الفصل الفصل 28 · LOOKS AFTER OLIVER, AND PROCEEDS WITH HIS ADVENTURES

. LOOKS AFTER OLIVER, AND PROCEEDS WITH HIS ADVENTURES

“Wolves tear your throats!” muttered Sikes, grinding his teeth. “I wish

I was among some of you; you’d howl the hoarser for it.”

As Sikes growled forth this imprecation, with the most desperate

ferocity that his desperate nature was capable of, he rested the body

of the wounded boy across his bended knee; and turned his head, for an

instant, to look back at his pursuers.

There was little to be made out, in the mist and darkness; but the loud

shouting of men vibrated through the air, and the barking of the

neighbouring dogs, roused by the sound of the alarm bell, resounded in

every direction.

“Stop, you white-livered hound!” cried the robber, shouting after Toby

Crackit, who, making the best use of his long legs, was already ahead.

“Stop!”

The repetition of the word, brought Toby to a dead stand-still. For he

was not quite satisfied that he was beyond the range of pistol-shot;

and Sikes was in no mood to be played with.

“Bear a hand with the boy,” cried Sikes, beckoning furiously to his

confederate. “Come back!”

Toby made a show of returning; but ventured, in a low voice, broken for

want of breath, to intimate considerable reluctance as he came slowly

along.

“Quicker!” cried Sikes, laying the boy in a dry ditch at his feet, and

drawing a pistol from his pocket. “Don’t play booty with me.”

At this moment the noise grew louder. Sikes, again looking round, could

discern that the men who had given chase were already climbing the gate

of the field in which he stood; and that a couple of dogs were some

paces in advance of them.

“It’s all up, Bill!” cried Toby; “drop the kid, and show ’em your

heels.” With this parting advice, Mr. Crackit, preferring the chance of

being shot by his friend, to the certainty of being taken by his

enemies, fairly turned tail, and darted off at full speed. Sikes

clenched his teeth; took one look around; threw over the prostrate form

of Oliver, the cape in which he had been hurriedly muffled; ran along

the front of the hedge, as if to distract the attention of those

behind, from the spot where the boy lay; paused, for a second, before

another hedge which met it at right angles; and whirling his pistol

high into the air, cleared it at a bound, and was gone.

“Ho, ho, there!” cried a tremulous voice in the rear. “Pincher!

Neptune! Come here, come here!”

The dogs, who, in common with their masters, seemed to have no

particular relish for the sport in which they were engaged, readily

answered to the command. Three men, who had by this time advanced some

distance into the field, stopped to take counsel together.

“My advice, or, leastways, I should say, my _orders_, is,” said the

fattest man of the party, “that we ’mediately go home again.”

“I am agreeable to anything which is agreeable to Mr. Giles,” said a

shorter man; who was by no means of a slim figure, and who was very

pale in the face, and very polite: as frightened men frequently are.

“I shouldn’t wish to appear ill-mannered, gentlemen,” said the third,

who had called the dogs back, “Mr. Giles ought to know.”

“Certainly,” replied the shorter man; “and whatever Mr. Giles says, it

isn’t our place to contradict him. No, no, I know my sitiwation! Thank

my stars, I know my sitiwation.” To tell the truth, the little man

_did_ seem to know his situation, and to know perfectly well that it

was by no means a desirable one; for his teeth chattered in his head as

he spoke.

“You are afraid, Brittles,” said Mr. Giles.

“I an’t,” said Brittles.

“You are,” said Giles.

“You’re a falsehood, Mr. Giles,” said Brittles.

“You’re a lie, Brittles,” said Mr. Giles.

Now, these four retorts arose from Mr. Giles’s taunt; and Mr. Giles’s

taunt had arisen from his indignation at having the responsibility of

going home again, imposed upon himself under cover of a compliment. The

third man brought the dispute to a close, most philosophically.

“I’ll tell you what it is, gentlemen,” said he, “we’re all afraid.”

“Speak for yourself, sir,” said Mr. Giles, who was the palest of the

party.

“So I do,” replied the man. “It’s natural and proper to be afraid,

under such circumstances. I am.”

“So am I,” said Brittles; “only there’s no call to tell a man he is, so

bounceably.”

These frank admissions softened Mr. Giles, who at once owned that _he_

was afraid; upon which, they all three faced about, and ran back again

with the completest unanimity, until Mr. Giles (who had the shortest

wind of the party, as was encumbered with a pitchfork) most handsomely

insisted on stopping, to make an apology for his hastiness of speech.

