily tied and so very difficult to unloose—in plain English, the halter!’
‘Just think,’ said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders and extending his hands; ‘just consider. You’ve done something quite impressive, and I appreciate you for it; but at the same time, it could lead to a noose around your neck, which is so easy to tighten and so hard to loosen—in simple terms, the gallows!’
Mr. Bolter put his hand to his neckerchief, as if he felt it inconveniently tight; and murmured an assent, qualified in tone but not in substance.
Mr. Bolter touched his neckerchief, as if it felt uncomfortably tight; and he mumbled an agreement that was hesitant in tone but not in meaning.
‘The gallows,’ continued Fagin, ‘the gallows, my dear, is an ugly finger-post, which points out a very short and sharp turning that has stopped many a bold fellow’s career on the broad highway. To keep in the easy road, and keep it at a distance, is object number one with you.’
‘The gallows,’ continued Fagin, ‘the gallows, my dear, is an ugly signpost that points to a very quick and harsh turn that has ended many a brave person’s journey on the wide road. Staying on the easy path and keeping it far away should be your number one priority.’
‘Of course it is,’ replied Mr. Bolter. ‘What do yer talk about such things for?’
‘Of course it is,’ replied Mr. Bolter. ‘Why do you bring up stuff like that?’
‘Only to show you my meaning clearly,’ said the Jew, raising his eyebrows. ‘To be able to do that, you depend upon me. To keep my little business all snug, I depend upon you. The first is your number one, the second my number one. The more you value your number one, the more careful you must be of mine; so we come at last to what I told you at first—that a regard for number one holds us all together, and must do so, unless we would all go to pieces in company.’
‘Just to clarify my point,’ said the Jew, raising his eyebrows. ‘To make that happen, you rely on me. To keep my small business running smoothly, I rely on you. The first is your top priority, the second is my top priority. The more you value your top priority, the more careful you must be with mine; so we finally arrive at what I initially mentioned—that looking out for number one keeps us all connected, and it has to, or else we’d all fall apart together.’
‘That’s true,’ rejoined Mr. Bolter, thoughtfully. ‘Oh! yer a cunning old codger!’
'That's true,' Mr. Bolter replied, thinking it over. 'Oh! you're a sly old fox!'
Mr. Fagin saw, with delight, that this tribute to his powers was no mere compliment, but that he had really impressed his recruit with a sense of his wily genius, which it was most important that he should entertain in the outset of their acquaintance. To strengthen an impression so desirable and useful, he followed up the blow by acquainting him, in some detail, with the magnitude and extent of his operations; blending truth and fiction together, as best served his purpose; and bringing both to bear, with so much art, that Mr. Bolter’s respect visibly increased, and became tempered, at the same time, with a degree of wholesome fear, which it was highly desirable to awaken.
Mr. Fagin saw, with delight, that this acknowledgment of his abilities was no mere compliment, but that he had genuinely impressed his recruit with an understanding of his cleverness, which was crucial to establish at the beginning of their relationship. To reinforce such a desirable and beneficial impression, he followed up with more details about the scale and reach of his operations; mixing truth and lies together in a way that best suited his aims; and presenting both so skillfully that Mr. Bolter’s respect noticeably grew, while also becoming tinged with a healthy fear, which was very important to inspire.
‘It’s this mutual trust we have in each other that consoles me under heavy losses,’ said Fagin. ‘My best hand was taken from me, yesterday morning.’
‘It’s this mutual trust we have in each other that comforts me during tough times,’ said Fagin. ‘My best person was taken from me yesterday morning.’
‘You don’t mean to say he died?’ cried Mr. Bolter.
‘You can’t be serious that he died?’ exclaimed Mr. Bolter.
‘No, no,’ replied Fagin, ‘not so bad as that. Not quite so bad.’
‘No, no,’ replied Fagin, ‘it’s not that bad. Not exactly that bad.’
‘What, I suppose he was—’
‘What, I guess he was—’
‘Wanted,’ interposed Fagin. ‘Yes, he was wanted.’
‘Wanted,’ interjected Fagin. ‘Yeah, he was wanted.’
‘Very particular?’ inquired Mr. Bolter.
"Very particular?" Mr. Bolter asked.
‘No,’ replied Fagin, ‘not very. He was charged with attempting to pick a pocket, and they found a silver snuff-box on him,—his own, my dear, his own, for he took snuff himself, and was very fond of it. They remanded him till to-day, for they thought they knew the owner. Ah! he was worth fifty boxes, and I’d give the price of as many to have him back. You should have known the Dodger, my dear; you should have known the Dodger.’
‘No,’ replied Fagin, ‘not really. He was accused of trying to pick a pocket, and they found a silver snuffbox on him—his own, my dear, his own, because he used snuff himself and loved it. They held him over until today because they thought they knew who the owner was. Ah! he was worth fifty boxes, and I’d pay for as many just to have him back. You should have known the Dodger, my dear; you should have known the Dodger.’
‘Well, but I shall know him, I hope; don’t yer think so?’ said Mr. Bolter.
‘Well, I hope I’ll know him; don’t you think so?’ said Mr. Bolter.
‘I’m doubtful about it,’ replied Fagin, with a sigh. ‘If they don’t get any fresh evidence, it’ll only be a summary conviction, and we shall have him back again after six weeks or so; but, if they do, it’s a case of lagging. They know what a clever lad he is; he’ll be a lifer. They’ll make the Artful nothing less than a lifer.’
“I’m not so sure about it,” replied Fagin, with a sigh. “If they don’t find any new evidence, it’ll just be a quick conviction, and we’ll have him back in six weeks or so. But if they do find something, he’s looking at serious time. They know how smart he is; he’ll end up with a life sentence. They’ll make sure the Artful gets nothing less than a life sentence.”
‘What do you mean by lagging and a lifer?’ demanded Mr. Bolter. ‘What’s the good of talking in that way to me; why don’t yer speak so as I can understand yer?’
‘What do you mean by lagging and a lifer?’ asked Mr. Bolter. ‘What’s the point of talking to me like that? Why don’t you speak in a way I can understand?’
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.
Fagin was about to turn these mysterious words into plain language; and, when explained, Mr. Bolter would have learned that they meant the phrase 'transportation for life,' when the conversation was interrupted by Master Bates, who walked in with his hands in his pants pockets and a face that looked half comically sad.
‘It’s all up, Fagin,’ said Charley, when he and his new companion had been made known to each other.
‘It's all set, Fagin,’ said Charley, after he and his new companion had been introduced to each other.
‘What do you mean?’
"What do you mean?"
‘They’ve found the gentleman as owns the box; two or three more’s a coming to ‘dentify him; and the Artful’s booked for a passage out,’ replied Master Bates. ‘I must have a full suit of mourning, Fagin, and a hatband, to wisit him in, afore he sets out upon his travels. To think of Jack Dawkins—lummy Jack—the Dodger—the Artful Dodger—going abroad for a common twopenny-halfpenny sneeze-box! I never thought he’d a done it under a gold watch, chain, and seals, at the lowest. Oh, why didn’t he rob some rich old gentleman of all his walables, and go out as a gentleman, and not like a common prig, without no honour nor glory!’
‘They’ve found the guy who owns the box; a couple more are on their way to identify him; and the Artful’s booked a ticket to leave,’ replied Master Bates. ‘I need a complete mourning outfit, Fagin, and a black armband to visit him before he heads off on his journey. Can you believe Jack Dawkins—lummy Jack—the Dodger—the Artful Dodger—going abroad for a cheap little sneeze box? I never thought he’d do it under a gold watch, chain, and seals, at the very least. Oh, why didn’t he rob some rich old guy of all his valuables and leave like a gentleman, instead of like a common thief, with no honor or 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.
With this expression of sympathy for his unfortunate friend, Master Bates sat down on the nearest chair looking upset and despondent.
‘What do you talk about his having neither honour nor glory for!’ exclaimed Fagin, darting an angry look at his pupil. ‘Wasn’t he always the top-sawyer among you all! Is there one of you that could touch him or come near him on any scent! Eh?’
‘What are you talking about when you say he has neither honor nor glory!’ shouted Fagin, shooting an angry glare at his student. ‘Wasn’t he always the best among all of you! Is there anyone here who could even come close to him in any skill? Huh?’
‘Not one,’ replied Master Bates, in a voice rendered husky by regret; ‘not one.’
‘Not one,’ replied Master Bates, his voice rough from regret; ‘not one.’
‘Then what do you talk of?’ replied Fagin angrily; ‘what are you blubbering for?’
‘Then what are you talking about?’ Fagin replied angrily; ‘why are you crying?’
‘’Cause it isn’t on the rec-ord, is it?’ said Charley, chafed into perfect defiance of his venerable friend by the current of his regrets; ‘’cause it can’t come out in the ‘dictment; ‘cause nobody will never know half of what he was. How will he stand in the Newgate Calendar? P’raps not be there at all. Oh, my eye, my eye, wot a blow it is!’
‘Cause it isn’t on the record, is it?’ Charley said, pushed into total defiance by the wave of his regrets; ‘cause it can’t come out in the indictment; 'cause nobody will ever know half of what he was. How will he be portrayed in the Newgate Calendar? Maybe he won’t be there at all. Oh, man, what a blow this is!’
‘Ha! ha!’ cried Fagin, extending his right hand, and turning to Mr. Bolter in a fit of chuckling which shook him as though he had the palsy; ‘see what a pride they take in their profession, my dear. Ain’t it beautiful?’
‘Ha! ha!’ laughed Fagin, reaching out his right hand and turning to Mr. Bolter in a fit of laughter that shook him as if he had a tremor; ‘look at how proud they are of their profession, my dear. Isn’t it wonderful?’
Mr. Bolter nodded assent, and Fagin, after contemplating the grief of Charley Bates for some seconds with evident satisfaction, stepped up to that young gentleman and patted him on the shoulder.
Mr. Bolter nodded in agreement, and Fagin, after observing Charley Bates' distress for a few moments with clear satisfaction, approached the young man and gave him a reassuring pat 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!’
“Don’t worry about it, Charley,” Fagin said reassuringly; “it’ll all work out, it’s bound to come out right. Everyone will see what a smart guy he is; he’ll prove it himself, and won’t let down his old friends and teachers. Just think about how young he is! What a big deal, Charley, to be in trouble at his age!”
‘Well, it is a honour that is!’ said Charley, a little consoled.
"Well, that’s an honor!" said Charley, feeling a bit better.
‘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.’
‘He'll have everything he wants,’ the Jew continued. ‘He'll be kept in the Stone Jug, Charley, like a gentleman. Like a gentleman! With his beer every day, and money in his pocket to throw around with, even if he can't spend it.’
‘No, shall he though?’ cried Charley Bates.
‘No, will he though?’ cried Charley Bates.
‘Ay, that he shall,’ replied Fagin, ‘and we’ll have a big-wig, Charley: one that’s got the greatest gift of the gab: to carry on his defence; and he shall make a speech for himself too, if he likes; and we’ll read it all in the papers—“Artful Dodger—shrieks of laughter—here the court was convulsed”—eh, Charley, eh?’
‘Yeah, he will,’ replied Fagin, ‘and we’ll get a big shot, Charley: someone who’s really skilled at speaking to handle his defense; and he can even give a speech himself if he wants; and we’ll read all about it in the newspapers—“Artful Dodger—roars of laughter—here the courtroom was in fits”—right, Charley, right?’
‘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?’
‘Ha! ha!’ laughed Master Bates, ‘what a fun time that would be, wouldn’t it, Fagin? I mean, how much trouble the Artful would give them, wouldn’t he?’
‘Would!’ cried Fagin. ‘He shall—he will!’
‘He will!’ shouted Fagin. ‘He will—he definitely will!’
‘Ah, to be sure, so he will,’ repeated Charley, rubbing his hands.
‘Ah, for sure, he will,’ Charley repeated, rubbing his hands.
‘I think I see him now,’ cried the Jew, bending his eyes upon his pupil.
‘I think I see him now,’ exclaimed the Jew, focusing his gaze on his student.
‘So do I,’ cried Charley Bates. ‘Ha! ha! ha! so do I. I see it all afore me, upon my soul I do, Fagin. What a game! What a regular game! All the big-wigs trying to look solemn, and Jack Dawkins addressing of ‘em as intimate and comfortable as if he was the judge’s own son making a speech arter dinner—ha! ha! ha!’
‘So do I,’ shouted Charley Bates. ‘Ha! ha! ha! so do I. I can see it all clearly, I swear I can, Fagin. What a spectacle! What a complete spectacle! All the big shots trying to appear serious, and Jack Dawkins talking to them as casually and comfortably as if he were the judge’s own son giving a speech after dinner—ha! ha! ha!’
In fact, Mr. Fagin had so well humoured his young friend’s eccentric disposition, that Master Bates, who had at first been disposed to consider the imprisoned Dodger rather in the light of a victim, now looked upon him as the chief actor in a scene of most uncommon and exquisite humour, and felt quite impatient for the arrival of the time when his old companion should have so favourable an opportunity of displaying his abilities.
In fact, Mr. Fagin had adapted so well to his young friend’s quirky personality that Master Bates, who had originally seen the imprisoned Dodger as more of a victim, now viewed him as the main character in a scene of unique and delightful humor. He couldn't wait for the moment when his old buddy would have such a great chance to showcase his skills.
‘We must know how he gets on to-day, by some handy means or other,’ said Fagin. ‘Let me think.’
‘We need to find out how he's doing today, by some quick way or another,’ said Fagin. ‘Let me think.’
‘Shall I go?’ asked Charley.
"Should I go?" Charley asked.
‘Not for the world,’ replied Fagin. ‘Are you mad, my dear, stark mad, that you’d walk into the very place where—No, Charley, no. One is enough to lose at a time.’
‘Not for the world,’ replied Fagin. ‘Are you crazy, my dear, completely crazy, that you’d walk right into the very place where—No, Charley, no. One is enough to lose at a time.’
‘You don’t mean to go yourself, I suppose?’ said Charley with a humorous leer.
‘You don’t actually plan to go yourself, do you?’ Charley said with a joking grin.
‘That wouldn’t quite fit,’ replied Fagin shaking his head.
"That wouldn't really work," Fagin replied, 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.’
‘Then why don’t you send this new guy?’ asked Master Bates, putting his hand on Noah’s arm. ‘Nobody knows him.’
‘Why, if he didn’t mind—’ observed Fagin.
‘Why, if he didn’t mind—’ observed Fagin.
‘Mind!’ interposed Charley. ‘What should he have to mind?’
‘Hold on!’ Charley interrupted. ‘What does he even have to worry about?’
‘Really nothing, my dear,’ said Fagin, turning to Mr. Bolter, ‘really nothing.’
‘Really nothing, my dear,’ said Fagin, turning to Mr. Bolter, ‘really nothing.’
‘Oh, I dare say about that, yer know,’ observed Noah, backing towards the door, and shaking his head with a kind of sober alarm. ‘No, no—none of that. It’s not in my department, that ain’t.’
‘Oh, I have to say about that, you know,’ Noah remarked, backing up towards the door and shaking his head with a serious kind of concern. ‘No, no—none of that. That’s not my responsibility, it isn’t.’
‘Wot department has he got, Fagin?’ inquired Master Bates, surveying Noah’s lank form with much disgust. ‘The cutting away when there’s anything wrong, and the eating all the wittles when there’s everything right; is that his branch?’
‘What department does he have, Fagin?’ asked Master Bates, looking at Noah’s skinny figure with a lot of disgust. ‘Is his thing just running away when things go wrong and eating all the food when everything is fine?’
‘Never mind,’ retorted Mr. Bolter; ‘and don’t yer take liberties with yer superiors, little boy, or yer’ll find yerself in the wrong shop.’
‘Never mind,’ replied Mr. Bolter; ‘and don’t you take liberties with your superiors, little boy, or you’ll find yourself in the wrong place.’
Master Bates laughed so vehemently at this magnificent threat, that it was some time before Fagin could interpose, and represent to Mr. Bolter that he incurred no possible danger in visiting the police-office; that, inasmuch as no account of the little affair in which he had engaged, nor any description of his person, had yet been forwarded to the metropolis, it was very probable that he was not even suspected of having resorted to it for shelter; and that, if he were properly disguised, it would be as safe a spot for him to visit as any in London, inasmuch as it would be, of all places, the very last, to which he could be supposed likely to resort of his own free will.
Master Bates laughed so hard at this ridiculous threat that it took a while for Fagin to jump in and explain to Mr. Bolter that he wasn’t in any real danger by going to the police station. Since there hadn’t been any report of the little incident he was involved in, nor any description of him sent to the city, it was very likely that he wasn’t even suspected of using it as a hideout. Plus, if he dressed properly, it would be just as safe for him to visit as anywhere else in London, since it would be the last place anyone would expect him to go on his own.
Persuaded, in part, by these representations, but overborne in a much greater degree by his fear of Fagin, Mr. Bolter at length consented, with a very bad grace, to undertake the expedition. By Fagin’s directions, he immediately substituted for his own attire, a waggoner’s frock, velveteen breeches, and leather leggings: all of which articles the Jew had at hand. He was likewise furnished with a felt hat well garnished with turnpike tickets; and a carter’s whip. Thus equipped, he was to saunter into the office, as some country fellow from Covent Garden market might be supposed to do for the gratification of his curiousity; and as he was as awkward, ungainly, and raw-boned a fellow as need be, Mr. Fagin had no fear but that he would look the part to perfection.
Persuaded, in part, by these claims, but mostly overwhelmed by his fear of Fagin, Mr. Bolter finally agreed, albeit reluctantly, to take on the task. Following Fagin’s instructions, he quickly changed out of his own clothes into a waggoner’s coat, velveteen pants, and leather leggings, all of which the Jew had on hand. He was also given a felt hat decorated with turnpike tickets and a carter’s whip. Dressed this way, he would stroll into the office like some country guy from Covent Garden market, just satisfying his curiosity; and since he was as clumsy, awkward, and lanky as could be, Mr. Fagin was confident he would nail the part perfectly.
These arrangements completed, he was informed of the necessary signs and tokens by which to recognise the Artful Dodger, and was conveyed by Master Bates through dark and winding ways to within a very short distance of Bow Street. Having described the precise situation of the office, and accompanied it with copious directions how he was to walk straight up the passage, and when he got into the side, and pull off his hat as he went into the room, Charley Bates bade him hurry on alone, and promised to bide his return on the spot of their parting.
Once these arrangements were made, he was told the necessary signs and cues to recognize the Artful Dodger. Master Bates led him through dark, winding paths to just a short distance from Bow Street. After explaining the exact location of the office and giving detailed instructions on how to walk straight up the passage, when to turn to the side, and to take off his hat when entering the room, Charley Bates told him to hurry on by himself and promised to wait for his return at the spot where they parted.
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.
Noah Claypole, or Morris Bolter if you prefer, followed the instructions he had received exactly. Since Master Bates knew the area pretty well, the directions were so precise that he was able to get to the magistrate's office without asking any questions or encountering any interruptions along the way.
He found himself jostled among a crowd of people, chiefly women, who were huddled together in a dirty frowsy room, at the upper end of which was a raised platform railed off from the rest, with a dock for the prisoners on the left hand against the wall, a box for the witnesses in the middle, and a desk for the magistrates on the right; the awful locality last named, being screened off by a partition which concealed the bench from the common gaze, and left the vulgar to imagine (if they could) the full majesty of justice.
He found himself jostled in a crowd of people, mostly women, who were huddled together in a dirty, messy room. At the upper end was a raised platform separated from the rest, with a dock for the prisoners on the left against the wall, a box for the witnesses in the middle, and a desk for the magistrates on the right. The area for the magistrates was screened off by a partition that hidden the bench from public view, leaving the ordinary people to imagine (if they could) the full power of justice.
There were only a couple of women in the dock, who were nodding to their admiring friends, while the clerk read some depositions to a couple of policemen and a man in plain clothes who leant over the table. A jailer stood reclining against the dock-rail, tapping his nose listlessly with a large key, except when he repressed an undue tendency to conversation among the idlers, by proclaiming silence; or looked sternly up to bid some woman ‘Take that baby out,’ when the gravity of justice was disturbed by feeble cries, half-smothered in the mother’s shawl, from some meagre infant. The room smelt close and unwholesome; the walls were dirt-discoloured; and the ceiling blackened. There was an old smoky bust over the mantel-shelf, and a dusty clock above the dock—the only thing present, that seemed to go on as it ought; for depravity, or poverty, or an habitual acquaintance with both, had left a taint on all the animate matter, hardly less unpleasant than the thick greasy scum on every inanimate object that frowned upon it.
There were only a few women in the dock, nodding to their friends who admired them, while the clerk read some statements to a couple of police officers and a man in plain clothes who leaned over the table. A jailer stood leaning against the dock rail, tapping his nose lazily with a big key, except when he interrupted the idle chatter by calling for silence; or looked up sternly to tell a woman to ‘Take that baby out,’ when the seriousness of the court was disrupted by weak cries, half-smothered in the mother's shawl, from a frail infant. The room smelled stuffy and unpleasant; the walls were dirty and discolored, and the ceiling was blackened. There was an old smoky bust on the mantel, and a dusty clock above the dock—the only thing that seemed to work properly; because corruption, or poverty, or a constant experience with both, had left a stain on everyone present, hardly less unpleasant than the thick, greasy grime on every inanimate object glaring at it.
Noah looked eagerly about him for the Dodger; but although there were several women who would have done very well for that distinguished character’s mother or sister, and more than one man who might be supposed to bear a strong resemblance to his father, nobody at all answering the description given him of Mr. Dawkins was to be seen. He waited in a state of much suspense and uncertainty until the women, being committed for trial, went flaunting out; and then was quickly relieved by the appearance of another prisoner who he felt at once could be no other than the object of his visit.
Noah looked around eagerly for the Dodger; but even though there were several women who would have been great as that iconic character's mother or sister, and more than one man who could have been thought to resemble his father, he couldn't see anyone matching the description he had of Mr. Dawkins. He waited anxiously, filled with suspense and uncertainty, until the women, being taken for trial, strutted out; and then he was quickly relieved when another prisoner appeared who he immediately knew had to be the person he came to see.
It was indeed Mr. Dawkins, who, shuffling into the office with the big coat sleeves tucked up as usual, his left hand in his pocket, and his hat in his right hand, preceded the jailer, with a rolling gait altogether indescribable, and, taking his place in the dock, requested in an audible voice to know what he was placed in that ‘ere disgraceful sitivation for.
It was definitely Mr. Dawkins, who, walking into the office with his big coat sleeves rolled up as usual, his left hand in his pocket and his hat in his right hand, followed the jailer with a unique, unmistakable stride. Once he took his spot in the dock, he loudly asked what he was being put in that “disgraceful situation” for.
‘Hold your tongue, will you?’ said the jailer.
“Shut your mouth, will you?” said the jailer.
‘I’m an Englishman, ain’t I?’ rejoined the Dodger. ‘Where are my priwileges?’
‘I’m an Englishman, aren’t I?’ replied the Dodger. ‘Where are my rights?’
‘You’ll get your privileges soon enough,’ retorted the jailer, ‘and pepper with ‘em.’
‘You’ll get your privileges soon enough,’ the jailer shot back, ‘and spice it up with them.’
‘We’ll see wot the Secretary of State for the Home Affairs has got to say to the beaks, if I don’t,’ replied Mr. Dawkins. ‘Now then! Wot is this here business? I shall thank the madg’strates to dispose of this here little affair, and not to keep me while they read the paper, for I’ve got an appointment with a genelman in the City, and as I am a man of my word and wery punctual in business matters, he’ll go away if I ain’t there to my time, and then pr’aps ther won’t be an action for damage against them as kep me away. Oh no, certainly not!’
‘We’ll see what the Secretary of State for Home Affairs has to say to the judges, if I don’t,’ replied Mr. Dawkins. ‘Now then! What is this all about? I would appreciate it if the magistrates would resolve this little matter quickly, and not keep me waiting while they read the paper, because I have an appointment with a gentleman in the City, and since I’m a man of my word and very punctual in business, he’ll leave if I’m not there on time, and then maybe there won’t be a case for damages against those who kept me away. Oh no, certainly not!’
At this point, the Dodger, with a show of being very particular with a view to proceedings to be had thereafter, desired the jailer to communicate ‘the names of them two files as was on the bench.’ Which so tickled the spectators, that they laughed almost as heartily as Master Bates could have done if he had heard the request.
At this point, the Dodger, pretending to be very specific regarding what would happen next, asked the jailer to share "the names of those two files that are on the bench." This amused the spectators so much that they laughed nearly as hard as Master Bates would have if he had heard the request.
‘Silence there!’ cried the jailer.
"Quiet down!" yelled the jailer.
‘What is this?’ inquired one of the magistrates.
‘What is this?’ asked one of the magistrates.
‘A pick-pocketing case, your worship.’
“A pickpocketing case, your honor.”
‘Has the boy ever been here before?’
‘Has the boy been here before?’
‘He ought to have been, a many times,’ replied the jailer. ‘He has been pretty well everywhere else. I know him well, your worship.’
‘He should have been, many times,’ replied the jailer. ‘He’s been almost everywhere else. I know him well, your honor.’
‘Oh! you know me, do you?’ cried the Artful, making a note of the statement. ‘Wery good. That’s a case of deformation of character, any way.’
‘Oh! You know me, do you?’ shouted the Artful, jotting down the remark. ‘Very good. That’s a clear case of character distortion, anyway.’
Here there was another laugh, and another cry of silence.
Here, there was another laugh and another cry of silence.
‘Now then, where are the witnesses?’ said the clerk.
‘Now then, where are the witnesses?’ said the clerk.
‘Ah! that’s right,’ added the Dodger. ‘Where are they? I should like to see ‘em.’
‘Ah! that’s right,’ added the Dodger. ‘Where are they? I’d like to see them.’
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 active in making his way about, and that young gentleman was the prisoner before him.
This wish was quickly fulfilled when a police officer stepped forward. He had seen the suspect trying to pickpocket an unknown man in a crowd and actually take a handkerchief from him. The handkerchief was very old, and after trying it on his own face, he put it back. For this reason, the officer took the Dodger into custody as soon as he could reach him. The Dodger was searched and found to have a silver snuffbox with the owner's name engraved on the lid. The owner was identified after checking the Court Guide, and since he was present, he confirmed that the snuffbox was his and that he had realized it was missing the day before, right after he had gotten away from the crowd. He also noted a young man in the crowd who was particularly quick and active, and that young man was the suspect in front of him.
‘Have you anything to ask this witness, boy?’ said the magistrate.
“Do you have any questions for this witness, son?” said the magistrate.
‘I wouldn’t abase myself by descending to hold no conversation with him,’ replied the Dodger.
‘I wouldn’t lower myself by not having a conversation with him,’ replied the Dodger.
‘Have you anything to say at all?’
‘Do you have 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.
“Do you hear him asking if you have anything to say?” the jailer asked, nudging the quiet Dodger with his elbow.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said the Dodger, looking up with an air of abstraction. ‘Did you redress yourself to me, my man?’
"I’m sorry," said the Dodger, looking up with a dazed expression. "Did you just speak to me, my man?"
‘I never see such an out-and-out young wagabond, your worship,’ observed the officer with a grin. ‘Do you mean to say anything, you young shaver?’
‘I’ve never seen such a complete young troublemaker, your honor,’ the officer said with a grin. ‘Are you going to say anything, you young rascal?’
‘No,’ replied the Dodger, ‘not here, for this ain’t the shop for justice: besides which, my attorney is a-breakfasting this morning with the Wice President of the House of Commons; but I shall have something to say elsewhere, and so will he, and so will a wery numerous and ‘spectable circle of acquaintance as’ll make them beaks wish they’d never been born, or that they’d got their footmen to hang ‘em up to their own hat-pegs, afore they let ‘em come out this morning to try it on upon me. I’ll—’
‘No,’ replied the Dodger, ‘not here, because this isn’t the place for justice. Besides, my lawyer is having breakfast this morning with the Vice President of the House of Commons; but I’ll have something to say later, and so will he, along with a very large and respectable group of friends that will make those judges wish they’d never been born, or that they had their servants hang them up to their own coat racks before they let them come out this morning to mess with me. I’ll—’
‘There! He’s fully committed!’ interposed the clerk. ‘Take him away.’
‘There! He’s completely committed!’ interrupted the clerk. ‘Take him away.’
‘Come on,’ said the jailer.
“Let’s go,” said the jailer.
‘Oh ah! I’ll come on,’ replied the Dodger, brushing his hat with the palm of his hand. ‘Ah! (to the Bench) it’s no use your looking frightened; I won’t show you no mercy, not a ha’porth of it. You’ll pay for this, my fine fellers. I wouldn’t be you for something! I wouldn’t go free, now, if you was to fall down on your knees and ask me. Here, carry me off to prison! Take me away!’
‘Oh come on,’ replied the Dodger, brushing his hat with his hand. ‘Ah! (to the Bench) there’s no point in looking scared; I won’t show you any mercy, not even a bit of it. You’ll pay for this, my fine gentlemen. I wouldn’t trade places with you for anything! I wouldn’t go free now, even if you fell down on your knees and begged me. Here, take me 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.
With these last words, the Dodger allowed himself to be led away by the collar, joking that he would turn it into a big issue, and then grinning in the officer’s face with delight and self-satisfaction.
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.
Having seen him locked up alone in a small cell, Noah made his way back to where he had left Master Bates. After waiting there for a while, he was joined by that young gentleman, who wisely stayed hidden until he could carefully check that his new friend hadn’t been followed by anyone annoying.
The two hastened back together, to bear to Mr. Fagin the animating news that the Dodger was doing full justice to his bringing-up, and establishing for himself a glorious reputation.
The two hurried back together to share with Mr. Fagin the exciting news that the Dodger was living up to his training and creating a fantastic reputation for himself.
CHAPTER XLIV — THE TIME ARRIVES FOR NANCY TO REDEEM HER PLEDGE TO ROSE MAYLIE. SHE FAILS.
Adept as she was, in all the arts of cunning and dissimulation, the girl Nancy could not wholly conceal the effect which the knowledge of the step she had taken, wrought upon her mind. She remembered that both the crafty Jew and the brutal Sikes had confided to her schemes, which had been hidden from all others: in the full confidence that she was trustworthy and beyond the reach of their suspicion. Vile as those schemes were, desperate as were their originators, and bitter as were her feelings towards Fagin, who had led her, step by step, deeper and deeper down into an abyss of crime and misery, whence was no escape; still, there were times when, even towards him, she felt some relenting, lest her disclosure should bring him within the iron grasp he had so long eluded, and he should fall at last—richly as he merited such a fate—by her hand.
As skilled as she was in all the arts of deception and disguise, the girl Nancy couldn’t completely hide the impact that her decision had on her mind. She recalled that both the crafty Jew and the brutal Sikes had shared their plans with her, which they had kept hidden from everyone else, fully trusting that she was reliable and beyond their suspicion. As vile as those plans were, as desperate as their creators were, and as bitter as her feelings were towards Fagin, who had led her deeper and deeper into a pit of crime and misery with no way out; still, there were moments when, even towards him, she felt some sympathy, afraid that her revealing information could put him in the very trap he had skillfully avoided for so long, and that he might finally fall—richly deserving of such a fate—because of her.
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, and resolved not to be turned aside by any consideration. Her fears for Sikes would have been more powerful inducements to recoil while there was yet time; but she had stipulated that her secret should be rigidly kept, she had dropped no clue which could lead to his discovery, she had refused, even for his sake, a refuge from all the guilt and wretchedness that encompasses her—and what more could she do! She was resolved.
But these were just the random thoughts of a mind that couldn't completely let go of old friends and connections, even though it managed to focus on one thing and was determined not to be swayed by anything else. Her worries about Sikes would have been stronger reasons to back away while there was still time; but she had made it clear that her secret had to be strictly kept, she hadn’t left any hints that could lead to his discovery, and she had even turned down, for his sake, an escape from all the guilt and misery surrounding her—and what more could she do? She was set on her decision.
Though all her mental struggles terminated in this conclusion, they forced themselves upon her, again and again, and left their traces too. She grew pale and thin, even within a few days. At times, she took no heed of what was passing before her, or no part in conversations where once, she would have been the loudest. At other times, she laughed without merriment, and was noisy without a moment afterwards—she sat silent and dejected, brooding with her head upon her hands, while the very effort by which she roused herself, told, more forcibly than even these indications, that she was ill at ease, and that her thoughts were occupied with matters very different and distant from those in the course of discussion by her companions.
Though all her mental struggles led her to this conclusion, they kept resurfacing, leaving their mark on her. She became pale and thin in just a few days. Sometimes, she was oblivious to what was happening around her, or she didn’t participate in conversations where she once would have been the loudest. Other times, she laughed without joy and was noisy for a moment, only to fall silent and despondent, resting her head in her hands. The very effort it took to pull herself together showed more clearly than even these signs that she was uncomfortable and that her thoughts were focused on things very different from those being discussed by her friends.
