"Stupid enough, this," muttered the doctor to himself; "the boy must have made a mistake. Here! Put that in your pocket, and shut yourself up again." With these words he flung the hunchback a piece of money and returned to the carriage.
The man followed to the chariot door, uttering the wildest imprecations and curses all the way; but as Mr. Losberne turned to speak to the driver, he looked into the carriage and eyes Oliver for an instant with a glance so sharp and fierce and at the same time so furious and vindictive that, waking or sleeping, he could.not forget it for months afterwards. He continued to utter the most fearful imprecations until the driver had resumed his seat; and when they were once more on their way, they could see him some distance behind, beating his feet upon the ground, and tearing his hair, in transports of real or pretended rage.
"I am an ass!" said the doctor, after a long silence. "Did you know that before, Oliver?"
"No, sir."
"Then don't forget it another time."
"An ass," said the doctor again, after a further silence of some minutes. "Even if it had been the right place, and the right fellows had been there, what could I have done, single-handed ? And if I had had assistance, I see no good that I should have done, except leading to my own exposure, and an unavoidable statement of the manner in which I have hushed up this business. That would have served me right, though. I am always involving myself in some scrape or other, by acting on impulse. It might have done me good."
Now, the fact was that the excellent doctor had never acted upon anything but impulse all through his life, and it was no bad compliment to the nature of the impulses which governed him that so far from being involved in any peculiar troubles or misfortunes, he had the warmest respect and esteem of all who knew him. If the truth must be told, he was a little out of temper, for a minute or two, at being disappointed in procuring corroborative evidence of Oliver's story on the very first occasion on which he had a chance of obtaining any. He soon came round again, however; and finding that Oliver's replies to his questions were still as straightforward and consistent, and still delivered with as much apparent sincerity and truth, as they had ever been, he made up his mind to attach full credence to them from that time forth.
As Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr. Brownlow resided, they were enabled to drive straight thither. When the coach turned into it, his heart beat so violently that he could scarcely draw his breath.
"Now, my boy, which house is it?" inquired Mr. Losberne.
"That! That!" replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. "The white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die, it makes me tremble so."
"Come, come!" said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder. "You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well."
"Oh! I hope so!" cried Oliver. "They were so good to me, so very, very good to me."
The coach rolled on. It stopped. No, that was the wrong house; the next door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face.
Alas! the white house was empty and there was a bill in the window: "To Let."
"Knock at the next door," cried Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver's arm in his. "What has become of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the adjoining house, do you know?"
The servant did not know, but would go and inquire. She presently returned and said that Mr. Brownlow had sold off his goods, and gone to the West Indies, six weeks before. Oliver clasped his hands, and sank feebly backward.
"Has his housekeeper gone, too?" inquired Mr. Losberne, after a moment's pause.
"Yes, sir," replied the servant. "The old gentleman, the housekeeper, and a gentleman who was a friend of Mr. Brownlow's, all went together."
"Then turn towards home again," said Mr. Losberne to the driver; "and don't stop to bait the horses till you get out of this confounded London!"
"The book-stall keeper, sir?" said Oliver. "I know the way there. See him, pray, sir! Do see him!"
"My poor boy, this is disappointment enough for one day," said the doctor. "Quite enough for both of us. If we go to the book-stall keeper's, we shall certainly find that he is dead, or has set his house on fire, or run away. No; home again straight!" And in obedience to the doctor's impulse, home they went.
This bitter disappointment caused Oliver much sorrow and grief, even in the midst of his happiness; for he had pleased himself, many times during his illness, with thinking of all that Mr. Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin would say to him, and what delight it would be to tell them how many long days and nights he had passed in reflecting on what they had done for him, and in bewailing his cruel separation from them. The hope of eventually clearing himself with them, too, and explaining how he had been forced away, had buoyed him up, and sustained him, under many of his recent trials; and now, the idea that they should have gone so far, and carried with them the belief that he was an impostor and a robber--a belief which might remain uncontradicted to his dying day--was almost more than he could bear.
