الفصل الفصل 12 · IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. AND IN

. IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. AND IN

WHICH THE NARRATIVE REVERTS TO THE MERRY OLD GENTLEMAN AND HIS YOUTHFUL

FRIENDS.

The coach rattled away, over nearly the same ground as that which

Oliver had traversed when he first entered London in company with the

Dodger; and, turning a different way when it reached the Angel at

Islington, stopped at length before a neat house, in a quiet shady

street near Pentonville. Here, a bed was prepared, without loss of

time, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his young charge carefully and

comfortably deposited; and here, he was tended with a kindness and

solicitude that knew no bounds.

But, for many days, Oliver remained insensible to all the goodness of

his new friends. The sun rose and sank, and rose and sank again, and

many times after that; and still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy

bed, dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever. The worm

does not work more surely on the dead body, than does this slow

creeping fire upon the living frame.

Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to have

been a long and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in the bed, with

his head resting on his trembling arm, he looked anxiously around.

“What room is this? Where have I been brought to?” said Oliver. “This

is not the place I went to sleep in.”

He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and weak;

but they were overheard at once. The curtain at the bed’s head was

hastily drawn back, and a motherly old lady, very neatly and precisely

dressed, rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair close by, in which

she had been sitting at needle-work.

“Hush, my dear,” said the old lady softly. “You must be very quiet, or

you will be ill again; and you have been very bad,—as bad as bad could

be, pretty nigh. Lie down again; there’s a dear!” With those words, the

old lady very gently placed Oliver’s head upon the pillow; and,

smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and loving

in his face, that he could not help placing his little withered hand in

hers, and drawing it round his neck.

“Save us!” said the old lady, with tears in her eyes. “What a grateful

little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel if she

had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!”

“Perhaps she does see me,” whispered Oliver, folding his hands

together; “perhaps she has sat by me. I almost feel as if she had.”

“That was the fever, my dear,” said the old lady mildly.

“I suppose it was,” replied Oliver, “because heaven is a long way off;

and they are too happy there, to come down to the bedside of a poor

boy. But if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me, even there;

for she was very ill herself before she died. She can’t know anything

about me though,” added Oliver after a moment’s silence. “If she had

seen me hurt, it would have made her sorrowful; and her face has always

looked sweet and happy, when I have dreamed of her.”

The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first, and her

spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were

part and parcel of those features, brought some cool stuff for Oliver

to drink; and then, patting him on the cheek, told him he must lie very

quiet, or he would be ill again.

So, Oliver kept very still; partly because he was anxious to obey the

kind old lady in all things; and partly, to tell the truth, because he

was completely exhausted with what he had already said. He soon fell

into a gentle doze, from which he was awakened by the light of a

candle: which, being brought near the bed, showed him a gentleman with

a very large and loud-ticking gold watch in his hand, who felt his

pulse, and said he was a great deal better.

“You _are_ a great deal better, are you not, my dear?” said the

gentleman.

“Yes, thank you, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Yes, I know you are,” said the gentleman: “You’re hungry too, an’t

you?”

“No, sir,” answered Oliver.

“Hem!” said the gentleman. “No, I know you’re not. He is not hungry,

Mrs. Bedwin,” said the gentleman: looking very wise.

The old lady made a respectful inclination of the head, which seemed to

say that she thought the doctor was a very clever man. The doctor

appeared much of the same opinion himself.

“You feel sleepy, don’t you, my dear?” said the doctor.

“No, sir,” replied Oliver.

“No,” said the doctor, with a very shrewd and satisfied look. “You’re

not sleepy. Nor thirsty. Are you?”

“Yes, sir, rather thirsty,” answered Oliver.

“Just as I expected, Mrs. Bedwin,” said the doctor. “It’s very natural

that he should be thirsty. You may give him a little tea, ma’am, and

some dry toast without any butter. Don’t keep him too warm, ma’am; but

be careful that you don’t let him be too cold; will you have the

goodness?”

The old lady dropped a curtsey. The doctor, after tasting the cool

stuff, and expressing a qualified approval of it, hurried away: his

boots creaking in a very important and wealthy manner as he went

downstairs.