It was Sunday night, and the bell of the nearest church struck the hour. Sikes and the Jew were talking, but they paused to listen. The girl looked up from the low seat on which she crouched, and listened too. Eleven.
It was Sunday night, and the bell from the closest church chimed the hour. Sikes and the Jew were talking, but they stopped to listen. The girl looked up from the low seat where she was crouched and listened too. Eleven.
‘An hour this side of midnight,’ said Sikes, raising the blind to look out and returning to his seat. ‘Dark and heavy it is too. A good night for business this.’
‘An hour before midnight,’ said Sikes, lifting the blind to look outside and returning to his seat. ‘It’s dark and heavy out there. A perfect night for business.’
‘Ah!’ replied Fagin. ‘What a pity, Bill, my dear, that there’s none quite ready to be done.’
'Ah!' replied Fagin. 'What a shame, Bill, my friend, that there's nothing quite ready to be done.'
‘You’re right for once,’ replied Sikes gruffly. ‘It is a pity, for I’m in the humour too.’
‘You’re right for once,’ Sikes replied gruffly. ‘It’s a shame, because I’m in the mood too.’
Fagin sighed, and shook his head despondingly.
Fagin sighed and shook his head in disappointment.
‘We must make up for lost time when we’ve got things into a good train. That’s all I know,’ said Sikes.
‘We need to catch up on lost time once we've got things running smoothly. That’s all I know,’ said Sikes.
‘That’s the way to talk, my dear,’ replied Fagin, venturing to pat him on the shoulder. ‘It does me good to hear you.’
"That's the way to talk, my dear," replied Fagin, daring to pat him on the shoulder. "It really makes me feel good to hear you."
‘Does you good, does it!’ cried Sikes. ‘Well, so be it.’
‘Does it do you good!’ shouted Sikes. ‘Fine, so be it.’
‘Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed Fagin, as if he were relieved by even this concession. ‘You’re like yourself to-night, Bill. Quite like yourself.’
‘Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed Fagin, as if he felt relieved by even this concession. ‘You’re just like yourself tonight, Bill. Totally 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.
‘I don’t feel like myself when you put that withered old claw on my shoulder, so take it away,’ said Sikes, pushing the Jew’s hand off.
‘It make you nervous, Bill,—reminds you of being nabbed, does it?’ said Fagin, determined not to be offended.
“It makes you nervous, Bill—reminds you of getting caught, huh?” said Fagin, determined not to take offense.
‘Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil,’ returned Sikes. ‘There never was another man with such a face as yours, unless it was your father, and I suppose he is singeing his grizzled red beard by this time, unless you came straight from the old ‘un without any father at all betwixt you; which I shouldn’t wonder at, a bit.’
‘Reminds me of getting caught by the devil,’ Sikes replied. ‘There’s never been another guy with a face like yours, unless it was your dad, and I guess he is roasting his grayish-red beard by now, unless you came straight from the old man without any father at all between you two; which wouldn't surprise me at all.’
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.
Fagin didn’t respond to the compliment, but he tugged on Sikes' sleeve and pointed at Nancy, who had used the previous conversation to put on her bonnet and was now heading out of the room.
‘Hallo!’ cried Sikes. ‘Nance. Where’s the gal going to at this time of night?’
‘Hey!’ shouted Sikes. ‘Nance. Where’s the girl headed at this time of night?’
‘Not far.’
'Not far away.'
‘What answer’s that?’ retorted Sikes. ‘Do you hear me?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Sikes shot back. ‘Do you hear me?’
‘I don’t know where,’ replied the girl.
‘I don’t know where,’ replied the girl.
‘Then I do,’ said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. ‘Nowhere. Sit down.’
‘Then I do,’ said Sikes, more out of stubbornness than because he really had any issue with the girl going wherever she wanted. ‘Nowhere. Sit down.’
‘I’m not well. I told you that before,’ rejoined the girl. ‘I want a breath of air.’
‘I’m not feeling well. I mentioned that earlier,’ the girl replied. ‘I need some fresh air.’
‘Put your head out of the winder,’ replied Sikes.
‘Stick your head out of the window,’ replied Sikes.
‘There’s not enough there,’ said the girl. ‘I want it in the street.’
‘There’s not enough here,’ 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?’
‘Then you won’t get it,’ Sikes replied. With that confidence, he stood up, locked the door, took the key out, and yanked her bonnet off her head, tossing it up to the top of an old cupboard. ‘There,’ said the robber. ‘Now just stay quietly where you are, okay?’
‘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?’
‘It’s not like a bonnet would change anything for me,’ said the girl, turning very pale. ‘What do you mean, Bill? Do you even know what you’re doing?’
‘Know what I’m—Oh!’ cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, ‘she’s out of her senses, you know, or she daren’t talk to me in that way.’
‘Know what I’m—Oh!’ cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, ‘she’s lost her mind, you know, or she wouldn’t dare talk to me like that.’
‘You’ll drive me on the something desperate,’ muttered the girl placing both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. ‘Let me go, will you,—this minute—this instant.’
‘You’re going to push me to my breaking point,’ muttered the girl, pressing both hands to her chest, as if trying to suppress a sudden emotional outburst. ‘Let me go, will you—right now—this second.’
‘No!’ said Sikes.
"Absolutely not!" said Sikes.
‘Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It’ll be better for him. Do you hear me?’ cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground.
‘Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He should. It’ll be better for him. Do you hear me?’ cried Nancy, stomping her foot on the ground.
‘Hear you!’ repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her. ‘Aye! And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a grip on your throat as’ll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has come over you, you jade! Wot is it?’
‘Listen to me!’ Sikes said, turning in his chair to face her. ‘Yeah! And if I have to listen to you for another minute, that dog will have such a hold on your throat that it’ll rip some of that screaming voice right out of you. What’s gotten into you, you brat! What is it?’
‘Let me go,’ said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself down on the floor, before the door, she said, ‘Bill, let me go; you don’t know what you are doing. You don’t, indeed. For only one hour—do—do!’
‘Let me go,’ said the girl seriously; then she sat down on the floor in front of the door and said, ‘Bill, let me go; you don’t know what you’re doing. You really don’t. Just for one hour—please—please!’
‘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.’
‘Cut my limbs off one by one!’ cried Sikes, grabbing her roughly by the arm, ‘If I don’t think the girl’s completely crazy. Get up.’
‘Not till you let me go—not till you let me go—Never—never!’ screamed the girl. Sikes looked on, for a minute, watching his opportunity, and suddenly pinioning her hands dragged her, struggling and wrestling with him by the way, into a small room adjoining, where he sat himself on a bench, and thrusting her into a chair, held her down by force. She struggled and implored by turns until twelve o’clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest the point any further. With a caution, backed by many oaths, to make no more efforts to go out that night, Sikes left her to recover at leisure and rejoined Fagin.
‘Not until you let me go—not until you let me go—Never—never!’ the girl screamed. Sikes watched for a moment, waiting for his chance, and suddenly grabbed her hands, dragging her into a small room next door. She fought him all the way, but he sat down on a bench, shoved her into a chair, and held her down by force. She struggled and pleaded in turns until midnight struck, and then, worn out and exhausted, she stopped fighting. With a warning backed by curses to not try to leave that night, Sikes left her to catch her breath and went back to Fagin.
‘Whew!’ said the housebreaker wiping the perspiration from his face. ‘Wot a precious strange gal that is!’
‘Whew!’ said the burglar, wiping the sweat from his face. ‘What a really strange girl she is!’
‘You may say that, Bill,’ replied Fagin thoughtfully. ‘You may say that.’
‘You could say that, Bill,’ Fagin replied, thinking it over. ‘You could 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?’
‘What do you think made her decide to go out tonight?’ asked Sikes. ‘Come on; you know her better than I do. What does it mean?’
‘Obstinacy; woman’s obstinacy, I suppose, my dear.’
‘Stubbornness; I guess it's just a woman's stubbornness, my dear.’
‘Well, I suppose it is,’ growled Sikes. ‘I thought I had tamed her, but she’s as bad as ever.’
‘Well, I guess it is,’ grumbled Sikes. ‘I thought I had her under control, but she’s as difficult as ever.’
‘Worse,’ said Fagin thoughtfully. ‘I never knew her like this, for such a little cause.’
"Worse," Fagin said thoughtfully. "I’ve never seen her like this for such a small reason."
‘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?’
‘Nor I,’ said Sikes. ‘I think she’s still got a bit of that fever in her blood, and it won’t go away—right?’
‘Like enough.’
"Probably."
‘I’ll let her a little blood, without troubling the doctor, if she’s took that way again,’ said Sikes.
‘I’ll let her bleed a little, without bothering the doctor, if she goes that way again,’ said Sikes.
Fagin nodded an expressive approval of this mode of treatment.
Fagin nodded in agreement with this approach.
‘She was hanging about me all day, and night too, when I was stretched on my back; and you, like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept yourself aloof,’ said Sikes. ‘We was poor too, all the time, and I think, one way or other, it’s worried and fretted her; and that being shut up here so long has made her restless—eh?’
‘She was around me all day, and at night too, when I was lying on my back; and you, like the heartless wolf you are, kept your distance,’ said Sikes. ‘We were poor all the time too, and I think it worried and bothered her in one way or another; and being stuck in here for so long has made her restless—right?’
‘That’s it, my dear,’ replied the Jew in a whisper. ‘Hush!’
‘That’s it, my dear,’ the Jew whispered. ‘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.
As he said this, the girl herself showed up and took her old seat again. Her eyes were puffy and red; she rocked back and forth; shook her head; and after a while, she started laughing.
‘Why, now she’s on the other tack!’ exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of excessive surprise on his companion.
‘Wow, now she's switched things up!’ exclaimed Sikes, giving his companion an expression of total surprise.
Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.
Fagin nodded at him to not worry about it for now; and, after a few minutes, the girl settled back into her usual behavior. After quietly telling Sikes that she wouldn't relapse, Fagin grabbed his hat and wished him good night. He stopped at the door and looked around, asking if someone could guide him down the dark stairs.
‘Light him down,’ said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. ‘It’s a pity he should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light.’
‘Put him down,’ said Sikes, who was packing his pipe. ‘It would be a shame for him to break his neck and let down all the onlookers. Give him a light.’
Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the girl, said, in a whisper.
Nancy followed the old man downstairs, holding a candle. When they got to the hallway, he placed his finger on his lips and leaned closer to the girl, speaking in a whisper.
‘What is it, Nancy, dear?’
“What’s wrong, Nancy, dear?”
‘What do you mean?’ replied the girl, in the same tone.
‘What do you mean?’ the girl replied, using the same tone.
‘The reason of all this,’ replied Fagin. ‘If he’—he pointed with his skinny fore-finger up the stairs—‘is so hard with you (he’s a brute, Nance, a brute-beast), why don’t you—’
‘The reason for all this,’ Fagin replied. ‘If he’—he pointed with his skinny finger up the stairs—‘is being so tough on you (he’s a monster, Nance, an absolute beast), why don’t you—’
‘Well?’ said the girl, as Fagin paused, with his mouth almost touching her ear, and his eyes looking into hers.
‘Well?’ the girl asked as Fagin paused, his mouth nearly brushing against her ear, and his eyes locked onto hers.
‘No matter just now. We’ll talk of this again. You have a friend in me, Nance; a staunch friend. I have the means at hand, quiet and close. If you want revenge on those that treat you like a dog—like a dog! worse than his dog, for he humours him sometimes—come to me. I say, come to me. He is the mere hound of a day, but you know me of old, Nance.’
‘It doesn't matter right now. We'll discuss this again. You have a true friend in me, Nance; a loyal friend. I have the resources ready, discreet and near. If you want revenge on those who treat you like dirt—like a dog! even worse than a dog, since he sometimes indulges him—come to me. I mean it, come to me. He’s just a temporary fool, but you know me well, Nance.’
‘I know you well,’ replied the girl, without manifesting the least emotion. ‘Good-night.’
‘I know you well,’ replied the girl, showing no emotion at all. ‘Good night.’
She shrank back, as Fagin offered to lay his hand on hers, but said good-night again, in a steady voice, and, answering his parting look with a nod of intelligence, closed the door between them.
She recoiled when Fagin reached out to touch her hand, but she said good-night again in a calm voice. After responding to his departing glance with a knowing nod, she closed the door between them.
Fagin walked towards his home, intent upon the thoughts that were working within his brain. He had conceived the idea—not from what had just passed though that had tended to confirm him, but slowly and by degrees—that Nancy, wearied of the housebreaker’s brutality, had conceived an attachment for some new friend. Her altered manner, her repeated absences from home alone, her comparative indifference to the interests of the gang for which she had once been so zealous, and, added to these, her desperate impatience to leave home that night at a particular hour, all favoured the supposition, and rendered it, to him at least, almost matter of certainty. The object of this new liking was not among his myrmidons. He would be a valuable acquisition with such an assistant as Nancy, and must (thus Fagin argued) be secured without delay.
Fagin walked towards his home, focused on the thoughts swirling in his mind. He had come up with the idea—not from what had just happened, which had confirmed his suspicions, but gradually—that Nancy, tired of the housebreaker's cruelty, had developed a liking for someone new. Her changed behavior, her repeated solo outings, her indifference to the gang she used to be so passionate about, and her urgent need to leave home that night at a specific time all supported this theory and made it almost certain, at least in his mind. The object of her new affection wasn't one of his followers. He would be a valuable asset with someone like Nancy helping him, and so Fagin believed he needed to secure this person quickly.
There was another, and a darker object, to be gained. Sikes knew too much, and his ruffian taunts had not galled Fagin the less, because the wounds were hidden. The girl must know, well, that if she shook him off, she could never be safe from his fury, and that it would be surely wreaked—to the maiming of limbs, or perhaps the loss of life—on the object of her more recent fancy.
There was something else, a darker threat, at play. Sikes knew too much, and his violent insults had gotten under Fagin's skin, even if the damage was concealed. The girl had to understand that if she tried to break away from him, she could never be safe from his rage, which would definitely be unleashed—possibly resulting in broken bones or even death—on the person she had become interested in.
‘With a little persuasion,’ thought Fagin, ‘what more likely than that she would consent to poison him? Women have done such things, and worse, to secure the same object before now. There would be the dangerous villain: the man I hate: gone; another secured in his place; and my influence over the girl, with a knowledge of this crime to back it, unlimited.’
‘With a little persuasion,’ thought Fagin, ‘what’s more likely than that she would agree to poison him? Women have done things like this, and even worse, to achieve the same goal before. The dangerous villain—the man I hate—would be gone; another would take his place; and my influence over the girl, with the knowledge of this crime to support it, would be limitless.’
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.
These thoughts went through Fagin's mind while he sat alone in the housebreaker's room for a short time. With these thoughts at the forefront, he took the chance to test the girl by dropping some subtle hints as he was leaving. She showed no signs of surprise or confusion about what he meant. The girl clearly understood him. Her look as they parted made that clear.
But perhaps she would recoil from a plot to take the life of Sikes, and that was one of the chief ends to be attained. ‘How,’ thought Fagin, as he crept homeward, ‘can I increase my influence with her? What new power can I acquire?’
But maybe she would back off from a plan to kill Sikes, and that was one of the main goals to achieve. ‘How,’ thought Fagin, as he made his way home, ‘can I strengthen my influence with her? What new power can I gain?’
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?
Such minds are resourceful in finding solutions. If he set up a watch without getting her to confess, found out who had caught her interest, and threatened to expose everything to Sikes (who she feared greatly) unless she went along with his plans, couldn't he get her to cooperate?
‘I can,’ said Fagin, almost aloud. ‘She durst not refuse me then. Not for her life, not for her life! I have it all. The means are ready, and shall be set to work. I shall have you yet!’
'I can,' said Fagin, almost shouting. 'She can't refuse me then. Not for her life, not for her life! I have it all. The resources are ready and will be put to use. I will 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: busying his bony hands in the folds of his tattered garment, which he wrenched tightly in his grasp, as though there were a hated enemy crushed with every motion of his fingers.
He shot a dark glance and a threatening gesture toward the place where he had left the more brazen villain, and continued on his way, fiddling with the tattered fabric of his worn-out clothing, which he clenched tightly in his hands, as if he were crushing a hated enemy with every movement of his fingers.
CHAPTER XLV — NOAH CLAYPOLE IS EMPLOYED BY FAGIN ON A SECRET MISSION
The old man was up, betimes, next morning, and waited impatiently for the appearance of his new associate, who after a delay that seemed interminable, at length presented himself, and commenced a voracious assault on the breakfast.
The old man was up early the next morning and waited impatiently for his new associate, who after a delay that felt endless, finally showed up and started devouring breakfast.
‘Bolter,’ said Fagin, drawing up a chair and seating himself opposite Morris Bolter.
‘Bolter,’ said Fagin, pulling up a chair and sitting down across from Morris Bolter.
‘Well, here I am,’ returned Noah. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t yer ask me to do anything till I have done eating. That’s a great fault in this place. Yer never get time enough over yer meals.’
‘Well, here I am,’ replied Noah. ‘What’s wrong? Don’t ask me to do anything until I finish eating. That’s a big issue here. You never get enough time to enjoy your 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.
‘You can talk while you eat, can't you?’ Fagin said, cursing his dear young friend's greediness from the very bottom of his heart.
‘Oh yes, I can talk. I get on better when I talk,’ said Noah, cutting a monstrous slice of bread. ‘Where’s Charlotte?’
‘Oh yeah, I can talk. I do better when I talk,’ said Noah, cutting a huge slice of bread. ‘Where’s Charlotte?’
‘Out,’ said Fagin. ‘I sent her out this morning with the other young woman, because I wanted us to be alone.’
‘Out,’ said Fagin. ‘I sent her out this morning with the other girl, because I wanted us to be alone.’
‘Oh!’ said Noah. ‘I wish yer’d ordered her to make some buttered toast first. Well. Talk away. Yer won’t interrupt me.’
‘Oh!’ said Noah. ‘I wish you’d asked her to make some buttered toast first. Well, go ahead. You won’t interrupt me.’
There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he had evidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of business.
There didn’t seem to be much worry about anything stopping him, as he clearly sat down with the intent to get a lot done.
‘You did well yesterday, my dear,’ said Fagin. ‘Beautiful! Six shillings and ninepence halfpenny on the very first day! The kinchin lay will be a fortune to you.’
‘You did great yesterday, my dear,’ said Fagin. ‘Amazing! Six shillings and nine and a half pence on the very first day! The little kid will be a fortune for you.’
‘Don’t you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can,’ said Mr. Bolter.
‘Don’t forget to add three pint pots and a milk can,’ said Mr. Bolter.
‘No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the milk-can was a perfect masterpiece.’
‘No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were brilliant ideas: but the milk-can was a true masterpiece.’
‘Pretty well, I think, for a beginner,’ remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. ‘The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!’
‘Not bad at all for a beginner,’ Mr. Bolter said with a self-satisfied grin. ‘I got the pots off some fancy railings, and the milk can was just sitting outside a pub. I figured it might get rusty in the rain or catch a chill, you know? Right? Ha! ha! ha!’
Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his laugh out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second.
Fagin pretended to laugh really hard; and after Mr. Bolter finished laughing, he took several big bites, finishing his first piece of bread and butter, and helped himself to a second.
‘I want you, Bolter,’ said Fagin, leaning over the table, ‘to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution.’
‘I want you, Bolter,’ said Fagin, leaning over the table, ‘to do a job for me, my dear, that requires a lot of care and caution.’
‘I say,’ rejoined Bolter, ‘don’t yer go shoving me into danger, or sending me any more o’ yer police-offices. That don’t suit me, that don’t; and so I tell yer.’
‘I say,’ replied Bolter, ‘don’t push me into danger, or send me any more of your police offices. That doesn’t work for me, it doesn’t; and that’s what I’m telling you.’
‘That’s not the smallest danger in it—not the very smallest,’ said the Jew; ‘it’s only to dodge a woman.’
‘That’s not the smallest danger in it—not the very smallest,’ said the Jew; ‘it’s just about avoiding a woman.’
‘An old woman?’ demanded Mr. Bolter.
‘An old woman?’ Mr. Bolter asked.
‘A young one,’ replied Fagin.
"A kid," replied Fagin.
‘I can do that pretty well, I know,’ said Bolter. ‘I was a regular cunning sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to—’
‘I can do that pretty well, I know,’ said Bolter. ‘I was a real sneaky person when I was in school. Why should I avoid her? Not to—’
‘Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, if possible, what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street, or the house, if it is a house; and to bring me back all the information you can.’
‘Don't do anything, just tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, if possible, what she says; remember the street, if it’s a street, or the house, if it’s a house; and bring me back all the information you can.’
‘What’ll yer give me?’ asked Noah, setting down his cup, and looking his employer, eagerly, in the face.
‘What will you give me?’ asked Noah, putting down his cup and looking eagerly at his employer.
‘If you do it well, a pound, my dear. One pound,’ said Fagin, wishing to interest him in the scent as much as possible. ‘And that’s what I never gave yet, for any job of work where there wasn’t valuable consideration to be gained.’
‘If you do it well, one pound, my dear. One pound,’ Fagin said, trying to get him interested in the offer as much as possible. ‘And that’s something I’ve never paid for any job where there wasn’t something valuable to gain.’
‘Who is she?’ inquired Noah.
“Who is she?” asked Noah.
‘One of us.’
"One of us."
‘Oh Lor!’ cried Noah, curling up his nose. ‘Yer doubtful of her, are yer?’
‘Oh Lord!’ cried Noah, scrunching up his nose. ‘You doubt her, do you?’
‘She has found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they are,’ replied Fagin.
'She's made some new friends, my dear, and I need to know who they are,' Fagin replied.
‘I see,’ said Noah. ‘Just to have the pleasure of knowing them, if they’re respectable people, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I’m your man.’
‘I see,’ said Noah. ‘So, just for the enjoyment of knowing them, if they’re decent people, right? Ha! ha! ha! I’m your guy.’
‘I knew you would be,’ cried Fagin, elated by the success of his proposal.
"I knew you would be," shouted Fagin, thrilled by how well his proposal had gone.
‘Of course, of course,’ replied Noah. ‘Where is she? Where am I to wait for her? Where am I to go?’
‘Of course, of course,’ replied Noah. ‘Where is she? Where should I wait for her? Where should I go?’
‘All that, my dear, you shall hear from me. I’ll point her out at the proper time,’ said Fagin. ‘You keep ready, and leave the rest to me.’
‘All that, my dear, you’ll hear from me. I’ll point her out at the right time,’ said Fagin. ‘You stay prepared, and leave the rest to me.’
That night, and the next, and the next again, the spy sat booted and equipped in his carter’s dress: ready to turn out at a word from Fagin. Six nights passed—six long weary nights—and on each, Fagin came home with a disappointed face, and briefly intimated that it was not yet time. On the seventh, he returned earlier, and with an exultation he could not conceal. It was Sunday.
That night, and the next, and the one after that, the spy sat dressed in his carter's outfit, ready to spring into action at Fagin's command. Six nights went by—six long, exhausting nights—and each time, Fagin came home with a disappointed expression and quickly indicated that it wasn't time yet. On the seventh night, he returned earlier, and his excitement was impossible to hide. It was Sunday.
‘She goes abroad to-night,’ said Fagin, ‘and on the right errand, I’m sure; for she has been alone all day, and the man she is afraid of will not be back much before daybreak. Come with me. Quick!’
‘She’s heading out of the country tonight,’ said Fagin, ‘and for the right reasons, I’m sure; she’s been by herself all day, and the guy she’s scared of won’t be back until just before dawn. Come with me. Hurry!’
Noah started up without saying a word; for the Jew was in a state of such intense excitement that it infected him. They left the house stealthily, and hurrying through a labyrinth of streets, arrived at length before a public-house, which Noah recognised as the same in which he had slept, on the night of his arrival in London.
Noah got up without saying anything because the Jew was so intensely excited that it affected him. They quietly left the house and rushed through a maze of streets, finally arriving in front of a pub that Noah recognized as the place where he had slept on the night he arrived in London.
It was past eleven o’clock, and the door was closed. It opened softly on its hinges as Fagin gave a low whistle. They entered, without noise; and the door was closed behind them.
It was past eleven o'clock, and the door was shut. It opened quietly on its hinges as Fagin let out a soft whistle. They stepped inside without making a sound, and the door closed behind them.
Scarcely venturing to whisper, but substituting dumb show for words, Fagin, and the young Jew who had admitted them, pointed out the pane of glass to Noah, and signed to him to climb up and observe the person in the adjoining room.
Scarcely daring to whisper, but using gestures instead of words, Fagin and the young Jew who had let them in pointed to the windowpane for Noah and signaled him to climb up and take a look at the person in the next room.
‘Is that the woman?’ he asked, scarcely above his breath.
‘Is that the woman?’ he asked, barely above a whisper.
Fagin nodded yes.
Fagin nodded.
‘I can’t see her face well,’ whispered Noah. ‘She is looking down, and the candle is behind her.
‘I can’t see her face clearly,’ whispered Noah. ‘She’s looking down, and the candle is behind her.
‘Stay there,’ whispered Fagin. He signed to Barney, who withdrew. In an instant, the lad entered the room adjoining, and, under pretence of snuffing the candle, moved it in the required position, and, speaking to the girl, caused her to raise her face.
‘Stay there,’ Fagin whispered. He motioned to Barney, who stepped back. In a flash, the kid slipped into the next room, and pretending to adjust the candle, he moved it to the right spot, speaking to the girl to make her lift her face.
‘I see her now,’ cried the spy.
‘I see her now,’ shouted the spy.
‘Plainly?’
'Clearly?'
‘I should know her among a thousand.’
‘I could recognize her in a crowd of a thousand.’
He hastily descended, as the room-door opened, and the girl came out. Fagin drew him behind a small partition which was curtained off, and they held their breaths as she passed within a few feet of their place of concealment, and emerged by the door at which they had entered.
He quickly went down as the door to the room opened and the girl came out. Fagin pulled him behind a small partition that was covered by a curtain, and they held their breaths as she walked just a few feet away from their hiding spot and exited through the door they had come in.
‘Hist!’ cried the lad who held the door. ‘Dow.’
‘Hey!’ shouted the boy who was holding the door. ‘Down.’
Noah exchanged a look with Fagin, and darted out.
Noah exchanged a glance with Fagin and rushed out.
‘To the left,’ whispered the lad; ‘take the left had, and keep od the other side.’
‘To the left,’ whispered the boy; ‘take the left hand, and stay 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.
He did just that; and, by the light of the lamps, saw the girl’s disappearing figure, already a bit ahead of him. He moved as close as he thought was safe, staying on the opposite side of the street to better watch her movements. She glanced back nervously a few times, and once stopped to let two men who were right behind her pass by. She seemed to gain confidence as she went on, walking with a steadier and firmer pace. The observer kept the same distance between them and continued to follow, his eyes on her.
CHAPTER XLVI — THE APPOINTMENT KEPT
The church clocks chimed three quarters past eleven, as two figures emerged on London Bridge. One, which advanced with a swift and rapid step, was that of a woman who looked eagerly about her as though in quest of some expected object; the other figure was that of a man, who slunk along in the deepest shadow he could find, and, at some distance, accommodated his pace to hers: stopping when she stopped: and as she moved again, creeping stealthily on: but never allowing himself, in the ardour of his pursuit, to gain upon her footsteps. Thus, they crossed the bridge, from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore, when the woman, apparently disappointed in her anxious scrutiny of the foot-passengers, turned back. The movement was sudden; but he who watched her, was not thrown off his guard by it; for, shrinking into one of the recesses which surmount the piers of the bridge, and leaning over the parapet the better to conceal his figure, he suffered her to pass on the opposite pavement. When she was about the same distance in advance as she had been before, he slipped quietly down, and followed her again. At nearly the centre of the bridge, she stopped. The man stopped too.
The church clocks chimed a quarter past eleven as two figures appeared on London Bridge. One was a woman, moving quickly and looking around eagerly as if searching for something; the other was a man, who stayed in the deepest shadows he could find. He matched his pace to hers from a distance, stopping when she stopped and creeping along when she moved again, but never letting himself get too close. They crossed the bridge from Middlesex to Surrey, but the woman, seemingly disappointed in her anxious examination of the passersby, turned back. The movement was sudden, but the man watching her stayed alert; he shrank into one of the recesses atop the bridge's piers and leaned over the railing to better conceal himself, letting her pass on the opposite side. When she was about the same distance ahead as before, he quietly slipped down and followed her again. Near the center of the bridge, she stopped, and the man stopped too.
It was a very dark night. The day had been unfavourable, and at that hour and place there were few people stirring. Such as there were, hurried quickly past: very possibly without seeing, but certainly without noticing, either the woman, or the man who kept her in view. Their appearance was not calculated to attract the importunate regards of such of London’s destitute population, as chanced to take their way over the bridge that night in search of some cold arch or doorless hovel wherein to lay their heads; they stood there in silence: neither speaking nor spoken to, by any one who passed.
It was a really dark night. The day hadn’t gone well, and at that hour and place, there weren’t many people around. Those who were there hurried past quickly, probably without noticing the woman or the man who kept watching her. Their looks weren't likely to draw the unwanted attention of London’s homeless people, who happened to be crossing the bridge that night looking for a cold arch or a doorless shack to sleep in. They stood there in silence, not talking and not being talked to by anyone passing by.
A mist hung over the river, deepening the red glare of the fires that burnt upon the small craft moored off the different wharfs, and rendering darker and more indistinct the murky buildings on the banks. The old smoke-stained storehouses on either side, rose heavy and dull from the dense mass of roofs and gables, and frowned sternly upon water too black to reflect even their lumbering shapes. The tower of old Saint Saviour’s Church, and the spire of Saint Magnus, so long the giant-warders of the ancient bridge, were visible in the gloom; but the forest of shipping below bridge, and the thickly scattered spires of churches above, were nearly all hidden from sight.
A mist hung over the river, intensifying the red glow from the fires burning on the small boats tied up at various docks, and making the dark buildings on the banks look even more blurred and shadowy. The old, smoke-stained warehouses on either side rose heavily and dully from the thick mass of roofs and gables, glaring down at the water so black it couldn't even reflect their bulky forms. The tower of old Saint Saviour’s Church and the spire of Saint Magnus, long the giant guardians of the ancient bridge, were visible in the darkness; however, the forest of ships beneath the bridge and the scattered church spires above were mostly obscured from view.
The girl had taken a few restless turns to and fro—closely watched meanwhile by her hidden observer—when the heavy bell of St. Paul’s tolled for the death of another day. Midnight had come upon the crowded city. The palace, the night-cellar, the jail, the madhouse: the chambers of birth and death, of health and sickness, the rigid face of the corpse and the calm sleep of the child: midnight was upon them all.
The girl had made a few restless turns back and forth—while being closely watched by her hidden observer—when the heavy bell of St. Paul’s rang to mark the end of another day. Midnight had fallen over the crowded city. The palace, the nightlife, the jail, the asylum: the spaces of birth and death, of health and sickness, the still face of the corpse and the peaceful sleep of the child: midnight was upon them all.
The hour had not struck two minutes, when a young lady, accompanied by a grey-haired gentleman, alighted from a hackney-carriage within a short distance of the bridge, and, having dismissed the vehicle, walked straight towards it. They had scarcely set foot upon its pavement, when the girl started, and immediately made towards them.
The clock had just struck two minutes past when a young woman, with a grey-haired man, got out of a taxi close to the bridge and, after paying the driver, walked directly toward it. They had barely stepped onto the pavement when the girl jumped and quickly headed in their direction.
They walked onward, looking about them with the air of persons who entertained some very slight expectation which had little chance of being realised, when they were suddenly joined by this new associate. They halted with an exclamation of surprise, but suppressed it immediately; for a man in the garments of a countryman came close up—brushed against them, indeed—at that precise moment.
They continued walking, glancing around like people who had a faint hope that was unlikely to be fulfilled, when they were unexpectedly joined by this new companion. They stopped with a gasp of surprise but quickly held it back; for at that exact moment, a man dressed as a farmer came up close—he even bumped into them.
Original
‘Not here,’ said Nancy hurriedly, ‘I am afraid to speak to you here. Come away—out of the public road—down the steps yonder!’
‘Not here,’ Nancy said quickly, ‘I’m afraid to talk to you here. Come on—away from the main road—down those steps over there!’
As she uttered these words, and indicated, with her hand, the direction in which she wished them to proceed, the countryman looked round, and roughly asking what they took up the whole pavement for, passed on.
As she said this and pointed with her hand the way she wanted them to go, the countryman looked around and rudely asked what they were taking up the whole sidewalk for, then walked on.