The circumstance occasioned no alteration, however, in the behaviour of his benefactors. After another fortnight, when the fine warm weather had fairly begun, and every tree and flower was putting forth its young leaves and rich blossoms, they made preparations for quitting the house at Chertsey for some months. Sending the plate, which had so excited Fagin's cupidity, to the banker's, and leaving Giles and another servant in care of the house, they departed to a cottage at some distance in the country, and took Oliver with them.
Who can describe the pleasure and delight, the peace of mind and soft tranquility, the sickly boy felt in the balmy air and among the green hills and rich woods of an inland village! Who can tell how scenes of peace and quietude sink into the minds of pain-worn dwellers in close and noisy places, and carry their own freshness deep into their jaded hearts! Men who have lived in crowded, pent-up streets, through lives of toil, and who have never wished for change--men to whom custom has indeed been second nature, and who have come at-most to love each brick and stone that formed the narrow boundaries of their daily walks--even they, with the hand of death upon them, have been known to yearn at last for one short glimpse of Nature's face, and, carried far from the scenes of their old pains and pleasures, have seemed to pass at once into a new state of being. Crawling forth, from day to day, to some green sunny spot, they have had such memories wakened up within them by the sight of sky, and hill and plain, and glistening water, that a foretaste of heaven itself has soothed their quick decline, and they have sunk into their tombs as peacefully as the sun whose setting they watched from their lonely chamber window but a few hours before, faded from their dim and feeble sight! The memories which peaceful country scenes call up are not of this world, nor of its thoughts and hopes. Their gentle influence may teach us how to weave fresh garlands for the graves of those we loved, may purify our thoughts and bear down before it old enmity and hatred; but beneath all this there lingers, in the least reflective mind, a vague and half-formed consciousness of having held such feelings long before, in some remote and distant time, which calls up solemn thoughts of distant times to come, and bends down pride and worldliness beneath it.
It was a lovely spot to which they repaired. Oliver, whose days had been spent among squalid crowds and in the midst of noise and brawling, seemed to enter on a new existence there. The rose and honeysuckle clung to the cottage walls, the ivy crept round the trunks of the trees, and the garden-flowers perfumed the air with delicious odours. Hard by was a little churchyard, not crowded with tall unsightly gravestones, bu full of humble mounds, covered with fresh turf and moss, be neath which the old people of the village lay at rest. Oliver often wandered here and, thinking of the wretched grave in which his mother lay, would sometimes sit him down and sob unseen; but when he raised his eyes to the deep sky overhead, he would cease to think of her as lying in the ground, and would weep for her, sadly but without pain.
&nbs
p; It was a happy time. The days were peaceful and serene; the nights brought with them neither fear nor care--no languishing in a wretched prison or associating with wretched men, nothing but pleasant and happy thoughts. Every morning he went to a white-headed old gentleman who lived near the little church, who taught him to read better and to write, and who spoke so kindly, and took such pains, that Oliver could never try enough to please him. Then he would walk with Mrs. Maylie and Rose, and hear them talk of books; or perhaps sit near them, in some shady place, and listen whilst the young lady read, which he could have done until it grew too dark to see the letters. Then he had his own lesson for the next day to prepare; and at this he would work hard, in a little room which looked into the garden, till evening came slowly on, when the ladies would walk out again, and he with them, listening with such pleasure to all they said, and so happy if they wanted a flower that he could climb to reach, or had forgotten anything he could run to fetch, that he could never be quick enough about it. When it became quite dark, and they returned home. the young lady would sit down to the piano and play some pleasant air or sing, in a low and gentle voice, some old song which it pleased her aunt to hear. There would be no candles lighted at such times as these; and Oliver would sit by one, of the windows, listening to the sweet music, in a perfect rapture.
