and precisely dressed, rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair
close by, in which she had been sitting at 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.
“Save us!” said the old lady, with tears in her eyes; “what a
grateful little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel
if she had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!”
“Perhaps she does see me,” whispered Oliver, folding his hands
together; “perhaps she has sat by me. I almost feel as if she had.”
“That was the fever, my dear,” said the old lady mildly.
“I suppose it was,” replied Oliver, “because heaven is a long
way off; and they are too happy there, to come down to the
bedside of a poor boy. But if she knew I was ill, she must have
pitied me, even there; for she was very ill herself before she died.
She can’t know anything about me though,” added Oliver, after a
moment’s silence. “If she had seen me hurt, it would have made
her sorrowful; and her face has always looked sweet and happy,
when I have dreamed of her.”
The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first,
and her spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if
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they were part and parcel of those features, brought some cool
stuff for Oliver to drink; and then, patting him on the cheek, told
him he must lie very quiet, or he would be ill again. So, Oliver kept
very still; partly because he was anxious to obey the kind old lady
in all things; and partly, to tell the truth, because he was
completely exhausted with what he had already said. He soon fell
in 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 large and loud-ticking gold watch in his hand,
who felt his pulse, and said he was a great deal better.
“You are a great deal better, are you not, my dear?” said the
gentleman.
“Yes, thank you, sir,” replied Oliver.
“Yes, I know you are,” said the gentleman. “You’re hungry too,
ain’t you?”
“No, sir!” answered Oliver.
“Hem!” said the gentleman. “No, I know you’re not. He is not
hungry, Mrs. Bedwin,” said the gentleman, looking very wise.
The old lady made a respectful inclination of the head, which
seemed to say that she thought the doctor was a very clever man.
The doctor appeared much of the same opinion himself.
“You feel sleepy, don’t you, my dear?” said the doctor.
“No, sir,” said Oliver.
“No,” said the doctor, with a very shrewd and satisfied look.
“You’re not sleepy. Nor thirsty. Are you?”
“Yes, sir, rather thirsty,” answered Oliver.
“Just as I expected, Mrs. Bedwin,” said the doctor. “It’s very
natural that he should be thirsty. You may give him a little tea,
ma’am, and some dry toast without any butter. Don’t keep him too
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warm, ma’am; but be careful that you don’t let him be too cold;
will you have the goodness?”
The old lady dropped a curtsey. The doctor, after tasting the
cool stuff, and expressing a qualified approval of it, hurried away;
his boots creaking in a very important and wealthy manner as he
went downstairs.
Oliver dozed off again, soon after this; when he awoke, it was
nearly twelve o’clock. The old lady tenderly bade him good-night
shortly afterwards, and left him in charge of a fat old woman who
had just come; bringing with her, in a little bundle, a small Prayer-
book and a large night-cap. 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, which, however, had no worse effect than causing her to
rub her nose very hard, and then fall asleep again.
And thus the night crept slowly on. Oliver lay awake for some
time, counting the little circles of light which the reflection of the
rushlight-shade threw upon the ceiling; or tracing with his languid
eyes the intricate pattern of the paper on the wall. The darkness
and the deep stillness of the room were very solemn; as they
brought into the boy’s mind the thought that death had been
hovering there, for many days and nights, and might yet fill it with
the gloom and dread of his awful presence, he turned his face
upon the pillow, and fervently prayed to Heaven.
Gradually, he fell into that deep, tranquil sleep which ease from
recent suffering alone imparts; that calm and peaceful rest which
it is pain to wake from. Who, if this were death, would be roused
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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
recollection of the past!
It had been bright day, for hours, when Oliver opened his eyes;
and when he did so, he felt cheerful and happy. The crisis of the
disease was safely past. He belonged to the world again.
In three days’ time he was able to sit in an easy-chair, well
propped up with pillows; and, as he was still too weak to walk,
Mrs. Bedwin had him carried downstairs into the little
housekeeper’s room, which belonged to her. Having him set, here,
by the fireside, the good old lady sat herself down too; and, being
in a state of considerable delight at seeing him so much better,
forthwith began to cry most violently.
“Never mind me, my dear,” cried the old lady. “I’m only having
a regular good cry. There; it’s all over now; and I’m quite
comfortable.”
“You’re very, very kind to me, ma’am,” said Oliver.
“Well, never you mind that, my dear,” said the old lady; “that’s
got nothing to do with your broth; and it’s full time you had it; for
the doctor says Mr. Brownlow may come in to see you this
morning; and we must get up our best looks, because the better we
look, the more he’ll be pleased.” And with this, the old lady
applied herself to warming up, in a little saucepan, a basinful of
broth, strong enough, Oliver thought, to furnish an ample dinner,
when reduced to the regulation strength, for three hundred and
fifty paupers, at the lowest computation.
“Are you fond of pictures, dear?” inquired the old lady, seeing
that Oliver had fixed his eyes, most intently, on a portrait which
hung against the wall, just opposite his chair.
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“I don’t quite know, ma’am,” said Oliver, without taking his
eyes from the canvas; “I have seen so few that I hardly know. What
a beautiful, mild face that lady’s is!”
“Ah!” said the old lady, “painters always make ladies out
prettier than they are, or they wouldn’t get any custom, child. The
man that invented the machine for taking likenesses might have
known that would never succeed; it’s a deal too honest. A deal,”
said the old lady, laughing very heartily at her own acuteness.
“Is—is that a likeness, ma’am?” said Oliver.
“Yes,” said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the
broth; “that’s a portrait.”
“Whose, ma’am?” asked Oliver.
“Why, really, my dear, I don’t know,” answered the old lady, in
a good-humoured manner. “It’s not a likeness of anybody that you
or I know, I expect. It seems to strike your fancy, dear.