The steps to which the girl had pointed, were those which, on the Surrey bank, and on the same side of the bridge as Saint Saviour’s Church, form a landing-stairs from the river. To this spot, the man bearing the appearance of a countryman, hastened unobserved; and after a moment’s survey of the place, he began to descend.
The steps the girl had indicated were the ones on the Surrey bank, on the same side of the bridge as Saint Saviour’s Church, that lead down to the river. The man, who looked like a countryman, quickly went there unnoticed; and after checking out the area for a moment, he started to head down.
These stairs are a part of the bridge; they consist of three flights. Just below the end of the second, going down, the stone wall on the left terminates in an ornamental pilaster facing towards the Thames. At this point the lower steps widen: so that a person turning that angle of the wall, is necessarily unseen by any others on the stairs who chance to be above him, if only a step. The countryman looked hastily round, when he reached this point; and as there seemed no better place of concealment, and, the tide being out, there was plenty of room, he slipped aside, with his back to the pilaster, and there waited: pretty certain that they would come no lower, and that even if he could not hear what was said, he could follow them again, with safety.
These stairs are part of the bridge; they have three flights. Just below the end of the second flight, going down, the stone wall on the left ends in an ornamental pillar facing the Thames. At this point, the lower steps broaden out, so a person turning that corner of the wall can’t be seen by anyone on the stairs who happens to be above them, even if it's just one step. The countryman quickly looked around when he got to this spot; since there didn’t seem to be a better place to hide, and with the tide out, there was plenty of space, he stepped aside with his back to the pillar and waited there, pretty sure they wouldn’t come any lower, and that even if he couldn’t hear what was said, he could safely follow them again.
So tardily stole the time in this lonely place, and so eager was the spy to penetrate the motives of an interview so different from what he had been led to expect, that he more than once gave the matter up for lost, and persuaded himself, either that they had stopped far above, or had resorted to some entirely different spot to hold their mysterious conversation. He was on the point of emerging from his hiding-place, and regaining the road above, when he heard the sound of footsteps, and directly afterwards of voices almost close at his ear.
So slowly passed the time in this lonely spot, and the spy was so eager to uncover the reasons for an interview so different from what he had expected, that he almost gave up more than once, convincing himself that they had either moved far above or chosen a completely different place for their secret conversation. He was just about to come out of his hiding spot and return to the road above when he heard footsteps, followed closely by voices right near his ear.
He drew himself straight upright against the wall, and, scarcely breathing, listened attentively.
He straightened up against the wall and, barely breathing, listened carefully.
‘This is far enough,’ said a voice, which was evidently that of the gentleman. ‘I will not suffer the young lady to go any farther. Many people would have distrusted you too much to have come even so far, but you see I am willing to humour you.’
‘This is far enough,’ said a voice, clearly that of the gentleman. ‘I won’t let the young lady go any further. A lot of people would have trusted you too little to come this far, but as you can see, I’m willing to go along with you.’
‘To humour me!’ cried the voice of the girl whom he had followed. ‘You’re considerate, indeed, sir. To humour me! Well, well, it’s no matter.’
‘To humor me!’ cried the voice of the girl he had followed. ‘You’re really thoughtful, sir. To humor me! Well, well, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Why, for what,’ said the gentleman in a kinder tone, ‘for what purpose can you have brought us to this strange place? Why not have let me speak to you, above there, where it is light, and there is something stirring, instead of bringing us to this dark and dismal hole?’
‘Why, for what reason,’ said the gentleman in a gentler tone, ‘why have you brought us to this strange place? Why not let me talk to you up there, where it’s bright and there’s some activity, instead of taking us to this dark and gloomy spot?’
‘I told you before,’ replied Nancy, ‘that I was afraid to speak to you there. I don’t know why it is,’ said the girl, shuddering, ‘but I have such a fear and dread upon me to-night that I can hardly stand.’
‘I told you before,’ replied Nancy, ‘that I was scared to talk to you there. I don’t know what it is,’ said the girl, shivering, ‘but I feel such fear and dread tonight that I can barely stand.’
‘A fear of what?’ asked the gentleman, who seemed to pity her.
‘A fear of what?’ asked the man, who looked at her with sympathy.
‘I scarcely know of what,’ replied the girl. ‘I wish I did. Horrible thoughts of death, and shrouds with blood upon them, and a fear that has made me burn as if I was on fire, have been upon me all day. I was reading a book to-night, to wile the time away, and the same things came into the print.’
‘I barely know why,’ replied the girl. ‘I wish I did. Terrible thoughts of death, and bloodstained shrouds, and a fear that makes me feel like I'm burning up, have been with me all day. I was reading a book tonight, just to pass the time, and the same things showed up in the text.’
‘Imagination,’ said the gentleman, soothing her.
'Imagination,' the man said, comforting her.
‘No imagination,’ replied the girl in a hoarse voice. ‘I’ll swear I saw “coffin” written in every page of the book in large black letters,—aye, and they carried one close to me, in the streets to-night.’
‘No imagination,’ replied the girl in a rough voice. ‘I swear I saw “coffin” written on every page of the book in big black letters,—yeah, and they carried one close to me in the streets tonight.’
‘There is nothing unusual in that,’ said the gentleman. ‘They have passed me often.’
'There's nothing strange about that,' said the gentleman. 'They've passed by me plenty of times.'
‘Real ones,’ rejoined the girl. ‘This was not.’
‘i>Real ones,’ the girl replied. ‘This one wasn’t.’
There was something so uncommon in her manner, that the flesh of the concealed listener crept as he heard the girl utter these words, and the blood chilled within him. He had never experienced a greater relief than in hearing the sweet voice of the young lady as she begged her to be calm, and not allow herself to become the prey of such fearful fancies.
There was something so unusual about her behavior that the hidden listener felt a chill run down his spine as he heard the girl say these words, and he felt a coldness inside him. He had never felt greater relief than when he heard the young lady's sweet voice as she urged her to stay calm and not let herself be consumed by such terrifying thoughts.
‘Speak to her kindly,’ said the young lady to her companion. ‘Poor creature! She seems to need it.’
‘Talk to her nicely,’ said the young lady to her friend. ‘Poor thing! She looks like she needs it.’
‘Your haughty religious people would have held their heads up to see me as I am to-night, and preached of flames and vengeance,’ cried the girl. ‘Oh, dear lady, why ar’n’t those who claim to be God’s own folks as gentle and as kind to us poor wretches as you, who, having youth, and beauty, and all that they have lost, might be a little proud instead of so much humbler?’
‘Your arrogant religious people would have looked down on me as I am tonight and preached about fire and punishment,’ the girl exclaimed. ‘Oh, dear lady, why aren’t those who claim to be God’s own people as gentle and kind to us poor wretches as you, who, having youth, beauty, and everything they’ve lost, could afford to be a little proud instead of so much humbler?’
‘Ah!’ said the gentleman. ‘A Turk turns his face, after washing it well, to the East, when he says his prayers; these good people, after giving their faces such a rub against the World as to take the smiles off, turn with no less regularity, to the darkest side of Heaven. Between the Mussulman and the Pharisee, commend me to the first!’
‘Ah!’ said the gentleman. ‘A Turk turns his face to the East after washing it well when he says his prayers; these good people, after scrubbing their faces against the world enough to wipe the smiles off, turn with just as much consistency to the darkest side of Heaven. Between the Muslim and the Pharisee, I prefer the former!’
These words appeared to be addressed to the young lady, and were perhaps uttered with the view of affording Nancy time to recover herself. The gentleman, shortly afterwards, addressed himself to her.
These words seemed to be directed at the young woman and were maybe said to give Nancy a moment to compose herself. The man, shortly after, turned to her.
‘You were not here last Sunday night,’ he said.
‘You weren't here last Sunday night,’ he said.
‘I couldn’t come,’ replied Nancy; ‘I was kept by force.’
‘I couldn’t come,’ Nancy replied; ‘I was held against my will.’
‘By whom?’
'By who?'
‘Him that I told the young lady of before.’
'Him that I mentioned to the young lady before.'
‘You were not suspected of holding any communication with anybody on the subject which has brought us here to-night, I hope?’ asked the old gentleman.
‘You weren’t thought to be in contact with anyone about the matter that’s brought us here tonight, were you?’ asked the old gentleman.
‘No,’ replied the girl, shaking her head. ‘It’s not very easy for me to leave him unless he knows why; I couldn’t give him a drink of laudanum before I came away.’
‘No,’ replied the girl, shaking her head. ‘It’s not easy for me to leave him unless he knows why; I couldn’t give him a drink of laudanum before I left.’
‘Did he awake before you returned?’ inquired the gentleman.
“Did he wake up before you got back?” the gentleman asked.
‘No; and neither he nor any of them suspect me.’
'No, and neither he nor any of them suspects me.'
‘Good,’ said the gentleman. ‘Now listen to me.’
‘Good,’ said the man. ‘Now listen to me.’
‘I am ready,’ replied the girl, as he paused for a moment.
‘I’m ready,’ replied the girl, as he paused for a moment.
‘This young lady,’ the gentleman began, ‘has communicated to me, and to some other friends who can be safely trusted, what you told her nearly a fortnight since. I confess to you that I had doubts, at first, whether you were to be implicitly relied upon, but now I firmly believe you are.’
‘This young lady,’ the gentleman began, ‘has shared with me, and with a few other trusted friends, what you told her about two weeks ago. I have to admit that initially, I was uncertain if you could be completely trusted, but now I truly believe you can be.’
‘I am,’ said the girl earnestly.
‘I am,’ said the girl sincerely.
‘I repeat that I firmly believe it. To prove to you that I am disposed to trust you, I tell you without reserve, that we propose to extort the secret, whatever it may be, from the fear of this man Monks. But if—if—’ said the gentleman, ‘he cannot be secured, or, if secured, cannot be acted upon as we wish, you must deliver up the Jew.’
‘I want to emphasize that I truly believe this. To show you that I’m willing to trust you, I’ll be honest and tell you that we plan to get the secret, whatever it is, by using this man Monks' fear against him. But if—if—’ said the gentleman, ‘we can’t keep him secure, or if he can’t be handled the way we want, you’ll have to hand over the Jew.’
‘Fagin,’ cried the girl, recoiling.
“Fagin,” the girl exclaimed, pulling back.
‘That man must be delivered up by you,’ said the gentleman.
'You have to hand that man over,' 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.’
‘I won’t do it! I will never do it!’ the girl replied. ‘As much of a devil as he is, and worse than a devil for how he has treated me, I will never do that.’
‘You will not?’ said the gentleman, who seemed fully prepared for this answer.
‘You won’t?’ said the gentleman, who appeared fully ready for this response.
‘Never!’ returned the girl.
"Never!" the girl replied.
‘Tell me why?’
"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.’
‘For one reason,’ the girl replied firmly, ‘for one reason, that the lady knows and will support me in this, I know she will, because I have her promise: and for this other reason, too, that although he has led a bad life, I’ve lived a bad life as well; there are many of us who have taken the same paths together, and I won’t turn against them, even though any of them could have turned against me, but chose not to, bad as they are.’
‘Then,’ said the gentleman, quickly, as if this had been the point he had been aiming to attain; ‘put Monks into my hands, and leave him to me to deal with.’
‘Then,’ said the gentleman, quickly, as if this had been his goal all along; ‘put Monks in my hands, and let me handle him.’
‘What if he turns against the others?’
‘What if he goes against the others?’
‘I promise you that in that case, if the truth is forced from him, there the matter will rest; there must be circumstances in Oliver’s little history which it would be painful to drag before the public eye, and if the truth is once elicited, they shall go scot free.’
‘I promise you that in that case, if the truth comes out, that's where it will end; there must be things in Oliver’s little history that it would be painful to expose to the public, and if the truth is revealed, they will be let off the hook.’
‘And if it is not?’ suggested the girl.
‘And what if it isn’t?’ suggested the girl.
‘Then,’ pursued the gentleman, ‘this Fagin shall not be brought to justice without your consent. In such a case I could show you reasons, I think, which would induce you to yield it.’
‘Then,’ continued the gentleman, ‘this Fagin won’t be brought to justice without your approval. In that case, I believe I could give you reasons that would persuade you to agree.’
‘Have I the lady’s promise for that?’ asked the girl.
‘Do I have the lady's promise for that?’ asked the girl.
‘You have,’ replied Rose. ‘My true and faithful pledge.’
‘You have,’ replied Rose. ‘My true and faithful promise.’
‘Monks would never learn how you knew what you do?’ said the girl, after a short pause.
‘Monks would never get how you knew what you do?’ said the girl, after a short pause.
‘Never,’ replied the gentleman. ‘The intelligence should be brought to bear upon him, that he could never even guess.’
‘Never,’ replied the gentleman. ‘The intelligence should be focused on him, in a way he could never even imagine.’
‘I have been a liar, and among liars from a little child,’ said the girl after another interval of silence, ‘but I will take your words.’
‘I have been a liar, and surrounded by liars since I was a little kid,’ said the girl after another pause, ‘but I will accept what you say.’
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 for a few moments, for the purpose of recalling his features and appearances more forcibly to her recollection.
After getting confirmations from both that it was safe to proceed, she spoke so softly that it was often hard for the listener to catch even the main points of what she was saying, naming and describing the pub from which she had been followed that night. From the way she paused occasionally, it seemed like the gentleman was jotting down some quick notes about the information she was sharing. Once she had thoroughly detailed the locations of the place, the best spot to watch it without drawing attention, and the night and hour when Monks typically visited, she took a moment to think, trying to recall his features and appearance more vividly.
‘He is tall,’ said the girl, ‘and a strongly made man, but not stout; he has a lurking walk; and as he walks, constantly looks over his shoulder, first on one side, and then on the other. Don’t forget that, for his eyes are sunk in his head so much deeper than any other man’s, that you might almost tell him by that alone. His face is dark, like his hair and eyes; and, although he can’t be more than six or eight and twenty, withered and haggard. His lips are often discoloured and disfigured with the marks of teeth; for he has desperate fits, and sometimes even bites his hands and covers them with wounds—why did you start?’ said the girl, stopping suddenly.
‘He’s tall,’ the girl said, ‘and a well-built man, but not overweight; he has a sneaky way of walking and keeps looking over his shoulder, first one side, then the other. Don’t forget that, because his eyes are set deeper in his head than any other man’s, you could almost recognize him just by that. His face is dark, like his hair and eyes; and even though he can’t be more than twenty-six or twenty-eight, he looks withered and worn out. His lips are often discolored and marked from his teeth; he has violent fits and sometimes even bites his hands, leaving them wounded—why did you flinch?’ the girl asked, stopping abruptly.
The gentleman replied, in a hurried manner, that he was not conscious of having done so, and begged her to proceed.
The man replied quickly that he didn't realize he had done that and asked her to continue.
‘Part of this,’ said the girl, ‘I have drawn out from other people at the house I tell you of, for I have only seen him twice, and both times he was covered up in a large cloak. I think that’s all I can give you to know him by. Stay though,’ she added. ‘Upon his throat: so high that you can see a part of it below his neckerchief when he turns his face: there is—’
‘Part of this,’ said the girl, ‘I learned from other people at the house I mentioned, because I’ve only seen him twice, and both times he was wrapped in a big cloak. I think that’s all I can tell you to recognize him by. Wait, though,’ she added. ‘On his throat: so high that you can see a part of it below his neckerchief when he turns his face: there is—’
‘A broad red mark, like a burn or scald?’ cried the gentleman.
“A wide red mark, like a burn or a scald?” exclaimed the gentleman.
‘How’s this?’ said the girl. ‘You know him!’
‘How’s this?’ said the girl. ‘You know him!’
The young lady uttered a cry of surprise, and for a few moments they were so still that the listener could distinctly hear them breathe.
The young woman gasped in surprise, and for a few moments they were so quiet that the listener could clearly hear them breathing.
‘I think I do,’ said the gentleman, breaking silence. ‘I should by your description. We shall see. Many people are singularly like each other. It may not be the same.’
"I think I do," said the man, breaking the silence. "I would based on your description. We'll see. Many people are surprisingly similar to each other. It might not be the same."
As he expressed himself to this effect, with assumed carelessness, he took a step or two nearer the concealed spy, as the latter could tell from the distinctness with which he heard him mutter, ‘It must be he!’
As he said this with a casual attitude, he took a step or two closer to the hidden spy, as the spy could clearly hear him mumble, ‘It must be him!’
‘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?’
‘Now,’ he said, coming back: at least that’s what it sounded like: to the place where he had been standing before, ‘you’ve been really helpful to us, young woman, and I want to make sure you benefit from it. What can I do for you?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Nancy.
"Nothing," Nancy replied.
‘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.’
‘You won’t keep saying that,’ the man replied, his voice filled with kindness that could have softened even the toughest heart. ‘Think about it. Just tell me.’
‘Nothing, sir,’ rejoined the girl, weeping. ‘You can do nothing to help me. I am past all hope, indeed.’
‘Nothing, sir,’ the girl replied, crying. ‘You can’t do anything to help me. I’ve lost all hope, truly.’
‘You put yourself beyond its pale,’ said the gentleman. ‘The past has been a dreary waste with you, of youthful energies mis-spent, and such priceless treasures lavished, as the Creator bestows but once and never grants again, but, for the future, you may hope. I do not say that it is in our power to offer you peace of heart and mind, for that must come as you seek it; but a quiet asylum, either in England, or, if you fear to remain here, in some foreign country, it is not only within the compass of our ability but our most anxious wish to secure you. Before the dawn of morning, before this river wakes to the first glimpse of day-light, you shall be placed as entirely beyond the reach of your former associates, and leave as utter an absence of all trace behind you, as if you were to disappear from the earth this moment. Come! I would not have you go back to exchange one word with any old companion, or take one look at any old haunt, or breathe the very air which is pestilence and death to you. Quit them all, while there is time and opportunity!’
“You’ve put yourself outside its limits,” said the gentleman. “The past has been a bleak waste for you, filled with wasted youthful energy and priceless treasures that the Creator gives only once and never again. But for the future, there’s hope. I’m not saying we can offer you peace of heart and mind, since that’s something you have to find for yourself; however, we can provide you with a safe haven, either in England, or if you’re afraid to stay here, in another country. It’s not only something we can do, but it’s also our heartfelt desire to help you. Before morning dawns, before this river stirs with the first light of day, you will be completely out of reach of your former associates, and you will leave behind no trace, as if you vanished from the earth this very moment. Come! I wouldn’t want you to go back and say one word to any old friend, or take one last look at any familiar place, or even breathe the air that is toxic and deadly for you. Leave them all while there’s still time and a chance!”
‘She will be persuaded now,’ cried the young lady. ‘She hesitates, I am sure.’
‘She will be convinced now,’ exclaimed the young woman. ‘She’s hesitant, I’m sure.’
‘I fear not, my dear,’ said the gentleman.
‘I’m not afraid, my dear,’ said the gentleman.
‘No sir, I do not,’ replied the girl, after a short struggle. ‘I am chained to my old life. I loathe and hate it now, but I cannot leave it. I must have gone too far to turn back,—and yet I don’t know, for if you had spoken to me so, some time ago, I should have laughed it off. But,’ she said, looking hastily round, ‘this fear comes over me again. I must go home.’
‘No, I don’t,’ the girl replied after a brief struggle. ‘I’m stuck in my old life. I can’t stand it now, but I can’t escape it either. I must have gone too far to go back—and yet I don’t know, because if you had said this to me a while ago, I would have laughed it off. But,’ she said, glancing around quickly, ‘this fear comes over me again. I have to go home.’
‘Home!’ repeated the young lady, with great stress upon the word.
‘Home!’ the young lady repeated, emphasizing 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.’
‘Home, miss,’ the girl replied. ‘To the home I’ve built for myself with all my hard work. Let’s say goodbye. I’ll be watched or noticed. Just go! Go! If I’ve done anything for you, all I ask is that you leave me alone and let me go my own way.’
‘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.’
“It’s pointless,” said the gentleman, with a sigh. “We might be endangering her safety by staying here. We may have kept her longer than she expected already.”
‘Yes, yes,’ urged the girl. ‘You have.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ the girl pressed. ‘You have.’
‘What,’ cried the young lady, ‘can be the end of this poor creature’s life!’
‘What,’ cried the young lady, ‘is going to happen to this poor creature’s life?’
‘What!’ repeated the girl. ‘Look before you, lady. Look at that dark water. How many times do you read of such as I who spring into the tide, and leave no living thing, to care for, or bewail them. It may be years hence, or it may be only months, but I shall come to that at last.’
‘What!’ the girl repeated. ‘Look in front of you, lady. Look at that dark water. How many times do you hear about people like me who leap into the tide, leaving nothing alive to care for or mourn them? It could be years from now, or it might only be months, but I will reach that point eventually.’
‘Do not speak thus, pray,’ returned the young lady, sobbing.
‘Please don’t talk like that,’ the young lady replied, crying.
‘It will never reach your ears, dear lady, and God forbid such horrors should!’ replied the girl. ‘Good-night, good-night!’
‘You’ll never hear it, dear lady, and God forbid you ever do!’ replied the girl. ‘Goodnight, goodnight!’
The gentleman turned away.
The man 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.’
‘This purse,’ exclaimed the young lady. ‘Take it for my sake, so you have something to rely on in a time of need and trouble.’
‘No!’ replied the girl. ‘I have not done this for money. Let me have that to think of. And yet—give me something that you have worn: I should like to have something—no, no, not a ring—your gloves or handkerchief—anything that I can keep, as having belonged to you, sweet lady. There. Bless you! God bless you. Good-night, good-night!’
‘No!’ replied the girl. ‘I didn’t do this for money. Let me hold onto that thought. And yet—give me something you’ve worn: I’d like to have something—no, not a ring—your gloves or handkerchief—anything I can keep that has belonged to you, sweet lady. There. Thank you! God bless you. Good night, good night!’
The violent agitation of the girl, and the apprehension of some discovery which would subject her to ill-usage and violence, seemed to determine the gentleman to leave her, as she requested.
The girl's frantic movements and her fear of something that might lead to her being mistreated and harmed seemed to convince the man to leave her, just as she asked.
The sound of retreating footsteps were audible and the voices ceased.
The sound of footsteps fading away could be heard and the voices stopped.
The two figures of the young lady and her companion soon afterwards appeared upon the bridge. They stopped at the summit of the stairs.
The two figures of the young woman and her friend soon appeared on the bridge. They paused at the top of the stairs.
‘Hark!’ cried the young lady, listening. ‘Did she call! I thought I heard her voice.’
‘Hey!’ the young lady exclaimed, 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.’
‘No, my love,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, looking back with sadness. ‘She hasn’t moved, and she won’t until we leave.’
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.
Rose Maylie hesitated, but the old gentleman linked his arm through hers and gently pulled her away. As they vanished from sight, the girl sank down almost completely onto one of the stone steps and let out her heartache in bitter tears.
After a time she arose, and with feeble and tottering steps ascended the street. The astonished listener remained motionless on his post for some minutes afterwards, and having ascertained, with many cautious glances round him, that he was again alone, crept slowly from his hiding-place, and returned, stealthily and in the shade of the wall, in the same manner as he had descended.
After a while, she got up and, taking shaky and unsteady steps, walked up the street. The shocked listener stayed still at his spot for a few minutes, and after making sure, with many careful looks around, that he was alone again, he slowly crept out from his hiding place and returned, quietly and in the shadows of the wall, just like he had come down.
Peeping out, more than once, when he reached the top, to make sure that he was unobserved, Noah Claypole darted away at his utmost speed, and made for the Jew’s house as fast as his legs would carry him.
Peeking out more than once when he reached the top to ensure he was unseen, Noah Claypole took off as fast as he could and headed straight for the Jew's house.
CHAPTER XLVII — FATAL CONSEQUENCES
It was nearly two hours before day-break; that time which in the autumn of the year, may be truly called the dead of night; when the streets are silent and deserted; when even sounds appear to slumber, and profligacy and riot have staggered home to dream; it was at this still and silent hour, that Fagin sat watching in his old lair, with face so distorted and pale, and eyes so red and blood-shot, that he looked less like a man, than like some hideous phantom, moist from the grave, and worried by an evil spirit.
It was almost two hours before dawn; that time in the autumn when you can truly call it the dead of night; when the streets are quiet and empty; when even sounds seem to be asleep, and debauchery and chaos have stumbled home to rest; it was during this calm and quiet hour that Fagin sat watching in his old hideout, with a face so twisted and pale, and eyes so red and bloodshot, that he looked less like a man and more like some terrifying ghost, damp from the grave and tormented by an evil spirit.
He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an old torn coverlet, with his face turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table by his side. His right hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed in thought, he hit his long black nails, he disclosed among his toothless gums a few such fangs as should have been a dog’s or rat’s.
He sat hunched over a cold fireplace, wrapped in a worn-out blanket, with his face turned toward a flickering candle on a nearby table. His right hand was raised to his lips, and as he lost himself in thought, he tapped his long black nails, revealing a few sharp fangs among his toothless gums that looked like they belonged to a dog or a rat.
Stretched upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah Claypole, fast asleep. Towards him the old man sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, and then brought them back again to the candle; which with a long-burnt wick drooping almost double, and hot grease falling down in clots upon the table, plainly showed that his thoughts were busy elsewhere.
Stretched out on a mattress on the floor was Noah Claypole, deep in sleep. The old man occasionally glanced at him for a moment before returning his gaze to the candle, which, with its long-burnt wick drooping almost in half and hot wax dripping in clumps onto the table, clearly indicated that his mind was occupied with something else.
Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow of his notable scheme; hatred of the girl who had dared to palter with strangers; and utter distrust of the sincerity of her refusal to yield him up; bitter disappointment at the loss of his revenge on Sikes; the fear of detection, and ruin, and death; and a fierce and deadly rage kindled by all; these were the passionate considerations which, following close upon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot through the brain of Fagin, as every evil thought and blackest purpose lay working at his heart.
Indeed they were. He was filled with humiliation over the collapse of his grand plan; anger towards the girl who had dared to play games with outsiders; complete distrust of her genuine refusal to hand him over; deep disappointment from missing his chance for revenge on Sikes; fear of being caught, facing ruin, and even death; and a fierce, deadly rage ignited by it all. These were the intense thoughts that raced through Fagin’s mind, each following the other in a rapid, unending swirl, as every wicked thought and darkest intention churned at his core.
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.
He sat without changing his position at all, not appearing to pay any attention to the time, until his keen ear seemed to catch a footstep outside.
‘At last,’ he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. ‘At last!’
‘Finally,’ he muttered, wiping his dry and feverish mouth. ‘Finally!’
The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, and presently returned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a bundle under one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the man displayed the burly frame of Sikes.
The bell rang softly as he talked. He tiptoed upstairs to the door and soon came back with a man wrapped up to his chin, who was holding a bundle under one arm. Sitting down and pulling back his outer coat, the man revealed the stocky build of Sikes.
‘There!’ he said, laying the bundle on the table. ‘Take care of that, and do the most you can with it. It’s been trouble enough to get; I thought I should have been here, three hours ago.’
‘There!’ he said, placing the bundle on the table. ‘Take care of that and do your best with it. It took a lot of effort to get; I thought I would have been here three hours ago.’
Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.
Fagin put his hand on the bundle, locked it in the cupboard, and sat back down without saying a word. However, he kept his eyes on the robber the entire time. Now that they were sitting across from each other, face to face, Fagin stared at him intently, his lips trembling uncontrollably and his face twisted by strong emotions. The housebreaker instinctively pulled back his chair and looked at him in genuine fear.
‘Wot now?’ cried Sikes. ‘Wot do you look at a man so for?’
‘What now?’ cried Sikes. ‘What are you looking at a man like that for?’
Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone.
Fagin raised his right hand and shook his trembling forefinger in the air, but his emotions were so intense that he momentarily lost the ability to speak.
‘Damme!’ said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. ‘He’s gone mad. I must look to myself here.’
‘Damn!’ said Sikes, checking himself with a worried look. ‘He’s gone crazy. I need to be careful 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.’
‘No, no,’ replied Fagin, regaining his voice. ‘It’s not—you’re not the one, Bill. I have no—no complaints against 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.’
‘Oh, you haven’t, have you?’ said Sikes, giving him a serious look and deliberately moving a pistol to a more convenient pocket. ‘That’s fortunate—for one of us. Which one it is doesn’t matter.’
‘I’ve got that to tell you, Bill,’ said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer, ‘will make you worse than me.’
‘I’ve got something to tell you, Bill,’ said Fagin, pulling his chair closer, ‘that will make you worse than me.’
‘Aye?’ returned the robber with an incredulous air. ‘Tell away! Look sharp, or Nance will think I’m lost.’
‘Yeah?’ replied the robber with a skeptical expression. ‘Go ahead! Hurry up, or Nance will think I’m missing.’
‘Lost!’ cried Fagin. ‘She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind, already.’
‘Lost!’ shouted Fagin. ‘She’s pretty much decided that in her own mind already.’
Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew’s face, and reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat collar in his huge hand and shook him soundly.
Sikes stared at the Jew with a puzzled look, and not finding a satisfactory explanation for the mystery there, grabbed his coat collar in his big hand and shook him roughly.
‘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!’
‘Speak, will you!’ he said; ‘or if you don’t, it won’t be for lack of breath. Open your mouth and say what you need to say in plain words. Come on, you loud old mutt, say it!’
‘Suppose that lad that’s laying there—’ Fagin began.
‘Let’s say that kid who’s lying there—’ Fagin started.
Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not previously observed him. ‘Well!’ he said, resuming his former position.
Sikes turned around to where Noah was sleeping, as if he hadn't noticed him before. ‘Well!’ he said, taking his previous position again.
‘Suppose that lad,’ pursued Fagin, ‘was to peach—to blow upon us all—first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with ‘em in the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they might know us by, and the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow upon a plant we’ve all been in, more or less—of his own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and brought to it on bread and water,—but of his own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?’ cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. ‘Suppose he did all this, what then?’
“Imagine that kid,” Fagin continued, “decided to snitch on us—rat us out—first, finding the right people to do it, and then meeting with them on the street to describe what we look like, pointing out every distinctive feature, and the place where we’d be easiest to catch. Let’s say he did all of this, and on top of that, he spilled the beans on a scheme we were all involved in, more or less—of his own choosing; not forced, trapped, coerced by the priest and brought to it on nothing but bread and water—but entirely of his own will; to satisfy his own preferences; sneaking out at night to find those who would be most interested in turning against us, and telling them everything. Do you hear me?” the Jew shouted, his eyes blazing with anger. “If he did all this, what then?”
‘What then!’ replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. ‘If he was left alive till I came, I’d grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs upon his head.’
‘What then!’ replied Sikes, swearing heavily. ‘If he’s still alive when I get there, I’d smash his skull under my boot until it’s as fine as the number of hairs on his head.’
‘What if I did it!’ cried Fagin almost in a yell. ‘I, that knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!’
‘What if I did it!’ Fagin shouted almost as a yell. ‘I know so much and could hang so many people besides myself!’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. ‘I’d do something in the jail that ‘ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I’d fall upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength,’ muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, ‘that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it.’
“I don’t know,” Sikes replied, gritting his teeth and paling at the mere suggestion. “I’d do something in jail that would get me put in chains; and if I was tried with you, I’d attack you right in the courtroom and beat your brains out in front of everyone. I’d have so much strength,” the robber muttered, flexing his muscular arm, “that I could crush your head like a loaded wagon had run over it.”
‘You would?’
"You would?"
‘Would I!’ said the housebreaker. ‘Try me.’
‘You bet I would!’ said the housebreaker. ‘Go ahead, give it a shot.’
‘If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or—’
‘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.’
‘I don’t care who,’ Sikes replied impatiently. ‘Whoever it was, I’d treat them the same.’
Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in.
Fagin stared intently at the robber and, signaling him to be quiet, bent down over the bed on the floor and shook the sleeper to wake him up. Sikes leaned forward in his chair, watching with his hands on his knees, as if he was very curious about what all this questioning and preparation would lead to.
‘Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!’ said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. ‘He’s tired—tired with watching for her so long,—watching for her, Bill.’
‘Bolter, Bolter! Poor kid!’ said Fagin, looking up with a devilish grin and speaking slowly with strong emphasis. ‘He’s worn out—worn out from waiting for her so long,—waiting for her, Bill.’
‘Wot d’ye mean?’ asked Sikes, drawing back.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Sikes, stepping back.
Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him.
Fagin didn't respond, but leaned over the sleeper again and pulled him into a sitting position. After his fake name had been said several times, Noah rubbed his eyes and, giving a big yawn, looked around sleepily.
‘Tell me that again—once again, just for him to hear,’ said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke.
‘Say that again—once more, just so he can hear,’ said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke.
‘Tell yer what?’ asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly.
‘What are you talking about?’ asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself irritably.