And when Sunday came, how differently the day was spent, from any way in which he had ever spent it yet! and how happily too, like all the other days in that most happy time! There was the little church, in the morning, with the green leaves fluttering at the windows, the birds singing without, and the sweet-smelling air stealing in at the low porch and filling the homely building with its fragrance. The poor people were so neat and clean, and knelt so reverently in prayer, that it seemed a pleasure, not a tedious duty, their assembling there together; and though the singing might be rude, it was real, and sounded more musical (to Oliver's ears at least) than any he had ever heard in church before. Then there were the walks as usual, and many calls at the clean houses of the labouring men; and at night Oliver read a chapter or two from the Bible, which he had been studying all the week, and in the performance of which duty he felt more proud and pleased than if he had been the clergyman himself.
In the morning Oliver would be a-foot by six o'clock, roaming the fields and plundering the hedges, far and wide, for nosegays of wild flowers with which he would return laden, home, and which it took great care and consideration to arrange to the best advantage for the embellishment of the breakfast-table. There was fresh groundsel, too, for Miss Maylie's birds, with which Oliver, who had been studying the subject under the able tuition of the village clerk, would decorate the cages in the most approved taste. When the birds were made all spruce and smart for the day, there was usually some little commission of charity to execute in the village; or, failing that, there was rare cricket-playing, sometimes, on the green; or, failing that, there was always something to do in the garden, or about the plants, to which Oliver (who had studied this science also, under the same master, who was a gardener by trade) applied himself with hearty goodwill until Miss Rose made her appearance, when there were a thousand cocrimenda tions to be bestowed on all he had done.
So three months glided away; three months which, in the life of the most blessed and favoured of mortals, might have been unmingled happiness and which, in Oliver's, were true felicity. With the purest and most amiable generosity on one side, and the truest, warmest, soul-felt gratitude on the other, is it no wonder that, by the end of that short time, Oliver Twist had become completely domesticated with the old lady and her niece, and that the fervent attachment of his young and sensitive heart was repaid by their pride in, and attachment to, himself.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Wherein the happiness of Oliver and his friends
experiences a sudden check
SPRING FLEW SWIFTLY BY, AND SUMMER CAME. IF THE VILLAGE had been beautiful at first it was now in the full glow and luxuriance of its richness. The great trees, which had looked shrunken and bare in the earlier months, had now burst into strong life, and health and, stretching forth their green arms over the thirsty ground, converted open and naked spots into choice nooks, where was a deep and pleasant shade from which to look upon the wide prospect, steeped in sunshine, which lay stretched beyond. The earth had donned her mantle of brightest green, and shed her richest perfumes abroad. It was the prime and vigour of the year; all things were glad and flourishing.
Still, the same quiet life went on at the little cottage, and the same cheerful serenity prevailed among its inmates. Oliver had long since grown stout and healthy; but health or sickness made no difference in his warm feelings to those about him, though they do in the feelings of a great many people. He was still the same gentle, attached, affectionate creature that he had been when pain and suffering had wasted his strength, and when he was dependent for every slight attention and comfort on those who tended him.
One beautiful night they had taken a longer walk than was customary with them; for the day had been unusually warm, and there was a brilliant moon, and a light wind had sprung up, which was unusually refreshing. Rose had been in high spirits, too, and they had walked on, in merry conversation, until they had far exceeded their ordinary bounds. Mrs. Maylie being fatigued, they returned more slowly home. The young lady, merely throwing off her simple bonnet, sat down to the piano as usual. After running abstractedly over the keys for a few minutes, she fell into a low and very solemn air; and as she played it, they heard a sound as if she were weeping.
"Rose, my dear!" said the elder lady.
Rose made no reply, but played a little quicker, as though the words had roused her from some painful thoughts.
"Rose, my love!" cried Mrs. Maylie, rising hastily; and bending over her. "What is this? In tears! My dear child, what distresses you?"
"Nothing, aunt; nothing." replied the young lady. "I don't know what it is; I can't describe it; but I feel--"
"Not ill, my love?" interposed Mrs. Maylie.