Oliver dozed off again, soon after this; when he awoke, it was nearly

twelve o’clock. The old lady tenderly bade him good-night shortly

afterwards, and left him in charge of a fat old woman who had just

come: bringing with her, in a little bundle, a small Prayer Book and a

large nightcap. Putting the latter on her head and the former on the

table, the old woman, after telling Oliver that she had come to sit up

with him, drew her chair close to the fire and went off into a series

of short naps, chequered at frequent intervals with sundry tumblings

forward, and divers moans and chokings. These, however, had no worse

effect than causing her to rub her nose very hard, and then fall asleep

again.

And thus the night crept slowly on. Oliver lay awake for some time,

counting the little circles of light which the reflection of the

rushlight-shade threw upon the ceiling; or tracing with his languid

eyes the intricate pattern of the paper on the wall. The darkness and

the deep stillness of the room were very solemn; as they brought into

the boy’s mind the thought that death had been hovering there, for many

days and nights, and might yet fill it with the gloom and dread of his

awful presence, he turned his face upon the pillow, and fervently

prayed to Heaven.

Gradually, he fell into that deep tranquil sleep which ease from recent

suffering alone imparts; that calm and peaceful rest which it is pain

to wake from. Who, if this were death, would be roused again to all the

struggles and turmoils of life; to all its cares for the present; its

anxieties for the future; more than all, its weary recollections of the

past!

It had been bright day, for hours, when Oliver opened his eyes; he felt

cheerful and happy. The crisis of the disease was safely past. He

belonged to the world again.

In three days’ time he was able to sit in an easy-chair, well propped

up with pillows; and, as he was still too weak to walk, Mrs. Bedwin had

him carried downstairs into the little housekeeper’s room, which

belonged to her. Having him set, here, by the fire-side, the good old

lady sat herself down too; and, being in a state of considerable

delight at seeing him so much better, forthwith began to cry most

violently.

“Never mind me, my dear,” said the old lady; “I’m only having a regular

good cry. There; it’s all over now; and I’m quite comfortable.”

“You’re very, very kind to me, ma’am,” said Oliver.

“Well, never you mind that, my dear,” said the old lady; “that’s got

nothing to do with your broth; and it’s full time you had it; for the

doctor says Mr. Brownlow may come in to see you this morning; and we

must get up our best looks, because the better we look, the more he’ll

be pleased.” And with this, the old lady applied herself to warming up,

in a little saucepan, a basin full of broth: strong enough, Oliver

thought, to furnish an ample dinner, when reduced to the regulation

strength, for three hundred and fifty paupers, at the lowest

computation.

“Are you fond of pictures, dear?” inquired the old lady, seeing that

Oliver had fixed his eyes, most intently, on a portrait which hung

against the wall; just opposite his chair.

“I don’t quite know, ma’am,” said Oliver, without taking his eyes from

the canvas; “I have seen so few that I hardly know. What a beautiful,

mild face that lady’s is!”

“Ah!” said the old lady, “painters always make ladies out prettier than

they are, or they wouldn’t get any custom, child. The man that invented

the machine for taking likenesses might have known _that_ would never

succeed; it’s a deal too honest. A deal,” said the old lady, laughing

very heartily at her own acuteness.

“Is—is that a likeness, ma’am?” said Oliver.

“Yes,” said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the broth;

“that’s a portrait.”

“Whose, ma’am?” asked Oliver.

“Why, really, my dear, I don’t know,” answered the old lady in a

good-humoured manner. “It’s not a likeness of anybody that you or I

know, I expect. It seems to strike your fancy, dear.”

“It is so pretty,” replied Oliver.

“Why, sure you’re not afraid of it?” said the old lady: observing in

great surprise, the look of awe with which the child regarded the

painting.

“Oh no, no,” returned Oliver quickly; “but the eyes look so sorrowful;

and where I sit, they seem fixed upon me. It makes my heart beat,”

added Oliver in a low voice, “as if it was alive, and wanted to speak

to me, but couldn’t.”

“Lord save us!” exclaimed the old lady, starting; “don’t talk in that

way, child. You’re weak and nervous after your illness. Let me wheel

your chair round to the other side; and then you won’t see it. There!”

said the old lady, suiting the action to the word; “you don’t see it

now, at all events.”