“But it’s wonderful,” said Mr. Giles, when he had explained, “what a

man will do, when his blood is up. I should have committed murder—I

know I should—if we’d caught one of them rascals.”

As the other two were impressed with a similar presentiment; and as

their blood, like his, had all gone down again; some speculation ensued

upon the cause of this sudden change in their temperament.

“I know what it was,” said Mr. Giles; “it was the gate.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if it was,” exclaimed Brittles, catching at the

idea.

“You may depend upon it,” said Giles, “that that gate stopped the flow

of the excitement. I felt all mine suddenly going away, as I was

climbing over it.”

By a remarkable coincidence, the other two had been visited with the

same unpleasant sensation at that precise moment. It was quite obvious,

therefore, that it was the gate; especially as there was no doubt

regarding the time at which the change had taken place, because all

three remembered that they had come in sight of the robbers at the

instant of its occurance.

This dialogue was held between the two men who had surprised the

burglars, and a travelling tinker who had been sleeping in an outhouse,

and who had been roused, together with his two mongrel curs, to join in

the pursuit. Mr. Giles acted in the double capacity of butler and

steward to the old lady of the mansion; Brittles was a lad of all-work:

who, having entered her service a mere child, was treated as a

promising young boy still, though he was something past thirty.

Encouraging each other with such converse as this; but, keeping very

close together, notwithstanding, and looking apprehensively round,

whenever a fresh gust rattled through the boughs; the three men hurried

back to a tree, behind which they had left their lantern, lest its

light should inform the thieves in what direction to fire. Catching up

the light, they made the best of their way home, at a good round trot;

and long after their dusky forms had ceased to be discernible, the

light might have been seen twinkling and dancing in the distance, like

some exhalation of the damp and gloomy atmosphere through which it was

swiftly borne.

The air grew colder, as day came slowly on; and the mist rolled along

the ground like a dense cloud of smoke. The grass was wet; the

pathways, and low places, were all mire and water; the damp breath of

an unwholesome wind went languidly by, with a hollow moaning. Still,

Oliver lay motionless and insensible on the spot where Sikes had left

him.

Morning drew on apace. The air became more sharp and piercing, as its

first dull hue—the death of night, rather than the birth of

day—glimmered faintly in the sky. The objects which had looked dim and

terrible in the darkness, grew more and more defined, and gradually

resolved into their familiar shapes. The rain came down, thick and

fast, and pattered noisily among the leafless bushes. But, Oliver felt

it not, as it beat against him; for he still lay stretched, helpless

and unconscious, on his bed of clay.

At length, a low cry of pain broke the stillness that prevailed; and

uttering it, the boy awoke. His left arm, rudely bandaged in a shawl,

hung heavy and useless at his side; the bandage was saturated with

blood. He was so weak, that he could scarcely raise himself into a

sitting posture; when he had done so, he looked feebly round for help,

and groaned with pain. Trembling in every joint, from cold and

exhaustion, he made an effort to stand upright; but, shuddering from

head to foot, fell prostrate on the ground.

After a short return of the stupor in which he had been so long

plunged, Oliver: urged by a creeping sickness at his heart, which

seemed to warn him that if he lay there, he must surely die: got upon

his feet, and essayed to walk. His head was dizzy, and he staggered to

and fro like a drunken man. But he kept up, nevertheless, and, with his

head drooping languidly on his breast, went stumbling onward, he knew

not whither.

And now, hosts of bewildering and confused ideas came crowding on his

mind. He seemed to be still walking between Sikes and Crackit, who were

angrily disputing—for the very words they said, sounded in his ears;

and when he caught his own attention, as it were, by making some

violent effort to save himself from falling, he found that he was

talking to them. Then, he was alone with Sikes, plodding on as on the

previous day; and as shadowy people passed them, he felt the robber’s

grasp upon his wrist. Suddenly, he started back at the report of

firearms; there rose into the air, loud cries and shouts; lights

gleamed before his eyes; all was noise and tumult, as some unseen hand

bore him hurriedly away. Through all these rapid visions, there ran an

undefined, uneasy consciousness of pain, which wearied and tormented

him incessantly.

Thus he staggered on, creeping, almost mechanically, between the bars

of gates, or through hedge-gaps as they came in his way, until he

reached a road. Here the rain began to fall so heavily, that it roused

him.

He looked about, and saw that at no great distance there was a house,

which perhaps he could reach. Pitying his condition, they might have

compassion on him; and if they did not, it would be better, he thought,

to die near human beings, than in the lonely open fields. He summoned

up all his strength for one last trial, and bent his faltering steps

towards it.

