Oliver Twist (47 page)

As Mr. Bumble spoke, he made a melancholy feint of grasping his lantern with fierce determination, and plainly showed, by the alarmed expression of every feature, that he
did
want a little rousing, and not a little, prior to making any very warlike demonstration, unless, indeed, against paupers, or other person or persons trained down for the purpose.

“You are a fool,” said Mrs. Bumble, in reply; “and had better hold your tongue.”

“He had better have cut it out before he came, if he can’t speak in a lower tone,” said Monks, grimly. “So! He’s your husband,eh?”

“He’s my husband!” tittered the matron, parrying the question.

“I thought as much when you came in,” rejoined Monks, marking the angry glance which the lady darted at her spouse as she spoke. “So much the better; I have less hesitation in dealing with two people when I find that there’s only one will between them. I’m in earnest. See here!”

He thrust his hand into a side-pocket and, producing a canvas bag, told out twenty-five sovereigns on the table and pushed them over to the woman.

“Now,” he said, “gather them up; and when this cursed peal of thunder, which I feel is coming up to break over the house-top, is gone, let’s hear your story.”

The thunder, which seemed in fact much nearer, and to shiver and break almost over their heads, having subsided, Monks, raising his face from the table, bent forward to listen to what the woman should say. The faces of the three nearly touched, as the two men leant over the small table in their eagerness to hear, and the woman also leant forward to render her whisper audible. The sickly rays of the suspended lantern falling directly upon them, aggravated the paleness and anxiety of their countenances, which, encircled by the deepest gloom and darkness, looked ghastly in the extreme.

“When this woman, that we called old Sally, died,” the matron began, “she and I were alone.”

“Was there no one by?” asked Monks, in the same hollow whisper; “no sick wretch or idiot in some other bed? No one who could hear, and might, by possibility, understand?”

“Not a soul,” replied the woman; “we were alone.
I
stood alone beside the body when death came over it.”

“Good,” said Monks, regarding her attentively. “Go on.”

“She spoke of a young creature,” resumed the matron, “who had brought a child into the world some years before, not merely in the same room, but in the same bed, in which she then lay dying.”

“Ay?” said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing over his shoulder. “Blood! How things come about!”

“The child was the one you named to him last night,” said the matron, nodding carelessly towards her husband; “the mother this nurse had robbed.”

“In life?” asked Monks.

“In death,” replied the woman, with something like a shudder. “She stole from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant’s sake.”

“She sold it?” cried Monks, with desperate eagerness; “did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?”

“As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this,” said the matron, “she fell back and died.”

“Without saying more?” cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very suppression, seemed only the more furious. “It’s a lie! I‘Il not be played with. She said more. I’ll tear the life out of you both, but I’ ll know what it was.”

“She didn’t utter another word,” said the woman, to all appearance unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man’s violence; “but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper.”

“Which contained—” interposed Monks, stretching forward.

“Nothing,” replied the woman; “it was a pawnbroker’s duplicate.”

“For what?” demanded Monks.

“In good time I’ll tell you,” said the woman. “I judge that she had kept the trinket for some time in the hope of turning it to better account and then had pawned it, and had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker’s interest year by year and prevent its running out, so that if anything came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she died with the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in her hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too, and so redeemed the pledge.”

“Where is it now?” asked Monks quickly.

“There,”
replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it, she hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands. It contained a little gold locket, in which were two locks of hair and a plain gold wedding-ring.

“It has the word ‘Agnes’ engraved on the inside,” said the woman. “There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date, which is within a year before the child was born. I found out that.”

“And this is all?” said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the contents of the little packet.

“All,” replied the woman.

Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story was over, and.no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back again; and now he took courage to wipe off the perspiration which had been trickling over his nose, unchecked, during the whole of the previous dialogue.

“I know nothing of the story, beyond what I can guess at,” said his wife addressing Monks, after a short silence; “and I want to know nothing, for it’s safer not. But I may ask you two questions, may I?”

“You may ask,” said Monks, with some show of surprise; “but whether I answer or not is another question.”

“—Which makes three.” observed Mr. Bumble, essaying a stroke of facetiousness.

“Is that what you expected to get from me?” demanded the matron.

“It is,” replied Monks. “The other question?”

“What you propose to do with it? Can it be used against me?”

“Never,” rejoined Monks; “nor against me either. See here! But don’t move a step forward, or your life is not worth a bulrush.”

With these words he suddenly wheeled the table aside and, pulling an iron ring in the boarding, threw back a large trap-door which opened close at Mr. Bumble’s feet and caused that gentleman to retire several paces backward with great precipitation.

“Look down,” said Monks, lowering the lantern into the gulf. “Don’t fear me. I could have let you down, quietly enough, when you were seated over it, if that had been my game.”

Thus encouraged, the matron drew near to the brink; and even Mr. Bumble himself, impelled by curiosity, ventured to do the same. The turbid water, swollen by the heavy rain, was rushing rapidly on below; and all other sounds were lost in the noise of its splashing and eddying against the green and slimy piles. There had once been a water-mill beneath; the tide foaming and chafing round the few rotten stakes, and fragments of machinery that yet remained, seemed to dart onward, with a new impulse, when freed from the obstacles which had unavailingly attempted to stem its headlong course.

“If you flung a man’s body down there, where would it be to-morrow morning?” said Monks, swinging the lantern to and fro in the dark well.

“Twelve miles down the river, and cut to pieces besides,” replied Bumble, recoiling at the thought.