"No, no! Oh, not ill!" replied Rose: shuddering as though some deadly chillness were passing over her, while she spoke; "I shall be better presently. Close the window, pray!"
Oliver hastened to comply with her request. The young lady, making an effort to recover her cheerfulness, strove to play some livelier tune; but her fingers dropped powerless on the keys. Covering her face with her hands, she sank upon a sofa, and gave vent to the tears which she was now unable to repress.
"My child!" said the elderly lady, folding her arms about her, "I never saw you so before."
"I. would not alarm you if I could avoid it," rejoined Rose; "but indeed I have tried very hard. and cannot help this. I fear I am ill, aunt."
She was, indeed; for, when candles were brought, they saw that in the very short time which had elapsed since their return home, the hue of her countenance had changed to a marble whiteness. Its expression had lost nothing of its beauty; but it was changed, and there was an anxious, haggard look about the gentle face which it had never worn before. Another minute, and it was suffused with a crimson flush, and a heavy wildness came over the soft blue eye. Again this disappeared, like the shadow thrown by a passing cloud, and she was once more deadly, pale.
Oliver, who watched the old lady anxiously, observed that she was alarmed by these appearances; and so, in truth, was he; but seeing that she affected to make light of them, he endeavoured to do the same, and they so far succeeded that when Rose was persuaded by her aunt to retire for the night, she was in better spirits and appeared even in better health, assuring them that she felt certain she should rise in the morning quite weU.
"I hope," said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie returned, "that nothing is the matter? She don't look well tonight, but--"
The old lady motioned to him not to speak and, sitting herself down in a dark comer of the room, remained silent for some time. At length, she said, in a trembling voice:
"I hope not, Oliver. I have been very happy with her for some y
ears--too happy, perhaps. It may be time that I should meet with some misfortune; but I hope it is not this."
"What?" inquired Oliver.
"The heavy blow," said the old lady, "of losing the dear girl who has so long been my comfort and happiness."
"Oh! God forbid!" exclaimed Oliver, hastily.
"Amen to that, my child!" said the old lady, wringing her hands.
"Surely there is no danger of anything so dreadful?" said Oliver. "Two hours ago she was quite well."
"She is very ill now," rejoined Mrs. Maylie, "and will be worse, I am sure. My dear, dear Rose! Oh, what should I do without her!"
She gave way to such great grief that Oliver, suppressing his own emotion, ventured to remonstrate with her and to beg earnestly that, for the sake of the dear young lady herself, she would be more calm.
"And consider, ma'am," said Oliver, as the tears forced themselves into his eyes, despite of his efforts to the contrary, "oh! consider how young and good she is, and what pleasure and comfort she gives to all about her. I am sure--certain--quite certain--that for your sake, who are so good yourself, and for her own, and for the sake of all she makes so happy, she will not die. Heaven will never let her die so young."
"Hush!" said Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand on Oliver's head. "You think like a child, poor boy. But you teach me my duty, notwithstanding. I had forgotten it for a moment, Oliver, but I hope I may be pardoned, for I am old, and have seen enough of illness and death to know the agony of separation from the objects of our love. I have seen enough, too, to know that it is not always the youngest and best who are spared to those that love them; but this should give us comfort in our sorrow, for Heaven is just, and such things teach us, impressively, that there is a brighter world than this, and that the passage to it is speedy. God's will be done! I love her, and He knows how well!"
Oliver was surprised to see that as Mrs. Maylie said these words, she checked her lamentations as though by one effort and, drawing herself up as she spoke, became composed and firm. He was still more astonished to find that this firmness lasted; and that, under all the care and watching which ensued, Mrs. Maylie was ever ready and collected, performing all the duties which devolved upon her, steadily and, to all external appearance, even cheerfully. But he was young, and did not know what strong minds are capable of under trying circumstances. How should he, when their possessors so seldom know themselves?