الفصل الفصل 30 · RELATES WHAT OLIVER’S NEW VISITORS THOUGHT OF HIM

. RELATES WHAT OLIVER’S NEW VISITORS THOUGHT OF HIM

RELATES WHAT OLIVER’S NEW VISITORS THOUGHT OF HIM

With many loquacious assurances that they would be agreeably surprised

in the aspect of the criminal, the doctor drew the young lady’s arm

through one of his; and offering his disengaged hand to Mrs. Maylie,

led them, with much ceremony and stateliness, upstairs.

“Now,” said the doctor, in a whisper, as he softly turned the handle of

a bedroom-door, “let us hear what you think of him. He has not been

shaved very recently, but he don’t look at all ferocious

notwithstanding. Stop, though! Let me first see that he is in visiting

order.”

Stepping before them, he looked into the room. Motioning them to

advance, he closed the door when they had entered; and gently drew back

the curtains of the bed. Upon it, in lieu of the dogged, black-visaged

ruffian they had expected to behold, there lay a mere child: worn with

pain and exhaustion, and sunk into a deep sleep. His wounded arm, bound

and splintered up, was crossed upon his breast; his head reclined upon

the other arm, which was half hidden by his long hair, as it streamed

over the pillow.

The honest gentleman held the curtain in his hand, and looked on, for a

minute or so, in silence. Whilst he was watching the patient thus, the

younger lady glided softly past, and seating herself in a chair by the

bedside, gathered Oliver’s hair from his face. As she stooped over him,

her tears fell upon his forehead.

The boy stirred, and smiled in his sleep, as though these marks of pity

and compassion had awakened some pleasant dream of a love and affection

he had never known. Thus, a strain of gentle music, or the rippling of

water in a silent place, or the odour of a flower, or the mention of a

familiar word, will sometimes call up sudden dim remembrances of scenes

that never were, in this life; which vanish like a breath; which some

brief memory of a happier existence, long gone by, would seem to have

awakened; which no voluntary exertion of the mind can ever recall.

“What can this mean?” exclaimed the elder lady. “This poor child can

never have been the pupil of robbers!”

“Vice,” said the surgeon, replacing the curtain, “takes up her abode in

many temples; and who can say that a fair outside shall not enshrine

her?”

“But at so early an age!” urged Rose.

“My dear young lady,” rejoined the surgeon, mournfully shaking his

head; “crime, like death, is not confined to the old and withered

alone. The youngest and fairest are too often its chosen victims.”

“But, can you—oh! can you really believe that this delicate boy has

been the voluntary associate of the worst outcasts of society?” said

Rose.

The surgeon shook his head, in a manner which intimated that he feared

it was very possible; and observing that they might disturb the

patient, led the way into an adjoining apartment.

“But even if he has been wicked,” pursued Rose, “think how young he is;

think that he may never have known a mother’s love, or the comfort of a

home; that ill-usage and blows, or the want of bread, may have driven

him to herd with men who have forced him to guilt. Aunt, dear aunt, for

mercy’s sake, think of this, before you let them drag this sick child

to a prison, which in any case must be the grave of all his chances of

amendment. Oh! as you love me, and know that I have never felt the want

of parents in your goodness and affection, but that I might have done

so, and might have been equally helpless and unprotected with this poor

child, have pity upon him before it is too late!”

“My dear love,” said the elder lady, as she folded the weeping girl to

her bosom, “do you think I would harm a hair of his head?”

“Oh, no!” replied Rose, eagerly.

“No, surely,” said the old lady; “my days are drawing to their close:

and may mercy be shown to me as I show it to others! What can I do to

save him, sir?”

“Let me think, ma’am,” said the doctor; “let me think.”

Mr. Losberne thrust his hands into his pockets, and took several turns

up and down the room; often stopping, and balancing himself on his

toes, and frowning frightfully. After various exclamations of “I’ve got

it now” and “no, I haven’t,” and as many renewals of the walking and

frowning, he at length made a dead halt, and spoke as follows:

“I think if you give me a full and unlimited commission to bully Giles,

and that little boy, Brittles, I can manage it. Giles is a faithful

fellow and an old servant, I know; but you can make it up to him in a

thousand ways, and reward him for being such a good shot besides. You

don’t object to that?”

