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“If you please, sir,” returned Blathers. Closely following Mr.
Losberne, the two officers ascended to Oliver’s bedroom; Mr. Giles
preceding the party, with a lighted 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.
“This,” said Mr. Losberne, speaking softly, but with great
vehemence notwithstanding, “this is the lad, who, being
accidentally 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 had placed his life in considerable danger, as I can
professionally certify.”
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.
“You don’t mean to deny that, I suppose?” said the doctor,
laying Oliver gently down again.
“I 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.”
“Thought it was what boy?” inquired the senior officer.
“The housebreaker’s boy, sir!” replied Giles. “They—they
certainly had a boy.”
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“Well? Do you think so now?” inquired Blathers.
“Think what now?” replied Giles, looking vacantly at his
questioner.
“Think it’s the same boy, stupid-head?” rejoined Blathers
impatiently.
“I don’t know; I really don’t know,” said Giles, with a rueful
countenance. “I couldn’t swear to him.”
“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.”
“Has this man been a-drinking, sir?” inquired Blathers, turning
to the doctor.
“What a precious muddle-headed chap you are!” said Duff,
addressing Mr. Giles, with supreme contempt.
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.
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
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kitchen, that he began to be very much afraid he had been a little
too hasty.
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 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
overnight 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.
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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.
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, sank into their souls, diffusing peace and happiness
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Chapter 32
Of The Happy Life Oliver Began To Lead With His
Kind Friends.
O liver’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.
“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
pleasures 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.”
“The trouble!” cried Oliver. “Oh! dear lady, if I could but work
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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!”
“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.”
“Happy, ma’am!” cried Oliver; “how kind of you to say so!”
“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.
“Oh, yes, ma’am, yes!” replied Oliver eagerly; “but I was
thinking that I am ungrateful now.”
“To whom?” inquired 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.”
“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.”
“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!”
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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.
“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?”
“That, sir,” cried 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?”
“The thieves—the house they took me to!” whispered Oliver.
“The devil it is!” cried the doctor. “Hallo, there! 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.
“Hallo!” said a little, ugly, humpbacked man, opening the door
so suddenly, that the doctor, from the very impetus of his last kick,
nearly fell into the passage. “What’s the matter here?”
“Matter!” exclaimed the other, collaring him, without a
moment’s reflection. “A good deal. Robbery is the matter.”
“There’ll be murder the matter, too,” replied the humpbacked
man, coolly, “if you don’t take your hands off. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” said the doctor, giving his captive a hearty shake.
“Where’s—confound the fellow, what’s his rascally name—Sikes;
that’s it. Where’s Sikes, you thief?”
The humpbacked man stared, as if in excess of amazement and
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indignation; then, twisting himself, dextrously, 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. 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?
“Now!” said the humpbacked 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?”
“Did you ever know a man come out to do either, 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!”
“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.”
“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-andtwenty years, to be scared by you. You shall pay for this; you shall
pay for this.” And so saying, the misshapen little demon set up a
yell, and danced upon the ground, as if wild with rage.
“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.
The man followed to the chariot door, uttering the wildest
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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.
“I am an ass!” said the doctor, after a long silence. “Did you
know that before, Oliver?”
“No, sir.”
“Then don’t forget it another 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.”
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
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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.
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.
“Now, my boy, which house is it?” inquired 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.”
“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.”
“Oh! I hope so!” cried Oliver. “They were so good to me; so
very, very 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.
Alas! the white house was empty and there was a bill in the
window. “To Let.”
“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?”
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