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.
“Has his housekeeper gone, too?” inquired Mr. Losberne, after
a moment’s 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.”
“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!”
“The book-stall keeper, sir?” said Oliver. “I know the way there.
See him, pray, sir! 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.
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
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so far, and carried with them the belief that he was an impostor
and robber—a belief which might remain uncontradicted to his
dying day—was almost more than he could bear.
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.
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.
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 had 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 sky, and hill, and plain, and glistening
water, that a foretaste of Heaven itself has soothed their quick
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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
light! 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.
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
hum 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 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-
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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. 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 a 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.
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
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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.
In the morning, Oliver would be afoot 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 goodwill,
until Miss Rose made her appearance, when there were a
thousand commendations to be bestowed on all 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
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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.
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Chapter 33
Wherein The Happiness Of Oliver And His Friends,
Experiences A Sudden Check.
S pring 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.
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 to those about him, though they
do in the 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.
One beautiful night, 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
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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.
“Rose, my dear!” said the elder lady.
Rose made no reply, but played a little quicker, as though the
words had roused her from some painful thoughts.
“Rose, my love!” cried Mrs. Maylie, rising hastily, and bending
over her. “What is this? In tears! My dear child, what distresses
you?”
“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.
“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!”
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 on 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.
“My child!” said the elderly lady, folding her arms about her. “I
never saw you so 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,
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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.
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. “I hope,”
said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie returned, “that nothing is the
matter? She don’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:
“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.”
“What?” inquired Oliver.
“The heavy blow,” said the old lady, “of losing the dear girl who
has so long been my comfort and happiness.”
“Oh! God forbid!” exclaimed Oliver hastily.
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“Amen to that, my child!” said the old lady, wringing her hands.
“Surely there is no danger of anything so dreadful?” said
Oliver. “Two hours ago, she was quite well.”
“She is very ill now,” rejoined Mrs. Maylie; “and will be worse, I
am sure. My dear, dear Rose! Oh, what should 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.
“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.”
“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!”
Oliver was surprised to see that as Mrs. Maylie said these
words, she checked her lamentations as though by one effort; and
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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
devolved upon her, steadily, and, to all external appearance, 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?
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.
“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 fields, and thence despatched, 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.”
Oliver could make no reply, but looked with anxiety to be gone
at once.
“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.”
“Is it for Chertsey, too, ma’am?” inquired Oliver, impatient to
execute his commission, and holding out his trembling 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,
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