Oliver Twist (33 page)

“What is all this?” cried the girl involuntarily.

“What is it?” pursued Fagin, mad with rage. “When the boy’s worth hundreds of pounds to me, am I to lose what chance threw me in the way of getting safely, through the whims of a drunken gang that I could whistle away the lives of! And me bound, too, to a born devil that only wants the will, and has the power to, to—”

Panting for breath, the old man stammered for a word, and in that instant checked the torrent of his wrath and changed his whole demeanour. A moment before, his clenched hands had grasped the air, his eyes had dilated, and his face grown livid with passion; but now he shrunk into a chair and, cowering together, trembled with the apprehension of having himself disclosed some hidden villainy. After a short silence, he ventured to look round at his companion. He appeared somewhat reassured, on beholding her in the same listless attitude from which he had first roused her.

“Nancy, dear,” croaked the Jew, in his usual voice. “Did you mind me, dear?”

“Don’t worry me now, Fagin!” replied the girl, raising her head languidly. “If Bill has not done it this time, he will another. He has done many a good job for you, and will do many more when he can; and when he can’t he won‘t, so no more about that.”

“Regarding this boy, my dear?” said the Jew, rubbing the palms of his hands nervously together.

“The boy must take his chance with the rest,” interrupted Nancy, hastily; “and I say again, I hope he is dead, and out of harm’s way, and out of yours—that is, if Bill comes to no harm. And if Toby got clear off, Bill’s pretty sure to be safe, for Bill’s worth two of Toby any time.”

“And about what I was saying, my dear?” observed the Jew, keeping his glistening eye steadily upon her.

“You must say it all over again, if it’s anything you want me to do,” rejoined Nancy; “and if it is, you had better wait till tomorrow. You put me up for a minute; but now I’m stupid again.”

Fagin put several other questions. all with the same drift of ascertaining whether the girl had profited by his unguarded hints; but she answered them so readily, and was withal so utterly unmoved by his searching looks, that his original impression of her being more than a trifle in liquor, was confirmed. Nancy, indeed, was not exempt from a failing which was very common among the Jew’s female pupils, and in which, in their tenderer years, they were rather encouraged than checked. Her disordered appearance, and a wholesale perfume of Geneva which pervaded the apartment, afforded strong confirmatory evidence of the justice of the Jew’s supposition; and when, after indulging in the temporary display of violence above described, she subsided, first into dullness, and afterwards into a compound of feelings under the influence of which she shed tears one minute, and in the next gave utterance to various exclamations of “Never say die!” and divers calculations as to what might be the amount of the odds so long as a lady or gentleman was happy, Mr. Fagin, who had had considerable experience of such matters in his time, saw, with great satisfaction, that she was very far gone indeed.

Having eased his mind by this discovery, and having accomplished his twofold object of imparting to the girl what he had, that night, heard, and of ascertaining, with his own eyes, that Sikes had not returned. Mr. Fagin again turned his face homeward, leaving his young friend asleep, with her head upon the table.

It was within an hour of midnight. The weather being dark, and piercing cold, he had no great temptation to loiter. The sharp wind that scoured the streets seemed to have cleared them of passengers, as of dust and mud, for few people were abroad, and they were to all appearance hastening fast home. It blew from the right quarter for the Jew, however, and straight before it he went, trembling and shivering as every fresh gust drove him rudely on his way.

He had reached the comer of his own street, and was already fumbling in his pocket for the door-key, when a dark figure emerged from a projecting entrance which lay in deep shadow and, crossing the road, glided up to him unperceived.

“Fagin!” whispered a voice close to his ear.

“Ah!” said the Jew, turning quickly round, “is that—”

“Yes!” interrupted the stranger. “I have been lingering here these two hours. Where the devil have you been?”

“On your business, my dear,” replied the Jew, glancing uneasily at his companion, and slackening his pace as he spoke. “On your business all night.”

“Oh, of course!” said the stranger, with a sneer. “Well, and what’s come of it?”

“Nothing good,” said the Jew.

“Nothing bad, I hope?” said the stranger, stopping short, and turning a startled look on his companion.

The Jew shook his head, and was about to reply, when the stranger, interrupting him, motioned to the house, before which they had by this time arrived, remarking that he had better say what he had got to say, under cover; for his blood was chilled with standing about so long, and the wind blew through him.

Fagin looked as if he could have willingly excused himself from taking home a visitor at that unseasonable hour, and, indeed, muttered something about having no fire; but his companion repeating his request in a peremptory manner, he unlocked the door, and requested him to close it softly, while he got a light.

“It as dark as a grave,” said the man, groping forward a few steps. “Make haste!”

“Shut the door,” whispered Fagin from the end of the passage. As he spoke, it closed with a loud noise.

“That wasn’t my doing,” said the other man, feeling his way. “The wind blew it to, or it shut of its own accord, one or the other. Look sharp with the light, or I shall knock my brains out against something in this confounded hole.”

Fagin stealthily descended the kitchen stairs. After a short absence he returned with a lighted candle, and the intelligence that Toby Crackit was asleep in the back room below, and that the boys were in the front one. Beckoning the man to follow him, he led the way upstairs.

“We can say the few words we’ve got to say, in here, my dear,” said the Jew, throwing open a door on the first floor; “and as there are holes in the shutters, and we never show lights to our neighbours, we’ll set the candle on the stairs. There!”

