key grated in the lock. He turned with a sigh to the book which
had been the innocent cause of all this disturbance.
“There is something in that boy’s face,” said the old gentleman
to himself as he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the
cover of the book, in a thoughtful manner; “something that
touches and interests me. Can he be innocent? He looked like—By
the bye,” exclaimed the old gentleman, halting very abruptly, and
staring up into the sky. “Bless my soul! where have I seen
something like that look before?”
After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked, with
the same meditative face, into a back ante-room opening from the
yard; and there, retiring into a corner, called up before his mind’s
eye a vast amphitheatre of faces over which a dusky curtain had
hung for many years. “No,” said the old gentleman, shaking his
head; “it must be imagination.”
He wandered over them again. He had called them into view,
and it was not easy to replace the shroud that had so long
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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 sent up as a light, to shed a soft and gentle glow upon the path
to heaven.
But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of
which Oliver’s features bore a trace. So he heaved a sigh over the
recollections he had awakened; and being, happily for himself, an
absent old gentleman, buried them again in the pages of the musty
book.
He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from
the man with the keys to follow him into the office. He closed his
book hastily; and was at once ushered into the imposing presence
of the renowned Mr. Fang.
The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr. Fang
sat behind a bar, at the upper end; and on one side of the door was
a sort of wooden pen in which poor little Oliver was already
deposited, trembling very much at the awfulness of the scene.
Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized
man, with no great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on
the back and sides of his head. His face was stern and much
flushed. If he were really not in the habit of drinking rather more
than was exactly good for him, he might have brought an action
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against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy
damages.
The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the
magistrate’s desk, said, suiting the action to the word, “That is my
name and address, sir.” He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with
another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to
be questioned.
Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment
perusing a leading article in a newspaper of the morning,
adverting to some recent decision of his, and commending him, for
the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special, and particular
notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was
out of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl.
“Who are you?” said Mr. Fang.
The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.
“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away
with—the newspaper. “Who is this fellow?”
“My name, sir,” said the old gentleman, speaking like a
gentleman, “my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the
name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked
insult to a respectable person, under the protection of the bench.”
Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked round the office as if in search
of some person who would afford him the required information.
“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side,
“what’s this fellow charged with?”
“He’s not charged at all, your Worship,” replied the officer. “He
appears against the boy, your Worship.”
His Worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good
annoyance, and a safe one.
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“Appears against the boy, does he?” said Fang, surveying Mr.
Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. “Swear him!”
“Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word,” said Mr.
Brownlow; “and that is, that I really never, without actual
experience, could have believed—”
“Hold your tongue, sir!” said Mr. Fang peremptorily.
“I will not, sir!” replied the old gentleman.
“Hold your tongue this instant, or I’ll have you turned out of the
office!” said Mr. Fang. “You’re an insolent, impertinent fellow.
How dare you bully a magistrate!”
“What!” exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.
“Swear this person!” said Fang to the clerk. “I’ll not hear
another word. Swear him.”
Mr. Brownlow’s indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting
perhaps, that he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he
suppressed his feelings and submitted to be sworn at once “Now,”
said Fang, “what’s the charge against this boy? What have you got
to say, sir?”
“I was standing at a bookstall—” Mr. Brownlow began.
“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Mr. Fang. “Policeman! Where’s
the policeman? Here, swear this policeman. Now, policeman, what
is this?”
The policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had
taken the charge; how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing
on his person; and how that was all he knew about it.
“Are there any witnesses?” inquired Mr. Fang.
“None, your Worship,” replied the policeman.
Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round
to the prosecutor, said in a towering passion:
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“Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is,
or do you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there,
refusing to give evidence, I’ll punish you for disrespect to the
bench; I will, by—” By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the
clerk and jailer coughed very loud, just at the right moment; and
the former dropped a heavy book upon the floor, thus preventing
the word from being heard—accidentally, of course.
With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow
contrived to state his case; observing that, in the surprise of the
moment, he had run after the boy because he saw him running
away; and expressing his hope that, if the magistrate should
believe him, although not actually the thief, to be connected with
thieves, he would deal as leniently with him as justice would allow.
“He has been hurt already,” said the old gentleman in
conclusion. “And I fear,” he added, with great energy, looking
towards the bar, “I really fear that he is ill.”
“Oh! yes, I dare say!” said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. “Come, none
of your tricks here, you young vagabond; they won’t do. What’s
your name?”
Oliver tried to reply, but his tongue failed him. He was deadly
pale; and the whole place seemed turning round and round.
“What’s your name, you hardened scoundrel?” demanded Mr.
Fang. “Officer, what’s his name?”
This was addressed to a bluff old fellow, in a striped waistcoat,
who was standing by the bar. He bent over Oliver, and repeated
the inquiry; but finding him really incapable of understanding the
question, and knowing that his not replying would only infuriate
the magistrate the more, and add to the severity of his sentence,
he hazarded a guess.
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“He says his name’s Tom White, your Worship,” said the kindhearted thief-taker.
“Oh, he won’t speak out, won’t he?” said Fang. “Very well, very
well. Where does he live?”
“Where he can, your Worship,” replied the officer, again
pretending to receive Oliver’s answer.
“Has he any parents?” inquired Mr. Fang.