“It is so very pretty,” replied Oliver.
“Why, sure you’re not afraid of it?” said the old lady, observing,
in great surprise, the look of awe with which the child regarded
the painting.
“Oh, no, no,” returned Oliver quickly; “but the eyes look so
sorrowful; and where I sit, they seem fixed upon me. It makes my
heart beat,” added Oliver, in a low voice, “as if it was alive, and
wanted to speak to me, but couldn’t.”
“Lord save us!” exclaimed the old lady, starting; “don’t talk in
that way, child. You’re weak and nervous after your illness. Let me
wheel your chair round to the other side; and then you won’t see
it. There!” said the old lady, suiting the action to the word; “you
don’t see it now, at all events.”
Oliver did see it in his mind’s eye as distinctly as if he had not
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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 tap at
the door. “Come in,” said the old lady; and in walked Mr
Brownlow.
Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but he had
no sooner raised his spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his
hands behind the skirts of his dressing-gown to take a good look at
Oliver, than his countenance underwent a very great variety of
odd contortions. Oliver looked very worn and shadowy from
sickness, and made an ineffectual attempt to stand up, out of
respect to his benefactor, which terminated in his sinking back
into the chair again; and the fact is, if the truth must be told, that
Mr. Brownlow’s heart, being large enough for any six ordinary old
gentlemen of humane disposition, forced a supply of tears into his
eyes, by some hydraulic process which we are not sufficiently
philosophical to be in a condition to explain.
“Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his throat.
“I’m rather hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I’m afraid I have
caught cold.”
“I hope not, sir,” said Mrs. Bedwin. “Everything you have had,
has been well aired, sir.”
“I don’t know, Bedwin. I don’t know,” said Mr. Brownlow; “I
rather think I had a damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday; but
never mind that. How do you feel, my dear?”
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‘“Very happy, sir,” replied Oliver. “And very grateful indeed,
sir, for your goodness to me.”
“Good boy,” said Mr. Brownlow stoutly. “Have you given him
any nourishment, Bedwin? Any slops, eh?”
“He had just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir,” replied
Mrs. Bedwin, drawing herself up slightly, and laying a strong
emphasis on the last word, to intimate that between slops, and
broth well compounded, there existed no affinity or connection
whatsoever.
“Ugh!” said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder; “a couple of
glasses of port wine would have done him a great deal more good.
Wouldn’t they, Tom White, eh?”
“My name is Oliver, sir,” replied the little invalid, with a look of
great astonishment.
“Oliver,” said Mr. Brownlow; “Oliver what? Oliver White, eh?”
“No, sir, Twist—Oliver Twist.”
“Queer name!” said the old gentleman. “What made you tell the
magistrate your name was White?”
“I never told him so, sir,” returned Oliver, in amazement This
sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked
somewhat sternly in Oliver’s face. It was impossible to doubt him;
there was truth in every one of its thin and sharpened lineaments.
“Some mistake;” said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive
for looking steadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the
resemblance between his features and some familiar face came
upon him so strongly, that he could not withdraw his gaze.
“I hope you are not angry with me, sir?” said Oliver, raising his
eyes beseechingly.
“No, no,” replied the old gentleman. “Why! what’s this?
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Bedwin, look there!”
As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture above Oliver’s
head, and then to the boy’s face. There was its living copy. The
eyes, the head, the mouth; every feature was the same. The
expression was, for the instant, so precisely alike, that the
minutest line seemed copied with startling accuracy!
Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation; for, not
being strong enough to bear the start it gave him, he fainted away.
A weakness on his part, which affords the narrative an
opportunity of relieving the reader from suspense in behalf of the
two young pupils of the merry old gentleman; and of recording.
That when the Dodger, and his accomplished friend Master
Bates, joined in the hue-and-cry which was raised at Oliver’s
heels, in consequence of their executing an illegal conveyance of
Mr. Brownlow’s personal property, as has been already described,
they were actuated by a very laudable and becoming regard for
themselves; and for as much 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 mainsprings 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
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impulse and feeling. For these are matters totally beneath a female
who is acknowledged by universal admission to be far above the
numerous little foibles and weaknesses of her sex.
If I wanted any further proof of the strictly philosophical nature
of the conduct of these young gentlemen in their very delicate
predicament, I should at once find it in the fact (also recorded in a
foregoing part of this narrative), of their quitting the pursuit, when
the general attention was fixed upon Oliver; and making
immediately for their home by the shortest possible cut. Although
I do not mean to assert that it is usually the practice of renowned
and learned sages to shorten the road to any great conclusion
(their course indeed being rather to lengthen the distance, by
various 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.
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,
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Master Bates uttered an exclamation of amusement and delight;
and, bursting into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, flung himself
upon a door-step, and rolled thereon in a transport of mirth.
“What’s the matter?” inquired the Dodger.
“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Charley Bates.
“Hold your noise,” remonstrated the Dodger, looking cautiously
round. “Do you want to be grabbed, stupid?”
“I can’t help it,” said Charley. “I can’t help it! To see him
splitting away at that pace, and cutting round the corners, and
knocking up again the posts, and starting on again as if he was
made of iron as well as them, and me with the wipe in my pocket,
singing out arter him—oh, my eye!” The vivid imagination of
Master Bates presented the scene before him in too strong
colours. As he arrived at this apostrophe, he again rolled upon the
door-step, and laughed louder than before.
“What’ll Fagin say?” inquired the Dodger; taking advantage of
the next interval of breathlessness on the part of his friend to
propound the question.
“What?” repeated Charley Bates.
“Ah, what?” said the Dodger. “Why, what should he say?”
inquired Charley, stopping rather suddenly in his merriment; for
the Dodger’s manner was impressive. “What should he say?”
Mr. Dawkins whistled for a couple of minutes; then, taking off
