“I haven’t got him, my dear,” said the old man.
“Where is he?” screamed Nancy, in a distracted manner.
“Why, the gentleman’s got him,” replied the officer.
“What gentleman? Oh, gracious heavens! What 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 at
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Pentonville, he having heard that word mentioned in the
directions to the coachman.
In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised
young woman staggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her
faltering walk for a good, swift, steady run, returned by the most
devious and complicated route she could think of, to the domicile
of the Jew.
Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition
delivered, than he very hastily called up the white dog, and putting
on his hat, expeditiously departed, without devoting any time to
the formality of wishing the company good-morning.
“We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found,” said
the Jew, greatly excited. “Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till
you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have
him found. I trust to you, my dear—to you and the Artful for
everything! Stay, stay,” added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a
shaking hand; “there’s money, my dears. I shall shut up his shop
tonight. You’ll know where to find me! Don’t stop here a minute.
Not an instant, my dears!”
With these words, he pushed them from the room: and carefully
double-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its
place of concealment the box which he had unintentionally
disclosed to Oliver. Then, he hastily proceeded to dispose the
watches and jewellery beneath his clothing.
A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. “Who’s
there?” he cried, in a shrill tone.
“Me!” replied the voice of the Dodger, through the keyhole.
“What now?” cried the Jew impatiently.
“Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?” inquired
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the Dodger.
“Yes,” replied the Jew, “wherever she lays hands on him. Find
him, find him out, that’s all! I shall know what to do next; never
fear.”
The boy murmured a reply of intelligence; and hurried
downstairs after his companions.
“He has not peached so far,” said the Jew as he pursued his
occupation. “If he means to blab us among his new friends, we
may stop his mouth yet.”
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Chapter 14
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.
O liver soon recovering from the fainting fit into which Mr.
Brownlow’s abrupt exclamation had thrown him the
subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the
old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued;
which indeed bore no reference to Oliver’s history or prospects
but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting
him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he
came down into the housekeeper’s room next day, his first act was
to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on
the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed,
however, for the picture had been removed.
“Ah!” said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver’s
eyes. “It is gone, you see.”
“I see it is, ma’am,” replied Oliver. “Why have they taken it
away?”
“It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said,
that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your
getting well, you know,” rejoined the old lady.
“Oh, no, indeed. It didn’t worry me, ma’am,” said Oliver. “I
liked to see it. I quite loved it.”
“Well, well!” said the old lady good-humouredly; “you get well
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as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There!
I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else.”
This was all the information Oliver would 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 learned 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.
These 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
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money for herself. This she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked
out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew roll them up in his bag
and walk away he felt quite delighted to think that they were
safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger of his ever
being able to wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell the
truth; and Oliver had never had a new suit before.
One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he
was sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down
from Mr. Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should
like to see him in his study, and talk to him a little while.
“Bless us, and save us! Wash your hands, and let me part your
hair nicely for you, child,” said Mrs. Bedwin. “Dear heart alive! If
we had known he would have asked for you we would have put
you a clean collar on, and made you as smart as sixpence!”
Oliver did as the old lady bade him; and, although she lamented
grievously, meanwhile, that there was not even time to crimp the
little frill, that bordered his shirt collar, he looked so delicate and
handsome, despite that important personal advantage, that she
went so far as to say, looking at him with great complacency, from
head to foot, that she really didn’t think it would have been
possible, on the longest notice, to have made much difference in
him for the better.
Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door. On Mr.
Brownlow calling to him to come in, he found himself in a little,
back room, quite full of books, with a window, looking into some
pleasant little gardens. There was a table drawn up before the
window, at which Mr. Brownlow was seated reading. When he saw
Oliver, he pushed the book away from him, and told him to come
near the table, and sit down. Oliver complied, marvelling where
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the people could be found to read such a great number of books as
seemed to be written to make the world wiser. Which is still a
marvel to more experienced people than Oliver Twist, every day of
their lives.
“There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?” said
Mr. Brownlow, observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed
the shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling.
“A great number, sir,” replied Oliver. “I never saw so many.”
“You shall read them, if you behave well,” said the old
gentleman kindly; “and you will like that, better than looking at
the outsides—that is, in some cases; because there are books of
which the backs and covers are by far the best parts.”
“I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir,” said Oliver, pointing
to some large quartos, with a good deal of gilding about the
binding.
“Not always those,” said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on
the head, and smiling as he did so; “there are other equally heavy
ones, though of a much smaller size. How should you like to grow
up a clever man, and write books, eh?”
“I think I would rather read them, sir,” replied Oliver.
“What! wouldn’t you like to be a book-writer? said the old
gentleman.
Oliver considered a little while; and at last said, he should think
it would be a much better thing to be a 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.
“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
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honest trade to be learned, or brick-making to turn to.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Oliver. At the earnest manner of his
reply, the old gentleman laughed again; and said something about
a curious instinct, which Oliver, not understanding, paid no very
great attention to.