Oliver _did_ see it in his mind’s eye as distinctly as if he had not

altered his position; but he thought it better not to worry the kind

old lady; so he smiled gently when she looked at him; and Mrs. Bedwin,

satisfied that he felt more comfortable, salted and broke bits of

toasted bread into the broth, with all the bustle befitting so solemn a

preparation. Oliver got through it with extraordinary expedition. He

had scarcely swallowed the last spoonful, when there came a soft rap at

the door. “Come in,” said the old lady; and in walked Mr. Brownlow.

Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but, he had no

sooner raised his spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his hands

behind the skirts of his dressing-gown to take a good long look at

Oliver, than his countenance underwent a very great variety of odd

contortions. Oliver looked very worn and shadowy from sickness, and

made an ineffectual attempt to stand up, out of respect to his

benefactor, which terminated in his sinking back into the chair again;

and the fact is, if the truth must be told, that Mr. Brownlow’s heart,

being large enough for any six ordinary old gentlemen of humane

disposition, forced a supply of tears into his eyes, by some hydraulic

process which we are not sufficiently philosophical to be in a

condition to explain.

“Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his throat. “I’m

rather hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I’m afraid I have caught

cold.”

“I hope not, sir,” said Mrs. Bedwin. “Everything you have had, has been

well aired, sir.”

“I don’t know, Bedwin. I don’t know,” said Mr. Brownlow; “I rather

think I had a damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday; but never mind

that. How do you feel, my dear?”

“Very happy, sir,” replied Oliver. “And very grateful indeed, sir, for

your goodness to me.”

“Good boy,” said Mr. Brownlow, stoutly. “Have you given him any

nourishment, Bedwin? Any slops, eh?”

“He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir,” replied Mrs.

Bedwin, drawing herself up slightly, and laying strong emphasis on the

last word, to intimate that between slops, and broth well compounded,

there existed no affinity or connection whatsoever.

“Ugh!” said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder; “a couple of glasses

of port wine would have done him a great deal more good. Wouldn’t they,

Tom White, eh?”

“My name is Oliver, sir,” replied the little invalid with a look of

great astonishment.

“Oliver,” said Mr. Brownlow; “Oliver what? Oliver White, eh?”

“No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist.”

“Queer name!” said the old gentleman. “What made you tell the

magistrate your name was White?”

“I never told him so, sir,” returned Oliver in amazement.

This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked

somewhat sternly in Oliver’s face. It was impossible to doubt him;

there was truth in every one of its thin and sharpened lineaments.

“Some mistake,” said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive for looking

steadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the resemblance

between his features and some familiar face came upon him so strongly,

that he could not withdraw his gaze.

“I hope you are not angry with me, sir?” said Oliver, raising his eyes

beseechingly.

“No, no,” replied the old gentleman. “Why! what’s this? Bedwin, look

there!”

As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture over Oliver’s head, and

then to the boy’s face. There was its living copy. The eyes, the head,

the mouth; every feature was the same. The expression was, for the

instant, so precisely alike, that the minutest line seemed copied with

startling accuracy!

Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation; for, not being

strong enough to bear the start it gave him, he fainted away. A

weakness on his part, which affords the narrative an opportunity of

relieving the reader from suspense, in behalf of the two young pupils

of the Merry Old Gentleman; and of recording—

That when the Dodger, and his accomplished friend Master Bates, joined

in the hue-and-cry which was raised at Oliver’s heels, in consequence

of their executing an illegal conveyance of Mr. Brownlow’s personal

property, as has been already described, they were actuated by a very

laudable and becoming regard for themselves; and forasmuch as the

freedom of the subject and the liberty of the individual are among the

first and proudest boasts of a true-hearted Englishman, so, I need

hardly beg the reader to observe, that this action should tend to exalt

them in the opinion of all public and patriotic men, in almost as great

a degree as this strong proof of their anxiety for their own

preservation and safety goes to corroborate and confirm the little code

of laws which certain profound and sound-judging philosophers have laid

down as the main-springs of all Nature’s deeds and actions: the said

philosophers very wisely reducing the good lady’s proceedings to

matters of maxim and theory: and, by a very neat and pretty compliment

to her exalted wisdom and understanding, putting entirely out of sight

any considerations of heart, or generous impulse and feeling. For,

these are matters totally beneath a female who is acknowledged by

universal admission to be far above the numerous little foibles and

weaknesses of her sex.

