Oliver Twist (11 page)

Charlotte’s fist was by no means a light one; but, lest it should not be effectual in calming Oliver’s wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry plunged into the kitchen, and assisted to hold him with one hand while she scratched his face with the other. In this favourable position of affairs, Noah rose from the ground and pommelled him behind.

This was rather too violent exercise to last long. When they were all wearied out, and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged Oliver, struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and there locked him up. This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a chair and burst into tears.

“Bless her, she’s going off!” said Charlotte. “A glass of water, Noah, dear. Make haste!”

“Oh! Charlotte,” said Mrs. Sowerberry, speaking as well as she could, through a deficiency of breath and a sufficiency of cold water which Noah had poured over her head and shoulders. “Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy we have not all been murdered in our beds!”

“Ah! mercy indeed, ma‘am,” was the reply. “I only hope this’ll teach master not to have any more of these dreadful creatures, that are born to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah! He was all but killed, ma’am, when I come in.”

“Poor fellow!” said Mrs. Sowerberry, looking piteously on the charity-boy.

Noah, whose top waistcoat button might have been somewhere on a level with the crown of Oliver’s head, rubbed his eyes with the inside of his wrists while this commiseration was bestowed upon him, and performed some affecting tears and sniffs.

“What’s to be done?” exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. “Your master’s not at home; there’s not a man in the house, and he’ll kick that door down in ten minutes.” Oliver’s vigorous plunges against the bit of timber in question rendered this occurrence highly probable.

“Dear, dear! I don’t know, ma‘am,” said Charlotte, “unless we send for the police officers.”

“Or the millingtary,” suggested Mr. Claypole.

“No, no,” said Mrs. Sowerberry, bethinking herself of Oliver’s old friend. “Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly, and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap! Make haste! You can hold a knife to that black eye as you run along. It’ll keep the swelling down.”

Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed; and very much it astonished the people who were out walking, to see a charity-boy tearing through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his head and a claspknife at his eye.

 

NOAH CLAYPOLE RAN ALONG THE STREETS AT HIS SWIFTEST pace, and paused not once for breath until he reached the workhouse gate. Having rested here, for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an imposing show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket, and presented such a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it that even he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times, started back in astonishment.

“Why, what’s the matter with the boy!” said the old pauper.

“Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!” cried Noah, with well-affected dismay; and in tones so loud and agitated that they not only caught the ear of Mr. Bumble himself; who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat—which is a very curious and remarkable circumstance, as showing that even a beadle, acted upon by a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss of self-possession and forgetfulness of personal dignity.

“Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!” said Noah: “Oliver, sir—Oliver has—”

“What? What?” interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes. “Not run away; he hasn’t run away, has he, Noah?”

“No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he’s turned vicious,” replied Noah. “He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is! Such agony, please, sir!” And here, Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions, thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture.

When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto by bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations than ever, rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid.

The gentleman’s notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three paces when he turned angrily round and inquired what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated as involuntary process.

“It’s a poor boy from the free-school, sir,” replied Mr. Bumble, “who has been nearly murdered—all but murdered, sir—by young Twist.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short. “I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!”

“He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant,” said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness.

“And his missis,” interposed Mr. Claypole.

“And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?” added Mr. Bumble.

“No! he’s out, or he would have murdered him,” replied Noah. “He said he wanted to.”

“Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?” inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

“Yes, sir,” replied Noah. “And please, sir, missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him—‘cause master’s out.”

“Certainly, my boy, certainly,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, smiling benignly and patting Noah’s head, which was about three inches higher than his own. “You’re a good boy—a very good boy. Here’s a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry’s with your cane, and see what’s best to be done. Don’t spare him, Bumble.”

“No, I will not, sir,” replied the beadle, adjusting the wax-end which was twisted round the bottom of his cane, for purposes of parochial flagellation.

“Tell Sowerberry not to spare him either. They’ll never do anything with him, without stripes and bruises,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

“I’ll take care, sir,” replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner’s satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker’s shop.

Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished vigour, at the cellar door. The accounts of his ferocity, as related by Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude, and then, applying his mouth to the keyhole, said in a deep and impressive tone:

“Oliver!”

“Come; you let me out!” replied Oliver, from the inside.

“Do you know this here voice, Oliver?” said Mr. Bumble.

“Yes,” replied Oliver.

“Ain’t you afraid of it, sir? Ain’t you a-trembling while I speak, sir?” said Mr. Bumble.

“No!” replied Oliver, boldly.

An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He stepped back from the keyhole, drew himself up to his full height, and looked from one to another of the three bystanders in mute astonishment.

“Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad,” said Mrs. Sowerberry. “No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you.”

“It’s not Madness, ma‘am,” replied Mr. Bumble, after a few moments of deep meditation. “It’s Meat”

“What?” exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry.

“Meat, ma‘am, meat,” replied Bumble, with stem emphasis. “You’ve overfed him, ma’am. You’ve raised a artificial soul and spirit in him, ma‘am, unbecoming a person of his condition, as the board, Mrs. Sowerberry, who are practical philosophers, will tell you. What have paupers to do with soul or spirit? It’s quite enough that we let ’em have live bodies. If you had kept the boy on gruel, ma‘am, this would never have happened.”

“Dear, dear!” ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to the kitchen ceiling; “this comes of being liberal!”

The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver had consisted in a profuse bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would eat, so there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in her voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble’s heavy accusation. Of which, to do her justice, she was wholly innocent in thought, word, or deed.

“Ah!” said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth again; “the only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to leave him in the cellar for a day or so till he’s a little starved down, and then to take him out and keep him on gruel all through his apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family. Excitable natures, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor said that that mother of his made her way here against difficulties and pain that would have killed any well-disposed woman weeks before.”

At this point of Mr. Bumble’s discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to know that some new allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced kicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible. Sowerberry returned at this juncture. Oliver’s offence having been explained to him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar door in a twinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprentice out by the collar.

Oliver’s clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face was bruised and scratched, and his hair scattered over his forehead. The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah and looked quite undismayed.

“Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain’t you?” said Sowerberry, giving Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear.

“He called my mother names,” replied Oliver.

“Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?” said Mrs. Sowerberry. “She deserved what he said, and worse.”

“She didn‘t,” said Oliver.

“She did,” said Mrs. Sowerbeny.

“It’s a lie!” said Oliver.

Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears.

This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. if he had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been, according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went—it was not very extensive—kindly disposed towards the boy, perhaps because it was his interest to be so, perhaps because his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no resource, so he at once gave him a drubbing which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself and rendered Mr. Bumble’s subsequent application of the parochial cane rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day he was shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of bread; and, at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means complimentary to the memory of his mother, looked into the room and, amidst the jeers and point ings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed.

It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day’s treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he had borne the lash without a cry, for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they had roasted him alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor and, hiding his face in his hands, wept such tears as—God send for the credit of our nature—few so young may ever have cause to pour out before Him!

For a long time Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having gazed cautiously round him and listened intently, he gently undid the fastenings of the door and looked abroad.

It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to. the boy’s eyes, farther from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind, and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground looked sepulchral and deathlike, from being so still. He softly reclosed the door. Having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, he sat himself down upon a bench to wait for morning.

With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look around—one moment’s pause of hesitation—he had closed it behind him, and was in the open street.

He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly. He remembered to have seen the wagons, as they went out, toiling up the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across the fields, which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the road, struck into it and walked quickly on.

Along this same footpath Oliver well remembered he had trotted beside Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His way lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of this, and he half resolved to turn back. He had come a long way, though, and should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of his being seen, so he walked on.