"And when are you going to hear a full, true, and particular account of the life and adventures of Oliver Twist?" asked Grimwig of Mr. Brownlow, at the conclusion of the meal: looking sideways at Oliver, as he resumed the subject.
"To-morrow morning," replied Mr. Brownlow. "I would rather he was alone with me at the time. Come up to me to morrow morning at ten o'clock, my dear."
"Yes, sir," replied Oliver. He answered with some hesitation, because he was confused by Mr. Grimwig's looking so hard at him.
"I'll tell you what," whispered that gentleman to Mr. Brownlow; "he won't come up to you to-morrow. morning. I saw him hesitate. He is deceiving you, my good friend."
"I'll swear he is not," replied Mr. Brownlow, warmly.
"If he is not," said Mr. Grimwig, "I'll--" and down went the stick.
"I'll answer for that boy's truth with my life!" said Mr. Brownlow, knocking the table.
"And I for his falsehood with my head!" rejoined Mr. Grimwig, knocking the table also.
"We shall see," said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising anger.
"We will," replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile; "we will."
As fate would have it, Mrs. Bedwin chanced to bring in, at this moment, a small parcel of books, which Mr. Brownlow had that morning purchased of the identical bookstall-keeper, who has already figured in this history; having laid them on the table, she prepared to leave the room.
"Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin!" said Mr. Brownlow; "there is something to go back."
"He has gone, sir," replied Mrs. Bedwin.
"Call after him," said Mr. Brownlow; "it's particular. He is a poor man, and they are not paid for. There are some books to be taken back, too."
The street door was opened. Oliver ran one way and the girl ran another, and Mrs. Bedwin stood on the step and screamed for the boy; but there was no boy in sight. Oliver and the girl returned, in a breathless state, to report that there were no tidings of him.
"Dear me, I am very sorry for that," exclaimed Mr. Brownlow ; "I particularly wished those books to be returned to night."
"Send Oliver with them," said Mr. Grimwig, with an ironical smile; "he will be sure to deliver them,safely, you know."
"Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir," said Oliver. "I'll run all the way, sir."
The old gentleman was just going to say that Oliver should not go out on any account, when a most malicious cough from Mr. Grimwig determined him that he should, and that, by his prompt discharge of the commission, he should prove to him the injustice of his suspicions--on this head at least--at once.
"You shall go, my dear," said the old gentleman. "The books are on a chair by my table. Fetch them down."
Oliver, delighted to be of use, brought down the books under his arm in a great bustle, and waited, cap in hand, to hear what message he was to take.
"You are to say," said Mr. Brownlow, glancing steadily at Grimwig, "you are to say that you have brought those books back, and that you have come to pay the four pound ten I owe him. This is a five-pound note, so you will have to bring me back ten shillings change."
"I won't be ten minutes, sir," replied Oliver, eagerly. Having buttoned up the banknote in his jacket pocket, and placed the books carefully under his arm, he made a respectful bow and left the room. Mrs. Bedwin followed him to the street-door, giving him many directions about the nearest way, and the name of the bookseller, and the name of the street, all of which Oliver said he clearly understood. Having superadded many injunctions to be sure and not take cold, the old lady at length permitted him to depart.
"Bless his sweet face!" said the old lady, looking after him. "I can't bear, somehow, to let him go out of my sight."
At this moment Oliver looked gaily round, and nodded before he turned the comer. The old lady smilingly returned his salutation and, closing the door, went back to her own room.
"Let me see; he'll be back in twenty minutes, at the longest," said Mr. Brownlow, pulling out his watch, and placing it on the table. "It will be dark by that time."
"Oh! you really expect him to come back, do you?" inquired Mr. Grimwig.
"Don't you?" asked Mr. Brownlow, smiling.
The spirit of contradiction was strong in Mr. Grimwig's breast at the moment, and it was rendered stronger by his friend's confident smile.
"No," he said, smiting the table with his fist, "I do not. The boy has a new suit of clothes on his back, a set of valuable books under his arm, and a five-pound note in his pocket. He'll join his old friends the thieves, and laugh at you. If ever that boy returns to this house, sir, I'll eat my head."