‘That about— Nancy,’ said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. ‘You followed her?’
‘That about— Nancy,’ said Fagin, grabbing Sikes by the wrist, as if to stop him from leaving the house before he had heard enough. ‘You followed her?’
‘Yes.’
'Yep.'
‘To London Bridge?’
'To London Bridge?'
‘Yes.’
‘Yes.’
‘Where she met two people.’
"Where she met two people."
‘So she did.’
"Yep, she did."
‘A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did—and to describe him, which she did—and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did—and where it could be best watched from, which she did—and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur—she did—did she not?’ cried Fagin, half mad with fury.
‘A gentleman and a lady she had approached on her own before, who asked her to cut ties with all her friends, starting with Monks, which she did—and to describe him, which she did—and to tell her where we meet and go, which she did—and where it could be best observed from, which she did—and what time the people arrived there, which she did. She did all of this. She recounted everything word for word without any threats, without a complaint—she did—didn’t she?’ shouted Fagin, half furious with rage.
‘All right,’ replied Noah, scratching his head. ‘That’s just what it was!’
‘Okay,’ replied Noah, scratching his head. ‘That’s exactly what it was!’
‘What did they say, about last Sunday?’
‘What did they say about last Sunday?’
‘About last Sunday!’ replied Noah, considering. ‘Why I told yer that before.’
‘About last Sunday!’ replied Noah, thinking. ‘I told you that before.’
‘Again. Tell it again!’ cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips.
‘Again. Tell it again!’ shouted Fagin, tightening his grip on Sikes, and waving his other hand in the air 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.’
‘They asked her,’ said Noah, who, as he became more alert, started to realize who Sikes was, ‘they asked her why she didn’t come last Sunday, like she promised. She said she couldn’t.’
‘Why—why? Tell him that.’
“Why—why? Tell him that.”
‘Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before,’ replied Noah.
‘Because Bill, the man she had mentioned before, was making her stay home against her will,’ replied Noah.
‘What more of him?’ cried Fagin. ‘What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that.’
‘What else about him?’ shouted Fagin. ‘What else about the guy she had mentioned before? Tell him that, tell him that.’
‘Why, that she couldn’t very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to,’ said Noah; ‘and so the first time she went to see the lady, she—ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did—she gave him a drink of laudanum.’
‘Well, she couldn’t just go outside without him knowing where she was headed,’ said Noah; ‘and so the first time she went to see the lady, she—ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said that, it really did—she gave him a drink of laudanum.’
‘Hell’s fire!’ cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. ‘Let me go!’
‘Hell’s fire!’ shouted Sikes, breaking away angrily 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.
Flinging the old man away, he rushed out of the room and sprinted, frantically and angrily, up the stairs.
‘Bill, Bill!’ cried Fagin, following him hastily. ‘A word. Only a word.’
‘Bill, Bill!’ shouted Fagin, rushing after him. ‘Just 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.
The word wouldn’t have been spoken if the burglar hadn’t been unable to open the door. He was using pointless curses and force when the Jew arrived, out of breath.
‘Let me out,’ said Sikes. ‘Don’t speak to me; it’s not safe. Let me out, I say!’
‘Let me out,’ said Sikes. ‘Don’t talk to me; it’s not safe. Let me out, I say!’
‘Hear me speak a word,’ rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. ‘You won’t be—’
‘Listen to me for a moment,’ Fagin replied, placing his hand on the lock. ‘You won’t be—’
‘Well,’ replied the other.
"Sure," replied the other.
‘You won’t be—too—violent, Bill?’
"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.
The day was breaking, and there was enough light for the men to see each other’s faces. They exchanged a quick glance; there was a fire in both of their eyes that couldn't 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.’
‘I mean,’ said Fagin, indicating that he felt all pretense was now pointless, ‘not too aggressive for safety. Be clever, Bill, and not too reckless.’
Sikes made no reply; but, pulling open the door, of which Fagin had turned the lock, dashed into the silent streets.
Sikes didn’t answer; instead, he yanked open the door that Fagin had locked and rushed into the quiet 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.
Without pausing for a moment or thinking it over; without glancing to the right or left, or looking up at the sky, or down at the ground, but staring straight ahead with fierce determination: his teeth clenched so tightly that his jaw looked like it might burst through his skin; the robber continued on his fast path, not saying a word or loosening a muscle, until he got to his own door. He opened it quietly with a key; walked lightly up the stairs; and when he entered his own room, he double-locked the door and pushed a heavy table against it, then pulled 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.
The girl was lying there, half-dressed. He had woken her from her sleep, and she got up with a flustered and surprised expression.
‘Get up!’ said the man.
"Get up!" the man said.
‘It is you, Bill!’ said the girl, with an expression of pleasure at his return.
‘It’s you, Bill!’ said the girl, looking pleased to see him back.
‘It is,’ was the reply. ‘Get up.’
‘It is,’ came the response. ‘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.
There was a candle burning, but the man quickly pulled it out of the candlestick and threw it under the grate. Noticing the dim light of early day outside, the girl got up to open the curtain.
‘Let it be,’ said Sikes, thrusting his hand before her. ‘There’s enough light for wot I’ve got to do.’
‘Let it be,’ said Sikes, holding his hand out in front of her. ‘There’s plenty of light for what I need to do.’
‘Bill,’ said the girl, in the low voice of alarm, ‘why do you look like that at me!’
‘Bill,’ the girl said in a low, alarmed voice, ‘why do you look at me like that?’
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.
The robber sat staring at her for a few seconds, breathing heavily; then, grabbing her by the head and throat, he pulled her into the middle of the room. After glancing at the door, he put his large hand over her mouth.
‘Bill, Bill!’ gasped the girl, wrestling with the strength of mortal fear,—‘I—I won’t scream or cry—not once—hear me—speak to me—tell me what I have done!’
‘Bill, Bill!’ gasped the girl, struggling against the grip of pure terror,—‘I—I won’t scream or cry—not at all—listen to me—talk to me—tell me what I did!’
‘You know, you she devil!’ returned the robber, suppressing his breath. ‘You were watched to-night; every word you said was heard.’
‘You know, you she-devil!’ the robber shot back, trying to catch his breath. ‘You were watched tonight; everything you said was heard.’
‘Then spare my life for the love of Heaven, as I spared yours,’ rejoined the girl, clinging to him. ‘Bill, dear Bill, you cannot have the heart to kill me. Oh! think of all I have given up, only this one night, for you. You shall have time to think, and save yourself this crime; I will not loose my hold, you cannot throw me off. Bill, Bill, for dear God’s sake, for your own, for mine, stop before you spill my blood! I have been true to you, upon my guilty soul I have!’
“Then please spare my life for Heaven’s sake, just like I spared yours,” the girl responded, holding onto him tightly. “Bill, my dear Bill, you can’t possibly have the heart to kill me. Oh! Think of everything I’ve given up, just for this one night, for you. You will have time to think and avoid committing this crime; I won’t let go, you can’t shake me off. Bill, Bill, for God’s sake, for your own good, for mine, stop before you spill my blood! I have been loyal to you, I swear on 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.
The man struggled fiercely to free his arms, but the girl had them wrapped tightly around him, and no matter how hard he tried to pull them away, he couldn't break loose.
‘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!’
‘Bill,’ the girl said, trying to rest her head on his chest, ‘the gentleman and that lovely lady told me tonight about a home in a foreign country where I could spend my days in peace and quiet. I want to see them again and beg them, on my knees, to show you the same kindness and mercy; and then let’s both leave this awful place, live better lives far apart, and forget how we’ve lived, except in our prayers, and never see each other again. It’s never too late to change. They told me that—I feel it now—but we need 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.
The burglar managed to free one arm and grabbed his gun. Even in the heat of his rage, he realized that firing it would surely get him caught; he struck the upturned face that was almost close to his own twice with all the strength he could muster.
She staggered and fell: nearly blinded with the blood that rained down from a deep gash in her forehead; but raising herself, with difficulty, on her knees, drew from her bosom a white handkerchief—Rose Maylie’s own—and holding it up, in her folded hands, as high towards Heaven as her feeble strength would allow, breathed one prayer for mercy to her Maker.
She stumbled and fell, nearly blinded by the blood pouring from a deep cut on her forehead. Struggling to lift herself onto her knees, she took out a white handkerchief from her bosom—Rose Maylie’s own—and held it up between her hands as high as her weak strength would allow, whispering a prayer for mercy to her Creator.
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.
It was a horrifying sight. The murderer staggered back against the wall, covering his eyes with his hand, grabbed a heavy club, and brought it down on her.
CHAPTER XLVIII — THE FLIGHT OF SIKES
Of all bad deeds that, under cover of the darkness, had been committed within wide London’s bounds since night hung over it, that was the worst. Of all the horrors that rose with an ill scent upon the morning air, that was the foulest and most cruel.
Of all the terrible things that had taken place in darkened London since night fell, that was the worst. Of all the horrors that filled the morning air with a bad stench, that was the most disgusting and brutal.
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!
The sun—the bright sun that brings not just light, but also new life, hope, and freshness to humanity—burst into the bustling city in clear and radiant glory. Through expensive stained glass and patched-up windows, through cathedral domes and crumbling crevices, it cast its even light. It illuminated the room where the murdered woman lay. It did. He tried to block it out, but it kept streaming in. If the scene had been horrific in the dreary morning, what was it now in all that brilliant light!
He had not moved; he had been afraid to stir. There had been a moan and motion of the hand; and, with terror added to rage, he had struck and struck again. Once he threw a rug over it; but it was worse to fancy the eyes, and imagine them moving towards him, than to see them glaring upward, as if watching the reflection of the pool of gore that quivered and danced in the sunlight on the ceiling. He had plucked it off again. And there was the body—mere flesh and blood, no more—but such flesh, and so much blood!
He hadn’t moved; he was too scared to stir. There was a moan and a flick of the hand; with rage mixed with terror, he struck and struck again. At one point, he threw a rug over it, but it felt worse to imagine the eyes moving toward him than to see them glaring up as if they were watching the pool of blood that quivered and danced in the sunlight on the ceiling. He pulled the rug off again. And there lay the body—just flesh and blood, nothing more—but what flesh, and so much blood!
He struck a light, kindled a fire, and thrust the club into it. There was hair upon the end, which blazed and shrunk into a light cinder, and, caught by the air, whirled up the chimney. Even that frightened him, sturdy as he was; but he held the weapon till it broke, and then piled it on the coals to burn away, and smoulder into ashes. He washed himself, and rubbed his clothes; there were spots that would not be removed, but he cut the pieces out, and burnt them. How those stains were dispersed about the room! The very feet of the dog were bloody.
He struck a match, lit a fire, and pushed the club into it. There was hair on the end, which flared up and shrank into a glowing ember, and, carried by the air, whirled up the chimney. Even that scared him, tough as he was; but he held the weapon until it broke, then tossed it on the coals to burn away and smolder into ashes. He cleaned himself up and brushed off his clothes; there were stains that wouldn't come out, so he cut those pieces out and burned them. Just look at how those stains were scattered around the room! The dog’s paws were bloody.
All this time he had, never once, turned his back upon the corpse; no, not for a moment. Such preparations completed, he moved, backward, towards the door: dragging the dog with him, lest he should soil his feet anew and carry out new evidence of the crime into the streets. He shut the door softly, locked it, took the key, and left the house.
All this time, he never once turned his back on the corpse; not even for a moment. With those preparations finished, he moved backward toward the door, dragging the dog with him to avoid getting his feet dirty again and leaving any new evidence of the crime on the streets. He closed the door quietly, locked it, took the key, and left the house.
He crossed over, and glanced up at the window, to be sure that nothing was visible from the outside. There was the curtain still drawn, which she would have opened to admit the light she never saw again. It lay nearly under there. He knew that. God, how the sun poured down upon the very spot!
He crossed over and looked up at the window to make sure that nothing could be seen from outside. The curtain was still drawn, which she would have opened to let in the light she never saw again. It was almost lying right beneath it. He knew that. Wow, how the sun poured down on that very spot!
The glance was instantaneous. It was a relief to have got free of the room. He whistled on the dog, and walked rapidly away.
The glance was quick. It felt good to be out of the room. He called the dog and walked quickly away.
He went through Islington; strode up the hill at Highgate on which stands the stone in honour of Whittington; turned down to Highgate Hill, unsteady of purpose, and uncertain where to go; struck off to the right again, almost as soon as he began to descend it; and taking the foot-path across the fields, skirted Caen Wood, and so came on Hampstead Heath. Traversing the hollow by the Vale of Heath, he mounted the opposite bank, and crossing the road which joins the villages of Hampstead and Highgate, made along the remaining portion of the heath to the fields at North End, in one of which he laid himself down under a hedge, and slept.
He walked through Islington, climbed the hill at Highgate where the stone honoring Whittington stands, and then headed down Highgate Hill, unsure of his direction and where to go next. He veered off to the right almost as soon as he started to descend, took the footpath across the fields, went around Caen Wood, and eventually arrived at Hampstead Heath. Moving through the dip by the Vale of Heath, he climbed the opposite slope, crossed the road that connects the villages of Hampstead and Highgate, and continued along the rest of the heath to the fields at North End, where he lay down under a hedge and fell asleep.
Soon he was up again, and away,—not far into the country, but back towards London by the high-road—then back again—then over another part of the same ground as he already traversed—then wandering up and down in fields, and lying on ditches’ brinks to rest, and starting up to make for some other spot, and do the same, and ramble on again.
Soon he was up again and off—not far into the countryside, but back toward London along the main road—then back again—then crossing another part of the same land he had already covered—then wandering up and down in fields, resting on the edges of ditches, getting up to head for another spot, doing the same, and then wandering on again.
Where could he go, that was near and not too public, to get some meat and drink? Hendon. That was a good place, not far off, and out of most people’s way. Thither he directed his steps,—running sometimes, and sometimes, with a strange perversity, loitering at a snail’s pace, or stopping altogether and idly breaking the hedges with a stick. But when he got there, all the people he met—the very children at the doors—seemed to view him with suspicion. Back he turned again, without the courage to purchase bit or drop, though he had tasted no food for many hours; and once more he lingered on the Heath, uncertain where to go.
Where could he go that was nearby and not too crowded to grab some food and drink? Hendon. That seemed like a good spot, not far away and away from most people. He made his way there—sometimes running, and sometimes, in a strange twist, dragging his feet, or stopping completely to idly break the hedges with a stick. But when he arrived, everyone he encountered—even the kids at the front doors—looked at him with suspicion. He turned back, too timid to buy a bite or a drink, even though he hadn’t eaten in hours; and once again, he lingered on the Heath, unsure of where to go next.
He wandered over miles and miles of ground, and still came back to the old place. Morning and noon had passed, and the day was on the wane, and still he rambled to and fro, and up and down, and round and round, and still lingered about the same spot. At last he got away, and shaped his course for Hatfield.
He wandered over miles and miles of land, yet kept returning to the same old place. Morning and noon had come and gone, and the day was winding down, but he continued to stroll back and forth, up and down, and around and around, still hanging around that same spot. Finally, he managed to leave and headed toward Hatfield.
It was nine o’clock at night, when the man, quite tired out, and the dog, limping and lame from the unaccustomed exercise, turned down the hill by the church of the quiet village, and plodding along the little street, crept into a small public-house, whose scanty light had guided them to the spot. There was a fire in the tap-room, and some country-labourers were drinking before it.
It was nine o'clock at night when the man, exhausted, and the dog, limping and sore from the unusual exercise, went down the hill by the church of the quiet village. They trudged along the small street and entered a little pub, whose faint light had led them there. There was a fire in the bar, and some local workers were sitting in front of it, drinking.
They made room for the stranger, but he sat down in the furthest corner, and ate and drank alone, or rather with his dog: to whom he cast a morsel of food from time to time.
They made space for the stranger, but he sat in the farthest corner, eating and drinking alone, or rather with his dog, to which he occasionally tossed a piece of food.
The conversation of the men assembled here, turned upon the neighbouring land, and farmers; and when those topics were exhausted, upon the age of some old man who had been buried on the previous Sunday; the young men present considering him very old, and the old men present declaring him to have been quite young—not older, one white-haired grandfather said, than he was—with ten or fifteen year of life in him at least—if he had taken care; if he had taken care.
The conversation among the men gathered here shifted to the nearby land and farmers; when those topics ran out, they began discussing the age of an old man who had been buried the previous Sunday. The younger men thought he was very old, while the older men insisted he was quite young—not older, one white-haired grandfather said, than he was—with at least ten or fifteen more years of life in him—if he had taken care; if he had taken care.
There was nothing to attract attention, or excite alarm in this. The robber, after paying his reckoning, sat silent and unnoticed in his corner, and had almost dropped asleep, when he was half wakened by the noisy entrance of a new comer.
There was nothing here to draw attention or raise concern. The robber, after settling his bill, sat quietly in his corner, nearly falling asleep, when he was partially awakened by the loud arrival of a newcomer.
This was an antic fellow, half pedlar and half mountebank, who travelled about the country on foot to vend hones, strops, razors, wash-balls, harness-paste, medicine for dogs and horses, cheap perfumery, cosmetics, and such-like wares, which he carried in a case slung to his back. His entrance was the signal for various homely jokes with the countrymen, which slackened not until he had made his supper, and opened his box of treasures, when he ingeniously contrived to unite business with amusement.
This was a quirky guy, part seller and part showman, who walked around the countryside selling sharpening stones, strops, razors, face wash, horse and dog medicine, inexpensive perfumes, cosmetics, and similar goods, all packed in a case strapped to his back. His arrival sparked a lot of friendly jokes with the locals, which didn't stop until he had his dinner and opened his treasure box, where he cleverly mixed business with fun.
‘And what be that stoof? Good to eat, Harry?’ asked a grinning countryman, pointing to some composition-cakes in one corner.
'And what’s that stuff? 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, any stains, all come out at one rub with the infallible and invaluable composition. If a lady stains her honour, she has only need to swallow one cake and she’s cured at once—for it’s poison. If a gentleman wants to prove this, he has only need to bolt one little square, and he has put it beyond question—for it’s quite as satisfactory as a pistol-bullet, and a great deal nastier in the flavour, consequently the more credit in taking it. One penny a square. With all these virtues, one penny a square!’
‘This,’ said the guy, pulling one out, ‘this is the ultimate and priceless solution for getting rid of all kinds of stains, rust, dirt, mildew, spots, or splatters, from silk, satin, linen, cambric, cloth, crape, fabric, carpet, merino, muslin, bombazine, or wool. Wine stains, fruit stains, beer stains, water stains, paint stains, pitch stains—any stains, all come out with just one rub of this ultimate and priceless solution. If a lady tarnishes her reputation, she just has to swallow one cake and she’s fixed right away—because it’s poison. If a guy wants to test this, he just needs to down one small square, and it’s indisputable—because it’s just as effective as a bullet, and a lot nastier in taste, so there's more credit in handling it. One penny per square. With all these benefits, just one penny per square!’
There were two buyers directly, and more of the listeners plainly hesitated. The vendor observing this, increased in loquacity.
There were two buyers right there, while the other listeners clearly hesitated. The seller, noticing this, became more talkative.
‘It’s all bought up as fast as it can be made,’ said the fellow. ‘There are fourteen water-mills, six steam-engines, and a galvanic battery, always a-working upon it, and they can’t make it fast enough, though the men work so hard that they die off, and the widows is pensioned directly, with twenty pound a-year for each of the children, and a premium of fifty for twins. One penny a square! Two half-pence is all the same, and four farthings is received with joy. One penny a square! Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains, mud-stains, blood-stains! Here is a stain upon the hat of a gentleman in company, that I’ll take clean out, before he can order me a pint of ale.’
“It’s all being bought up as quickly as it can be made,” the guy said. “There are fourteen water mills, six steam engines, and a galvanic battery, always working on it, and they can’t produce it fast enough, even though the workers are grinding so hard that they’re dropping dead. The widows get a pension right away, with twenty pounds a year for each child, plus a bonus of fifty for twins. One penny a square! Two half-pennies are the same, and four farthings are welcomed with joy. One penny a square! Wine stains, fruit stains, beer stains, water stains, paint stains, pitch stains, mud stains, blood stains! Here’s a stain on a gentleman’s hat in company that I’ll get out before he can order me a pint of ale.”
‘Hah!’ cried Sikes starting up. ‘Give that back.’
‘Hah!’ shouted Sikes, jumping up. ‘Give that back.’
‘I’ll take it clean out, sir,’ replied the man, winking to the company, ‘before you can come across the room to get it. Gentlemen all, observe the dark stain upon this gentleman’s hat, no wider than a shilling, but thicker than a half-crown. Whether it is a wine-stain, fruit-stain, beer-stain, water-stain, paint-stain, pitch-stain, mud-stain, or blood-stain—’
‘I’ll take it out right away, sir,’ the man replied, winking at the others, ‘before you can cross the room to grab it. Gentlemen, take a look at this dark mark on this gentleman’s hat, no wider than a dollar, but thicker than a two-dollar coin. Whether it’s 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.
The man didn’t get any further, because Sikes, with a terrible curse, knocked over the table and ripped the hat off him before bursting 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.
With the same twisted emotions and uncertainty that had gripped him all day, the murderer, realizing he wasn't being followed and that people probably thought he was just some drunken, moody guy, turned back toward the town. He moved away from the bright lights of a stagecoach parked in the street and was walking by when he recognized the mail from London, noticing it was at the small post office. He had a feeling about what was going to happen next, but he crossed the street 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.
The guard was standing at the door, waiting for the letter-bag. A man, dressed like a gamekeeper, approached at that moment and handed him a basket that was already set out on the pavement.
‘That’s for your people,’ said the guard. ‘Now, look alive in there, will you. Damn that ‘ere bag, it warn’t ready night afore last; this won’t do, you know!’
‘That’s for your people,’ said the guard. ‘Now, stay alert in there, alright? Damn that bag, it wasn’t ready the night before last; this isn’t acceptable, you know!’
‘Anything new up in town, Ben?’ asked the game-keeper, drawing back to the window-shutters, the better to admire the horses.
‘Anything new in town, Ben?’ asked the gamekeeper, pulling back the window shutters to get a better look at the horses.
‘No, nothing that I knows on,’ replied the man, pulling on his gloves. ‘Corn’s up a little. I heerd talk of a murder, too, down Spitalfields way, but I don’t reckon much upon it.’
‘No, nothing that I know of,’ replied the man, pulling on his gloves. ‘Corn’s gone up a bit. I heard talk of a murder too, down Spitalfields way, but I don’t think much of it.’
‘Oh, that’s quite true,’ said a gentleman inside, who was looking out of the window. ‘And a dreadful murder it was.’
‘Oh, that’s totally true,’ said a man inside, who was looking out of the window. ‘And it was a terrible murder.’
‘Was it, sir?’ rejoined the guard, touching his hat. ‘Man or woman, pray, sir?’
‘Was it, sir?’ the guard replied, tipping his hat. ‘Was it a man or a woman, please, sir?’
‘A woman,’ replied the gentleman. ‘It is supposed—’
‘A woman,’ replied the man. ‘It is thought—’
‘Now, Ben,’ replied the coachman impatiently.
‘Now, Ben,’ the coachman replied impatiently.
‘Damn that ‘ere bag,’ said the guard; ‘are you gone to sleep in there?’
‘Damn that bag,’ said the guard; ‘are you asleep in there?’
‘Coming!’ cried the office keeper, running out.
‘Coming!’ shouted the office manager, rushing out.
‘Coming,’ growled the guard. ‘Ah, and so’s the young ‘ooman of property that’s going to take a fancy to me, but I don’t know when. Here, give hold. All ri—ight!’
‘Coming,’ growled the guard. ‘Ah, and so is the young woman of property who’s going to take an interest in me, but I don’t know when. Here, hold this. All right!’
The horn sounded a few cheerful notes, and the coach was gone.
The horn played a few happy notes, and the coach drove away.
Sikes remained standing in the street, apparently unmoved by what he had just heard, and agitated by no stronger feeling than a doubt where to go. At length he went back again, and took the road which leads from Hatfield to St. Albans.
Sikes stood in the street, seemingly unaffected by what he had just heard, feeling only uncertainty about where to go. Eventually, he turned back and took the road from Hatfield to St. Albans.
He went on doggedly; but as he left the town behind him, and plunged into the solitude and darkness of the road, he felt a dread and awe creeping upon him which shook him to the core. Every object before him, substance or shadow, still or moving, took the semblance of some fearful thing; but these fears were nothing compared to the sense that haunted him of that morning’s ghastly figure following at his heels. He could trace its shadow in the gloom, supply the smallest item of the outline, and note how stiff and solemn it seemed to stalk along. He could hear its garments rustling in the leaves, and every breath of wind came laden with that last low cry. If he stopped it did the same. If he ran, it followed—not running too: that would have been a relief: but like a corpse endowed with the mere machinery of life, and borne on one slow melancholy wind that never rose or fell.
He pushed on determinedly; but as he left the town behind and entered the isolation and darkness of the road, he felt a sense of dread and awe creeping up on him that shook him to his core. Every object in front of him, whether solid or shadowy, still or moving, resembled something frightening; but these fears were nothing compared to the chilling feeling of that morning's ghastly figure trailing him. He could make out its shadow in the darkness, fill in every tiny detail of the outline, and observe how rigid and serious it appeared as it walked. He could hear its clothes rustling in the leaves, and every gust of wind carried that last low wail. If he stopped, it did too. If he ran, it followed—not running too; that would have been a relief—but like a corpse given the mere mechanics of life, moved by a single slow, melancholy breeze that never rose or fell.
At times, he turned, with desperate determination, resolved to beat this phantom off, though it should look him dead; but the hair rose on his head, and his blood stood still, for it had turned with him and was behind him then. He had kept it before him that morning, but it was behind now—always. He leaned his back against a bank, and felt that it stood above him, visibly out against the cold night-sky. He threw himself upon the road—on his back upon the road. At his head it stood, silent, erect, and still—a living grave-stone, with its epitaph in blood.
At times, he turned around, filled with desperate determination, determined to drive this phantom away, even if it looked him straight in the eye; but his hair stood on end, and his heart froze, because it had shifted with him and was now behind him—always. He had kept it in front of him that morning, but now it was behind—always. He leaned against a bank and felt its presence looming above him, clearly outlined against the cold night sky. He threw himself onto the road—lying flat on his back. At his head, it stood silently, erect and still—a living gravestone, with its epitaph written in blood.
Let no man talk of murderers escaping justice, and hint that Providence must sleep. There were twenty score of violent deaths in one long minute of that agony of fear.
Let no one claim that murderers are getting away with it, implying that fate must be indifferent. In just one lengthy minute of that terrifying agony, there were two hundred violent deaths.
There was a shed in a field he passed, that offered shelter for the night. Before the door, were three tall poplar trees, which made it very dark within; and the wind moaned through them with a dismal wail. He could not walk on, till daylight came again; and here he stretched himself close to the wall—to undergo new torture.
There was a shed in a field he walked by that provided shelter for the night. In front of the door stood three tall poplar trees that cast it into deep shadow; the wind sighed through them with a gloomy sound. He could not move on until daylight returned, so he lay down close to the wall—to endure fresh misery.
For now, a vision came before him, as constant and more terrible than that from which he had escaped. Those widely staring eyes, so lustreless and so glassy, that he had better borne to see them than think upon them, appeared in the midst of the darkness: light in themselves, but giving light to nothing. There were but two, but they were everywhere. If he shut out the sight, there came the room with every well-known object—some, indeed, that he would have forgotten, if he had gone over its contents from memory—each in its accustomed place. The body was in its place, and its eyes were as he saw them when he stole away. He got up, and rushed into the field without. The figure was behind him. He re-entered the shed, and shrunk down once more. The eyes were there, before he had laid himself along.
For now, a vision appeared before him, constant and even more terrifying than what he had escaped. Those wide-open eyes, so dull and glassy, were harder to think about than to see. They emerged from the darkness: they had their own light but didn’t illuminate anything around them. There were only two, but they felt like they were everywhere. If he tried to shut out the sight, he saw the room with every familiar object—some he might have forgotten if he had tried to recall them—each in its usual spot. The body was in its place, and its eyes were just as he remembered them when he slipped away. He got up and rushed outside into the field. The figure was behind him. He went back into the shed and crouched down again. The eyes were there before he even lay down.
And here he remained in such terror as none but he can know, trembling in every limb, and the cold sweat starting from every pore, when suddenly there arose upon the night-wind the noise of distant shouting, and the roar of voices mingled in alarm and wonder. Any sound of men in that lonely place, even though it conveyed a real cause of alarm, was something to him. He regained his strength and energy at the prospect of personal danger; and springing to his feet, rushed into the open air.
And there he stayed, filled with a fear that only he could understand, shaking in every part of his body, with a cold sweat breaking out from every pore, when suddenly he heard the distant shouts carried by the night breeze, and the loud mix of voices filled with panic and curiosity. Any sound of people in that isolated spot, even if it signaled true danger, meant something to him. He found his strength and energy at the thought of personal threat; and jumping to his feet, he dashed into the fresh air.
The broad sky seemed on fire. Rising into the air with showers of sparks, and rolling one above the other, were sheets of flame, lighting the atmosphere for miles round, and driving clouds of smoke in the direction where he stood. The shouts grew louder as new voices swelled the roar, and he could hear the cry of Fire! mingled with the ringing of an alarm-bell, the fall of heavy bodies, and the crackling of flames as they twined round some new obstacle, and shot aloft as though refreshed by food. The noise increased as he looked. There were people there—men and women—light, bustle. It was like new life to him. He darted onward—straight, headlong—dashing through brier and brake, and leaping gate and fence as madly as his dog, who careered with loud and sounding bark before him.
The vast sky looked like it was on fire. Columns of flames rose up, showering sparks everywhere, rolling over each other and lighting up the air for miles around while pushing clouds of smoke toward where he was standing. The shouts became louder as more voices joined the chaos, and he could hear the cry of "Fire!" mixed with the ringing of an alarm bell, the thud of heavy objects falling, and the crackling of flames wrapping around some new obstacle and shooting up into the sky as if rejuvenated. The noise intensified as he watched. There were people—men and women—moving quickly and bustling about. It felt like new life to him. He rushed forward—straight, headlong—charging through thorns and underbrush, vaulting over gates and fences as wildly as his dog, which barked loudly and raced ahead of him.
He came upon the spot. There were half-dressed figures tearing to and fro, some endeavouring to drag the frightened horses from the stables, others driving the cattle from the yard and out-houses, and others coming laden from the burning pile, amidst a shower of falling sparks, and the tumbling down of red-hot beams. The apertures, where doors and windows stood an hour ago, disclosed a mass of raging fire; walls rocked and crumbled into the burning well; the molten lead and iron poured down, white hot, upon the ground. Women and children shrieked, and men encouraged each other with noisy shouts and cheers. The clanking of the engine-pumps, and the spurting and hissing of the water as it fell upon the blazing wood, added to the tremendous roar. He shouted, too, till he was hoarse; and flying from memory and himself, plunged into the thickest of the throng. Hither and thither he dived that night: now working at the pumps, and now hurrying through the smoke and flame, but never ceasing to engage himself wherever noise and men were thickest. Up and down the ladders, upon the roofs of buildings, over floors that quaked and trembled with his weight, under the lee of falling bricks and stones, in every part of that great fire was he; but he bore a charmed life, and had neither scratch nor bruise, nor weariness nor thought, till morning dawned again, and only smoke and blackened ruins remained.
He arrived at the scene. There were half-dressed people running everywhere, some trying to pull the terrified horses from the stables, others driving the cattle from the yard and outbuildings, and others coming back loaded with items from the burning pile, amidst a shower of falling sparks and crashing red-hot beams. The openings where doors and windows had been just an hour ago revealed a mass of roaring flames; walls shook and crumbled into the blaze; molten lead and iron poured down, glowing white-hot, onto the ground. Women and children were screaming, and men were rallying each other with loud shouts and cheers. The noise of the engine-pumps clanking, along with the spattering and hissing of the water hitting the blazing wood, added to the overwhelming racket. He shouted as well, until his voice was hoarse, and, losing himself in the chaos, jumped right into the heart of the crowd. That night, he darted back and forth: sometimes working at the pumps, sometimes rushing through the smoke and flames, but always putting himself at the center of the noise and crowd. Up and down the ladders, on the roofs of buildings, across floors that shook and trembled beneath him, sheltered from falling bricks and stones, he was everywhere in that great fire; but he seemed invincible, coming away without a scratch or bruise, without fatigue or worry, until morning dawned again, leaving only smoke and charred ruins behind.
