第 七 章 · OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY

. OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY

OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY

Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused

not once for breath, until he reached the workhouse-gate. Having rested

here, for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an

imposing show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and

presented such a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that

even he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of

times, started back in astonishment.

“Why, what’s the matter with the boy!” said the old pauper.

“Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!” cried Noah, with well-affected dismay, and in

tones so loud and agitated, that they not only caught the ear of Mr.

Bumble himself, who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much

that he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat,—which is a very

curious and remarkable circumstance, as showing that even a beadle,

acted upon a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a

momentary visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of

personal dignity.

“Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!” said Noah: “Oliver, sir,—Oliver has—”

“What? What?” interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam of pleasure in his

metallic eyes. “Not run away; he hasn’t run away, has he, Noah?”

“No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he’s turned wicious,” replied

Noah. “He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder

Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is! Such agony,

please, sir!” And here, Noah writhed and twisted his body into an

extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to

understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist,

he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was

at that moment suffering the acutest torture.

When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed

Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his

dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a

gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in

his lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient to

attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman

aforesaid.

The gentleman’s notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked

three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young

cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with

something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so

designated, an involuntary process?

“It’s a poor boy from the free-school, sir,” replied Mr. Bumble, “who

has been nearly murdered—all but murdered, sir,—by young Twist.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping

short. “I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first,

that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!”

“He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant,” said

Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness.

“And his missis,” interposed Mr. Claypole.

“And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?” added Mr. Bumble.

“No! he’s out, or he would have murdered him,” replied Noah. “He said

he wanted to.”

“Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?” inquired the gentleman in the

white waistcoat.

“Yes, sir,” replied Noah. “And please, sir, missis wants to know

whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog

him—’cause master’s out.”

“Certainly, my boy; certainly,” said the gentleman in the white

waistcoat: smiling benignly, and patting Noah’s head, which was about

three inches higher than his own. “You’re a good boy—a very good boy.

Here’s a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry’s with your

cane, and see what’s best to be done. Don’t spare him, Bumble.”

“No, I will not, sir,” replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane

having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner’s satisfaction, Mr.

Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the

undertaker’s shop.

Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had

not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished

vigour, at the cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity as related by

Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr.

Bumble judged it prudent to parley, before opening the door. With this

view he gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude; and, then,

applying his mouth to the keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone:

“Oliver!”

“Come; you let me out!” replied Oliver, from the inside.

“Do you know this here voice, Oliver?” said Mr. Bumble.

“Yes,” replied Oliver.

“Ain’t you afraid of it, sir? Ain’t you a-trembling while I speak,

sir?” said Mr. Bumble.

“No!” replied Oliver, boldly.

An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was

in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He

stepped back from the keyhole; drew himself up to his full height; and

looked from one to another of the three by-standers, in mute

astonishment.

“Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad,” said Mrs. Sowerberry.

“No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you.”

“It’s not madness, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble, after a few moments of

deep meditation. “It’s meat.”

“What?” exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry.

“Meat, ma’am, meat,” replied Bumble, with stern emphasis. “You’ve

overfed him, ma’am. You’ve raised a artificial soul and spirit in him,

ma’am unbecoming a person of his condition: as the board, Mrs.

Sowerberry, who are practical philosophers, will tell you. What have

paupers to do with soul or spirit? It’s quite enough that we let ’em

have live bodies. If you had kept the boy on gruel, ma’am, this would

never have happened.”

“Dear, dear!” ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to

the kitchen ceiling: “this comes of being liberal!”

The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver, had consisted of a profuse

bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else

would eat; so there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in

her voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble’s heavy accusation, of

which, to do her justice, she was wholly innocent, in thought, word, or

deed.

“Ah!” said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth

again; “the only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to

leave him in the cellar for a day or so, till he’s a little starved

down; and then to take him out, and keep him on gruel all through the

apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family. Excitable natures, Mrs.

Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor said, that that mother of his

made her way here, against difficulties and pain that would have killed

any well-disposed woman, weeks before.”

At this point of Mr. Bumble’s discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to

know that some allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced

kicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible.

Sowerberry returned at this juncture. Oliver’s offence having been

explained to him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best

calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a

twinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprentice out, by the collar.

Oliver’s clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face

was bruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead.

The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled

out of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite

undismayed.

“Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain’t you?” said Sowerberry; giving

Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear.

“He called my mother names,” replied Oliver.

“Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?” said Mrs.

Sowerberry. “She deserved what he said, and worse.”

“She didn’t,” said Oliver.

“She did,” said Mrs. Sowerberry.

“It’s a lie!” said Oliver.

Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears.

This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he had

hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be

quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been,

according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a

brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of

a man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital

within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as

his power went—it was not very extensive—kindly disposed towards the

boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps, because

his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no

resource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs.

Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. Bumble’s subsequent application of

the parochial cane, rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day, he was

shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of

bread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks

outside the door, by no means complimentary to the memory of his

mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointings of

Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed.

It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the

gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings

which the day’s treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a

mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he

had borne the lash without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in

his heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they

had roasted him alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear

him, he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his

hands, wept such tears as, God send for the credit of our nature, few

so young may ever have cause to pour out before him!

For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The

candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having

gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, he gently undid the

fastenings of the door, and looked abroad.

It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy’s eyes, farther

from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind;

and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground, looked

sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the

door. Having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie

up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat

himself down upon a bench, to wait for morning.

With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the

shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look

around—one moment’s pause of hesitation—he had closed it behind him,

and was in the open street.

He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly.

He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up

the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across the

fields, which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the

road; struck into it, and walked quickly on.

Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted beside

Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm.

His way lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly

when he bethought himself of this; and he half resolved to turn back.

He had come a long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by

doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of

his being seen; so he walked on.

He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring

at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child

was weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale

face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver

felt glad to see him, before he went; for, though younger than himself,

he had been his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and

starved, and shut up together, many and many a time.

“Hush, Dick!” said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his

thin arm between the rails to greet him. “Is any one up?”

“Nobody but me,” replied the child.

“You musn’t say you saw me, Dick,” said Oliver. “I am running away.

They beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune, some

long way off. I don’t know where. How pale you are!”

“I heard the doctor tell them I was dying,” replied the child with a

faint smile. “I am very glad to see you, dear; but don’t stop, don’t

stop!”

“Yes, yes, I will, to say good-b’ye to you,” replied Oliver. “I shall

see you again, Dick. I know I shall! You will be well and happy!”

“I hope so,” replied the child. “After I am dead, but not before. I

know the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of

Heaven, and Angels, and kind faces that I never see when I am awake.

Kiss me,” said the child, climbing up the low gate, and flinging his

little arms round Oliver’s neck. “Good-b’ye, dear! God bless you!”

The blessing was from a young child’s lips, but it was the first that

Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the struggles

and sufferings, and troubles and changes, of his after life, he never

once forgot it.