With these words he drew his chair closer to the table; and there the two friends sat, in silent expectation, with the watch between them.
It is worthy of remark, as illustrating the importance we attach to our own judgments, and the pride with which we put forth our most rash and hasty conclusions, that, although Mr. Grimwig was not by any means a bad-hearted man, and though he would have been unfeignedly sorry to see his respected friend duped and deceived, he really did most earnestly and strongly hope at that moment that Oliver Twist might not come back.
It grew so dark that the figures on the dial-plate were scarcely discernible; but there the two old gentlemen continued to sit, in silence, with the watch between them.
CHAPTER XV
Showing how very fond of Oliver Twist, the
merry old Jew and Miss Nancy were.
IN THE OBSCURE PARLOUR OF A LOW PUBLIC-HOUSE IN THE FILTHIEST part of Little Saffron Hill, a dark and gloomy den, where a flaring gaslight burnt all day in the winter time, and where no ray of sun ever shone in the summer, there sat, brooding over a little pewter measure and a small glass strongly impregnated with the smell of liquor, a man in a velveteen coat, drab shorts, half-boots, and stockings, whom even by that dim light no experienced agent of police would have hesitated to recognise as Mr. William Sikes. At his feet, sat a white-coated, red-eyed dog who occupied himself, alternately, in winking at his master with both eyes at the same time and in licking a large, fresh cut on one side of his mouth, which appeared to be the result of some recent conflict.
"Keep quiet, you warmint! Keep quiet!" said Mr. Sikes, suddenly breaking silence. Whether his meditations were so intense as to be disturbed by the dog's winking, or whether his feelings were so wrought upon by his reflections that they required all the relief derivable from kicking an unoffending animal to allay them, is matter for argument and consideration. Whatever was the cause, the effect was a kick and a curse, bestowed upon the dog simultaneously.
Dogs are not generally apt to revenge injuries inflicted upon them by their masters; but Mr. Sikes's dog, having faults of temper in common with his owner, and labouring, perhaps, at this moment, under a powerful sense of injury, made no more ado but at once fixed his teeth in one of the half-boots. Having given it a hearty shake, he retired, growling, under a form, just escaping the pewter measure which Mr. Sikes levelled at his head.
"You would, would you?" said Sikes, seizing the poker in one hand, and deliberately opening with the other a large clasp-knife, which he drew from his pocket. "Come here, you born devil! Come here! D'ye hear?"
The dog no doubt heard, because Mr. Sikes spoke in the very harshest key of a very harsh voice; but, appearing to entertain some unaccountable objection to having his throat cut, he remained where he was, and growled more fiercely than before, at the same time grasping the end of the poker between his teeth, and biting at it like a wild beast.
This resistance only infuriated Mr. Sikes the more, who, dropping on his knees, began to assail the animal most furiously. The dog jumped from right to left, and from left to right, snapping, growling, and barking; the man thrust and swore, and struck and blasphemed; and the struggle was reaching a most critical point for one or other when, the door suddenly opening, the dog darted out, leaving Bill Sikes with the poker and the clasp-knife in his hands.
There must always be two parties to a quarrel, says the old adage. Mr. Sikes, being
disappointed of the dog's participation, at once transferred his share in the quarrel to the new-comer.
"What the devil do you come in between me and my dog for?" said Sikes, with a fierce gesture.
"I didn't know, my dear, I didn't know," replied Fagin, humbly; for the Jew was the new-comer.
"Didn't know, you white-livered thief!" growled Sikes. "Couldn't you hear the noise?"
"Not a sound of it, as I'm a living man, Bill," replied the Jew.
"Oh no! You hear nothing, you don't," retorted Sikes with a fierce sneer. "Sneaking in and out, so as nobody hears how you come or go! I wish you had been the dog, Fagin, half a minute ago."
"Why?" inquired the Jew with a forced smile.
"'Cause the government, as cares for the lives of such men as you, as haven't half the pluck of curs, lets a man kill a dog how he likes," replied Sikes, shutting up the knife with a very expressive look; "that's why."
The Jew rubbed his hands; and, sitting down at the table, affected to laugh at the pleasantry of his friend. He was obviously very ill at ease, however.