With those words, the Jew, stooping down, placed the candle on an upper flight of stairs, exactly opposite to the room door. This done, he led the way into the apartment, which was destitute of all movables save a broken arm-chair and an old couch or sofa, without covering, which stood behind the door. Upon this piece of furniture the stranger sat himself with the air of a weary man; and the Jew drawing up the arm-chair opposite, they sat face to face. It was not quite dark, the door was partially open, and the candle outside threw a feeble reflection on the opposite wall.

They conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the conversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending himself against some remarks of the stranger, and that the latter was in a state of considerable irritation. They might have been talking thus for a quarter of an hour or more when Monks—by which name the Jew had designated the strange man several times in the course of their colloquy—Said, raising his voice a little:

“I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?”

“Only hear him!” exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders.

“Why, do you mean to say you couldn’t have done it if you had chosen?” demanded Monks, sternly. “Haven’t you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn’t you have got him convicted and sent safely out of the kingdom, perhaps for life?”

“Who’s turn would that have served, my dear?” inquired the Jew humbly.

“Mine,” replied Monks.

“But not mine,” said the Jew, submissively. “He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, is it only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted ; is it, my good friend?”

“What then?” demanded Monks.

“I saw it was not easy to train him to the business,” replied the Jew; “he was not like other boys in the same circumstances.”

“Curse him, no!” muttered the man, “or he would have been a thief long ago.”

“I had no hold upon him to make him worse,” pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. “His hand was not in. I had nothing to frighten him with, which we always must have in the beginning, or we labour in vain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had enough of that at first, my dear; I trembled for us all.”

“That
was not my doing,” observed Monks.

“No, no, my dear!” renewed the Jew. “And I don’t quarrel with it now, because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes upon the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you were looking for. Well! I got him back for you by means of the girl; and then she begins to favour him.”

“Throttle the girl!” said Monks, impatiently.

“Why, we can’t afford to do that just now, my dear,” replied the Jew, smiling; “and, besides that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one of these days, I might be glad to have it done. I know what these girls are, Monks, well. As soon as the boy begins to harden, she’ll care no more for him than for a block of wood. You want him made a thief. If he is alive, I can make him one from this time; and if—if—” said the Jew, drawing nearer to the other—“it’s not likely, mind—but if the worst comes to the worst, and he is dead—”

“It’s no fault of mine if he is!” interposed the other man, with a look of terror, and clasping the Jew’s arm with trembling hands. “Mind that, Fagin! I had no hand in it. Anything but his death, I told you from the first. I won’t shed blood; it’s always found out, and haunts a man besides. If they shot him dead, I was not the cause; do you hear me? Fire this infernal den! What’s that?”

“What!” cried the Jew, grasping the coward round the body with both arms as he sprung to his feet. “Where?”

“Yonder!” replied the man, glaring at the opposite wall. “The shadow! I saw the shadow of a woman, in a cloak and bonnet, pass along the wainscot like a breath!”

The Jew released his hold, and they rushed tumultuously from the room. The candle, wasted by the draught, was standing where it had been placed. It showed them only the empty staircase and their own white faces. They listened intently; a profound silence reigned throughout the house.

“It’s your fancy,” said the Jew, taking up the light and turning to his companion.

“I’ll swear I saw it!” replied Monks, trembling. “It was bending forward when I saw it first; and when I spoke, it darted away.”

The Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate and, telling him he could follow if he pleased, ascended the stairs. They looked into all the rooms; they were cold, bare, and empty. They descended into the passage, and thence into the cellars below. The green damp hung upon the low walls, the tracks of the snail and slug glistened in the light of the candle, but all was still as death.

“What do you think now?” said the Jew, when they had regained the passage. “Besides ourselves, there‘s, not a creature in the house except Toby and the boys; and they’re safe enough See here!”

As a proof of the fact, the Jew drew forth two keys from his pocket, and explained that when he first went downstairs he had locked them in to prevent any intrusion on the conference.

This accumulated testimony effectually staggered Mr. Monks. His protestations had gradually become less and less vehement as they proceeded in their search without making any discovery; and, now he gave vent to several very grim laughs, and confessed it could only have been his excited imagination. He declined any renewal of the conversation, however, for that night, suddenly remembering that it was past one o‘clock. And so the amiable couple parted.

 

AS IT WOULD BE NO MEANS SEEMLY IN A HUMBLE AUTHOR TO keep so mighty a personage as a beadle waiting, with his back to the fire and the skirts of his coat gathered up under his arms, until such time as it might suit his pleasure to relieve him, and as it would still less become his station or his gallantry to involve in the same neglect a lady on whom that beadle had looked with an eye of tenderness and affection and in whose ear he had whispered sweet words, which, coming from such a quarter, might well thrill the bosom of maid or matron, of whatsoever degree, the historian whose pen traces these words—trusting that he knows his place, and that he entertains a becoming reverence for those upon earth to whom high and important authority is delegated—hastens to pay them that respect which their position demands, and to treat them with all that duteous ceremony which their exalted rank and (by consequence) great virtues imperatively claim at his hands. Towards this end, indeed, he had purposed to introduce, in this place, a dissertation touching the divine right of beadles, and elucida tive of the position that a beadle can do no wrong, which could not fail to have been both pleasurable and profitable to the right-minded reader, but which he is unfortunately compelled, by want of time and space, to postpone to some more convenient and fitting opportunity, on the arrival of which he will be prepared to show that a beadle properly constituted—that is to say, a parochial beadle, attached to a parochial workhouse, and attending in his official capacity the parochial church—is, in right and virtue of his office, possessed of all the excellences and best qualities of humanity, and that to none of those excellences can mere companies’ beadles, or court-of-law beadles, or even chapel-of-ease beadles (save the last, and they in a very lowly and inferior degree) lay the remotest sustainable claim.