“Unless there is some other way of preserving the child,” replied Mrs.

Maylie.

“There is no other,” said the doctor. “No other, take my word for it.”

“Then my aunt invests you with full power,” said Rose, smiling through

her tears; “but pray don’t be harder upon the poor fellows than is

indispensably necessary.”

“You seem to think,” retorted the doctor, “that everybody is disposed

to be hard-hearted today, except yourself, Miss Rose. I only hope, for

the sake of the rising male sex generally, that you may be found in as

vulnerable and soft-hearted a mood by the first eligible young fellow

who appeals to your compassion; and I wish I were a young fellow, that

I might avail myself, on the spot, of such a favourable opportunity for

doing so, as the present.”

“You are as great a boy as poor Brittles himself,” returned Rose,

blushing.

“Well,” said the doctor, laughing heartily, “that is no very difficult

matter. But to return to this boy. The great point of our agreement is

yet to come. He will wake in an hour or so, I dare say; and although I

have told that thick-headed constable-fellow downstairs that he musn’t

be moved or spoken to, on peril of his life, I think we may converse

with him without danger. Now I make this stipulation—that I shall

examine him in your presence, and that, if, from what he says, we

judge, and I can show to the satisfaction of your cool reason, that he

is a real and thorough bad one (which is more than possible), he shall

be left to his fate, without any farther interference on my part, at

all events.”

“Oh no, aunt!” entreated Rose.

“Oh yes, aunt!” said the doctor. “Is it a bargain?”

“He cannot be hardened in vice,” said Rose; “It is impossible.”

“Very good,” retorted the doctor; “then so much the more reason for

acceding to my proposition.”

Finally the treaty was entered into; and the parties thereunto sat down

to wait, with some impatience, until Oliver should awake.

The patience of the two ladies was destined to undergo a longer trial

than Mr. Losberne had led them to expect; for hour after hour passed

on, and still Oliver slumbered heavily. It was evening, indeed, before

the kind-hearted doctor brought them the intelligence, that he was at

length sufficiently restored to be spoken to. The boy was very ill, he

said, and weak from the loss of blood; but his mind was so troubled

with anxiety to disclose something, that he deemed it better to give

him the opportunity, than to insist upon his remaining quiet until next

morning: which he should otherwise have done.

The conference was a long one. Oliver told them all his simple history,

and was often compelled to stop, by pain and want of strength. It was a

solemn thing, to hear, in the darkened room, the feeble voice of the

sick child recounting a weary catalogue of evils and calamities which

hard men had brought upon him. Oh! if when we oppress and grind our

fellow-creatures, we bestowed but one thought on the dark evidences of

human error, which, like dense and heavy clouds, are rising, slowly it

is true, but not less surely, to Heaven, to pour their after-vengeance

on our heads; if we heard but one instant, in imagination, the deep

testimony of dead men’s voices, which no power can stifle, and no pride

shut out; where would be the injury and injustice, the suffering,

misery, cruelty, and wrong, that each day’s life brings with it!

Oliver’s pillow was smoothed by gentle hands that night; and loveliness

and virtue watched him as he slept. He felt calm and happy, and could

have died without a murmur.

The momentous interview was no sooner concluded, and Oliver composed to

rest again, than the doctor, after wiping his eyes, and condemning them

for being weak all at once, betook himself downstairs to open upon Mr.

Giles. And finding nobody about the parlours, it occurred to him, that

he could perhaps originate the proceedings with better effect in the

kitchen; so into the kitchen he went.

There were assembled, in that lower house of the domestic parliament,

the women-servants, Mr. Brittles, Mr. Giles, the tinker (who had

received a special invitation to regale himself for the remainder of

the day, in consideration of his services), and the constable. The

latter gentleman had a large staff, a large head, large features, and

large half-boots; and he looked as if he had been taking a

proportionate allowance of ale—as indeed he had.