“Now,” said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possible in a kinder, but
at the same time in a much more serious manner than Oliver had
ever known him assume yet, “I want you to pay great attention,
my boy, to what I am going to say. I shall talk to you without any
reserve because I am sure you are as well able to understand me,
as many older persons would be.”
“Oh, don’t tell me you are going to send me away, sir, pray!”
exclaimed Oliver, alarmed at the serious tone of the old
gentleman’s commencement. “Don’t turn me out of doors to
wander in the streets again. Let me stay here, and be a servant.
Don’t send me back to the wretched place I came from. Have
mercy upon a poor boy, sir!”
“My dear child,” said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth
of Oliver’s sudden appeal; “you need not be afraid of my deserting
you, unless you give me cause.”
“I never, never will, sir,” interposed Oliver.
“I hope not,” rejoined the old gentleman. “I do not think you
ever will. I have been deceived, before, in the objects whom I have
endeavoured to benefit; but I 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, for ever, on my best
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affections. Deep affliction has but strengthened and refined them.”
As the old gentleman said this in a low voice, more to himself
than to his companion, and as he remained silent for a short time
afterwards, Oliver sat quite still.
“Well, well!” said the old gentleman at length, in a more
cheerful tone, “I only say this, because you have a young heart;
and knowing that I have suffered great pain and sorrow, you will
be more careful, perhaps, not to wound me again. You say you are
an orphan, without a friend in the world; all the inquiries I have
been able to make, confirm the statement. Let me hear your
story—where you come from; who brought you up; and how you
got into the company in which I found you. Speak the truth; and
you shall not be friendless while I live.”
Oliver’s sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; when he
was on the point of beginning to relate how he had been brought
up at the farm, and carried to the workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a
peculiarly impatient little double-knock was heard at the street
door; and the servant, running upstairs, announced Mr. Grimwig.
“Is he coming up?” inquired Mr. Brownlow.
“Yes, sir,” replied the servant. “He asked if there were any
muffins in the house; and, when I told him yes, he said he had
come to tea.”
Mr. Brownlow smiled; and, turning to Oliver, said that Mr.
Grimwig was an old friend of his, and he must not mind his being
a little rough in his manners for he was a worthy creature at
bottom, as he had reason to know.
“Shall I go downstairs, sir?” inquired Oliver.
“No,” replied Mr. Brownlow, “I would rather you remained At
this moment, there walked into the room, supporting himself by a
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thick stick, a stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, who was
dressed in a blue coat, striped waistcoat nankeen breeches and
gaiters, and a broad-brimmed white hat, with the sides turned up
with green. A very small-plated shirt frill stuck out from his
waistcoat; and a very long steel watch-chain, with nothing but a
key at the end, dangled loosely below it. The ends of his white
neckerchief were twisted into a ball about the size of an orange;
the variety of shapes into which his countenance was twisted, defy
description. He had a manner of screwing his head on one side
when he spoke, and of looking out of the corners of his eyes at the
same time, which irresistibly reminded the beholder of a parrot. In
this attitude he fixed himself, the moment he made his
appearance; and, holding out a small piece of orange-peel at arm’s
length, exclaimed, in a growling, discontented voice:
“Look here! do you see this! Isn’t it a most wonderful and
extraordinary thing that 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 at last. It will sir; orange-peel will be my death, or I’ll be
content to eat my own head, sir!”
This was the handsome offer with which Mr. Grimwig backed
and confirmed nearly every assertion he made; and it was the
more singular in his case, because, even admitting for the sake of
argument, the possibility of scientific improvements being ever
brought to that pass which will enable a gentleman to eat his own
head in the event of his being go 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
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coating of powder.
“I’ll eat my head, sir,” repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick
upon the ground. “Hallo! what’s that!” looking at Oliver, and
retreating a pace or two.
“This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking, about,”
said Mr. Brownlow.
Oliver bowed.
“You don’t mean to say that’s the boy who had the fever, I
hope?” said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little more. “Wait a minute!
Don’t speak! Stop” continued Mr. Grimwig, abruptly, losing all
dread of the fever in his triumph at the discovery; “that’s the boy
who had the orange! If that’s not the boy, sir, who had the orange,
and threw this bit of peel upon the staircase, I’ll eat my head, and
his too.”
“No, no, he has not had one,” said Mr. Brownlow, laughing.
“Come! Put down your hat; and speak to my young friend.”
“I feel strongly on this subject, sir,” said the irritable old
gentleman, drawing off his gloves. “There’s always more or less
orange-peel on the pavement in our street; and I know it’s put
there by the surgeon’s boy at the corner. A young woman
stumbled over a bit last night, and fell against my garden railings;
directly she got up I saw her look towards his infernal red lamp
with the pantomime-light. ‘Don’t go to him,’ I called out of the
window, ‘he’s an assassin! A mantrap!’ So he is. If he is not—”
Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground
with his stick; which was always understood, by his friend, to
imply the customary offer, whenever it was not expressed in
words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down; and,
opening a double eyeglass, which he wore attached to a broad,
