Oliver Twist (18 page)

Accordingly, with a clean white apron tied over her gown, and her curl-papers tucked up under a straw bonnet—both articles of dress being provided from the Jew’s inexhaustible stock—Miss Nancy prepared to issue forth on her errand.

“Stop a minute, my dear,” said the Jew, producing a little covered basket. “Carry that in one hand. It looks more respectable, my dear.”

“Give her a door-key to carry in her t‘other one, Fagin,” said Sikes; “it looks real and genivine like.”

“Yes, yes, my dear, so it does,” said the Jew, hanging a large street-door key on the forefinger of the young lady’s right hand. “There; very good! Very good indeed, my dear!” said the Jew, rubbing his hands.

“Oh my brother! My poor, dear, sweet, innocent little brother!” exclaimed Nancy, bursting into tears, and wringing the little basket and the street-door key in an agony of distress. “What has become of him! Where have they taken him to! Oh, do have pity, and tell me what’s been done with the dear boy, gentlemen; do, gentlemen, if you please, gentlemen!”

Having uttered these words in a most lamentable and heart-broken tone, to the immeasurable delight of her hearers, Miss Nancy paused, winked to the company, nodded smilingly round, and disappeared.

“Ah! she’s a clever girl, my dears,” said the Jew, turning round to his young friends, and shaking his head gravely, as if in mute admonition to them to follow the bright example they had just beheld.

“She’s a honour to her sex,” said Mr. Sikes, filling his glass, and smiting the table with his enormous fist. “Here’s her health, and wishing they was all like her!”

While these and many other encomiums were being passed on the accomplished Nancy, that young lady made the best of her way to the police office, whither, notwithstanding a little natural timidity consequent upon walking through the streets alone and unprotected, she arrived in perfect safety shortly afterwards.

Entering by the back way, she tapped softly with the key at one of the cell-doors, and listened. There was no sound within, so she coughed and listened again. Still there was no reply, so she spoke.

“Nolly, dear?” murmured Nancy in a gentle voice; “Nolly?”

There was nobody inside but a miserable shoeless criminal, who had been taken up for playing the flute, and who, the offence against society having been clearly proved, had been very properly committed by Mr. Fang to the House of Correction for one month, with the appropriate and amusing remark that since he had so much breath to spare, it would be more wholesomely expended on the treadmill than in a musical instrument. He made no answer, being occupied in mentally bewailing the loss of the flute, which had been confiscated for the use of the county; so Nancy passed on to the next cell, and knocked there.

“Well!” cried a faint and feeble voice.

“Is there a little boy here?” inquired Nancy, with a preliminary sob.

“No,” replied the voice; “God forbid.”

This was a vagrant of sixty-five, who was going to prison for
not
playing the flute, or, in other words, for begging in the streets, and doing nothing for his livelihood. In the next cell was another man, who was going to the same prison for hawking tin saucepans without a license, thereby doing something for his living, in defiance of the Stamp Office.

But, as neither of these criminals answered to the name of Oliver, or knew anything about him, Nancy made straight up to the bluff officer in the striped waistcoat; and with the most piteous wailings and lamentations, rendered more piteous by a prompt and efficient use of the street-door key and the little basket, demanded her own dear brother.

“
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 Pentonville, he having heard that word mentioned in the directions to the coachman.

In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonized young woman staggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a swift 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 this shop to-night. 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 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.”

 

OLIVER 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 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 could 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 learnt 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.

They were happy days, those of Oliver’s recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, and orderly—everybody was 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 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 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—mat 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 honest trade to be learnt, or brickmaking 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.