As he drew nearer to this house, a feeling come over him that he had

seen it before. He remembered nothing of its details; but the shape and

aspect of the building seemed familiar to him.

That garden wall! On the grass inside, he had fallen on his knees last

night, and prayed the two men’s mercy. It was the very house they had

attempted to rob.

Oliver felt such fear come over him when he recognised the place, that,

for the instant, he forgot the agony of his wound, and thought only of

flight. Flight! He could scarcely stand: and if he were in full

possession of all the best powers of his slight and youthful frame,

whither could he fly? He pushed against the garden-gate; it was

unlocked, and swung open on its hinges. He tottered across the lawn;

climbed the steps; knocked faintly at the door; and, his whole strength

failing him, sunk down against one of the pillars of the little

portico.

It happened that about this time, Mr. Giles, Brittles, and the tinker,

were recruiting themselves, after the fatigues and terrors of the

night, with tea and sundries, in the kitchen. Not that it was Mr.

Giles’s habit to admit to too great familiarity the humbler servants:

towards whom it was rather his wont to deport himself with a lofty

affability, which, while it gratified, could not fail to remind them of

his superior position in society. But, death, fires, and burglary, make

all men equals; so Mr. Giles sat with his legs stretched out before the

kitchen fender, leaning his left arm on the table, while, with his

right, he illustrated a circumstantial and minute account of the

robbery, to which his hearers (but especially the cook and housemaid,

who were of the party) listened with breathless interest.

“It was about half-past two,” said Mr. Giles, “or I wouldn’t swear that

it mightn’t have been a little nearer three, when I woke up, and,

turning round in my bed, as it might be so, (here Mr. Giles turned

round in his chair, and pulled the corner of the table-cloth over him

to imitate bed-clothes,) I fancied I heerd a noise.”

At this point of the narrative the cook turned pale, and asked the

housemaid to shut the door: who asked Brittles, who asked the tinker,

who pretended not to hear.

“—Heerd a noise,” continued Mr. Giles. “I says, at first, ‘This is

illusion’; and was composing myself off to sleep, when I heerd the

noise again, distinct.”

“What sort of a noise?” asked the cook.

“A kind of a busting noise,” replied Mr. Giles, looking round him.

“More like the noise of powdering a iron bar on a nutmeg-grater,”

suggested Brittles.

“It was, when _you_ heerd it, sir,” rejoined Mr. Giles; “but, at this

time, it had a busting sound. I turned down the clothes”; continued

Giles, rolling back the table-cloth, “sat up in bed; and listened.”

The cook and housemaid simultaneously ejaculated “Lor!” and drew their

chairs closer together.

“I heerd it now, quite apparent,” resumed Mr. Giles. “‘Somebody,’ I

says, ‘is forcing of a door, or window; what’s to be done? I’ll call up

that poor lad, Brittles, and save him from being murdered in his bed;

or his throat,’ I says, ‘may be cut from his right ear to his left,

without his ever knowing it.’”

Here, all eyes were turned upon Brittles, who fixed his upon the

speaker, and stared at him, with his mouth wide open, and his face

expressive of the most unmitigated horror.

“I tossed off the clothes,” said Giles, throwing away the table-cloth,

and looking very hard at the cook and housemaid, “got softly out of

bed; drew on a pair of—”

“Ladies present, Mr. Giles,” murmured the tinker.

“—Of _shoes_, sir,” said Giles, turning upon him, and laying great

emphasis on the word; “seized the loaded pistol that always goes

upstairs with the plate-basket; and walked on tiptoes to his room.

‘Brittles,’ I says, when I had woke him, ‘don’t be frightened!’”

“So you did,” observed Brittles, in a low voice.

“‘We’re dead men, I think, Brittles,’ I says,” continued Giles; “‘but

don’t be frightened.’”

“_Was_ he frightened?” asked the cook.

“Not a bit of it,” replied Mr. Giles. “He was as firm—ah! pretty near

as firm as I was.”

“I should have died at once, I’m sure, if it had been me,” observed the

housemaid.

“You’re a woman,” retorted Brittles, plucking up a little.

“Brittles is right,” said Mr. Giles, nodding his head, approvingly;

“from a woman, nothing else was to be expected. We, being men, took a

dark lantern that was standing on Brittle’s hob, and groped our way

downstairs in the pitch dark,—as it might be so.”