This mad excitement over, there returned, with ten-fold force, the dreadful consciousness of his crime. He looked suspiciously about him, for the men were conversing in groups, and he feared to be the subject of their talk. The dog obeyed the significant beck of his finger, and they drew off, stealthily, together. He passed near an engine where some men were seated, and they called to him to share in their refreshment. He took some bread and meat; and as he drank a draught of beer, heard the firemen, who were from London, talking about the murder. ‘He has gone to Birmingham, they say,’ said one: ‘but they’ll have him yet, for the scouts are out, and by to-morrow night there’ll be a cry all through the country.’
This crazy excitement over, the terrible awareness of his crime came back with a vengeance. He glanced around suspiciously, worried the men were talking about him in their groups. The dog responded to the subtle wave of his finger, and they quietly slipped away together. He walked past a group of men seated near an engine, who invited him to join their meal. He grabbed some bread and meat, and while he took a swig of beer, he overheard the London firemen discussing the murder. "They say he’s gone to Birmingham," one of them said. "But they'll catch him eventually, because the scouts are out, and by tomorrow night, there’ll be an alert all over the country."
He hurried off, and walked till he almost dropped upon the ground; then lay down in a lane, and had a long, but broken and uneasy sleep. He wandered on again, irresolute and undecided, and oppressed with the fear of another solitary night.
He rushed off and walked until he was about to collapse on the ground; then he lay down in a path and had a long but restless and uneasy sleep. He wandered on again, uncertain and indecisive, weighed down by the fear of spending another lonely night.
Suddenly, he took the desperate resolution to going back to London.
Suddenly, he made the desperate decision to go back to London.
‘There’s somebody to speak to there, at all event,’ he thought. ‘A good hiding-place, too. They’ll never expect to nab me there, after this country scent. Why can’t I lie by for a week or so, and, forcing blunt from Fagin, get abroad to France? Damme, I’ll risk it.’
‘There’s someone to talk to there, at least,’ he thought. ‘A great hiding spot, too. They’ll never think to find me there, after this country scent. Why can’t I just wait it out for a week or so, and, getting some cash from Fagin, make my way to France? Damn it, I’ll take the chance.’
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.
He followed this instinct right away, choosing the less traveled roads to start his journey back. He decided to hide just a short distance from the city and planned to enter it at dusk via a winding route, heading straight to the area he had chosen as his destination.
The dog, though. If any description of him were out, it would not be forgotten that the dog was missing, and had probably gone with him. This might lead to his apprehension as he passed along the streets. He resolved to drown him, and walked on, looking about for a pond: picking up a heavy stone and tying it to his handkerchief as he went.
The dog, though. If anyone talked about him, it wouldn’t be forgotten that the dog was missing and had likely gone with him. This could lead to his capture as he walked through the streets. He decided to drown the dog and continued on, searching for a pond, picking up a heavy stone and tying it to his handkerchief as he went.
The animal looked up into his master’s face while these preparations were making; whether his instinct apprehended something of their purpose, or the robber’s sidelong look at him was sterner than ordinary, he skulked a little farther in the rear than usual, and cowered as he came more slowly along. When his master halted at the brink of a pool, and looked round to call him, he stopped outright.
The animal glanced up at his owner while everything was being set up; whether his instincts sensed something about what was happening, or if the robber’s sideways glance at him was harsher than usual, he hung back a bit more than normal and shrank back as he moved more slowly. When his owner stopped at the edge of a pool and looked around to call him, he came to a complete stop.
Original
‘Do you hear me call? Come here!’ cried Sikes.
‘Do you hear me calling? Come here!’ shouted Sikes.
The animal came up from the very force of habit; but as Sikes stooped to attach the handkerchief to his throat, he uttered a low growl and started back.
The animal approached out of sheer habit; but as Sikes bent down to tie the handkerchief around its neck, it let out a low growl and backed away.
‘Come back!’ said the robber.
“Come back!” said the thief.
The dog wagged his tail, but moved not. Sikes made a running noose and called him again.
The dog wagged his tail but didn’t move. Sikes made a running noose and called him again.
The dog advanced, retreated, paused an instant, and scoured away at his hardest speed.
The dog moved forward, backed up, paused for a moment, and then sprinted away at full speed.
The man whistled again and again, and sat down and waited in the expectation that he would return. But no dog appeared, and at length he resumed his journey.
The man whistled repeatedly, then sat down and waited, hoping he would come back. But no dog showed up, and eventually, he continued on his way.
CHAPTER XLIX — MONKS AND MR. BROWNLOW AT LENGTH MEET. THEIR CONVERSATION, AND THE INTELLIGENCE THAT INTERRUPTS IT
The twilight was beginning to close in, when Mr. Brownlow alighted from a hackney-coach at his own door, and knocked softly. The door being opened, a sturdy man got out of the coach and stationed himself on one side of the steps, while another man, who had been seated on the box, dismounted too, and stood upon the other side. At a sign from Mr. Brownlow, they helped out a third man, and taking him between them, hurried him into the house. This man was Monks.
The twilight was starting to settle in when Mr. Brownlow got out of a cab at his own door and knocked softly. When the door opened, a strong man got out of the cab and positioned himself on one side of the steps, while another man, who had been sitting on the box, also got down and stood on the other side. At a signal from Mr. Brownlow, they helped a third man out and, taking him between them, quickly brought him into the house. This man was Monks.
They walked in the same manner up the stairs without speaking, and Mr. Brownlow, preceding them, led the way into a back-room. At the door of this apartment, Monks, who had ascended with evident reluctance, stopped. The two men looked at the old gentleman as if for instructions.
They walked up the stairs in the same way without saying a word, and Mr. Brownlow, leading the way, entered a back room. At the door of this room, Monks, who had come up with clear hesitation, stopped. The two men looked at the old gentleman as if waiting for guidance.
‘He knows the alternative,’ said Mr. Browlow. ‘If he hesitates or moves a finger but as you bid him, drag him into the street, call for the aid of the police, and impeach him as a felon in my name.’
‘He knows the alternative,’ Mr. Browlow said. ‘If he hesitates or moves a finger other than what you tell him, drag him into the street, call the police for help, and accuse him of a crime in my name.’
‘How dare you say this of me?’ asked Monks.
‘How dare you say this about me?’ asked Monks.
‘How dare you urge me to it, young man?’ replied Mr. Brownlow, confronting him with a steady look. ‘Are you mad enough to leave this house? Unhand him. There, sir. You are free to go, and we to follow. But I warn you, by all I hold most solemn and most sacred, that instant will have you apprehended on a charge of fraud and robbery. I am resolute and immoveable. If you are determined to be the same, your blood be upon your own head!’
‘How dare you push me to do that, young man?’ Mr. Brownlow replied, looking at him steadily. ‘Are you crazy enough to leave this house? Let him go. There, sir. You’re free to leave, and we’ll follow you. But I warn you, by everything I hold most serious and sacred, I will have you arrested for fraud and theft the moment you step out. I am steadfast and unyielding. If you’re set on being the same, then the consequences are on you!’
‘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 what authority am I kidnapped in the street and brought here by these dogs?’ asked Monks, looking from one man to the other who stood beside him.
‘By mine,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘Those persons are indemnified by me. If you complain of being deprived of your liberty—you had power and opportunity to retrieve it as you came along, but you deemed it advisable to remain quiet—I say again, throw yourself for protection on the law. I will appeal to the law too; but when you have gone too far to recede, do not sue to me for leniency, when the power will have passed into other hands; and do not say I plunged you down the gulf into which you rushed, yourself.’
‘By mine,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘Those people are covered by me. If you’re complaining about being deprived of your freedom—you had the chance and the ability to get it back as you went along, but you chose to stay quiet—I’ll say it again, rely on the law for protection. I’ll appeal to the law too; but when you’ve gone too far to backtrack, don’t come to me asking for mercy when the power will have shifted to someone else; and don’t claim I pushed you into the abyss you jumped into yourself.’
Monks was plainly disconcerted, and alarmed besides. He hesitated.
Monks was clearly unsettled and also worried. He paused.
‘You will decide quickly,’ said Mr. Brownlow, with perfect firmness and composure. ‘If you wish me to prefer my charges publicly, and consign you to a punishment the extent of which, although I can, with a shudder, foresee, I cannot control, once more, I say, for you know the way. If not, and you appeal to my forbearance, and the mercy of those you have deeply injured, seat yourself, without a word, in that chair. It has waited for you two whole days.’
‘You need to decide quickly,’ said Mr. Brownlow, with complete firmness and calm. ‘If you want me to publicly state my accusations and send you to a punishment that, although I can, with dread, imagine, I cannot control, I repeat, you know what to do. If not, and you ask for my patience and the mercy of those you’ve seriously harmed, then sit down in that chair without saying a word. It has been waiting for you for two whole days.’
Monks muttered some unintelligible words, but wavered still.
Monks whispered some incomprehensible words, but hesitated nonetheless.
‘You will be prompt,’ said Mr. Brownlow. ‘A word from me, and the alternative has gone for ever.’
‘You will be prompt,’ said Mr. Brownlow. ‘One word from me, and the option will be gone forever.’
Still the man hesitated.
The man still hesitated.
‘I have not the inclination to parley,’ said Mr. Brownlow, ‘and, as I advocate the dearest interests of others, I have not the right.’
‘I don't feel like negotiating,’ Mr. Brownlow said, ‘and since I'm representing the most important interests of others, I don’t have the right to do so.’
‘Is there—’ demanded Monks with a faltering tongue,—‘is there—no middle course?’
‘Is there—’ demanded Monks with a trembling voice, ‘is there—no middle ground?’
‘None.’
'Nope.'
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.
Monks glanced at the old man with concern, but seeing only seriousness and resolve on his face, entered the room, shrugged his shoulders, and sat down.
‘Lock the door on the outside,’ said Mr. Brownlow to the attendants, ‘and come when I ring.’
‘Lock the door on the outside,’ Mr. Brownlow said to the attendants, ‘and come when I ring.’
The men obeyed, and the two were left alone together.
The men complied, and the two were left alone together.
‘This is pretty treatment, sir,’ said Monks, throwing down his hat and cloak, ‘from my father’s oldest friend.’
‘This is quite a nice gesture, sir,’ said Monks, tossing aside his hat and cloak, ‘from my father’s oldest friend.’
‘It is because I was your father’s oldest friend, young man,’ returned Mr. Brownlow; ‘it is because the hopes and wishes of young and happy years were bound up with him, and that fair creature of his blood and kindred who rejoined her God in youth, and left me here a solitary, lonely man: it is because he knelt with me beside his only sisters’ death-bed when he was yet a boy, on the morning that would—but Heaven willed otherwise—have made her my young wife; it is because my seared heart clung to him, from that time forth, through all his trials and errors, till he died; it is because old recollections and associations filled my heart, and even the sight of you brings with it old thoughts of him; it is because of all these things that I am moved to treat you gently now—yes, Edward Leeford, even now—and blush for your unworthiness who bear the name.’
‘It’s because I was your father’s oldest friend, young man,’ Mr. Brownlow replied; ‘it’s because my hopes and dreams from my younger, happier years were tied to him, and to that lovely soul of his blood and kin who went to join God in her youth, leaving me here a solitary, lonely man: it’s because he knelt with me beside his only sister’s deathbed when he was still just a boy, on the morning that would—but Heaven had other plans—have made her my young wife; it’s because my wounded heart held onto him from that moment on, through all his struggles and mistakes, until he passed away; it’s because old memories and connections fill my heart, and even seeing you brings back memories of him; it’s for all these reasons that I feel compelled to treat you kindly now—yes, Edward Leeford, even now—and feel ashamed for your unworthiness as you carry his 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?’
‘What does the name matter?’ asked the other, after thinking, half quietly and half in stubborn curiosity, about his companion's agitation. ‘What does the name mean to me?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, ‘nothing to you. But it was hers, and even at this distance of time brings back to me, an old man, the glow and thrill which I once felt, only to hear it repeated by a stranger. I am very glad you have changed it—very—very.’
‘Nothing,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, ‘nothing to you. But it was hers, and even after all this time, it brings back to me, an old man, the excitement and joy I once felt, just to hear it spoken by a stranger. I’m very glad you 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?’
‘This is all really great,’ said Monks (to keep up his fake name) after a long pause, during which he had angrily shifted back and forth, and Mr. Brownlow had sat, covering his face with his hand. ‘But what do you want from 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.’
‘You have a brother,’ Mr. Brownlow said, waking up: ‘a brother, whose name whispered in your ear when I came up behind you in the street was enough to make you follow me here, filled with curiosity and fear.’
‘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.’
‘I have no brother,’ replied Monks. ‘You know I was an only child. Why are you talking to me about brothers? You know that just as well as I do.’
‘Attend to what I do know, and you may not,’ said Mr. Brownlow. ‘I shall interest you by and by. I know that of the wretched marriage, into which family pride, and the most sordid and narrowest of all ambition, forced your unhappy father when a mere boy, you were the sole and most unnatural issue.’
‘Listen to what I know, and you might not,’ said Mr. Brownlow. ‘I’ll interest you later. I know about the miserable marriage that family pride and the most selfish and limited ambition pushed your unfortunate father into when he was just a boy; you were the only and most unnatural result.’
‘I don’t care for hard names,’ interrupted Monks with a jeering laugh. ‘You know the fact, and that’s enough for me.’
‘I don’t care about hard names,’ interrupted Monks with a mocking laugh. ‘You know the truth, and that’s all that matters to 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.’
‘But I also know,’ continued the old gentleman, ‘the misery, the slow torture, the prolonged pain of that mismatched marriage. I know how listlessly and wearily each of that miserable couple dragged their heavy chains through a world that felt toxic to both of them. I know how cold formalities were replaced by open insults; how indifference turned into dislike, dislike into hate, and hate into loathing, until finally they broke the clanking bond apart, and withdrew to a wide space apart, each carrying a painful piece that could only be unshackled by death, hiding it in new social circles beneath the brightest smiles they could manage. Your mother moved on; she forgot it quickly. But it lingered and festered in your father’s heart for years.’
‘Well, they were separated,’ said Monks, ‘and what of that?’
‘Well, they were separated,’ Monks said, ‘so what?’
‘When they had been separated for some time,’ returned Mr. Brownlow, ‘and your mother, wholly given up to continental frivolities, had utterly forgotten the young husband ten good years her junior, who, with prospects blighted, lingered on at home, he fell among new friends. This circumstance, at least, you know already.’
‘When they had been apart for a while,’ Mr. Brownlow said, ‘and your mother, completely absorbed in her European distractions, had totally forgotten about her young husband who was ten years younger than her, and who, with his dreams shattered, stayed at home, he found himself among new friends. You already know this much, at least.’
‘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.’
‘Not me,’ said Monks, turning his eyes away and stomping his foot on the ground, like someone who is set on denying everything. ‘Not me.’
‘Your manner, no less than your actions, assures me that you have never forgotten it, or ceased to think of it with bitterness,’ returned Mr. Brownlow. ‘I speak of fifteen years ago, when you were not more than eleven years old, and your father but one-and-thirty—for he was, I repeat, a boy, when his father ordered him to marry. Must I go back to events which cast a shade upon the memory of your parent, or will you spare it, and disclose to me the truth?’
‘Your attitude, just like your behavior, makes it clear to me that you’ve never forgotten it or stopped thinking about it with resentment,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘I’m talking about fifteen years ago, when you were only eleven and your father was just thirty-one—because he, I remind you, was just a boy when his father told him to get married. Do I need to revisit the events that taint your parent’s memory, or will you let that go and share the truth with me?’
‘I have nothing to disclose,’ rejoined Monks. ‘You must talk on if you will.’
‘I have nothing to share,’ Monks replied. ‘You can keep talking if you want.’
‘These new friends, then,’ said Mr. Brownlow, ‘were a naval officer retired from active service, whose wife had died some half-a-year before, and left him with two children—there had been more, but, of all their family, happily but two survived. They were both daughters; one a beautiful creature of nineteen, and the other a mere child of two or three years old.’
‘These new friends,’ Mr. Brownlow said, ‘were a retired naval officer whose wife had passed away about six months ago, leaving him with two children—there had been more, but thankfully only two survived. They were both daughters; one was a beautiful girl of nineteen, and the other a little child of two or three years old.’
‘What’s this to me?’ asked Monks.
‘What’s this to me?’ Monks asked.
‘They resided,’ said Mr. Brownlow, without seeming to hear the interruption, ‘in a part of the country to which your father in his wandering had repaired, and where he had taken up his abode. Acquaintance, intimacy, friendship, fast followed on each other. Your father was gifted as few men are. He had his sister’s soul and person. As the old officer knew him more and more, he grew to love him. I would that it had ended there. His daughter did the same.’
‘They lived,’ Mr. Brownlow said, seemingly ignoring the interruption, ‘in a part of the country where your father had come during his travels and where he had made his home. They quickly became acquainted and built a close friendship. Your father was talented like very few men. He had the spirit and looks of his sister. As the old officer got to know him better, he grew to care for him. I wish it had ended there. His daughter felt the same way.’
The old gentleman paused; Monks was biting his lips, with his eyes fixed upon the floor; seeing this, he immediately resumed:
The old man hesitated; Monks was biting his lips, his eyes focused on the floor; noticing this, he quickly continued:
‘The end of a year found him contracted, solemnly contracted, to that daughter; the object of the first, true, ardent, only passion of a guileless girl.’
‘The end of the year found him engaged, seriously engaged, to that daughter; the focus of the first, genuine, passionate, and only love of an innocent girl.’
‘Your tale is of the longest,’ observed Monks, moving restlessly in his chair.
‘Your story is the longest,’ remarked Monks, shifting uneasily in his chair.
‘It is a true tale of grief and trial, and sorrow, young man,’ returned Mr. Brownlow, ‘and such tales usually are; if it were one of unmixed joy and happiness, it would be very brief. At length one of those rich relations to strengthen whose interest and importance your father had been sacrificed, as others are often—it is no uncommon case—died, and to repair the misery he had been instrumental in occasioning, left him his panacea for all griefs—Money. It was necessary that he should immediately repair to Rome, whither this man had sped for health, and where he had died, leaving his affairs in great confusion. He went; was seized with mortal illness there; was followed, the moment the intelligence reached Paris, by your mother who carried you with her; he died the day after her arrival, leaving no will—no will—so that the whole property fell to her and you.’
“It’s a true story of grief, struggle, and sorrow, young man,” Mr. Brownlow replied. “And that’s usually how these stories go; if it were only about joy and happiness, it would be very short. Eventually, one of those wealthy relatives, for whom your father was sacrificed—like many others, it’s not an uncommon situation—passed away. To make up for the suffering he caused, he left your father his cure for all sorrows—money. He needed to go to Rome right away, where this man had gone for his health and where he ultimately died, leaving his affairs in chaos. He went, but then fell seriously ill there. Your mother, upon hearing the news in Paris, followed him immediately, bringing you along. He died the day after she arrived, leaving no will—no will—so everything went to her and you.”
At this part of the recital Monks held his breath, and listened with a face of intense eagerness, though his eyes were not directed towards the speaker. As Mr. Brownlow paused, he changed his position with the air of one who has experienced a sudden relief, and wiped his hot face and hands.
At this point in the recital, Monks held his breath and listened with obvious eagerness, even though he wasn't looking at the speaker. When Mr. Brownlow paused, he shifted his position as if he had just felt a sudden relief, wiping his hot face and hands.
‘Before he went abroad, and as he passed through London on his way,’ said Mr. Brownlow, slowly, and fixing his eyes upon the other’s face, ‘he came to me.’
‘Before he went abroad, and as he passed through London on his way,’ said Mr. Brownlow, slowly, and looking intently at the other’s face, ‘he came to see me.’
‘I never heard of that,’ interrupted Monks in a tone intended to appear incredulous, but savouring more of disagreeable surprise.
‘I’ve never heard of that,’ interrupted Monks in a tone meant to sound skeptical, but it came across as more unpleasantly surprised.
‘He came to me, and left with me, among some other things, a picture—a portrait painted by himself—a likeness of this poor girl—which he did not wish to leave behind, and could not carry forward on his hasty journey. He was worn by anxiety and remorse almost to a shadow; talked in a wild, distracted way, of ruin and dishonour worked by himself; confided to me his intention to convert his whole property, at any loss, into money, and, having settled on his wife and you a portion of his recent acquisition, to fly the country—I guessed too well he would not fly alone—and never see it more. Even from me, his old and early friend, whose strong attachment had taken root in the earth that covered one most dear to both—even from me he withheld any more particular confession, promising to write and tell me all, and after that to see me once again, for the last time on earth. Alas! That was the last time. I had no letter, and I never saw him more.’
‘He came to me and left behind a few things, including a picture—a portrait he painted himself—a likeness of that poor girl. He didn’t want to leave it behind but couldn’t take it with him on his rushed journey. He looked so worn down by anxiety and guilt, almost like a shadow; he talked in a frantic, distracted way about the ruin and dishonor he caused. He confided in me his plan to turn all his property into cash, no matter the loss, and after setting aside some of his recent fortune for his wife and you, he intended to leave the country—I guessed all too well he wouldn’t be going alone—and never return. Even from me, his old and long-time friend, whose strong bond had grown deep roots tied to the earth covering someone we both cherished, he held back more specific details, promising to write and tell me everything, and then to see me one last time on this earth. Alas! That was the last time. I never received a letter, and I never saw him again.’
‘I went,’ said Mr. Brownlow, after a short pause, ‘I went, when all was over, to the scene of his—I will use the term the world would freely use, for worldly harshness or favour are now alike to him—of his guilty love, resolved that if my fears were realised that erring child should find one heart and home to shelter and compassionate her. The family had left that part a week before; they had called in such trifling debts as were outstanding, discharged them, and left the place by night. Why, or whither, none can tell.’
"I went," Mr. Brownlow said after a brief pause, "I went, after everything was finished, to the place of his—I’ll use the term people would commonly use, since worldly judgment doesn’t matter to him anymore—of his guilty love, determined that if my fears were true, that lost child would find at least one heart and home to shelter and compassion for her. The family had left that area a week earlier; they had settled any minor debts they had, paid them off, and left at night. Why they left or where they went, no one knows."
Monks drew his breath yet more freely, and looked round with a smile of triumph.
Monks breathed even more easily and looked around with a smile of victory.
‘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—’
‘When your brother,’ said Mr. Brownlow, moving closer to the other’s chair, ‘When your brother: a frail, tattered, overlooked kid: was thrown into my path by a force greater than luck, and saved by me from a life of wrongdoing and disgrace—’
‘What?’ cried Monks.
"What?" shouted Monks.
‘By me,’ said Mr. Brownlow. ‘I told you I should interest you before long. I say by me—I see that your cunning associate suppressed my name, although for ought he knew, it would be quite strange to your ears. When he was rescued by me, then, and lay recovering from sickness in my house, his strong resemblance to this picture I have spoken of, struck me with astonishment. Even when I first saw him in all his dirt and misery, there was a lingering expression in his face that came upon me like a glimpse of some old friend flashing on one in a vivid dream. I need not tell you he was snared away before I knew his history—’
‘By me,’ said Mr. Brownlow. ‘I told you I would get your attention soon enough. I say by me—I see that your clever friend left out my name, even though it might have sounded strange to you. When I rescued him and he was recovering from illness in my home, his striking resemblance to this picture I mentioned amazed me. Even when I first saw him in his filth and despair, there was a familiar look on his face that hit me like a flashback to an old friend in a vivid dream. I don’t need to tell you he was taken away before I knew his story—’
‘Why not?’ asked Monks hastily.
"Why not?" Monks asked quickly.
‘Because you know it well.’
'Because you know it well.'
‘I!’
'I!'
‘Denial to me is vain,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘I shall show you that I know more than that.’
‘Denial is pointless to me,’ Mr. Brownlow replied. ‘I’ll prove to you that I know more than that.’
‘You—you—can’t prove anything against me,’ stammered Monks. ‘I defy you to do it!’
‘You—you—can’t prove anything against me,’ stammered Monks. ‘I challenge you to try!’
‘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.’
‘We’ll see,’ replied the old man with a keen look. ‘I lost track of the boy, and no matter what I did, I couldn't find him. With your mother gone, I knew you were the only one who could solve the mystery if anyone could. When I last heard from you, you were on your estate in the West Indies—where you had gone after your mother's death to escape the fallout from your troubled past here. So, I made the trip. You had left months earlier and were thought to be in London, but no one could pinpoint where. I came back. Your agents had no idea where you were living. They said you appeared and disappeared as erratically as ever: sometimes gone for days and sometimes not seen for months, sticking to the same run-down places and hanging out with the same shady crowd you associated with when you were a wild, uncontrollable boy. I exhausted them with my requests. I roamed the streets day and night, but until two hours ago, all my efforts were in vain, and I never caught a glimpse of you.’
‘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.’
‘And now you see me,’ Monks said boldly as he stood up, ‘so what? Fraud and robbery are grand-sounding terms—do you think they’re justified by some imagined similarity between a young troublemaker and a half-hearted creation of a deceased man’s Brother? You don’t even know that this sentimental couple had a child; you don’t even know that.’
‘I did not,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, rising too; ‘but within the last fortnight I have learnt it all. You have a brother; you know it, and him. There was a will, which your mother destroyed, leaving the secret and the gain to you at her own death. It contained a reference to some child likely to be the result of this sad connection, which child was born, and accidentally encountered by you, when your suspicions were first awakened by his resemblance to your father. You repaired to the place of his birth. There existed proofs—proofs long suppressed—of his birth and parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your own words to your accomplice the Jew, “the only proofs of the boy’s identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.” Unworthy son, coward, liar,—you, who hold your councils with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night,—you, whose plots and wiles have brought a violent death upon the head of one worth millions such as you,—you, who from your cradle were gall and bitterness to your own father’s heart, and in whom all evil passions, vice, and profligacy, festered, till they found a vent in a hideous disease which had made your face an index even to your mind—you, Edward Leeford, do you still brave me!’
‘I did not,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, standing up as well; ‘but in the last couple of weeks, I’ve learned everything. You have a brother; you know it, and you know him. There was a will that your mother destroyed, which left the secret and the inheritance to you upon her death. It mentioned a child likely to come from this unfortunate situation, which child was born and accidentally met by you when your suspicions were first raised because he looked like your father. You went to the place where he was born. There was evidence—evidence long hidden—of his birth and parentage. You destroyed that evidence, and now, in your own words to your accomplice the Jew, “the only proofs of the boy’s identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.” Unworthy son, coward, liar—you, who meet with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night—you, whose schemes have led to a violent death for someone worth millions compared to you—you, who from birth were poison and bitterness to your own father’s heart, and in whom all the worst traits, vice, and depravity, festered until they erupted in a terrible disease that made your face a reflection of your mind—you, Edward Leeford, do you still challenge me!’
‘No, no, no!’ returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges.
‘No, no, no!’ replied the coward, overwhelmed by these piled-up accusations.
‘Every word!’ cried the gentleman, ‘every word that has passed between you and this detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the courage and almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not really a party.’
‘Every word!’ shouted the gentleman, ‘every word that has passed between you and this hated villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have captured your whispers and brought them to my ears; the sight of the persecuted child has transformed vice itself, granting it the courage and almost the qualities of virtue. Murder has been committed, to which you were morally, if not actually, involved.’
‘No, no,’ interposed Monks. ‘I—I knew nothing of that; I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn’t know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel.’
‘No, no,’ interrupted Monks. ‘I—I had no idea about that; I was going to ask about the truth of the story when you caught up with me. I didn’t know the reason behind it. I thought it was just a typical argument.’
‘It was the partial disclosure of your secrets,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘Will you disclose the whole?’
‘It was the partial revelation of your secrets,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘Will you reveal everything?’
‘Yes, I will.’
'Yes, I will.'
‘Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before witnesses?’
‘Put your hand on a statement of truth and facts, and say it in front of witnesses?’
‘That I promise too.’
"I promise that 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?’
‘Stay here quietly until that document is ready, and come with me to wherever I think is best for signing it?’
‘If you insist upon that, I’ll do that also,’ replied Monks.
‘If you insist on that, I’ll do that too,’ 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.’
‘You need to do more than that,’ said Mr. Brownlow. ‘Make amends to an innocent and blameless child, because that’s what he is, even though he’s the result of a guilty and heartbreaking love. You haven’t forgotten what the will stated. Fulfill those terms regarding your brother, and then go wherever you want. In this world, you don’t have to see him again.’
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.
While Monks was pacing back and forth, contemplating this proposal with a troubled and sinister expression: caught between his fears and his hatred: the door was quickly unlocked, and a man (Mr. Losberne) rushed into the room, clearly in a state of agitation.
‘The man will be taken,’ he cried. ‘He will be taken to-night!’
‘The man is going to be taken,’ he shouted. ‘He will be taken tonight!’
‘The murderer?’ asked Mr. Brownlow.
"Is it the murderer?" asked Mr. Brownlow.
‘Yes, yes,’ replied the other. ‘His dog has been seen lurking about some old haunt, and there seems little doubt that his master either is, or will be, there, under cover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in every direction. I have spoken to the men who are charged with his capture, and they tell me he cannot escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by Government to-night.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ replied the other. ‘His dog has been spotted hanging around some old place, and there’s little doubt his owner is or will be there, hidden in the dark. There are spies all around. I’ve talked to the guys who are responsible for catching him, and they say he can’t get away. The government has announced a reward of a hundred pounds 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?’
‘I’ll give fifty more,’ said Mr. Brownlow, ‘and announce it myself right here, if I can get to it. Where is Mr. Maylie?’
‘Harry? As soon as he had seen your friend here, safe in a coach with you, he hurried off to where he heard this,’ replied the doctor, ‘and mounting his horse sallied forth to join the first party at some place in the outskirts agreed upon between them.’
‘Harry? As soon as he saw your friend here, safe in a carriage with you, he rushed off to wherever he heard this,’ the doctor replied, ‘and then he jumped on his horse and rode out to meet the first group at a spot on the outskirts that they had decided on.’
‘Fagin,’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘what of him?’
'Fagin,' Mr. Brownlow said. 'What about him?'
‘When I last heard, he had not been taken, but he will be, or is, by this time. They’re sure of him.’
‘Last I heard, he hadn’t been captured, but he will be, or probably is, by now. They’re convinced they’ve got him.’
‘Have you made up your mind?’ asked Mr. Brownlow, in a low voice, of Monks.
‘Have you made your decision?’ asked Mr. Brownlow, in a low voice, of Monks.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘You—you—will be secret with me?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘You—you—will keep this between us?’
‘I will. Remain here till I return. It is your only hope of safety.’
‘I will. Stay here until I get back. It’s your only chance of safety.’
They left the room, and the door was again locked.
They left the room, and the door was locked again.
‘What have you done?’ asked the doctor in a whisper.
‘What have you done?’ the doctor asked quietly.
‘All that I could hope to do, and even more. Coupling the poor girl’s intelligence with my previous knowledge, and the result of our good friend’s inquiries on the spot, I left him no loophole of escape, and laid bare the whole villainy which by these lights became plain as day. Write and appoint the evening after to-morrow, at seven, for the meeting. We shall be down there, a few hours before, but shall require rest: especially the young lady, who may have greater need of firmness than either you or I can quite foresee just now. But my blood boils to avenge this poor murdered creature. Which way have they taken?’
‘All I could hope to do, and even more. Combining the poor girl’s intelligence with my previous knowledge, and the results of our friend’s inquiries on the spot, I left him no way out and exposed the whole scheme, which now seemed obvious. Write and schedule the meeting for the evening of the day after tomorrow at seven. We’ll be down there a few hours earlier but will need some rest, especially the young lady, who might need more strength than either you or I can fully foresee right now. But I’m furious and want to avenge this poor murdered girl. Which way did they go?’
‘Drive straight to the office and you will be in time,’ replied Mr. Losberne. ‘I will remain here.’
‘Drive straight to the office and you’ll be on time,’ Mr. Losberne replied. ‘I’ll stay here.’
The two gentlemen hastily separated; each in a fever of excitement wholly uncontrollable.
The two gentlemen quickly parted ways, each overwhelmed by a surge of excitement that they couldn't control.
CHAPTER L — THE PURSUIT AND ESCAPE
Near to that part of the Thames on which the church at Rotherhithe abuts, where the buildings on the banks are dirtiest and the vessels on the river blackest with the dust of colliers and the smoke of close-built low-roofed houses, there exists the filthiest, the strangest, the most extraordinary of the many localities that are hidden in London, wholly unknown, even by name, to the great mass of its inhabitants.
Near that part of the Thames where the church at Rotherhithe stands, where the buildings along the banks are the dirtiest and the boats on the river are blackened with coal dust and the smoke from closely packed, low-roofed houses, there is the filthiest, strangest, and most extraordinary of the many hidden places in London, completely unknown, even by name, to most of its residents.
To reach this place, the visitor has to penetrate through a maze of close, narrow, and muddy streets, thronged by the roughest and poorest of waterside people, and devoted to the traffic they may be supposed to occasion. The cheapest 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 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 waggons 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 has 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 dirt have almost eaten away, every imaginable sign of desolation and neglect.