Monks drew the little packet from his breast, where he had hurriedly thrust it, and tying it to a leaden weight, which had formed a part of some pulley and was lying on the floor, dropped it into the stream. It fell straight, and true as a die, clove the water with a scarcely audible splash, and was gone.

The three, looking into each other’s faces, seemed to breathe more freely.

“There!” said Monks, closing the trap-door, which fell heavily back into its former position. “If the sea ever gives up its dead, as books say it will, it will keep its gold and silver to itself, and that trash among it. We have nothing more to say, and may break up our pleasant party.”

“By all means,” observed Mr. Bumble, with great alacrity.

“You’ll keep a quiet tongue in your head, will you?” said Monks, with a threatening look. “I am not afraid of your wife.”

“You may depend upon me, young man,” answered Mr. Bumble, bowing himself gradually towards the ladder, with excessive politeness. “On everybody’s account, young man; on my own, you know, Mr. Monks.”

“I am glad, for your sake, to hear it,” remarked Monks. “Light your lantern! And get away from here as fast as you can.”

It was fortunate that the conversation terminated at this point, or Mr. Bumble, who had bowed himself to within six inches of the ladder, would infallibly have pitched headlong into the room below. He lighted his lantern from that which Monks had detached from the rope, and now carried in his hand; and making no effort to prolong the discourse, descended in silence, followed by his wife. Monks brought up the rear, after pausing on the steps to satisfy himself that there were no other sounds to be heard than the beating of the rain without and the rushing of the water.

They traversed the lower room slowly and with caution; for Monks started at every shadow, and Mr. Bumble, holding his lantern a foot above the ground, walked not only with remarkable care, but with a marvelously light step for a gentleman of his figure, looking nervously about him for hidden trap-doors. The gate at which they had entered was softly unfastened and opened by Monks; merely exchanging a nod with their mysterious acquaintance, the married couple emerged into the wet and darkness outside.

They were no sooner gone than Monks, who appeared to entertain an invincible repugnance to being left alone, called to a boy who had been hidden somewhere below. Bidding him go first and bear the light, he returned to the chamber he had just quitted.

 

ON THE EVENING FOLLOWING THAT UPON WHICH THE THREE WORTHIES mentioned in the last chapter disposed of their little matter of business as therein narrated, Mr. William Sikes, awakening from a nap, drowsily growled forth an inquiry what time of night it was.

The room in which Mr. Sikes propounded this question was not one of those he had tenanted previous to the Chertsey expedition, although it was in the same quarter of the town and was situated at no great distance from his former lodgings. It was not, in appearance, so desirable a habitation as his old quarters, being a mean and badly furnished apartment, of very limited size, lighted only by one small window in the shelving roof, and abutting on a close and dirty lane. Nor were there wanting other indications of the good gentleman’s having gone down in the world of late; for a great scarcity of furniture, and total absence of comfort, together with the disappearance of all such small movables as spare clothes and linen, bespoke a state of extreme poverty, while the meagre and attenuated condition of Mr. Sikes himself would have fully confirmed these symptoms if they had stood in any need of corroboration.

The housebreaker was lying on the bed, wrapped in his white greatcoat, by way of dressing-gown, and displaying a set of features in no degree improved by the cadaverous hue of illness, and the addition of a soiled nightcap and a stiff, black beard of a week’s growth. The dog sat at the bedside, now eyeing his master with a wistful look, and now pricking his ears and uttering a low growl as some noise in the street, or in the lower part of the house, attracted his attention. Seated by the window, busily engaged in patching an old waistcoat which formed a portion of the robber’s ordinary dress, was a female, so pale and reduced with watching and privation that there would have been considerable difficulty in recognizing her as the same Nancy who has already figured in this tale, but for the voice in which she replied to Mr. Sikes’s question.

“Not long gone seven,” said the girl. “How do you feel to night, Bill?”

“As weak as water,” replied Mr. Sikes, with an imprecation on his eyes and limbs. “Here; lend us a hand, and let me get off this thundering bed anyhow.”

Illness had not improved Mr. Sikes’s temper; for, as the girl raised him up and led him to a chair, he muttered various curses on her awkwardness, and struck her.

“Whining are you?” said Sikes. “Come! Don’t stand snivelling there. If you can’t do anything better than that, cut off altogether. D‘ye hear me?”

“I hear you,” replied the girl, turning her face aside and forcing a laugh. “What fancy have you got in your head now?”

“Oh! you’ve thought better of it, have you?” growled Sikes, marking the tear which trembled in her eye. “All the better for you, you have.”

“Why, you don’t mean to say, you’d be hard upon me to night, Bill,” said the girl, laying her hand upon his shoulder.

“No?” cried Mr. Sikes. “Why not?”

“Such a number of nights,” said the girl, with a touch of woman’s tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone even to her voice—“such a number of nights as I’ve been patient with you, nursing and caring for you as if you had been a child, and this the first that I’ve seen you like yourself; you wouldn’t have served me as you did just now if you’d thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn’t.”

“Well, then,” rejoined Mr. Sikes. “I wouldn’t. Why, damme, now, the girl’s whining again!”

“It’s nothing,” said the girl, throwing herself into a chair. “Don’t you seem to mind me. It’ll soon be over.”

“What’ll be over?” demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. “What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don’t come over me with your woman’s nonsense.”

At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl, being really weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair and fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing very well what to do, in this uncommon emergency—for Miss Nancy’s hysterics were usually of that violent kind which the patient fights and struggles out of without much assistance—Mr. Sikes tried a little blasphemy, and finding that mode of treatment wholly ineffectual, called for assistance.