Mr. Giles had risen from his seat, and taken two steps with his eyes

shut, to accompany his description with appropriate action, when he

started violently, in common with the rest of the company, and hurried

back to his chair. The cook and housemaid screamed.

“It was a knock,” said Mr. Giles, assuming perfect serenity. “Open the

door, somebody.”

Nobody moved.

“It seems a strange sort of a thing, a knock coming at such a time in

the morning,” said Mr. Giles, surveying the pale faces which surrounded

him, and looking very blank himself; “but the door must be opened. Do

you hear, somebody?”

Mr. Giles, as he spoke, looked at Brittles; but that young man, being

naturally modest, probably considered himself nobody, and so held that

the inquiry could not have any application to him; at all events, he

tendered no reply. Mr. Giles directed an appealing glance at the

tinker; but he had suddenly fallen asleep. The women were out of the

question.

“If Brittles would rather open the door, in the presence of witnesses,”

said Mr. Giles, after a short silence, “I am ready to make one.”

“So am I,” said the tinker, waking up, as suddenly as he had fallen

asleep.

Brittles capitulated on these terms; and the party being somewhat

re-assured by the discovery (made on throwing open the shutters) that

it was now broad day, took their way upstairs; with the dogs in front.

The two women, who were afraid to stay below, brought up the rear. By

the advice of Mr. Giles, they all talked very loud, to warn any

evil-disposed person outside, that they were strong in numbers; and by

a master-stoke of policy, originating in the brain of the same

ingenious gentleman, the dogs’ tails were well pinched, in the hall, to

make them bark savagely.

These precautions having been taken, Mr. Giles held on fast by the

tinker’s arm (to prevent his running away, as he pleasantly said), and

gave the word of command to open the door. Brittles obeyed; the group,

peeping timorously over each other’s shoulders, beheld no more

formidable object than poor little Oliver Twist, speechless and

exhausted, who raised his heavy eyes, and mutely solicited their

compassion.

“A boy!” exclaimed Mr. Giles, valiantly, pushing the tinker into the

background. “What’s the matter with the—eh?—Why—Brittles—look

here—don’t you know?”

Brittles, who had got behind the door to open it, no sooner saw Oliver,

than he uttered a loud cry. Mr. Giles, seizing the boy by one leg and

one arm (fortunately not the broken limb) lugged him straight into the

hall, and deposited him at full length on the floor thereof.

“Here he is!” bawled Giles, calling in a state of great excitement, up

the staircase; “here’s one of the thieves, ma’am! Here’s a thief, miss!

Wounded, miss! I shot him, miss; and Brittles held the light.”

“—In a lantern, miss,” cried Brittles, applying one hand to the side of

his mouth, so that his voice might travel the better.

The two women-servants ran upstairs to carry the intelligence that Mr.

Giles had captured a robber; and the tinker busied himself in

endeavouring to restore Oliver, lest he should die before he could be

hanged. In the midst of all this noise and commotion, there was heard a

sweet female voice, which quelled it in an instant.

“Giles!” whispered the voice from the stair-head.

“I’m here, miss,” replied Mr. Giles. “Don’t be frightened, miss; I

ain’t much injured. He didn’t make a very desperate resistance, miss! I

was soon too many for him.”

“Hush!” replied the young lady; “you frighten my aunt as much as the

thieves did. Is the poor creature much hurt?”

“Wounded desperate, miss,” replied Giles, with indescribable

complacency.

“He looks as if he was a-going, miss,” bawled Brittles, in the same

manner as before. “Wouldn’t you like to come and look at him, miss, in

case he should?”

“Hush, pray; there’s a good man!” rejoined the lady. “Wait quietly only

one instant, while I speak to aunt.”

With a footstep as soft and gentle as the voice, the speaker tripped

away. She soon returned, with the direction that the wounded person was

to be carried, carefully, upstairs to Mr. Giles’s room; and that

Brittles was to saddle the pony and betake himself instantly to

Chertsey: from which place, he was to despatch, with all speed, a

constable and doctor.

“But won’t you take one look at him, first, miss?” asked Mr. Giles,

with as much pride as if Oliver were some bird of rare plumage, that he

had skilfully brought down. “Not one little peep, miss?”

“Not now, for the world,” replied the young lady. “Poor fellow! Oh!

treat him kindly, Giles for my sake!”

The old servant looked up at the speaker, as she turned away, with a

glance as proud and admiring as if she had been his own child. Then,

bending over Oliver, he helped to carry him upstairs, with the care and

solicitude of a woman.