"Grin away," said Sikes, replacing the poker, and surveying him with savage contempt; "grin away. You'll never have the laugh at me, though, unless it's behind a night-cap. I've got the upper hand, over you, Fagin; and, d--me, I'll keep it. There! If I go, you go; so take care of me."
"Well, well, my dear," said the Jew, "I know all that; we--we--have a mutual interest, Bill--a mutual interest."
"Humph," said Sikes, as if he thought the interest lay rather more on 'the Jew's side than on his. "Well, what have you got to say to me?"
"It's all passed safe through the melting-pot," replied Fagin, "and this is your share. It's rather more than it ought to be, my dear; but as I know you'll do me a good turn another time, and--"
--"Stow that gammon,", interposed the robber, impatiently. "Where is it? Hand over!"
"Yes, yes, Bill; give me time, give me time," replied the Jew, soothingly. "Here it is! All safe!" As he spoke, he drew forth an old cotton handkerchief from his breast, and untying a large knot in one corner, produced a small brown-paper packet. Sikes, snatching it from him, hastily opened it and proceeded to count the sovereigns it contained.
"This is all, is it?" inquired Sikes.
"All," replied the Jew.
"You haven't opened the parcel and swallowed one or two as you come along, have you?" inquired Sikes, suspiciously. "Don't put on an injured look at the question; you've done it many a time. Jerk the tinkler."
These words, in plain English, conveyed an injunction to ring the bell. It was answered by another Jew, younger than Fagin, but nearly as vile and repulsive in appearance.
Bill Sikes merely pointed to the empty measure. The Jew, perfectly understanding the hint, retired to fill it, previously exchanging a remarkable look with Fagin, who raised his eyes for an instant, as if in expectation of it, and shook his head in reply, so slightly that the action would have been almost imperceptible to an observant third person. It was lost upon Sikes, who was stooping at the moment to tie the boot-lace which the dog had torn. Possibly, if he had observed the brief interchange of signals, he might have thought that it boded no good to him.
"Is anybody here, Barney?" inquired Fagin, speaking, now that Sikes was looking on, without raising his eyes from the ground.
"Dot a shoul," replied Barney, whose words, whether they came from the heart or not, made their way through the nose.
"Nobody?" inquired Fagin, in a tone of surprise, which perhaps might mean that Barney was at liberty to tell the truth.
"Dobody but Biss Dadsy," replied Barney.
"Nancy!" exclaimed Sikes."Where? Strike me blind, if I don't honour that 'ere girl, for her native talents."
"She's bid havid a plate of boiled beef id the bar," replied Barney.
"Send her here," said Sikes, pouring out a glass of liquor. "Send her here."
Barney looked timidly at Fagin, as if for permission; the Jew remaining silent, and not lifting his eyes from the ground, he retired, and presently returned, ushering in Nancy, who was decorated with the bonnet, apron, basket, and street-door key, complete.
"You are on the scent, are you, Nancy?" inquired Sikes, proffering the glass.
"Yes, I am, Bill," replied the young lady, disposing of its contents; "and tired enough of it I am, too. The young brat's been ill and confined to the crib; and--"
"Ah, Nancy, dear!" said Fagin, looking up.
Now, whether a peculiar contraction of the Jew's red eyebrows, and a half-closing of his deeply-set eyes, warned Miss Nancy that she was disposed to be too communicative, is not a matter of much importance. The fact is all we need care for here; and the fact is, that she suddenly checked herself, and with several gracious smiles upon Mr. Sikes, turned the conversation to other matters. In about ten minutes' time, Mr. Fagin was seized with a fit of coughing, upon which Nancy pulled her shawl over her shoulders and declared it was time to go. Mr. Sikes, finding that he was walking a short part of her way himself, expressed his intention of accompanying her; they went away together, followed, at a little distance, by the dog, who slunk out of a back-yard as soon as his master was out of sight.
The Jew thrust his head out of the room door when Sikes had left it, looked after him as he walked up the dark passage, shook his clenched fist, muttered a deep curse, and then, with a horrible grin, reseated himself at the table, where he was soon deeply absorbed in the interesting pages of the Hue-and-Cry.