To get to this place, the visitor has to navigate a maze of narrow, muddy streets crowded with the roughest and poorest people from the waterfront, all focused on their busy trade. The cheapest and most basic food items are stacked in the shops; the simplest and most common clothing hangs at the salesman's door and spills from the house roofs and windows. Pushing through the throngs of unemployed laborers, dockworkers, loud women, ragged children, and the debris of the river, he struggles to make his way, overwhelmed by unpleasant sights and smells from the narrow alleys branching off in both directions, and deafened by the rumble of heavy wagons loaded with goods from the warehouses that loom at every corner. Finally reaching streets that are quieter and less traveled than those he’s passed through, he walks under the sagging facades of buildings that jut out over the sidewalk, crumbling walls that seem to sway as he walks by, chimneys that look ready to collapse, windows protected by rusty iron bars that time and grime have nearly consumed, every possible indicator of decay and neglect.
In such a neighborhood, beyond Dockhead in the Borough of Southwark, stands Jacob’s Island, surrounded by a muddy ditch, six or eight feet deep and fifteen or twenty wide when the tide is in, once called Mill Pond, but known in the days of this story as Folly Ditch. It is a creek or inlet from the Thames, and can always be filled at high water by opening the sluices at the Lead Mills from which it took its old name. At such times, a stranger, looking from 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, pails, 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 slime beneath; windows, broken and patched, with poles thrust out, on which to dry the 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 that neighborhood, beyond Dockhead in Southwark, stands Jacob’s Island, surrounded by a muddy ditch that’s six or eight feet deep and fifteen or twenty feet wide at high tide. It used to be called Mill Pond, but by the time of this story, it’s known as Folly Ditch. It’s a creek or inlet from the Thames and can always be filled at high water by opening the sluices at the Lead Mills, which is where it got its old name. During these times, a stranger looking from one of the wooden bridges crossing it at Mill Lane will see the people in the houses on either side lowering buckets, pails, and all kinds of household items from their back doors and windows to haul up water. And when his gaze shifts from these activities to the houses themselves, he will be utterly astonished by the scene before him. Rickety wooden galleries attached to the backs of half a dozen houses, with holes for peering down at the muck below; broken and patched windows with poles sticking out to dry laundry that’s never there; rooms so small, filthy, and cramped that the air seems too tainted even for the dirt and squalor within; wooden rooms jutting out over the mud, threatening to collapse into it—some have already done so; dirt-streaked walls and rotting foundations; every disgusting aspect of poverty, every foul sign of filth, decay, and garbage—all these decorate 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 streets; the chimneys are blackened, but they yield no smoke. Thirty or forty years ago, before losses and chancery suits came upon it, it was a thriving place; but now it is a desolate island indeed. The houses have no owners; they are broken open, and entered upon by those who have the courage; and there they live, and there they die. They must have powerful motives for a secret residence, or be reduced to a destitute condition indeed, who seek a refuge in Jacob’s Island.
In Jacob’s Island, the warehouses are roofless and empty; the walls are crumbling; the windows no longer exist; the doors are falling into the streets; the chimneys are blackened, but they don’t produce any smoke. Thirty or forty years ago, before losses and court battles hit, it was a thriving place; but now it’s truly a desolate island. The houses have no owners; they’re broken open and occupied by those brave enough; and there they live, and there they die. Those who seek refuge in Jacob’s Island must have strong reasons to stay hidden or be in a truly desperate situation.
In an upper room of one of these houses—a detached house of fair size, ruinous in other respects, but strongly defended at door and window: of which house the back commanded the ditch in manner already described—there were assembled three men, who, regarding each other every now and then with looks 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 to the same occasion. This man was a returned transport, and his name was Kags.
In an upper room of one of these houses—a decent-sized detached house, rundown in other ways but well-secured at the doors and windows: the back of the house overlooked the ditch as previously described—three men were gathered. They occasionally exchanged glances filled with confusion and anticipation, sitting in heavy, gloomy silence for a while. One of them was Toby Crackit, another was Mr. Chitling, and the third was a fifty-year-old robber with a nose that had been nearly flattened in an earlier fight, and his face bore a terrifying scar likely from the same incident. This man was a former convict, 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 had not come here, my fine feller.’
‘I wish,’ said Toby, turning to Mr. Chitling, ‘that you had chosen another place when the two old ones got too hot, and that you hadn’t come here, my good man.’
‘Why didn’t you, blunder-head!’ said Kags.
‘Why didn’t you, you fool!’ said Kags.
‘Well, I thought you’d have been a little more glad to see me than this,’ replied Mr. Chitling, with a melancholy air.
‘Well, I thought you’d be a bit happier to see me than this,’ replied Mr. Chitling, with a sad expression.
‘Why, look’ee, young gentleman,’ said Toby, ‘when a man keeps himself so very exclusive as I have done, and by that means has a snug house over his head with nobody a prying and smelling about it, it’s rather a startling thing to have the honour of a wisit from a young gentleman (however respectable and pleasant a person he may be to play cards with at conweniency) circumstanced as you are.’
‘Well, look here, young man,’ said Toby, ‘when a guy keeps himself as private as I have, which lets me have a cozy place to live without anyone poking around, it’s a bit surprising to get a visit from a young man (no matter how respectable and nice he may be to play cards with at a convenient time) in your situation.’
‘Especially, when the exclusive young man has got a friend stopping with him, that’s arrived sooner than was expected from foreign parts, and is too modest to want to be presented to the Judges on his return,’ added Mr. Kags.
‘Especially when the privileged young man has a friend staying with him who arrived earlier than expected from overseas and is too shy to want to be introduced to the Judges upon his return,’ added Mr. Kags.
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,
There was a brief silence, after which Toby Crackit, looking like he gave up on trying to keep up his usual carefree attitude, turned to Chitling and said,
‘When was Fagin took then?’
‘When was Fagin taken then?’
‘Just at dinner-time—two o’clock this afternoon. Charley and I made our lucky up the wash-us chimney, and Bolter got into the empty water-butt, head downwards; but his legs were so precious long that they stuck out at the top, and so they took him too.’
‘Just at dinner time—two o’clock this afternoon. Charley and I made our way up the chimney to clean it, and Bolter got into the empty water barrel headfirst; but his legs were so long that they stuck out at the top, so they pulled him in too.’
‘And Bet?’
'What about 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.’
‘Poor Bet! She went to see the body to find out who it was,’ replied Chitling, his face looking more and more troubled, ‘and she lost it, screaming and ranting, banging her head against the boards; so they put a straitjacket on her and took her to the hospital—and that’s where she is now.’
‘Wot’s come of young Bates?’ demanded Kags.
‘What’s happened to young Bates?’ asked Kags.
‘He hung about, not to come over here afore dark, but he’ll be here soon,’ replied Chitling. ‘There’s nowhere else to go to now, for the people at the Cripples are all in custody, and the bar of the ken—I went up there and see it with my own eyes—is filled with traps.’
‘He’s hanging around, not to come over here before dark, but he’ll be here soon,’ replied Chitling. ‘There’s nowhere else to go now, because the people at the Cripples are all in custody, and the bar of the ken—I went up there and saw it with my own eyes—is full of traps.’
‘This is a smash,’ observed Toby, biting his lips. ‘There’s more than one will go with this.’
‘This is a hit,’ Toby said, biting his lips. ‘More than one person is going to want this.’
‘The sessions are on,’ said Kags: ‘if they get the inquest over, and Bolter turns King’s evidence: as of course he will, from what he’s said already: they can prove Fagin an accessory before the fact, and get the trial on on Friday, and he’ll swing in six days from this, by G—!’
‘The sessions are happening,’ said Kags. ‘If they wrap up the inquest and Bolter decides to turn state’s witness, which of course he will based on what he’s already said, they can prove Fagin was an accomplice before the fact and have the trial on Friday. He’ll be executed in six days from now, by God!’
‘You should have heard the people groan,’ said Chitling; ‘the officers fought like devils, or they’d have torn him away. He was down once, but they made a ring round him, and fought their way along. You should have seen how he looked about him, all muddy and bleeding, and clung to them as if they were his dearest friends. I can see ‘em now, not able to stand upright with the pressing of the mob, and draggin him along amongst ‘em; I can see the people jumping up, one behind another, and snarling with their teeth and making at him; I can see the blood upon his hair and beard, and hear the cries with which the women worked themselves into the centre of the crowd at the street corner, and swore they’d tear his heart out!’
‘You should have heard the crowd groan,’ said Chitling; ‘the officers fought like crazy, or they would have pulled him away. He went down once, but they formed a circle around him and fought their way through. You should have seen how he looked, all muddy and bleeding, clinging to them as if they were his closest friends. I can picture them now, struggling to stand upright with the mob pushing in, dragging him along with them; I can see people jumping up one after another, baring their teeth and coming at him; I can see the blood in his hair and beard, and hear the screams of the women who forced their way to the front of the crowd at the street corner, swearing they’d tear his heart out!’
The horror-stricken witness of this scene pressed his hands upon his ears, and with his eyes closed got up and paced violently to and fro, like one distracted.
The terrified witness of this scene covered his ears, and with his eyes shut, got up and paced back and forth violently, like someone losing their mind.
While he was thus engaged, and the two men sat by in silence with their eyes fixed upon the floor, a pattering noise was heard upon the stairs, and Sikes’s dog bounded into the room. They ran to the window, downstairs, and into the street. The dog had jumped in at an open window; he made no attempt to follow them, nor was his master to be seen.
While he was busy with that, the two men sat quietly with their eyes on the floor. Suddenly, they heard a pattering noise coming from the stairs, and Sikes’s dog jumped into the room. They rushed to the window, went downstairs, and into the street. The dog had entered through an open window; he didn’t try to follow them, and his owner was nowhere to be seen.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ said Toby when they had returned. ‘He can’t be coming here. I—I—hope not.’
‘What’s going on?’ said Toby when they got back. ‘He can’t be coming here. I—I—hope not.’
‘If he was coming here, he’d have come with the dog,’ said Kags, stooping down to examine the animal, who lay panting on the floor. ‘Here! Give us some water for him; he has run himself faint.’
‘If he was coming here, he would have brought the dog with him,’ Kags said, bending down to check the animal, which was lying panting on the floor. ‘Hey! Can you get some water for him? He’s exhausted from running.’
‘He’s drunk it all up, every drop,’ said Chitling after watching the dog some time in silence. ‘Covered with mud—lame—half blind—he must have come a long way.’
‘He’s drunk it all up, every drop,’ Chitling said after watching the dog in silence for a while. ‘Covered in mud—lame—half blind—he must have come a long way.’
‘Where can he have come from!’ exclaimed Toby. ‘He’s been to the other kens of course, and finding them filled with strangers come on here, where he’s been many a time and often. But where can he have come from first, and how comes he here alone without the other!’
‘Where could he have come from!’ exclaimed Toby. ‘He’s obviously been to the other places, and finding them packed with strangers, he came here, where he’s been many times before. But where did he come from first, and why is he here alone without the others!’
‘He’—(none of them called the murderer by his old name)—‘He can’t have made away with himself. What do you think?’ said Chitling.
‘He’—(none of them referred to the murderer by his old name)—‘He can't have killed himself. What do you think?’ said Chitling.
Toby shook his head.
Toby shook his head.
‘If he had,’ said Kags, ‘the dog ‘ud want to lead us away to where he did it. No. I think he’s got out of the country, and left the dog behind. He must have given him the slip somehow, or he wouldn’t be so easy.’
‘If he had,’ said Kags, ‘the dog would want to take us to where he did it. No. I think he’s gotten out of the country and left the dog behind. He must have tricked him somehow, or he wouldn’t be so chill.’
This solution, appearing the most probable one, was adopted as the right; the dog, creeping under a chair, coiled himself up to sleep, without more notice from anybody.
This solution, seeming the most likely one, was taken as the correct choice; the dog, crawling under a chair, curled up to sleep, without further attention from anyone.
It being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a candle lighted and placed upon the table. The terrible events of the last two days had made a deep impression on all three, increased by the danger and uncertainty of their own position. They drew their chairs closer together, starting at every sound. They spoke little, and that in whispers, and were as silent and awe-stricken as if the remains of the murdered woman lay in the next room.
It was now dark, so the shutter was closed, and a candle was lit and placed on the table. The dreadful events of the last two days had left a strong impact on all three of them, intensified by the danger and uncertainty of their own situation. They pulled their chairs closer together, jumping at every sound. They spoke very little, and only in whispers, and were as quiet and terrified as if the body of the murdered woman were in the next room.
They had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was heard a hurried knocking at the door below.
They had been sitting like that for a while when suddenly, they heard a frantic knocking at the door below.
‘Young Bates,’ said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself.
'Young Bates,' Kags said, looking around angrily to push back the fear he felt himself.
The knocking came again. No, it wasn’t he. He never knocked like that.
The knocking happened again. No, that wasn’t him. He never knocked like that.
Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.
Crackit went to the window, and trembling all over, pulled his head back in. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face said it all. The dog was alert right away and ran to the door, whining.
‘We must let him in,’ he said, taking up the candle.
‘We have to let him in,’ he said, picking up the candle.
‘Isn’t there any help for it?’ asked the other man in a hoarse voice.
‘Isn’t there any way to fix this?’ asked the other man in a raspy voice.
‘None. He must come in.’
‘None. He has to come in.’
‘Don’t leave us in the dark,’ said Kags, taking down a candle from the chimney-piece, and lighting it, with such a trembling hand that the knocking was twice repeated before he had finished.
‘Don’t leave us in the dark,’ said Kags, taking a candle down from the mantle and lighting it with such a shaky hand that the knocking happened twice more before he was done.
Crackit went down to the door, and returned followed by a man with the lower part of his face buried in a handkerchief, and another tied over his head under his hat. He drew them slowly off. Blanched face, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, beard of three days’ growth, wasted flesh, short thick breath; it was the very ghost of Sikes.
Crackit went down to the door and came back with a guy whose lower face was covered by a handkerchief and another tied around his head under his hat. He slowly removed them. Pale face, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, a three-day-old beard, gaunt features, heavy breathing; 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—and ground it against it—and sat down.
He placed his hand on a chair in the center of the room, but just as he was about to sit down, he shuddered and looked over his shoulder. He then pulled the chair back against the wall—as far as it would go—and wedged it there before sitting down.
Not a word had been exchanged. He looked from one to another in silence. If an eye were furtively raised and met his, it was instantly averted. When his hollow voice broke silence, they all three started. They seemed never to have heard its tones before.
Not a word had been said. He looked from one to another in silence. If someone furtively raised their eyes and met his, they quickly looked away. When his hollow voice finally broke the silence, all three jumped. It seemed like they had never heard its sound before.
‘How came that dog here?’ he asked.
‘How did that dog get here?’ he asked.
‘Alone. Three hours ago.’
"By myself. Three hours ago."
‘To-night’s paper says that Fagin’s took. Is it true, or a lie?’
‘Tonight’s paper says that Fagin’s got caught. Is it true, or a lie?’
‘True.’
'For sure.'
They were silent again.
They fell silent again.
‘Damn you all!’ said Sikes, passing his hand across his forehead. ‘Have you nothing to say to me?’
‘Damn you all!’ said Sikes, wiping his forehead with his hand. ‘Do you have nothing to say to me?’
There was an uneasy movement among them, but nobody spoke.
There was a restless energy among them, but no one said anything.
‘You that keep this house,’ said Sikes, turning his face to Crackit, ‘do you mean to sell me, or to let me lie here till this hunt is over?’
‘You who run this place,’ Sikes said, looking at Crackit, ‘do you plan to sell me, or let me stay here until this search is done?’
‘You may stop here, if you think it safe,’ returned the person addressed, after some hesitation.
‘You can stop here if you think it’s safe,’ replied the person being addressed, after a moment of 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?’
Sikes slowly lifted his eyes to the wall behind him, more trying to turn his head than actually doing it, and said, “Is it—the body—is it buried?”
They shook their heads.
They shrugged.
‘Why isn’t it!’ he retorted with the same glance behind him. ‘Wot do they keep such ugly things above the ground for?—Who’s that knocking?’
‘Why isn’t it!’ he replied, glancing back over his shoulder. ‘What do they keep such ugly things out in the open 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.
Crackit signaled with a wave of his hand as he walked out, suggesting that there was nothing to worry about; he soon returned with Charley Bates following him. Sikes was sitting across from the door, so the moment the boy stepped into the room, he came face to face with him.
‘Toby,’ said the boy falling back, as Sikes turned his eyes towards him, ‘why didn’t you tell me this, downstairs?’
‘Toby,’ said the boy stepping back, as Sikes looked at him, ‘why didn’t you tell me this downstairs?’
There had been something so tremendous in the shrinking off of the three, that the wretched man was willing to propitiate even this lad. Accordingly he nodded, and made as though he would shake hands with him.
There was something so incredible about how the three had pulled away that the miserable man was ready to win over even this kid. So, he nodded and acted like he would shake his hand.
‘Let me go into some other room,’ said the boy, retreating still farther.
‘Let me go into another room,’ said the boy, backing away even more.
‘Charley!’ said Sikes, stepping forward. ‘Don’t you—don’t you know me?’
‘Charley!’ Sikes said, stepping forward. ‘Don’t you—don’t you remember 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!’
‘Don’t come any closer,’ the boy said, backing away and looking at the murderer with fear in his eyes. ‘You monster!’
The man stopped half-way, and they looked at each other; but Sikes’s eyes sunk gradually to the ground.
The man stopped halfway, and they looked at each other; but Sikes's eyes eventually fell 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 am here I’ll give him up. I’d give him up if he was to be boiled alive. Murder! Help! If there’s the pluck of a man among you three, you’ll help me. Murder! Help! Down with him!’
‘You three, listen!’ the boy shouted, shaking his fist and getting more worked up as he spoke. ‘You three—I’m not scared of him—if they come here looking for him, I’ll tell them everything; I really will. I’m saying it right now. He can kill me if he wants to, or if he’s brave enough, but if I’m here, I’ll give him up. I’d turn him in even if he was being boiled alive. Murder! Help! If any of you have the guts, you’ll help me. Murder! Help! Get him out of here!’
Pouring out these cries, and accompanying them with violent gesticulation, the boy actually threw himself, single-handed, upon the strong man, and in the intensity of his energy and the suddenness of his surprise, brought him heavily to the ground.
Shouting these cries and wildly gesturing, the boy actually lunged, all on his own, at the strong man, and with his intense energy and sudden surprise, knocked him down hard to the ground.
The three spectators seemed quite stupefied. They offered no interference, and the boy and man rolled on the ground together; the former, heedless of the blows that showered upon him, wrenching his hands tighter and tighter in the garments about the murderer’s breast, and never ceasing to call for help with all his might.
The three spectators looked totally shocked. They didn’t interfere at all, and the boy and man tumbled on the ground together; the boy, ignoring the punches hitting him, tightened his grip on the murderer’s clothing and kept yelling for help with all his strength.
The contest, however, was too unequal to last long. Sikes had him down, and his knee was on his throat, when Crackit pulled him back with a look of alarm, and pointed to the window. There were lights gleaming below, voices in loud and earnest conversation, the tramp of hurried footsteps—endless they seemed in number—crossing the nearest wooden bridge. One man on horseback seemed to be among the crowd; for there was the noise of hoofs rattling on the uneven pavement. The gleam of lights increased; the footsteps came more thickly and noisily on. Then, came a loud knocking at the door, and then a hoarse murmur from such a multitude of angry voices as would have made the boldest quail.
The contest, however, was too uneven to last long. Sikes had him down, and his knee was on his throat when Crackit pulled him back with a worried look and pointed to the window. There were lights shining outside, voices in loud and serious conversation, and the sound of hurried footsteps—there seemed to be endless numbers of them—crossing the nearest wooden bridge. One man on horseback appeared to be part of the crowd; the noise of hooves clattering on the uneven pavement confirmed that. The brightness of the lights grew, and the footsteps became more frequent and loud. Then, there was a loud knocking at the door, followed by a harsh murmur from a multitude of angry voices that would have made even the bravest person tremble.
‘Help!’ shrieked the boy in a voice that rent the air. ‘He’s here! Break down the door!’
‘Help!’ screamed the boy, his voice cutting through the air. ‘He’s here! Bust down the door!’
‘In the King’s name,’ cried the voices without; and the hoarse cry arose again, but louder.
‘In the King’s name,’ shouted the voices outside; and the rough cry rose up again, but louder.
‘Break down the door!’ screamed the boy. ‘I tell you they’ll never open it. Run straight to the room where the light is. Break down the door!’
‘Break down the door!’ the boy shouted. ‘I'm telling you, they'll never open it. Go straight to the room where the light is. Break down the door!’
Strokes, thick and heavy, rattled upon the door and lower window-shutters as he ceased to speak, and a loud huzzah burst from the crowd; giving the listener, for the first time, some adequate idea of its immense extent.
Strokes, thick and heavy, pounded on the door and lower window-shutters as he stopped speaking, and a loud cheer erupted from the crowd; giving the listener, for the first time, a real sense of its immense size.
‘Open the door of some place where I can lock this screeching Hell-babe,’ cried Sikes fiercely; running to and fro, and dragging the boy, now, as easily as if he were an empty sack. ‘That door. Quick!’ He flung him in, bolted it, and turned the key. ‘Is the downstairs door fast?’
‘Open the door to somewhere I can lock up this screeching brat,’ cried Sikes angrily, running around and dragging the boy now as easily as if he were a empty sack. ‘That door. Hurry!’ He threw him inside, locked it, and turned the key. ‘Is the downstairs door secured?’
‘Double-locked and chained,’ replied Crackit, who, with the other two men, still remained quite helpless and bewildered.
‘Double-locked and chained,’ replied Crackit, who, along with the other two men, still felt completely helpless and confused.
‘The panels—are they strong?’
“Are the panels strong?”
‘Lined with sheet-iron.’
‘Covered with sheet metal.’
‘And the windows too?’
"And the windows as well?"
‘Yes, and the windows.’
"Yeah, and the windows."
‘Damn you!’ cried the desperate ruffian, throwing up the sash and menacing the crowd. ‘Do your worst! I’ll cheat you yet!’
‘Damn you!’ shouted the desperate thug, throwing up the window and threatening the crowd. ‘Do your worst! I’ll outsmart you yet!’
Of all the terrific yells that ever fell on mortal ears, none could exceed the cry of the infuriated throng. Some shouted to those who were nearest to set the house on fire; others roared to the officers to shoot him dead. Among them all, none showed such fury as the man on horseback, who, throwing himself out of the saddle, and bursting through the crowd as if he were parting water, cried, beneath the window, in a voice that rose above all others, ‘Twenty guineas to the man who brings a ladder!’
Of all the amazing shouts that ever reached human ears, none could compare to the scream of the angry crowd. Some yelled to those closest to them to set the house on fire; others shouted to the officers to shoot him dead. Among them all, none displayed as much rage as the man on horseback, who, leaping off the saddle and pushing through the crowd as if he were parting water, shouted beneath the window, in a voice that outshone all others, ‘Twenty guineas to the person who brings a ladder!’
The nearest voices took up the cry, and hundreds echoed it. Some called for ladders, some for sledge-hammers; some ran with torches to and fro as if to seek them, and still came back and roared again; some spent their breath in impotent curses and execrations; some pressed forward with the ecstasy of madmen, and thus impeded the progress of those below; some among the boldest attempted to climb up by the water-spout and crevices in the wall; and all waved to and fro, in the darkness beneath, like a field of corn moved by an angry wind: and joined from time to time in one loud furious roar.
The closest voices joined in, and hundreds echoed them. Some shouted for ladders, some for sledgehammers; some ran around with torches as if looking for them, only to return and roar again; some wasted their breath on useless curses and insults; some rushed forward with the excitement of crazed individuals, blocking the way for those below; and some of the bravest tried to climb up the water spout and the cracks in the wall; and all swayed back and forth in the darkness below, like a field of corn tossed by a strong wind, occasionally joining in one loud, furious roar.
‘The tide,’ cried the murderer, as he staggered back into the room, and shut the faces out, ‘the tide was in as I came up. Give me a rope, a long rope. They’re all in front. I may drop into the Folly Ditch, and clear off that way. Give me a rope, or I shall do three more murders and kill myself.’
‘The tide,’ shouted the murderer, as he stumbled back into the room, shutting out the faces, ‘the tide was in when I came up. Give me a rope, a long rope. They’re all in front. I might fall into the Folly Ditch and escape that way. Give me a rope, or I’ll commit three more murders and take my own life.’
The panic-stricken men pointed to where such articles were kept; the murderer, hastily selecting the longest and strongest cord, hurried up to the house-top.
The terrified men pointed to where those items were stored; the killer quickly grabbed the longest and strongest rope and rushed up to the rooftop.
All the windows in the rear of the house had been long ago bricked up, except one small trap in the room where the boy was locked, and that was too small even for the passage of his body. But, from this aperture, he had never ceased to call on those without, to guard the back; and thus, when the murderer emerged at last on the house-top by the door in the roof, a loud shout proclaimed the fact to those in front, who immediately began to pour round, pressing upon each other in an unbroken stream.
All the windows at the back of the house had been bricked up a long time ago, except for a small opening in the room where the boy was locked up, and that was too small for him to fit through. Still, from this gap, he had kept calling out to those outside to watch the back. So, when the murderer finally came out onto the roof through the door at the top, a loud shout announced it to the people in front, who immediately started to rush around, crowding together in an unbroken flow.
He planted a board, which he had carried up with him for the purpose, so firmly against the door that it must be matter of great difficulty to open it from the inside; and creeping over the tiles, looked over the low parapet.
He propped a board, which he had brought up with him for this purpose, so firmly against the door that it would be very difficult to open it from the inside; and creeping over the tiles, he looked over the low wall.
The water was out, and the ditch a bed of mud.
The water was gone, leaving the ditch a muddy mess.
The crowd had been hushed during these few moments, watching his motions and doubtful of his purpose, but the instant they perceived it and knew it was defeated, they raised a cry of triumphant execration to which all their previous shouting had been whispers. Again and again it rose. Those who were at too great a distance to know its meaning, took up the sound; it echoed and re-echoed; it seemed as though the whole city had poured its population out to curse him.
The crowd had gone quiet during those few moments, watching his actions and unsure of his intent, but as soon as they realized it and knew it had failed, they erupted in a loud cheer of anger that made all their earlier shouting sound like whispers. It surged up again and again. Those who were too far away to understand what was happening joined in the noise; it echoed and re-echoed, making it seem like the entire city had come out to curse him.
On pressed the people from the front—on, on, on, in a strong struggling current of angry faces, with here and there a glaring torch to lighten them up, and show them out in all their wrath and passion. The houses on the opposite side of the ditch had been entered by the mob; sashes were thrown up, or torn bodily out; there were tiers and tiers of faces in every window; cluster upon cluster of people clinging to every house-top. Each little bridge (and there were three in sight) bent beneath the weight of the crowd upon it. Still the current poured on to find some nook or hole from which to vent their shouts, and only for an instant see the wretch.
On pressed the crowd from the front—on, on, on, in a powerful, struggling wave of angry faces, with flashes of glaring torches lighting them up and revealing all their fury and passion. The houses on the other side of the ditch had been invaded by the mob; windows were thrown open or ripped out completely; there were rows and rows of faces in every window; clusters of people clung to every rooftop. Each small bridge (and there were three in sight) buckled under the weight of the crowd on it. Still, the surge continued, searching for any nook or hole from which to let out their shouts, and to catch a brief glimpse of the unfortunate.
‘They have him now,’ cried a man on the nearest bridge. ‘Hurrah!’
‘They’ve got him now,’ shouted a guy on the nearest bridge. ‘Yay!’
The crowd grew light with uncovered heads; and again the shout uprose.
The crowd thinned out with their heads bare, and once more the shout rose up.
‘I will give fifty pounds,’ cried an old gentleman from the same quarter, ‘to the man who takes him alive. I will remain here, till he come to ask me for it.’
‘I will give fifty pounds,’ shouted an old man from the same area, ‘to whoever brings him back alive. I’ll stay here until 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 pell-mell to the spot they had left: each man crushing and striving with his neighbor, and all panting with impatience to get near the door, and look upon the criminal as the officers brought him out. The cries and shrieks of those who were pressed almost to suffocation, or trampled down and trodden under foot in the confusion, were dreadful; the narrow ways were completely blocked up; and at this time, 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.
There was another roar. At that moment, word spread through the crowd that the door had finally been forced, and that the person who had first called for the ladder had climbed into the room. The flow of people changed suddenly as this news traveled from person to person; those at the windows, seeing those on the bridges rushing back, abandoned their spots and raced into the street, joining the chaotic crowd that was now rushing back to the place they had just left. Each person was pushing and shoving against their neighbors, all breathing heavily with impatience to get close to the door and see the criminal as the officers brought him out. The cries and screams of those who were nearly suffocated, or trampled and crushed underfoot in the chaos, were horrifying; the narrow streets were completely blocked. At that moment, between the rush of some trying to reclaim their spot in front of the house and the futile struggles of others attempting to free themselves from the crowd, attention briefly shifted away from the murderer, although the overall eagerness to capture him only intensified.
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 had occurred, he sprang upon his feet, determined to make one last effort for his life by dropping into the ditch, and, at the risk of being stifled, endeavouring to creep away in the darkness and confusion.
The man had shrunk back, completely overwhelmed by the intensity of the crowd and the impossibility of getting away; but noticing this sudden shift as quickly as it happened, he jumped to his feet, determined to make one last effort to save himself by jumping into the ditch and, risking suffocation, trying to crawl away in the darkness and chaos.
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.
Energized and motivated by the sounds coming from inside the house that confirmed someone had really entered, he pressed his foot against the chimney stack, secured one end of the rope tightly around it, and quickly fashioned a strong running noose with the other end using his hands and teeth. He could lower himself down by the rope to just a bit above the ground and had his knife ready in hand to cut it and drop.
Original
At the very instant when he brought the loop 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 railing 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 yell of terror.
At the exact moment when he pulled the loop over his head before sliding it under his armpits, and when the mentioned old man (who had held on so tightly to the bridge railing that he resisted the crowd’s force and kept his spot) urgently warned those around him that the man was about to lower himself down—at that very moment, the murderer, glancing back over his shoulder on the roof, raised his arms above his head and let out a terrified scream.
‘The eyes again!’ he cried in an unearthly screech.
‘The eyes again!’ he yelled in a bone-chilling scream.
Staggering as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbled over the parapet. The noose was on his neck. It ran up with his weight, tight as a bow-string, and swift as the arrow it speeds. He fell for five-and-thirty feet. There was a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion of the limbs; and there he hung, with the open knife clenched in his stiffening hand.
Stumbling as if hit by lightning, he lost his balance and fell over the edge. The noose was around his neck. It grew tight with his weight, as tight as a bowstring, and fast as the arrow it shoots. He fell for thirty-five feet. There was a sudden jerk, a violent convulsion of his limbs; and there he hung, with the open knife clenched in his stiffening hand.
The old chimney quivered with the shock, but stood it bravely. The murderer 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.
The old chimney shook with the impact but held its ground. The murderer hung motionless against the wall; and the boy, pushing aside the dangling body that blocked his view, shouted to the people to come and get 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.
A dog that had been hidden until now ran back and forth on the edge with a mournful howl, and gathering himself for a leap, jumped for the dead man’s shoulders. Missing his target, he fell into the ditch, flipping over as he went; and hitting his head against a stone, he knocked himself out.
CHAPTER LI — 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.
The events described in the last chapter had only taken place two days earlier when Oliver found himself, at three o’clock in the afternoon, in a carriage heading swiftly towards his hometown. Mrs. Maylie, Rose, Mrs. Bedwin, and the kind doctor were with him, while Mr. Brownlow followed in a rented carriage with another person whose name hadn’t 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 very carefully made acquainted by Mr. Brownlow with the nature of the admissions which had been forced from Monks; and although they knew that the object of their present journey was to complete the work which had been so well begun, still the whole matter was enveloped in enough of doubt and mystery to leave them in endurance of the most intense suspense.
They hadn't said much on the way because Oliver was feeling a mix of nervousness and uncertainty that made it hard for him to gather his thoughts and almost impossible to speak. His companions seemed just as affected by it. Mr. Brownlow had carefully explained to Oliver and the two ladies what Monks had admitted, and even though they knew their current journey was meant to finish what had been started, the whole situation was still shrouded in enough doubt and mystery to keep them on edge in a state of deep suspense.
The same kind friend had, with Mr. Losberne’s assistance, cautiously stopped all channels of communication through which they could receive intelligence of the dreadful occurrences that so recently taken place. ‘It was quite true,’ he said, ‘that they must know them before long, but it might be at a better time than the present, and it could not be at a worse.’ So, they travelled on in silence: each busied with reflections on the object which had brought them together: and no one disposed to give utterance to the thoughts which crowded upon all.