The adventures of the previous night were still under discussion; for

Mr. Giles was expatiating upon his presence of mind, when the doctor

entered; Mr. Brittles, with a mug of ale in his hand, was corroborating

everything, before his superior said it.

“Sit still!” said the doctor, waving his hand.

“Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Giles. “Misses wished some ale to be given

out, sir; and as I felt no ways inclined for my own little room, sir,

and was disposed for company, I am taking mine among ’em here.”

Brittles headed a low murmur, by which the ladies and gentlemen

generally were understood to express the gratification they derived

from Mr. Giles’s condescension. Mr. Giles looked round with a

patronising air, as much as to say that so long as they behaved

properly, he would never desert them.

“How is the patient tonight, sir?” asked Giles.

“So-so”; returned the doctor. “I am afraid you have got yourself into a

scrape there, Mr. Giles.”

“I hope you don’t mean to say, sir,” said Mr. Giles, trembling, “that

he’s going to die. If I thought it, I should never be happy again. I

wouldn’t cut a boy off: no, not even Brittles here; not for all the

plate in the county, sir.”

“That’s not the point,” said the doctor, mysteriously. “Mr. Giles, are

you a Protestant?”

“Yes, sir, I hope so,” faltered Mr. Giles, who had turned very pale.

“And what are _you_, boy?” said the doctor, turning sharply upon

Brittles.

“Lord bless me, sir!” replied Brittles, starting violently; “I’m the

same as Mr. Giles, sir.”

“Then tell me this,” said the doctor, “both of you, both of you! Are

you going to take upon yourselves to swear, that that boy upstairs is

the boy that was put through the little window last night? Out with it!

Come! We are prepared for you!”

The doctor, who was universally considered one of the best-tempered

creatures on earth, made this demand in such a dreadful tone of anger,

that Giles and Brittles, who were considerably muddled by ale and

excitement, stared at each other in a state of stupefaction.

“Pay attention to the reply, constable, will you?” said the doctor,

shaking his forefinger with great solemnity of manner, and tapping the

bridge of his nose with it, to bespeak the exercise of that worthy’s

utmost acuteness. “Something may come of this before long.”

The constable looked as wise as he could, and took up his staff of

office: which had been reclining indolently in the chimney-corner.

“It’s a simple question of identity, you will observe,” said the

doctor.

“That’s what it is, sir,” replied the constable, coughing with great

violence; for he had finished his ale in a hurry, and some of it had

gone the wrong way.

“Here’s the house broken into,” said the doctor, “and a couple of men

catch one moment’s glimpse of a boy, in the midst of gunpowder smoke,

and in all the distraction of alarm and darkness. Here’s a boy comes to

that very same house, next morning, and because he happens to have his

arm tied up, these men lay violent hands upon him—by doing which, they

place his life in great danger—and swear he is the thief. Now, the

question is, whether these men are justified by the fact; if not, in

what situation do they place themselves?”

The constable nodded profoundly. He said, if that wasn’t law, he would

be glad to know what was.

“I ask you again,” thundered the doctor, “are you, on your solemn

oaths, able to identify that boy?”

Brittles looked doubtfully at Mr. Giles; Mr. Giles looked doubtfully at

Brittles; the constable put his hand behind his ear, to catch the

reply; the two women and the tinker leaned forward to listen; the

doctor glanced keenly round; when a ring was heard at the gate, and at

the same moment, the sound of wheels.

“It’s the runners!” cried Brittles, to all appearance much relieved.

“The what?” exclaimed the doctor, aghast in his turn.

“The Bow Street officers, sir,” replied Brittles, taking up a candle;

“me and Mr. Giles sent for ’em this morning.”

“What?” cried the doctor.

“Yes,” replied Brittles; “I sent a message up by the coachman, and I

only wonder they weren’t here before, sir.”

“You did, did you? Then confound your—slow coaches down here; that’s

all,” said the doctor, walking away.