Meanwhile, Oliver Twist, little dreaming that he was within so very short a distance of the merry old gentleman, was on his way to the book-stall. When he got into Clerkenwell, he accidentally turned down a by-street which was not exactly in his way; but not discovering his mistake until he had got half-way down it, and knowing it must lead in the right direction, he did not think it worth while to turn back, and so marched on, as quickly as he could, with the books under his arm.
He was walking along, thinking how happy and contented he ought to feel, and how much he would give for only one look at poor little Dick, who, starved and beaten, might be weeping bitterly at that very moment, when he was startled by a young woman screaming out very loud, "Oh, my dear brother!" And he had hardly looked up, to see what the matter was, when he was stopped by having a pair of arms thrown tight round his neck.
"Don't," cried Oliver, struggling. "Let go of me. Who is it? What are you stopping me for?"
The only reply to this was a great number of loud lamentations from the young woman who had embraced him, and who had a little basket and a street-door key in her hand.
"Oh my gracious!" said the young woman, "I've found him! Oh! Oliver! Oliver! Oh you naughty boy, to make me suffer sich distress on your account! Come home, dear, come. Oh, I've found him. Thank gracious goodness heavins, I've found him!" With these incoherent exclamations, the young woman burst into another fit of crying, and got so dreadfully hysterical that a couple of women who came up at the moment asked a butcher's boy with a shiny head of hair anointed with suet, who was also looking on, whether he didn't think he had better run for the doctor. To which the butcher's boy, who appeared of a lounging, not to say indolent disposition, replied that he thought not.
"Oh, no, no, never mind," said the young woman, grasping Oliver's hand; "I'm better now. Come home directly, you cruel boy! Come!"
"What's the matter, ma'am?" inquired one of the women.
"Oh, ma'am," replied the young woman, "he ran away, near a month ago, from his parents, who are hard-working and respectable people, and went and joined a set of thieves and bad characters, and almost broke his mother's heart."
"Young wretch!" said one woman.
"Go home, do, you little brute," said the other.
"I am not," replied Oliver, greatly alarmed. "I don't know her. I haven't any sister, or father and mother either. I'm an orphan; I live at Pentonville."
"Only hear him, how he braves it out!" cried the young woman.
"Why, it's Nancy!" exclaimed Oliver, who
now saw her face for the first time, and started back in irrepressible astonishment.
"You see he knows me!" cried Nancy, appealing to the bystanders. "He can't help himself. Make him come home, there's good people, or he'll kill his dear mother and father, and break my heart!"
"What the devil's this?" said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with a white dog at his heel; "young Oliver! come home to your poor mother, you young dog! Come home directly."
"I don't belong to them. I don't know them. Help! help!" cried Oliver, struggling in the man's powerful grasp.
"Help!" repeated the man. "Yes, I'll help you, you young rascal! What books are these? You've been a-stealing 'em, have you? Give 'em here." With these words, the man tore the volumes from his grasp and struck him on the head.
"That's right!" cried a looker-on from a garret window. "That's the only way of bringing him to his senses!"
"To be sure!" cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an approving look at the garret window.
"It'll do him good!" said the two women. "And he shall have it, too!" rejoined the man, administering another blow and seizing Oliver by the collar. "Come on, you young villain! Here, Bull's-eye, mind him, boy! Mind hini!"
Weak with recent illness; stupefied by the blows and the suddenness of the attack, terrified by the fierce growling of the dog and the brutality of the man, overpowered by the conviction of the bystanders that he really was the hardened little wretch he was described to be, what could one poor child do! Darkness had set in; it was a low neighbourhood; no help was near; resistance was useless. In another moment he was dragged into a labyrinth of dark narrow courts and was forced along them at a pace which rendered the few cries he dared to give utterance to, unintelligible. It was of little moment, indeed, whether they were intelligible or no; for there was nobody to care for them, had they been ever so plain.
The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the open door; the servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were any traces of Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat, perseveringly, in the dark parlour, with the watch between them.
CHAPTER XVI
Relates what became of Oliver Twist after