The same kind friend, with Mr. Losberne’s help, had carefully cut off all communication channels that could bring them news of the terrible events that had recently happened. "It's true," he said, "that they'll find out eventually, but it could happen at a better time than now, and it definitely can't be worse." So, they continued on in silence, each lost in their own thoughts about the reason they were together, and no one willing to voice the many thoughts crowding their minds.
But if Oliver, under these influences, had remained silent while they journeyed towards his birth-place by a road he had never seen, how the whole current of his recollections ran back to old times, and what a crowd of emotions were wakened up in his breast, when they turned into that which he had traversed on foot: a poor houseless, wandering boy, without a friend to help him, or a roof to shelter his head.
But if Oliver, influenced by these feelings, had stayed quiet while they traveled towards his hometown on a road he had never seen, how all his memories would flood back to the past, and what a wave of emotions would rise in his chest when they turned onto that same path he had walked as a poor, homeless, wandering boy, with no friend to help him or a place to call home.
‘See there, there!’ cried Oliver, eagerly clasping the hand of Rose, and pointing out at the carriage window; ‘that’s the stile I came over; there are the hedges I crept behind, for fear any one should overtake me and force me back! Yonder is the path across the fields, leading to the old house where I was a little child! Oh Dick, Dick, my dear old friend, if I could only see you now!’
‘Look, look!’ shouted Oliver, excitedly grabbing Rose’s hand and pointing out the carriage window. ‘That’s the stile I crossed; there are the hedges I hid behind, so no one could catch me and make me go back! Over there is the path through the fields that leads to the old house where I was a kid! Oh Dick, Dick, my dear old friend, if only I could see you now!’
‘You will see him soon,’ replied Rose, gently taking his folded hands between her own. ‘You shall tell him how happy you are, and how rich you have grown, and that in all your happiness you have none so great as the coming back to make him happy too.’
‘You will see him soon,’ replied Rose, gently taking his folded hands between her own. ‘You’ll tell him how happy you are, how successful you’ve become, and that among all your happiness, none is greater than coming back to make him happy too.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Oliver, ‘and we’ll—we’ll take him away from here, and have him clothed and taught, and send him to some quiet country place where he may grow strong and well,—shall we?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Oliver, ‘and we’ll—we’ll take him away from here, and have him dressed and educated, and send him to some peaceful country place where he can grow strong and healthy,—shall we?’
Rose nodded ‘yes,’ for the boy was smiling through such happy tears that she could not speak.
Rose nodded ‘yes,’ because the boy was smiling through such happy tears that she couldn't find the words.
‘You will be kind and good to him, for you are to every one,’ said Oliver. ‘It will make you cry, I know, to hear what he can tell; but never mind, never mind, it will be all over, and you will smile again—I know that too—to think how changed he is; you did the same with me. He said “God bless you” to me when I ran away,’ cried the boy with a burst of affectionate emotion; ‘and I will say “God bless you” now, and show him how I love him for it!’
‘You will be kind and good to him, just like you are to everyone,’ said Oliver. ‘It’s going to make you cry, I know, to hear what he can share; but don’t worry, don’t worry, it will be over soon, and you’ll smile again—I know that too— to think about how changed he is; you did the same with me. He said “God bless you” to me when I ran away,’ cried the boy with a burst of affectionate emotion; ‘and I’ll say “God bless you” now, and show him how much I love him for it!’
As they approached the town, and at length drove through its narrow streets, it became matter of no small difficulty to restrain the boy within reasonable bounds. There was Sowerberry’s the undertaker’s just as it used to be, only smaller and less imposing in appearance than he remembered it—there were all the well-known shops and houses, with almost every one of which he had some slight incident connected—there was Gamfield’s cart, the very cart he used to have, standing at the old public-house door—there was the workhouse, the dreary prison of his youthful days, with its dismal windows frowning on the street—there was the same lean porter standing at the gate, at sight of whom Oliver involuntarily shrunk back, and then laughed at himself for being so foolish, then cried, then laughed again—there were scores of faces at the doors and windows that he knew quite well—there was nearly everything as if he had left it but yesterday, and all his recent life had been but a happy dream.
As they got closer to the town and finally drove through its narrow streets, it became quite difficult to keep the boy in check. There was Sowerberry's, the undertaker's, just like it used to be, only smaller and less impressive than he remembered—there were all the familiar shops and houses, each connected to some little memory—there was Gamfield's cart, the exact cart he used to have, parked at the old pub's door—there was the workhouse, the gloomy place from his childhood, with its sad windows glaring down at the street—there was the same thin porter standing at the gate, who made Oliver instinctively shrink back, then laugh at himself for being so silly, then cry, then laugh again—there were dozens of familiar faces at the doors and windows—everything felt just as if he had left it only yesterday, and all his recent experiences seemed like a pleasant dream.
But it was pure, earnest, joyful reality. They drove straight to the door of the chief hotel (which Oliver used to stare up at, with awe, and think a mighty palace, but which had somehow fallen off in grandeur and size); and here was Mr. Grimwig all ready to receive them, kissing the young lady, and the old one too, when they got out of the coach, as if he were the grandfather of the whole party, all smiles and kindness, and not offering to eat his head—no, not once; not even when he contradicted a very old postboy about the nearest road to London, and maintained he knew it best, though he had only come that way once, and that time fast asleep. There was dinner prepared, and there were bedrooms ready, and everything was arranged as if by magic.
But it was pure, sincere, joyful reality. They drove straight to the entrance of the main hotel (which Oliver used to gaze at in awe, thinking it was a grand palace, but which had somehow lost its splendor and size); and there was Mr. Grimwig all set to greet them, kissing the young lady and the older one too, when they stepped out of the coach, as if he were the grandfather of the whole group, beaming with kindness and not even joking about eating his own head—not once; not even when he disagreed with a very old postboy about the quickest route to London, insisting he knew it best, even though he had only traveled that way once, and that time he was fast asleep. Dinner was ready, bedrooms were prepared, and everything was arranged as if by magic.
Notwithstanding all this, when the hurry of the first half-hour was over, the same silence and constraint prevailed that had marked their journey down. Mr. Brownlow did not join them at dinner, but remained in a separate room. The two other gentlemen hurried in and out with anxious faces, and, during the short intervals when they were present, conversed apart. Once, Mrs. Maylie was called away, and 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.
Despite all this, once the rush of the first half-hour was over, the same silence and awkwardness returned that had marked their journey down. Mr. Brownlow didn’t join them for dinner but stayed in a separate room. The two other gentlemen rushed in and out with worried expressions, and during the brief moments they were there, they whispered to each other. Once, Mrs. Maylie was called away, and after being gone for nearly an hour, she came back with swollen eyes from crying. All of this made Rose and Oliver, who were unaware of any new secrets, feel anxious and uncomfortable. They sat in silence wondering what was happening; if they did exchange a few words, they spoke in hushed tones, as if afraid to hear 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. Monks cast a look of hate, which, even then, he could not dissemble, at the astonished boy, and sat down near the door. Mr. Brownlow, who had papers in his hand, walked to a table near which Rose and Oliver were seated.
At last, when nine o’clock rolled around and they thought they wouldn’t hear anything more that night, Mr. Losberne and Mr. Grimwig walked into the room, followed by Mr. Brownlow and a man who made Oliver almost scream in shock; they told him it was his brother, and it was the same guy he had seen at the market-town, peeking in with Fagin at the window of his little room. Monks shot a hateful glance, which he couldn't hide, at the surprised boy and sat down near the door. Mr. Brownlow, holding some papers, walked over to a table close to where Rose and Oliver were sitting.
‘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 hear them from your own lips before we part, and you know why.’
‘This is a tough task,’ he said, ‘but these statements, which were signed in London in front of many gentlemen, must essentially be repeated here. I would have spared you the embarrassment, but we need to hear them from you directly before we leave, and you know why.’
‘Go on,’ said the person addressed, turning away his face. ‘Quick. I have almost done enough, I think. Don’t keep me here.’
‘Go ahead,’ the person replied, turning his face away. ‘Hurry up. I think I’m almost finished. Don’t hold me up.’
‘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, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving him birth.’
‘This child,’ said Mr. Brownlow, pulling Oliver close and placing his hand on his head, ‘is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died giving birth to him.’
‘Yes,’ said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy: the beating of whose heart he might have heard. ‘That is the bastard child.’
‘Yeah,’ Monks said, glaring at the trembling boy, whose heartbeat he could almost hear. ‘That's the illegitimate kid.’
‘The term you use,’ said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, ‘is a reproach to those long since passed beyond the feeble censure of the world. It reflects disgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this town.’
‘The term you use,’ said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, ‘is an insult to those who have long since moved beyond the weak judgment of society. It brings shame to no one alive, except for you who use it. Let that go. He was born in this town.’
‘In the workhouse of this town,’ was the sullen reply. ‘You have the story there.’ He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke.
‘In the workhouse of this town,’ was the grumpy reply. ‘The story is there.’ He pointed irritably to the papers as he spoke.
‘I must have it here, too,’ said Mr. Brownlow, looking round upon the listeners.
‘I must have it here, too,’ said Mr. Brownlow, looking around at the listeners.
‘Listen then! You!’ returned Monks. ‘His father being taken ill at Rome, was joined by his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long separated, who went from 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’; he addressed himself to Mr. Brownlow; ‘and enclosed in a few short lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of the package that it was not to be forwarded till after he was dead. One of these papers was a letter to this girl Agnes; the other a will.’
‘Listen up! You!’ Monks replied. ‘His father got sick in Rome, and my mother, who had been separated from him for a long time, went from Paris to be with him, bringing me along to take care of his property, I guess, since she didn’t have much love for him, and he didn’t for her either. He didn’t know anything about us because he was out of it, and he slept on until the next day, when he died. Among the papers in his desk, there were two dated the night he first got sick, addressed to you’; he turned to Mr. Brownlow; ‘and included a few short lines for you, with a note on the package saying it shouldn’t be sent until after his death. One of these papers was a letter to this girl Agnes, and the other was a will.’
‘What of the letter?’ asked Mr. Brownlow.
‘What about the letter?’ asked Mr. Brownlow.
‘The letter?—A sheet of paper crossed and crossed again, with a penitent confession, and prayers to God to help her. He had palmed a tale on the girl that some secret mystery—to be explained one day—prevented his marrying her just then; and so she had gone on, trusting patiently to him, until she trusted too far, and lost what none could ever give her back. She was, at that time, within a few months of her confinement. He told her all he had meant to do, to hide her shame, if he had lived, and prayed her, if he died, not to curse 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. I believe he had.’
‘The letter?—A piece of paper crisscrossed multiple times, filled with a heartfelt confession and prayers to God for assistance. He had spun a story for the girl, claiming that a secret mystery prevented him from marrying her at that moment, and so she continued to trust him patiently until she trusted too much and lost something that could never be returned. At that time, she was just a few months away from giving birth. He told her everything he had planned to do to protect her from disgrace, had he lived, and begged her, if he died, not to curse his memory or think that the consequences of their wrongdoing would fall upon her or their child; all the blame was his alone. He reminded her of the day he had given her the small locket and the ring engraved with her name, leaving a space for the name he hoped to give her someday—he pleaded with her to keep it and wear it close to her heart, as she had done before—and then he began to repeat himself, frantically, in the same phrases over and over, as if he had lost his mind. I truly believe he had.’
‘The will,’ said Mr. Brownlow, as Oliver’s tears fell fast.
‘The will,’ Mr. Brownlow said, as Oliver cried uncontrollably.
Monks was silent.
Monks were silent.
‘The will,’ said Mr. Brownlow, speaking for him, ‘was in the same spirit as the letter. He talked of miseries which his wife had brought upon him; of the rebellious disposition, vice, malice, and premature bad passions of you his only son, who had been trained to hate him; and left you, and your mother, each an annuity of eight hundred pounds. The bulk of his property he divided into two equal portions—one for Agnes Fleming, and the other for their child, if it should be born alive, and ever come of age. If it were a girl, it was to inherit the money unconditionally; but if a boy, only on the stipulation 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 were 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.’
‘The will,’ said Mr. Brownlow, speaking for him, ‘was in the same spirit as the letter. He mentioned the suffering that his wife had caused him; the rebellious nature, vices, malice, and early bad traits of you, his only son, who had been taught to resent him; and left you and your mother each an annuity of eight hundred pounds. He divided the majority of his property into two equal parts—one for Agnes Fleming and the other for their child, if it was born alive and reached adulthood. If it was a girl, she would inherit the money unconditionally; but if it was a boy, only on the condition that during his childhood he never tarnished his name with any public acts of dishonor, meanness, cowardice, or wrongdoing. He did this, he said, to show his trust in the mother and his belief—only reinforced by his impending death—that the child would have her kind heart and noble nature. If he was let down by this expectation, then the money would go to you: for then, and only then, when both children were equal, would he acknowledge your prior claim on his fortune, which you had none on his affection, but had, from infancy, rejected him with coldness and disdain.’
‘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; it was on the night when he returned home, assured that she had destroyed herself, to hide her shame and his, that his old heart broke.’
‘My mother,’ said Monks, raising his voice, ‘did what any woman would do. She burned this will. The letter never made it to where it was supposed to go; but she kept that, along with other evidence, in case they ever tried to deny the truth. The girl’s father got the whole story from her, with all the added bitterness that her intense hatred—I appreciate her for it now—could bring. Driven by shame and disgrace, he fled with his children to a secluded part of Wales, even changing his name so that his friends would never find out about his escape; and not long after, he was discovered dead in his bed. The girl had secretly left home weeks earlier; he had searched for her on foot in every town and village nearby; it was on the night he came home, convinced that she had ended her life to escape her shame and his, that his heart finally gave out.’
There was a short silence here, until Mr. Brownlow took up the thread of the narrative.
There was a brief pause here until Mr. Brownlow continued the story.
‘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. Inquiries were set on foot, and strict searches made. They were unavailing for a long time, but ultimately successful; and he went back with her to France.’
‘Years later,’ he said, ‘this man—Edward Leeford’s—mother came to me. He had left her when he was only eighteen, taking her jewels and money; he gambled, wasted it all, forged documents, and ran off to London, where he spent two years with the worst kind of people. She was suffering from a painful and incurable illness and wanted to find him before she died. We started searching and looking into things. It took a long time without results, but eventually, we found him, and he returned to France with her.’
‘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 draggin 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!’
“There she died,” Monks said, “after a long illness; and on her deathbed, she entrusted these secrets to me, along with her unquenchable and deadly hatred for everyone involved—though she didn’t need to leave me that, since I had inherited it long before. She wouldn’t believe that the girl had killed herself, or that the child had too, but was convinced that a male child had been born and was still alive. I promised her that if it ever crossed my path, I would hunt it down; never let it rest; pursue it with the utmost bitterness and relentless animosity; to unleash the hatred I felt deeply, and to spit on the empty boast of that insulting will by dragging it, if I could, to the very gallows. She was right. He eventually came into my life. I started strong; and, if it weren’t for chatty nuisances, I would have finished as I started!”
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.
As the villain crossed his arms tightly and muttered curses in his frustration, Mr. Brownlow turned to the scared group beside him and explained that the Jew, who had been his old partner and confidant, had a big reward for keeping Oliver trapped: part of which was supposed to be surrendered if Oliver was rescued. This disagreement about the reward was what brought them to the country house to identify him.
‘The locket and ring?’ said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Monks.
‘The locket and ring?’ Mr. Brownlow asked, turning to Monks.
‘I bought them from the man and woman I told you of, who stole them from the nurse, who stole them from the corpse,’ answered Monks without raising his eyes. ‘You know what became of them.’
‘I bought them from the couple I mentioned, who took them from the nurse, who took them from the body,’ Monks replied without looking up. ‘You know what happened to 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.
Mr. Brownlow just nodded to Mr. Grimwig, who quickly left and soon came back, bringing in Mrs. Bumble and pulling her reluctant husband along behind 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 a-grieving for you—’
‘Are my eyes deceiving me!’ shouted Mr. Bumble, with fake excitement, ‘or is that little Oliver? Oh O-li-ver, if you knew how much I’ve missed you—’
‘Hold your tongue, fool,’ murmured Mrs. Bumble.
"Shut your mouth, idiot," whispered Mrs. Bumble.
‘Isn’t natur, natur, Mrs. Bumble?’ remonstrated the workhouse master. ‘Can’t I be supposed to feel—I as brought him up porochially—when I see him a-setting here among ladies and gentlemen of the very affablest description! I always loved that boy as if he’d been my—my—my own grandfather,’ said Mr. Bumble, halting for an appropriate 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.’
‘Isn’t nature, nature, Mrs. Bumble?’ protested the workhouse master. ‘Can’t I be expected to feel—I who raised him in the workhouse—when I see him sitting here among such friendly ladies and gentlemen? I always loved that boy as if he were my—my—my own grandfather,’ said Mr. Bumble, pausing for a suitable comparison. ‘Master Oliver, my dear, do you remember that kind gentleman in the white waistcoat? Ah! He went to heaven last week, in an oak coffin with metal handles, Oliver.’
‘Come, sir,’ said Mr. Grimwig, tartly; ‘suppress your feelings.’
‘Come on, sir,’ Mr. Grimwig said sharply; ‘hold back your feelings.’
‘I will do my endeavours, sir,’ replied Mr. Bumble. ‘How do you do, sir? I hope you are very well.’
‘I will do my best, sir,’ replied Mr. Bumble. ‘How are you, sir? I hope you’re doing well.’
This salutation was addressed to Mr. Brownlow, who had stepped up to within a short distance of the respectable couple. He inquired, as he pointed to Monks,
This greeting was directed at Mr. Brownlow, who had approached the respectable couple from a short distance away. He asked, while pointing to Monks,
‘Do you know that person?’
"Do you know this person?"
‘No,’ replied Mrs. Bumble flatly.
‘No,’ Mrs. Bumble replied flatly.
‘Perhaps you don’t?’ said Mr. Brownlow, addressing her spouse.
‘Maybe you don’t?’ said Mr. Brownlow, speaking to her partner.
‘I never saw him in all my life,’ said Mr. Bumble.
"I’ve never seen him in my life," said Mr. Bumble.
‘Nor sold him anything, perhaps?’
"Nor sold him anything, maybe?"
‘No,’ replied Mrs. Bumble.
‘Nope,’ replied Mrs. Bumble.
‘You never had, perhaps, a certain gold locket and ring?’ said Mr. Brownlow.
‘You never had, maybe, a certain gold locket and ring?’ said Mr. Brownlow.
‘Certainly not,’ replied the matron. ‘Why are we brought here to answer to such nonsense as this?’
‘Definitely not,’ replied the matron. ‘Why are we here to respond to such nonsense?’
Again Mr. Brownlow nodded to Mr. Grimwig; and again that gentleman limped away with extraordinary readiness. But not again did he return with a stout man and wife; for this time, he led in two palsied women, who shook and tottered as they walked.
Again Mr. Brownlow nodded to Mr. Grimwig; and once more that gentleman limped away with surprising eagerness. But he didn't come back with a stout man and woman this time; instead, he brought in two shaky women who trembled and wobbled as they walked.
‘You shut the door the night old Sally died,’ said the foremost one, raising her shrivelled hand, ‘but you couldn’t shut out the sound, nor stop the chinks.’
‘You shut the door the night old Sally died,’ said the one in front, raising her withered hand, ‘but you couldn’t block out the noise or stop the gaps.’
‘No, no,’ said the other, looking round her and wagging her toothless jaws. ‘No, no, no.’
‘No, no,’ said the other, looking around her and moving her toothless mouth. ‘No, no, no.’
‘We heard her try to tell you what she’d done, and saw you take a paper from her hand, and watched you too, next day, to the pawnbroker’s shop,’ said the first.
‘We heard her trying to explain what she’d done, and saw you take a piece of paper from her hand, and then we watched you the next day at the pawn shop,’ said the first.
‘Yes,’ added the second, ‘and it was a “locket and gold ring.” We found out that, and saw it given you. We were by. Oh! we were by.’
‘Yes,’ added the second, ‘and it was a “locket and gold ring.” We found out about it and saw it given to you. We were there. Oh! we were there.’
‘And we know more than that,’ resumed the first, ‘for she told us often, long ago, that the young mother had told her that, feeling she should never get over it, she was on her way, at the time that she was taken ill, to die near the grave of the father of the child.’
‘And we know even more,’ continued the first, ‘because she often told us a long time ago that the young mother had shared with her that, feeling she would never recover, she was on her way, at the time she got sick, to die near the grave of the child’s father.’
‘Would you like to see the pawnbroker himself?’ asked Mr. Grimwig with a motion towards the door.
“Do you want to meet the pawnbroker himself?” Mr. Grimwig asked, gesturing toward the door.
‘No,’ replied the woman; ‘if he’—she pointed to Monks—‘has been coward enough to confess, as I see he has, and you have sounded all these hags till you have found the right ones, I have nothing more to say. I did sell them, and they’re where you’ll never get them. What then?’
‘No,’ replied the woman; ‘if he’—she pointed to Monks—‘has been cowardly enough to confess, as I can see he has, and you’ve checked all these hags until you found the right ones, I have nothing more to say. I did sell them, and they’re where you’ll never find them. What’s next?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, ‘except that it remains for us to take care that neither of you is employed in a situation of trust again. You may leave the room.’
‘Nothing,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, ‘except that we need to make sure neither of you is put in a position of trust again. You can leave the room.’
‘I hope,’ said Mr. Bumble, looking about him with great ruefulness, as Mr. Grimwig disappeared with the two old women: ‘I hope that this unfortunate little circumstance will not deprive me of my porochial office?’
‘I hope,’ said Mr. Bumble, looking around with great sadness, as Mr. Grimwig walked away with the two old women: ‘I hope that this unfortunate little situation won’t cost me my parish job?’
‘Indeed it will,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘You may make up your mind to that, and think yourself well off besides.’
‘Definitely it will,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘You can count on that, and consider yourself lucky as well.’
‘It was all Mrs. Bumble. She would do it,’ urged Mr. Bumble; first looking round to ascertain that his partner had left the room.
‘It was all Mrs. Bumble. She would do it,’ urged Mr. Bumble, first checking to make sure his partner had left the room.
‘That is no excuse,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘You were present on the occasion of the destruction of these trinkets, and indeed are the more guilty of the two, in the eye of the law; for the law supposes that your wife acts under your direction.’
‘That’s not a valid excuse,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘You were there when these items were destroyed, and in fact, you’re more at fault than she is according to the law; because the law assumes that your wife acts under your instruction.’
‘If the law supposes that,’ said Mr. Bumble, squeezing his hat emphatically in both hands, ‘the law is a ass—a idiot. If that’s the eye of the law, the law is a bachelor; and the worst I wish the law is, that his eye may be opened by experience—by experience.’
‘If the law thinks that,’ said Mr. Bumble, gripping his hat tightly with both hands, ‘then the law is a fool—an idiot. If that’s how the law sees things, the law is clueless; and all I hope for the law is that it opens its eyes through experience—through experience.’
Laying great stress on the repetition of these two words, Mr. Bumble fixed his hat on very tight, and putting his hands in his pockets, followed his helpmate downstairs.
Laying great stress on the repetition of these two words, Mr. Bumble fixed his hat on very tight and, putting his hands in his pockets, followed his partner downstairs.
‘Young lady,’ said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Rose, ‘give me your hand. Do not tremble. You need not fear to hear the few remaining words we have to say.’
‘Young lady,’ said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Rose, ‘give me your hand. Don’t be scared. You don’t need to worry about hearing the few last things we have to say.’
‘If they have—I do not know how they can, but if they have—any reference to me,’ said Rose, ‘pray let me hear them at some other time. I have not strength or spirits now.’
‘If they have—I don’t know how they can, but if they have—any reference to me,’ said Rose, ‘please let me hear it another time. I don’t have the strength or energy for it right now.’
‘Nay,’ returned the old gentlman, drawing her arm through his; ‘you have more fortitude than this, I am sure. Do you know this young lady, sir?’
‘No,’ replied the old gentleman, linking her arm through his; ‘you have more strength than this, I’m sure. Do you know this young lady, sir?’
‘Yes,’ replied Monks.
"Yes," Monks replied.
‘I never saw you before,’ said Rose faintly.
‘I’ve never seen you before,’ said Rose softly.
‘I have seen you often,’ returned Monks.
‘I’ve seen you a lot,’ replied Monks.
‘The father of the unhappy Agnes had two daughters,’ said Mr. Brownlow. ‘What was the fate of the other—the child?’
‘The father of the unhappy Agnes had two daughters,’ said Mr. Brownlow. ‘What happened to the other one—the child?’
‘The child,’ replied Monks, ‘when her father died in a strange place, in a strange name, without a letter, book, or scrap of paper that yielded the faintest clue by which his friends or relatives could be traced—the child was taken by some wretched cottagers, who reared it as their own.’
‘The child,’ replied Monks, ‘when her father died in an unfamiliar place, under an unknown name, without a note, book, or any scrap of paper that gave even the slightest hint about how to find his friends or family—the child was taken in by some unfortunate villagers, who raised her as their own.’
‘Go on,’ said Mr. Brownlow, signing to Mrs. Maylie to approach. ‘Go on!’
‘Go ahead,’ Mr. Brownlow said, signaling for Mrs. Maylie to come closer. ‘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.’
‘You couldn’t find the place where these people had gone,’ said Monks, ‘but where friendship ends, hatred often finds a way. My mother located it after a year of clever searching—yes, and found the child.’
‘She took it, did she?’
"Did she take it?"
‘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 promised more, which she never meant to send. She didn’t quite rely, however, on their discontent and poverty for the child’s unhappiness, but told the history of the sister’s shame, with such 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 at one time or other. The circumstances countenanced all this; the people believed it; and there the child dragged on an existence, miserable enough even to satisfy us, until a widow lady, residing, then, at Chester, saw the girl by chance, pitied her, and took her home. There was some cursed spell, I think, 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.’
‘No. The people were poor and started to grow weary—at least the man did—of their so-called fine humanity; so she left a little money with them, which wouldn’t last long, and promised more that she never intended to send. She didn’t completely depend on their unhappiness and poverty for the child’s misery, but recounted the story of the sister’s shame, making adjustments that suited her; she warned them to take good care of the child, because she came from bad origins; and told them she was illegitimate, and bound to go wrong sooner or later. The circumstances supported all this; the people believed it; and there the child struggled through a miserable existence, enough to satisfy anyone, until a widow lady living in Chester happened to see the girl, took pity on her, and brought her home. I think there was some terrible curse against us; because despite all our efforts, she stayed there and found happiness. I lost track of her two or three years ago, and didn’t see her again until a few months back.’
‘Do you see her now?’
"Can you see her now?"
‘Yes. Leaning on your arm.’
"Yeah. Leaning on your arm."
‘But not the less my niece,’ cried Mrs. Maylie, folding the fainting girl in her arms; ‘not the less my dearest child. I would not lose her now, for all the treasures of the world. My sweet companion, my own dear girl!’
‘But still my niece,’ exclaimed Mrs. Maylie, pulling the fainting girl into her arms; ‘still my dearest child. I wouldn’t trade her for all the treasures in the world. My sweet companion, my own dear girl!’
‘The only friend I ever had,’ cried Rose, clinging to her. ‘The kindest, best of friends. My heart will burst. I cannot bear all this.’
‘The only friend I ever had,’ shouted Rose, holding onto her. ‘The kindest, best friend. My heart feels like it’s going to break. I can’t handle all of this.’
‘You have borne more, and have been, through all, the best and gentlest creature that ever shed happiness on every one she knew,’ said Mrs. Maylie, embracing her tenderly. ‘Come, come, my love, remember who this is who waits to clasp you in his arms, poor child! See here—look, look, my dear!’
‘You’ve been through so much, and through it all, you’ve been the kindest and sweetest person who has ever brought joy to everyone around you,’ said Mrs. Maylie, hugging her tightly. ‘Come on, my love, remember who’s waiting to hold you in his arms, poor thing! Look 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!’
‘Not aunt,’ cried Oliver, throwing his arms around her neck; ‘I’ll never call her aunt—sister, my own dear sister, the one who made my heart love so deeply from the start! Rose, dear, sweet 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.
Let the tears that were shed and the broken words exchanged in the long, tight hug between the orphans be cherished. They gained and lost a father, sister, and mother in that one moment. Joy and sadness mixed together; but there were no bitter tears: even the sadness was softened and wrapped in such sweet and tender memories that it turned into a solemn pleasure, losing all sense 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 Maylie.
They had been alone for a really long time. A gentle knock at the door finally signaled that someone was outside. Oliver opened it, stepped aside, and let in Harry Maylie.
‘I know it all,’ he said, taking a seat beside the lovely girl. ‘Dear Rose, I know it all.’
‘I know everything,’ he said, sitting down next to the beautiful girl. ‘Dear Rose, I know everything.’
‘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 to remind you of a promise?’
‘I’m not here by accident,’ he said after a long pause; ‘and I didn’t just hear all this tonight, because I knew it yesterday—just yesterday. Do you think I’ve come to remind you of a promise?’
‘Stay,’ said Rose. ‘You do know all.’
“Stay,” said Rose. “You know everything.”
‘All. You gave me leave, at any time within a year, to renew the subject of our last discourse.’
‘All. You allowed me, at any time within a year, to bring up the topic of our last conversation.’
‘I did.’
"I did."
‘Not to press you to alter your determination,’ pursued the young man, ‘but to hear you repeat it, if you would. I was to lay whatever of station or fortune I might possess at your feet, and if you still adhered to your former determination, I pledged myself, by no word or act, to seek to change it.’
‘Not to urge you to change your mind,’ the young man continued, ‘but to hear you say it again, if you would. I was to offer whatever status or wealth I might have at your feet, and if you still stuck to your original decision, I promised that by no word or action would I try 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 should 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 same reasons that motivated me back then still motivate me now,’ Rose said firmly. ‘If I ever had a strong obligation to her, whose kindness rescued me from a life of poverty and hardship, when would I feel it more than tonight? It’s a struggle,’ Rose admitted, ‘but it’s one I’m proud to face; it’s painful, but it’s something my heart will endure.’
‘The disclosure of to-night,’—Harry began.
‘The announcement tonight,’—Harry began.
‘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.’
‘The revelation tonight,’ replied Rose softly, ‘puts me in the same position regarding you as I was before.’
‘You harden your heart against me, Rose,’ urged her lover.
‘You’re shutting me out, Rose,’ urged her lover.
‘Oh Harry, Harry,’ said the young lady, bursting into tears; ‘I wish I could, and spare myself this pain.’
‘Oh Harry, Harry,’ said the young woman, breaking down in tears; ‘I wish I could, and avoid this pain.’
‘Then why inflict it on yourself?’ said Harry, taking her hand. ‘Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard to-night.’
‘Then why put yourself through this?’ said Harry, taking her hand. ‘Think, dear Rose, think about what you heard tonight.’
‘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.’
‘And what have I heard! What have I heard!’ cried Rose. ‘That the weight of his deep disgrace affected my father so much that he avoided everyone—there, we’ve said enough, Harry, we’ve said enough.’
‘Not yet, not yet,’ said the young man, detaining her as she rose. ‘My hopes, my wishes, prospects, feeling: every thought in life except my love for you: have undergone a change. I offer you, now, no distinction among a bustling crowd; no mingling with a world of malice and detraction, where the blood is called 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.’
‘Not yet, not yet,’ said the young man, holding her back as she stood up. ‘My hopes, my wishes, my dreams, my feelings—everything in my life except my love for you has changed. What I’m offering you now isn’t the hustle and bustle of a crowded place; it’s not getting lost in a world filled with spite and criticism, where shame is the only reason we feel embarrassed; it’s a home—a heart and a home—yes, dear Rose, that’s all I have to offer.’
‘What do you mean!’ she faltered.
‘What do you mean?’ she hesitated.
‘I mean but this—that when I left you last, I left you with a 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 fields and waving trees in England’s richest county; and by one village church—mine, Rose, my own!—there stands a rustic dwelling which you can make me prouder of, than all the hopes I have renounced, measured a thousandfold. This is my rank and station now, and here I lay it down!’
‘I mean this—that when I left you last, I left you with a strong determination to remove all imagined barriers between you and me; resolved that if my world couldn't be yours, I would make yours mine; that no pride of birth should look down on you, because I would turn away from it. This I have done. Those who have turned away from me because of this have turned away from you, proving you right so far. Those who once smiled upon me—relatives with power and status—now look at me coldly; but there are beautiful fields and swaying trees in England’s richest county, and by one village church—mine, Rose, my own!—there stands a simple home that you can make me prouder of than all the hopes I've given up, a thousand times over. This is my rank and position now, and here I lay it down!’
