Chương Chương 53 · AND LAST

. AND LAST

AND LAST

The fortunes of those who have figured in this tale are nearly closed.

The little that remains to their historian to relate, is told in few

and simple words.

Before three months had passed, Rose Fleming and Harry Maylie were

married in the village church which was henceforth to be the scene of

the young clergyman’s labours; on the same day they entered into

possession of their new and happy home.

Mrs. Maylie took up her abode with her son and daughter-in-law, to

enjoy, during the tranquil remainder of her days, the greatest felicity

that age and worth can know—the contemplation of the happiness of those

on whom the warmest affections and tenderest cares of a well-spent

life, have been unceasingly bestowed.

It appeared, on full and careful investigation, that if the wreck of

property remaining in the custody of Monks (which had never prospered

either in his hands or in those of his mother) were equally divided

between himself and Oliver, it would yield, to each, little more than

three thousand pounds. By the provisions of his father’s will, Oliver

would have been entitled to the whole; but Mr. Brownlow, unwilling to

deprive the elder son of the opportunity of retrieving his former vices

and pursuing an honest career, proposed this mode of distribution, to

which his young charge joyfully acceded.

Monks, still bearing that assumed name, retired with his portion to a

distant part of the New World; where, having quickly squandered it, he

once more fell into his old courses, and, after undergoing a long

confinement for some fresh act of fraud and knavery, at length sunk

under an attack of his old disorder, and died in prison. As far from

home, died the chief remaining members of his friend Fagin’s gang.

Mr. Brownlow adopted Oliver as his son. Removing with him and the old

housekeeper to within a mile of the parsonage-house, where his dear

friends resided, he gratified the only remaining wish of Oliver’s warm

and earnest heart, and thus linked together a little society, whose

condition approached as nearly to one of perfect happiness as can ever

be known in this changing world.

Soon after the marriage of the young people, the worthy doctor returned

to Chertsey, where, bereft of the presence of his old friends, he would

have been discontented if his temperament had admitted of such a

feeling; and would have turned quite peevish if he had known how. For

two or three months, he contented himself with hinting that he feared

the air began to disagree with him; then, finding that the place really

no longer was, to him, what it had been, he settled his business on his

assistant, took a bachelor’s cottage outside the village of which his

young friend was pastor, and instantaneously recovered. Here he took to

gardening, planting, fishing, carpentering, and various other pursuits

of a similar kind: all undertaken with his characteristic impetuosity.

In each and all he has since become famous throughout the neighborhood,

as a most profound authority.

Before his removal, he had managed to contract a strong friendship for

Mr. Grimwig, which that eccentric gentleman cordially reciprocated. He

is accordingly visited by Mr. Grimwig a great many times in the course

of the year. On all such occasions, Mr. Grimwig plants, fishes, and

carpenters, with great ardour; doing everything in a very singular and

unprecedented manner, but always maintaining with his favourite

asseveration, that his mode is the right one. On Sundays, he never

fails to criticise the sermon to the young clergyman’s face: always

informing Mr. Losberne, in strict confidence afterwards, that he

considers it an excellent performance, but deems it as well not to say

so. It is a standing and very favourite joke, for Mr. Brownlow to rally

him on his old prophecy concerning Oliver, and to remind him of the

night on which they sat with the watch between them, waiting his

return; but Mr. Grimwig contends that he was right in the main, and, in

proof thereof, remarks that Oliver did not come back after all; which

always calls forth a laugh on his side, and increases his good humour.

Mr. Noah Claypole: receiving a free pardon from the Crown in

consequence of being admitted approver against Fagin: and considering

his profession not altogether as safe a one as he could wish: was, for

some little time, at a loss for the means of a livelihood, not burdened

with too much work. After some consideration, he went into business as

an informer, in which calling he realises a genteel subsistence. His

plan is, to walk out once a week during church time attended by

Charlotte in respectable attire. The lady faints away at the doors of

charitable publicans, and the gentleman being accommodated with

three-penny worth of brandy to restore her, lays an information next

day, and pockets half the penalty. Sometimes Mr. Claypole faints

himself, but the result is the same.

Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, deprived of their situations, were gradually

reduced to great indigence and misery, and finally became paupers in

that very same workhouse in which they had once lorded it over others.

Mr. Bumble has been heard to say, that in this reverse and degradation,

he has not even spirits to be thankful for being separated from his

wife.

As to Mr. Giles and Brittles, they still remain in their old posts,

although the former is bald, and the last-named boy quite grey. They

sleep at the parsonage, but divide their attentions so equally among

its inmates, and Oliver and Mr. Brownlow, and Mr. Losberne, that to

this day the villagers have never been able to discover to which

establishment they properly belong.

Master Charles Bates, appalled by Sikes’s crime, fell into a train of

reflection whether an honest life was not, after all, the best.

Arriving at the conclusion that it certainly was, he turned his back

upon the scenes of the past, resolved to amend it in some new sphere of

action. He struggled hard, and suffered much, for some time; but,

having a contented disposition, and a good purpose, succeeded in the

end; and, from being a farmer’s drudge, and a carrier’s lad, he is now

the merriest young grazier in all Northamptonshire.

And now, the hand that traces these words, falters, as it approaches

the conclusion of its task; and would weave, for a little longer space,

the thread of these adventures.

I would fain linger yet with a few of those among whom I have so long

moved, and share their happiness by endeavouring to depict it. I would

show Rose Maylie in all the bloom and grace of early womanhood,

shedding on her secluded path in life soft and gentle light, that fell

on all who trod it with her, and shone into their hearts. I would paint

her the life and joy of the fire-side circle and the lively summer

group; I would follow her through the sultry fields at noon, and hear

the low tones of her sweet voice in the moonlit evening walk; I would

watch her in all her goodness and charity abroad, and the smiling

untiring discharge of domestic duties at home; I would paint her and

her dead sister’s child happy in their love for one another, and

passing whole hours together in picturing the friends whom they had so

sadly lost; I would summon before me, once again, those joyous little

faces that clustered round her knee, and listen to their merry prattle;

I would recall the tones of that clear laugh, and conjure up the

sympathising tear that glistened in the soft blue eye. These, and a

thousand looks and smiles, and turns of thought and speech—I would fain

recall them every one.

How Mr. Brownlow went on, from day to day, filling the mind of his

adopted child with stores of knowledge, and becoming attached to him,

more and more, as his nature developed itself, and showed the thriving

seeds of all he wished him to become—how he traced in him new traits of

his early friend, that awakened in his own bosom old remembrances,

melancholy and yet sweet and soothing—how the two orphans, tried by

adversity, remembered its lessons in mercy to others, and mutual love,

and fervent thanks to Him who had protected and preserved them—these

are all matters which need not to be told. I have said that they were

truly happy; and without strong affection and humanity of heart, and

gratitude to that Being whose code is Mercy, and whose great attribute

is Benevolence to all things that breathe, happiness can never be

attained.

Within the altar of the old village church there stands a white marble

tablet, which bears as yet but one word: “AGNES.” There is no coffin in

that tomb; and may it be many, many years, before another name is

placed above it! But, if the spirits of the Dead ever come back to

earth, to visit spots hallowed by the love—the love beyond the grave—of

those whom they knew in life, I believe that the shade of Agnes

sometimes hovers round that solemn nook. I believe it none the less

because that nook is in a Church, and she was weak and erring.