If I wanted any further proof of the strictly philosophical nature of

the conduct of these young gentlemen in their very delicate

predicament, I should at once find it in the fact (also recorded in a

foregoing part of this narrative), of their quitting the pursuit, when

the general attention was fixed upon Oliver; and making immediately for

their home by the shortest possible cut. Although I do not mean to

assert that it is usually the practice of renowned and learned sages,

to shorten the road to any great conclusion (their course indeed being

rather to lengthen the distance, by various circumlocutions and

discursive staggerings, like unto those in which drunken men under the

pressure of a too mighty flow of ideas, are prone to indulge); still, I

do mean to say, and do say distinctly, that it is the invariable

practice of many mighty philosophers, in carrying out their theories,

to evince great wisdom and foresight in providing against every

possible contingency which can be supposed at all likely to affect

themselves. Thus, to do a great right, you may do a little wrong; and

you may take any means which the end to be attained, will justify; the

amount of the right, or the amount of the wrong, or indeed the

distinction between the two, being left entirely to the philosopher

concerned, to be settled and determined by his clear, comprehensive,

and impartial view of his own particular case.

It was not until the two boys had scoured, with great rapidity, through

a most intricate maze of narrow streets and courts, that they ventured

to halt beneath a low and dark archway. Having remained silent here,

just long enough to recover breath to speak, Master Bates uttered an

exclamation of amusement and delight; and, bursting into an

uncontrollable fit of laughter, flung himself upon a doorstep, and

rolled thereon in a transport of mirth.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the Dodger.

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Charley Bates.

“Hold your noise,” remonstrated the Dodger, looking cautiously round.

“Do you want to be grabbed, stupid?”

“I can’t help it,” said Charley, “I can’t help it! To see him splitting

away at that pace, and cutting round the corners, and knocking up

again’ the posts, and starting on again as if he was made of iron as

well as them, and me with the wipe in my pocket, singing out arter

him—oh, my eye!” The vivid imagination of Master Bates presented the

scene before him in too strong colours. As he arrived at this

apostrophe, he again rolled upon the door-step, and laughed louder than

before.

“What’ll Fagin say?” inquired the Dodger; taking advantage of the next

interval of breathlessness on the part of his friend to propound the

question.

“What?” repeated Charley Bates.

“Ah, what?” said the Dodger.

“Why, what should he say?” inquired Charley: stopping rather suddenly

in his merriment; for the Dodger’s manner was impressive. “What should

he say?”

Mr. Dawkins whistled for a couple of minutes; then, taking off his hat,

scratched his head, and nodded thrice.

“What do you mean?” said Charley.

“Toor rul lol loo, gammon and spinnage, the frog he wouldn’t, and high

cockolorum,” said the Dodger: with a slight sneer on his intellectual

countenance.

This was explanatory, but not satisfactory. Master Bates felt it so;

and again said, “What do you mean?”

The Dodger made no reply; but putting his hat on again, and gathering

the skirts of his long-tailed coat under his arm, thrust his tongue

into his cheek, slapped the bridge of his nose some half-dozen times in

a familiar but expressive manner, and turning on his heel, slunk down

the court. Master Bates followed, with a thoughtful countenance.

The noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs, a few minutes after the

occurrence of this conversation, roused the merry old gentleman as he

sat over the fire with a saveloy and a small loaf in his hand; a

pocket-knife in his right; and a pewter pot on the trivet. There was a

rascally smile on his white face as he turned round, and looking

sharply out from under his thick red eyebrows, bent his ear towards the

door, and listened.

“Why, how’s this?” muttered the Jew: changing countenance; “only two of

’em? Where’s the third? They can’t have got into trouble. Hark!”

The footsteps approached nearer; they reached the landing. The door was

slowly opened; and the Dodger and Charley Bates entered, closing it

behind them.