‘It’s a trying thing waiting supper for lovers,’ said Mr. Grimwig, waking up, and pulling his pocket-handkerchief from over his head.
‘It’s tough waiting for dinner when you’re in love,’ said Mr. Grimwig, waking up and pulling his pocket handkerchief off his head.
Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could offer a word in extenuation.
To be honest, dinner had been waiting for an unreasonably long time. Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could say a word to justify it.
‘I had serious thoughts of eating my head 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.’
‘I seriously considered eating my head tonight,’ said Mr. Grimwig, ‘because I thought I wouldn’t get anything else. If you don’t mind, I’d like to greet the bride-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.
Mr. Grimwig wasted no time putting this notice into action on the blushing girl; and since it was contagious, both the doctor and Mr. Brownlow followed suit. Some people claim that Harry Maylie was noticed to initiate it originally in a dark room next door; however, the most reliable sources see this as pure gossip, given that he is 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?’
‘Oliver, my child,’ said Mrs. Maylie, ‘where have you been, and why do you look so sad? There are tears rolling down your face right now. What’s wrong?’
It is a world of disappointment: often to the hopes we most cherish, and hopes that do our nature the greatest honour.
It’s a world full of disappointment: often aimed at the hopes we cherish the most, and the hopes that bring our nature the greatest honor.
Poor Dick was dead!
Poor Dick is dead!
CHAPTER LII — FAGIN’S LAST NIGHT ALIVE
The court was paved, from floor to roof, with human faces. Inquisitive and eager eyes peered from every inch of space. From the rail before the dock, away into the sharpest angle of the smallest corner in the galleries, all looks were fixed upon one man—Fagin. Before him and behind: above, below, on the right and on the left: he seemed to stand surrounded by a firmament, all bright with gleaming eyes.
The courtroom was filled, from floor to ceiling, with human faces. Curious and eager eyes were watching from every corner. From the railing in front of the dock to the tiniest angle in the galleries, all gazes were focused on one man—Fagin. In front of him and behind him; above, below, to the right and to the left: he appeared to be surrounded by a universe, all shining with bright 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 sharply upon them to observe the effect of the slightest featherweight 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.
He stood there, in the bright light, with one hand resting on the wooden table in front of him, the other hand pressed to his ear, leaning forward to better catch every word from the judge, who was addressing the jury. Occasionally, he glanced sharply at them, hoping to see the slightest sign of support; and when the arguments against him were laid out clearly, he looked to his lawyer, silently pleading for them to say something on his behalf. Apart from these signs of worry, he didn’t move a muscle. He had hardly shifted since the trial began, and now that the judge had stopped speaking, he remained in the same tense position, staring at him as if he were still listening intently.
A slight bustle in the court, recalled him to himself. Looking round, he saw that the juryman had turned together, to consider their verdict. As his eyes wandered to the gallery, he could see the people rising above each other to see his face: some hastily applying their glasses to their eyes: and others 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 he read the faintest sympathy with himself, or any feeling but one of all-absorbing interest that he should be condemned.
A slight commotion in the courtroom brought him back to reality. Looking around, he noticed that the jurors had turned to discuss their verdict. As his gaze drifted to the gallery, he saw people straining to catch a glimpse of his face: some quickly adjusting their glasses, while others whispered to their neighbors with looks of disgust. A few appeared indifferent to him, instead focusing on the jury, wondering impatiently how they could take so long. But in no one’s face—not even among the many women present—could he detect the slightest sympathy, only a gripping interest in seeing him condemned.
As he saw all this in one bewildered glance, the deathlike stillness came again, and looking back he saw that the jurymen had turned towards the judge. Hush!
As he took in everything in one confused look, the eerie silence returned, and when he glanced back, he noticed that the jurors had turned toward the judge. Quiet!
They only sought permission to retire.
They just wanted to get 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 leant; 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 longingly into their faces, one by one as they walked by, trying to see which way most of them leaned; but that was pointless. The jailer tapped him on the shoulder. He followed without thinking to the end of the dock and sat down in a chair. The man indicated it, or he wouldn’t have noticed it.
He looked up into the gallery again. Some of the people were eating, and some fanning themselves with handkerchiefs; for the crowded place was very hot. There was one young man sketching his face in a little note-book. He 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.
He glanced up at the gallery again. Some people were eating, and others were fanning themselves with handkerchiefs because the packed space was really hot. One young guy was sketching his face in a small notebook. He wondered if it looked like him and watched as the artist broke his pencil point and sharpened another one with his knife, just like any casual onlooker might have done.
In the same way, when he turned his eyes towards the judge, his mind began to busy itself with the fashion of his dress, and what it cost, and how he put it on. There was an old fat gentleman on the bench, too, who had gone out, some half an hour before, and now come back. He wondered within himself whether this man had been to get his dinner, what he had had, and where he had had it; and pursued this train of careless thought until some new object caught his eye and roused another.
In the same way, when he looked at the judge, his mind started to focus on the style of his clothes, how much they cost, and how he wore them. There was also an overweight older man on the bench who had left about half an hour earlier and had just returned. He wondered to himself if that man had gone to get dinner, what he had eaten, and where he had eaten it; he followed this random train of thought until something else caught his eye and shifted his attention.
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 counting the iron spikes before him, and wondering how the head of one had been broken off, and whether they would mend it, or leave 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.
Not that his mind was ever free, even for a moment, from the heavy sense of the grave that lay before him; it was constantly there, but in a vague and general way, and he couldn’t focus on it. So, even while he shook and felt hot at the thought of quick death, he started counting the iron spikes in front of him, wondering how one of them had broken off and whether they would fix it or leave it as is. Then he thought about all the horrors of the gallows and the scaffold—and paused to watch a man sprinkling water on the floor to cool it—and then he began 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.
At last, there was a hush, and everyone held their breath as they looked at the door. The jury came back and walked right past him. He couldn't read anything from their expressions; they might as well have been made of stone. Perfect silence followed—not a sound—Guilty.
The building rang with a tremendous shout, and another, and another, and then it echoed loud groans, that gathered strength as they swelled out, like angry thunder. It was a peal of joy from the populace outside, greeting the news that he would die on Monday.
The building burst with a loud cheer, and another, and another, and then it resonated with deep groans that grew louder as they spread out, like furious thunder. It was a joyful roar from the crowd outside, celebrating 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—and so, dropping into a whisper, was silent again.
The noise died down, and he was asked if he had anything to say as to why the death sentence shouldn't be given to him. He leaned in to listen, looking intently at the person asking the question while it was posed; but it was repeated twice before he seemed to catch it, and then he simply muttered that he was an old man—an old man—and then, dropping to a whisper, he fell silent again.
The judge assumed the black cap, and the prisoner still stood with the same air and gesture. A woman in the gallery, uttered some exclamation, called forth by this dread solemnity; he looked hastily up as if angry at the interruption, and bent forward yet more attentively. The address was solemn and impressive; the sentence fearful to hear. But he stood, like a marble figure, without the motion of a nerve. His haggard face was still thrust forward, his under-jaw hanging down, and his eyes staring out before him, when the jailer put his hand upon his arm, and beckoned him away. He gazed stupidly about him for an instant, and obeyed.
The judge put on the black cap, and the prisoner still stood with the same demeanor and stance. A woman in the gallery let out an exclamation, prompted by the terrifying seriousness of the moment; he looked up quickly as if annoyed by the interruption and leaned forward even more intently. The speech was serious and impactful; the sentence was terrifying to hear. But he remained still, like a statue, with not a single muscle moving. His drawn face was still pushed forward, his jaw hanging down, and his eyes wide as he stared ahead when the jailer placed a hand on his arm and signaled him to leave. He looked around blankly for a moment and complied.
They led him through a paved room under the court, where some prisoners were waiting till their turns came, and others were talking to their friends, who crowded round a grate which looked into the open yard. There was nobody there to 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.
They guided him through a tiled room beneath the court, where some prisoners were waiting for their turn, and others were chatting with their friends, who crowded around a grate looking into the open yard. There was no one there to talk to him; but as he walked by, the prisoners stepped back to make him more visible to the people clinging to the bars, and they hurled insults at him, screeching and hissing. He shook his fist and almost spat at them; but his guards hurried him along through a dark passage lit by a few dim lamps into the depths 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.
Here, he was searched to make sure he didn't have anything that could help him escape the law; once this was done, they took 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 blood-shot 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.
He sat down on a stone bench in front of the door, which served as both a seat and a bed; and, looking down at the ground with bloodshot eyes, he tried to gather his thoughts. After a while, he started to remember a few scattered bits of what the judge had said: even though it felt like he couldn’t hear anything at the time. These pieces gradually fell into place, and bit by bit, they suggested more to him: so that in no time, he had the whole thing, almost exactly as it was stated. To be hanged by the neck until he was dead—that was the end. To be hanged by the neck until 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 had 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!
As it got really dark, he started thinking about all the men he had known who had died on the scaffold; some of them because of him. They came to mind so fast that he could hardly keep track. He had watched some of them die—and even joked, because they died with prayers on their lips. What a loud noise the trapdoor made when it opened, and how quickly they transformed from strong, lively men into just lifeless bundles of clothes!
Original
Some of them might have inhabited that very cell—sat upon that very spot. It was very dark; why didn’t they bring a light? The cell had been built for many years. Scores of men must have passed their last hours there. It was like sitting in a vault strewn with dead bodies—the cap, the noose, the pinioned arms, the faces that he knew, even beneath that hideous veil.—Light, light!
Some of them might have lived in that same cell—sat right in that spot. It was really dark; why didn’t they bring a light? The cell had been around for many years. Countless men must have spent their last hours there. It felt like sitting in a tomb filled with dead bodies—the cap, the noose, the restrained arms, the faces he recognized, even behind that horrible 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: the other dragging in a mattress on which to pass the night; for the prisoner was to be left alone no more.
At last, when his hands were sore from pounding against the heavy door and walls, two men showed up: one carrying a candle, which he placed in an iron candlestick mounted on the wall; the other bringing in a mattress to spend the night on, because the prisoner wouldn’t be left alone anymore.
Then came the night—dark, dismal, silent night. Other watchers are glad to hear this church-clock strike, for they tell of life and coming day. To him they brought despair. The boom of every iron bell came laden with the one, deep, hollow sound—Death. What availed the noise and bustle of cheerful morning, which penetrated even there, to him? It was another form of knell, with mockery added to the warning.
Then came the night—dark, gloomy, silent night. Other watchers are glad to hear this church clock strike, because it signals life and the coming day. To him, it brought despair. The toll of every iron bell reverberated with one deep, hollow sound—Death. What good was the noise and hustle of a cheerful morning, which even reached him there? It felt like another kind of funeral bell, adding mockery 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. At 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.
The day went by. Day? There was no day; it vanished as quickly as it arrived—and night came again; night that felt both endless and brief; long in its awful silence, and short in its passing hours. At one moment he shouted and cursed; at another, he howled and pulled at his hair. Respectable men of his faith had come to pray next to him, but he chased them away with insults. They tried again to help him, and he pushed them away.
Saturday night. He had only one night more to live. And as he thought of this, the day broke—Sunday.
Saturday night. He had just one more night to live. As he reflected on this, dawn 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 hope 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.
It wasn't until the night of this last terrible day that he fully felt the crushing awareness of his helpless, desperate situation hit him hard; not that he ever really had any clear or strong hope for mercy, but he had never been able to think beyond the vague chance of dying so soon. He had said very little to either of the two men who took turns looking after him; and they, for their part, did nothing to grab his attention. He had sat there, awake but lost in thought. Now, he jumped up every minute, gasping for air and burning with fever, rushing around in such a fit of fear and anger that even they—who were used to such scenes—recoiled from him in terror. He became so horrifying, in the midst of the torments of his guilty conscience, that one man couldn’t bear to sit there watching him alone; 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—then. If it was not a trick to frighten him, and those were the real hours treading on each other’s heels, where would he be, when they came round again! Eleven! Another struck, before the voice of the previous hour had ceased to vibrate. At eight, he would be the only mourner in his own funeral train; at eleven—
He huddled on his stone bed, thinking about the past. He had been hit by projectiles from the crowd the day he was captured, and his head was wrapped in a linen bandage. His red hair hung over his pale face, his beard was ragged and tangled; his eyes glinted with a terrible intensity; his unwashed skin burned with the fever that consumed him. Eight—nine—then. If this wasn’t just a trick to scare him, and those were the actual hours passing by, where would he be when they came around again! Eleven! Another one struck before the last hour's voice had faded away. At eight, he would be the only mourner at his own funeral; at eleven—
Those dreadful walls of Newgate, which have hidden so much misery and such unspeakable anguish, not only from the eyes, but, too often, and too long, from the thoughts, of men, never held so dread a spectacle as that. The few who lingered as they passed, and wondered what the man was doing who was to be hanged to-morrow, would have slept but ill that night, if they could have seen him.
Those terrible walls of Newgate, which have concealed so much suffering and such indescribable pain, not only from people's sight but also, far too often and for far too long, from their thoughts, never held a more horrifying scene than this. The few who stopped to watch as they walked by, curious about what the man scheduled to be hanged tomorrow was doing, would have had a restless night if they had seen him.
From early in the evening until nearly midnight, little groups of two and three presented themselves at the lodge-gate, and inquired, with anxious faces, whether any reprieve had been received. These being answered in the negative, communicated the welcome intelligence to clusters in the street, who pointed out to one another the door from which he must come out, and showed where 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.
From early evening until almost midnight, small groups of two or three gathered at the lodge gate, asking with worried faces if any news of a reprieve had come in. When they were told no, they shared the disappointing news with others on the street, who pointed out the door he would come out of and discussed where the scaffold would be set up, reluctantly walking away but turning back to picture the scene. Gradually, they dispersed one by one, and for an hour, in the stillness of the night, the street was left in 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 prisoner, signed by one of the sheriffs. They were immediately admitted into the lodge.
The area in front of the prison was cleared, and some sturdy barriers painted black had already been set up across the road to manage the expected crowd. When Mr. Brownlow and Oliver showed up at the gate and presented a pass to see the prisoner, signed by one of the sheriffs, they were let into the lodge right away.
‘Is the young gentleman to come too, sir?’ said the man whose duty it was to conduct them. ‘It’s not a sight for children, sir.’
‘Is the young man coming too, sir?’ said the man whose job it was to lead them. ‘It’s not something for kids, sir.’
‘It is not indeed, my friend,’ rejoined Mr. Brownlow; ‘but my business with this man is intimately connected with him; and as this child has seen him in the full career of his success and villainy, I think it as well—even at the cost of some pain and fear—that he should see him now.’
‘It’s true, my friend,’ replied Mr. Brownlow; ‘but my dealings with this man are closely tied to him; and since this child has witnessed him at the height of his success and wrongdoing, I believe it’s best—even if it brings 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 Oliver with some curiousity, opened another gate, opposite to that by which they had entered, and led them on, through dark and winding ways, towards the cells.
These few words were spoken quietly, out of Oliver's hearing. The man tipped his hat, glanced at Oliver with some curiosity, opened another gate opposite the one they had entered, and led them through dark, winding paths toward the cells.
‘This,’ said the man, stopping in a gloomy passage where a couple of workmen were making some preparations in profound silence—‘this is the place he passes through. If you step this way, you can see the door he goes out at.’
‘This,’ said the man, stopping in a dark corridor where a couple of workers were preparing things in complete silence—‘this is the spot he walks through. If you come over here, you can see the door he exits from.’
He led them into a stone kitchen, fitted with coppers for dressing the prison food, and pointed to a door. There was an open grating above it, through which came the sound of men’s voices, mingled with the noise of hammering, and the throwing down of boards. There were putting up the scaffold.
He took them into a stone kitchen, equipped with pots for preparing the prison food, and indicated a door. Above it, there was an open grate, through which they could hear the sounds of men talking, mixed with the noise of hammering and boards being dropped. They were building the scaffold.
From this place, they passed through several strong gates, opened by other turnkeys from the inner side; and, having entered an open yard, ascended a flight of narrow steps, and came into a passage with a row of strong doors on the left hand. Motioning them to remain where they were, the turnkey knocked at one of these with his bunch of keys. The two attendants, after a little whispering, came out into the passage, stretching themselves as if glad of the temporary relief, and motioned the visitors to follow the jailer into the cell. They did so.
From this place, they went through several heavy gates, opened by other guards from the inside; and, after entering an open yard, climbed a narrow flight of stairs and entered a hallway with a row of sturdy doors on the left. The guard signaled for them to stay put, then knocked on one of these doors with his keyring. After a brief whisper, the two attendants stepped out into the hallway, stretching as if grateful for the brief break, and signaled for the visitors to follow the jailer into the cell. They did.
The condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himself from side to side, with a countenance more like that of a snared beast than the face of a man. His mind was evidently wandering to his old life, for he continued to mutter, without appearing conscious of their presence otherwise than as a part of his vision.
The condemned criminal sat on his bed, rocking back and forth, looking more like a trapped animal than a human being. His mind seemed to drift back to his past life, as he kept muttering, not really aware of anyone around him except as a part of what he saw.
‘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!’
‘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.
The jailer took Oliver's free hand and whispered to him not to be scared, watching silently.
‘Take him away to bed!’ cried Fagin. ‘Do you hear me, some of you? 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!’
‘Take him away to bed!’ shouted Fagin. ‘Do you hear me, some of you? 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; forget about the girl—Bolter’s throat as deep as you can cut. Saw his head off!’
‘Fagin,’ said the jailer.
‘Fagin,’ said the guard.
‘That’s me!’ cried the Jew, falling instantly, into the attitude of listening he had assumed upon his trial. ‘An old man, my Lord; a very old, old man!’
‘That’s me!’ shouted the Jew, immediately taking the listening stance he had during 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?’
‘Here,’ said the guard, putting his hand on his chest to hold him down. ‘Here’s someone who wants to see you, to ask you some questions, I guess. Fagin, Fagin! Are you a man?’
‘I shan’t be one long,’ he replied, looking up with a face retaining no human expression but rage and terror. ‘Strike them all dead! What right have they to butcher me?’
‘I won’t be here long,’ he replied, looking up with a face showing nothing but rage and terror. ‘Kill them all! What right do they have to slaughter me?’
As he spoke he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinking to the furthest corner of the seat, he demanded to know what they wanted there.
As he spoke, he noticed Oliver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinking to the back corner of the seat, he asked 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.’
‘Steady,’ said the guard, still holding him down. ‘Now, sir, tell him what you need. Quickly, if you can, because he’s getting worse as time goes on.’
‘You have some papers,’ said Mr. Brownlow advancing, ‘which were placed in your hands, for better security, by a man called Monks.’
‘You have some papers,’ Mr. Brownlow said, stepping forward, ‘that a man named Monks gave you for safekeeping.’
‘It’s all a lie together,’ replied Fagin. ‘I haven’t one—not one.’
'It's all a lie,' Fagin replied. 'I don't have a single one—not even one.'
‘For the love of God,’ said Mr. Brownlow solemnly, ‘do not say that now, upon the very verge of death; but tell me where they are. You know that Sikes is dead; that Monks has confessed; that there is no hope of any further gain. Where are those papers?’
‘For the love of God,’ said Mr. Brownlow seriously, ‘please don’t say that now, right on the brink of death; just tell me where they are. You know that Sikes is dead; that Monks has confessed; that there’s no chance of any more profit. Where are those papers?’
‘Oliver,’ cried Fagin, beckoning to him. ‘Here, here! Let me whisper to you.’
‘Oliver,’ shouted Fagin, waving him over. ‘Here, come here! I need to talk to you quietly.’
‘I am not afraid,’ said Oliver in a low voice, as he relinquished Mr. Brownlow’s hand.
‘I’m not afraid,’ Oliver said quietly, letting go of Mr. Brownlow’s hand.
‘The papers,’ said Fagin, drawing Oliver towards him, ‘are in a canvas bag, in a hole a little way up the chimney in the top front-room. I want to talk to you, my dear. I want to talk to you.’
‘The papers,’ said Fagin, pulling Oliver closer, ‘are in a canvas bag, in a hole a bit up the chimney in the top front room. I need to talk to you, my dear. I need 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.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Oliver replied. ‘Let me say a prayer. Please! Just let me say one prayer. Just one, on your knees, with me, and we can talk until morning.’
‘Outside, outside,’ replied Fagin, pushing the boy before him towards the door, and looking vacantly over his head. ‘Say I’ve gone to sleep—they’ll believe you. You can get me out, if you take me so. Now then, now then!’
‘Outside, outside,’ replied Fagin, pushing the boy ahead of him toward the door and staring blankly over his head. ‘Say I’ve gone to sleep—they’ll believe you. You can help me escape if you take me like this. Now then, now then!’
‘Oh! God forgive this wretched man!’ cried the boy with a burst of tears.
‘Oh! God, forgive this miserable man!’ cried the boy, bursting into tears.
‘That’s right, that’s right,’ said Fagin. ‘That’ll help us on. This door first. If I shake and tremble, as we pass the gallows, don’t you mind, but hurry on. Now, now, now!’
‘That’s right, that’s right,’ said Fagin. ‘That’ll help us move forward. This door first. If I shake and tremble as we pass the gallows, don’t worry about it, just hurry on. Now, now, now!’
‘Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?’ inquired the turnkey.
‘Do you have any other questions for him, sir?’ the jailer asked.
‘No other question,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘If I hoped we could recall him to a sense of his position—’
‘No other question,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘If I hoped we could bring him back to understanding his situation—’
‘Nothing will do that, sir,’ replied the man, shaking his head. ‘You had better leave him.’
‘Nothing will change that, sir,’ replied the man, shaking his head. ‘You'd be better off leaving him.’
The door of the cell opened, and the attendants returned.
The cell door opened, and the attendants came back.
‘Press on, press on,’ cried Fagin. ‘Softly, but not so slow. Faster, faster!’
‘Keep going, keep going,’ shouted Fagin. ‘Gently, but not too slow. Hurry up, hurry up!’
The men laid hands upon him, and disengaging Oliver from his grasp, held him back. He struggled with the power of desperation, for an instant; and then sent up cry upon cry that penetrated even those massive walls, and rang in their ears until they reached the open yard.
The men grabbed him, and pulling Oliver away from him, held him back. He fought with all his desperation for a moment, and then let out scream after scream that pierced through those thick walls and echoed in their ears until they got to the open yard.
It was some time before they left the prison. Oliver nearly swooned after this frightful scene, and was so weak that for an hour or more, he had not the strength to walk.
It took a while for them to leave the prison. Oliver almost fainted after that terrifying scene and was so weak that for over an hour, he didn't have 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, joking. Everything told of life and animation, but one dark cluster of objects in the centre of all—the black stage, the cross-beam, the rope, and all the hideous apparatus of death.
Day was breaking when they stepped out again. A huge crowd had already gathered; the windows were packed with people smoking and playing cards to pass the time; the group was shoving, arguing, and joking. Everything showed signs of life and excitement, except for one dark spot in the middle of it all—the black stage, the cross-beam, the rope, and all the gruesome tools of death.
CHAPTER LIII — AND LAST
The fortunes of those who have figured in this tale are nearly closed. The little that 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 happy home.
Before three months had passed, Rose Fleming and Harry Maylie were married in the village church, which was now going to be the place where the young clergyman would work; on the same day, they moved into their new and happy 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 happiness of those on whom the warmest affections and tenderest cares of a well-spent life, have been unceasingly bestowed.
Mrs. Maylie moved in with her son and daughter-in-law to enjoy, during the peaceful rest of her life, the greatest happiness that age and goodness can bring—the joy of seeing the happiness of those she has loved deeply and cared for so devotedly throughout her life.
It appeared, on full and careful investigation, that if the wreck of property remaining in the custody of Monks (which had never prospered either in his hands or in those of his mother) were equally divided between himself and Oliver, it would yield, to each, little more than three thousand pounds. By the provisions of his 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 joyfully acceded.
It turned out, after a thorough investigation, that if the remaining assets in Monks' possession (which had never thrived in his hands or his mother's) were split equally between him and Oliver, each would get just a little over three thousand pounds. According to his father's will, Oliver would have been entitled to everything; however, Mr. Brownlow, not wanting to deny the older son the chance to overcome his past mistakes and pursue an honest path, suggested this way of dividing it, which Oliver happily accepted.
Monks, still bearing that assumed name, retired with his portion to a distant part of the New World; where, having quickly squandered it, he once more fell into his old courses, and, after undergoing a long confinement for some fresh act of fraud and knavery, at length sunk under an attack of his old disorder, and died in prison. As far from home, died the chief remaining members of his friend Fagin’s gang.
Monks, still using that fake name, withdrew with his share to a remote area of the New World; where, after quickly wasting it, he returned to his old habits. Following a lengthy imprisonment for yet another act of deceit and trickery, he ultimately succumbed to a relapse of his old illness and passed away in jail. Far from home, the last key members of his friend Fagin's gang also died.
Mr. Brownlow adopted Oliver as his son. Removing with him and the old housekeeper to within a mile of the parsonage-house, where his dear friends resided, he gratified the only remaining wish of Oliver’s warm and earnest heart, and thus linked together a little society, whose condition approached as nearly to one of perfect happiness as can ever be known in this changing world.
Mr. Brownlow took Oliver in as his son. He moved with Oliver and the old housekeeper to a place within a mile of the parsonage, where his dear friends lived. This fulfilled the last wish of Oliver’s kind and sincere heart, creating a small community that came as close to perfect happiness as one can get in this ever-changing world.
Original
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 peevish 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; then, finding that the place really no longer was, to him, what it had been, he settled his business on his assistant, took a bachelor’s cottage outside the village of which his young friend was pastor, and instantaneously recovered. Here he took to gardening, planting, fishing, carpentering, and various other pursuits of a similar kind: all undertaken with his characteristic impetuosity. In each and all he has since become famous throughout the neighborhood, as a most profound authority.
Soon after the young couple got married, the good doctor returned to Chertsey, where, missing the company of his old friends, he would have felt unhappy if he were the type to feel that way; and he would have become quite grumpy if he had known how. For two or three months, he hinted that he thought the air was starting to not agree with him; then, realizing that the place really wasn’t the same for him anymore, he handed over his practice to his assistant, rented a bachelor’s cottage just outside the village where his young friend was the pastor, and instantly felt better. There, he took up gardening, planting, fishing, carpentry, and various other similar hobbies: all pursued with his usual enthusiasm. Since then, he has become well-known in the area as a leading expert in all these activities.
Before his removal, he had managed to contract a strong friendship for Mr. Grimwig, which that eccentric gentleman cordially reciprocated. He is accordingly visited by Mr. Grimwig a great many times in the course of the year. On all such occasions, Mr. Grimwig plants, fishes, and carpenters, with great ardour; doing everything 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 deems it as well not to say so. It is a standing and very favourite joke, for Mr. Brownlow to rally him on his old prophecy concerning Oliver, and to remind him of the night on which they sat with the watch 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.
Before he was let go, he had developed a strong friendship with Mr. Grimwig, which that quirky gentleman warmly returned. As a result, Mr. Grimwig visited him many times throughout the year. During these visits, Mr. Grimwig engaged in gardening, fishing, and carpentry with great enthusiasm, doing everything in a very unique and unconventional way, but always insisting that his approach was the correct one. On Sundays, he never misses the chance to critique the sermon right in front of the young clergyman, later telling Mr. Losberne, in absolute confidentiality, that he thinks it was a great sermon but prefers not to say so. It’s a long-standing and favorite joke for Mr. Brownlow to tease him about his old prediction regarding Oliver and to remind him of the night they sat with the watch between them, waiting for Oliver’s return; however, Mr. Grimwig insists that he was basically right, and to prove his point, he notes that Oliver didn’t come back after all, which always brings laughter from him and boosts his good spirits.
Mr. Noah Claypole: receiving a free pardon from the Crown in consequence of being admitted approver against Fagin: and considering his profession not altogether as safe a one as he could wish: was, for some little time, at a loss for the means of a livelihood, not burdened with too much work. After some consideration, he went into business as an Informer, in which calling he realises 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-penny worth 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. Noah Claypole, having received a free pardon from the Crown for becoming a witness against Fagin, and finding his profession not as secure as he'd like, was for a while unsure how to make a living without overworking himself. After thinking it over, he decided to start a business as an Informer, which allowed him to make a decent living. His strategy is to go out once a week during church time with Charlotte, dressed nicely. The lady pretends to faint outside charitable pubs, and the gentleman, after getting her threepence worth of brandy to revive her, files a report the next day and collects half the fine. Sometimes Mr. Claypole pretends to faint as well, but the outcome is always 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.
Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, having lost their jobs, slowly fell into severe poverty and hardship, eventually becoming beggars in the same workhouse where they had once been in charge. Mr. Bumble has been heard saying that in this downfall and humiliation, he doesn’t even have the energy to be grateful for being apart 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 attentions so equally among its inmates, and Oliver and Mr. Brownlow, and Mr. Losberne, that to this day the villagers have never been able to discover to which establishment they properly belong.
As for Mr. Giles and Brittles, they still hold their old positions, even though the former is bald and the latter is quite gray. They sleep at the parsonage but share their attention so evenly among its residents, as well as Oliver, Mr. Brownlow, and Mr. Losberne, that to this day the villagers have never been able to figure out which place they truly belong to.
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 the past, 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, he is now the merriest young grazier in all Northamptonshire.
Master Charles Bates, shocked by Sikes’s crime, started to think about whether living honestly was actually the best way to go. Coming to the conclusion that it definitely was, he turned away from his past and decided to make a change in a new direction. He worked hard and faced a lot of challenges for a while, but with a happy outlook and a good plan, he eventually succeeded; going from being a farmer's laborer and a delivery boy to being the happiest young grazier in all of 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.
And now, the hand that writes these words hesitates as it gets closer to finishing its task; it wants to continue weaving the thread of these adventures for just a bit longer.
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 on her secluded path in life soft and gentle light, that fell on all who trod it with her, and shone into their hearts. I would paint her the life and joy of the fire-side circle and the lively 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 love for one another, 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 laugh, and conjure up the sympathising tear that glistened in the soft blue eye. These, and a thousand looks and smiles, and turns of thought and speech—I would fain recall them every one.
I would love to linger a bit longer with a few of the people I've spent so long with and share their happiness by trying to capture it. I would show Rose Maylie in all the beauty and charm of young womanhood, illuminating her quiet path in life with a soft and gentle light that touched everyone who walked it with her and shone into their hearts. I would depict her as the heart and soul of the family gatherings and the vibrant summer groups; I would follow her through the hot fields at noon and hear the soft tones of her sweet voice during moonlit evening walks; I would see her in all her goodness and kindness out in the world and smiling as she tirelessly took care of things at home; I would paint her and her late sister’s child happy in their love for each other, spending entire hours reminiscing about the friends they had lost; I would call back to mind those joyful little faces that gathered around her knee and listen to their cheerful chatter; I would remember the sound of that clear laughter and summon the sympathetic tear that shone in her soft blue eye. These, along with a thousand looks and smiles, and moments of thought and speech—I would love to remember them all.
How Mr. Brownlow went on, from day to day, filling the mind of his adopted child with stores of knowledge, and becoming attached to him, more and more, as his nature developed itself, and showed the thriving seeds of all he wished him to become—how he traced in him new traits of his early friend, that awakened in his own bosom old remembrances, melancholy and yet sweet and soothing—how the two orphans, tried by adversity, remembered its lessons in mercy to others, and mutual love, and fervent thanks to Him who had protected and preserved them—these are all matters which need not to be told. I have said that they were truly happy; and without strong affection and humanity of heart, and gratitude to that Being whose code is Mercy, and whose great attribute is Benevolence to all things that breathe, happiness can never be attained.
How Mr. Brownlow continued, day by day, to fill the mind of his adopted child with knowledge while growing more attached to him as he developed, showing the promising signs of who he hoped he would become—how he saw in him new traits of his early friend that stirred memories within him, both bittersweet and comforting—how the two orphans, shaped by hardship, remembered to show kindness to others, love for one another, and deep gratitude to the one who had protected and preserved them—these are all things that don’t need to be explained. I’ve said that they were genuinely happy; and without deep affection, compassion, and gratitude to that Being whose principle is Mercy and whose defining trait is Benevolence toward all living things, true happiness can never be achieved.
Within the altar of the old village church there 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 believe that the shade of Agnes sometimes hovers round that solemn nook. I believe it none the less because that nook is in a Church, and she was weak and erring.
Within the altar of the old village church, there's a white marble tablet that has only one word on it: ‘AGNES.’ There’s no coffin in that tomb, and I hope it’s many, many years before another name is added above it! But if the spirits of the dead ever come back to earth to visit places honored by the love—the love beyond the grave—of those they knew in life, I believe that Agnes’s spirit sometimes lingers around that solemn spot. I believe this even more because that spot is in a church, and she was weak and flawed.
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