“He says they died in his infancy, your Worship,” hazarding the
usual reply.
At this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head; and, looking
round with imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a
draught of water.
“Stuff and nonsense!” said Mr. Fang; “don’t try to make a fool
of me.”
“I think he really is ill, your Worship,” remonstrated the officer.
“I know better,” said Mr. Fang.
“Take care of him, officer,” said the old gentleman, raising his
hands instinctively; “he’ll fall down.”
“Stand away, officer,” cried Fang; “let him, if he likes.”
Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell to the
floor in a fainting fit. The men in the office looked at each other,
but no one dared to stir.
“I knew he was shamming,” said Fang, as if this were
incontestable proof of the fact. “Let him lie there; he’ll soon be
tired of that.”
“How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?” inquired the
clerk, in a low voice.
“Summarily,” replied Mr. Fang. “He stands committed for
three months—hard labour, of course. Clear the office.”
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The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men
were preparing to carry the insensible boy to his cell, when an
elderly man of decent but poor appearance, clad in an old suit of
black, rushed hastily into the office, and advanced towards the
bench.
“Stop, stop! Don’t take him away! For Heaven’s sake stop a
moment!” cried the newcomer, breathless with haste.
Although the presiding Genii in such an office as this, exercise a
summary and arbitrary power over the liberties, the good name,
the character, almost the lives, of her Majesty’s subjects, especially
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. Mr. Fang was consequently not a little indignant
to see an unbidden guest enter in such irreverent disorder.
“What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the office!”
cried Mr. Fang.
“I will speak,” cried the man; “I will not be turned out. I saw it
all. I keep the bookstall. I demand to be sworn. I will not be put
down. Mr. Fang, you must hear me. You must not refuse, sir.”
The man was right. His manner was determined; and the
matter was growing rather too serious to be hushed up.
“Swear the man,” growled Mr. Fang, with a very ill grace.
“Now, man, what have you got to say?”
“This,” said the man; “I saw three boys—two others and the
prisoner here—loitering on the opposite side of the way, when this
gentleman was reading. The robbery was committed by another
boy. I saw it done; and I saw that this boy was perfectly amazed
and stupefied by it.” Having by this time recovered a little breath,
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the worthy bookstall keeper proceeded to relate, in a more
coherent manner, the exact circumstances of the robbery.
“Why didn’t you come here before?” said Fang, after a pause.
“I hadn’t a soul to mind the shop,” replied the man. “Everybody
who could have helped me, had joined in the pursuit. I could get
nobody till five minutes ago; and I’ve run here all the way.”
“The prosecutor was reading, was he?” inquired Fang, after
another pause.
“Yes,” replied the man. “The very book he has in his hand.”
“Oh, that book, eh?” said Fang. “Is it paid for?”
“No, it is not,” replied the man, with a smile.
“Dear me, I forgot all about it!” exclaimed the absentminded
old gentleman innocently.
“A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!” said
Fang, with a comical effort to look humane. “I consider, sir, that
you have obtained possession of that book, under very suspicious
and disreputable circumstances; and you may think yourself very
fortunate that the owner of the property declines to prosecute. Let
this be a lesson to you, my man, or the law will overtake you yet.
The boy is discharged. Clear the office.”
“D—n me!” cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage
he had kept down so long, “d—n me! I’ll—”
“Clear the office!” said the magistrate. “Officers, do you hear?
Clear the office!”
The mandate was obeyed; and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was
conveyed out, with the book in one hand, and the bamboo cane in
the other, in a perfect frenzy of rage and defiance. He reached the
yard; and his passion vanished for a moment. Little Oliver Twist
lay on his back on the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned, and
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his temples bathed with water; his face a deadly white; and a cold
tremble convulsing his whole frame.
“Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him.
“Call a coach, somebody, pray. Directly!” .
A coach was obtained, and Oliver, having been carefully laid on
one seat, the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.
“May I accompany you?” said the bookstall keeper, looking in.
“Bless me, yes, my dear sir,” said Mr. Brownlow quickly. “I
forgot you. Dear, dear! I have this unhappy book still! Jump in.
Poor fellow! There’s no time to lose.”
The bookstall keeper got into the coach; and away they drove.
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Chapter 12
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, down Mount Pleasant and up
Exmouth Street, over nearly the same ground as that
which Oliver had traversed when he first entered London
in company with the Dodger; and, turning a different way when it
reached the Angel at Islington, stopped at length before a neat
house, in a quiet, shady street near Pentonville. Here a bed was
prepared, without loss of time, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his
young charge carefully and comfortably deposited; and here he
was tended with a kindness and solicitude that knew no bounds.
But, for many days, Oliver remained insensible to all the
goodness of his new friends. The sun rose and sank, and rose and
sank again, and many times after that; and still the boy lay
stretched on his uneasy bed, dwindling away beneath the dry and
wasting heat of fever. The worm does not his work more surely on
the dead body, than does this slow-creeping fire upon the living
frame.
Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed
to have been a long and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in
the bed, with his head resting on his trembling arm, he looked
anxiously around.
“What room is this? Where have I been brought to?” said
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Oliver. “This is not the place I went to sleep in.”
He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and
weak; but they were overheard at once; for the curtain at the bed’s
head was hastily drawn back, and a motherly old lady, very neatly
