Oliver Twist

Oliver Twist

OR THE PARISH BOY’S PROGRESS

by Charles Dickens

Contents

I TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN AND OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDING HIS BIRTH II TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST’S GROWTH, EDUCATION, AND BOARD III RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE WHICH WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN A SINECURE IV OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE V OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR THE FIRST TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTER’S BUSINESS VI OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND RATHER ASTONISHES HIM VII OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY VIII OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON. HE ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD A STRANGE SORT OF YOUNG GENTLEMAN IX CONTAINING FURTHER PARTICULARS CONCERNING THE PLEASANT OLD GENTLEMAN, AND HIS HOPEFUL PUPILS X OLIVER BECOMES BETTER ACQUAINTED WITH THE CHARACTERS OF HIS NEW ASSOCIATES; AND PURCHASES EXPERIENCE AT A HIGH PRICE. BEING A SHORT, BUT VERY IMPORTANT CHAPTER, IN THIS HISTORY XI TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE; AND FURNISHES A SLIGHT SPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE XII IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. AND IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE REVERTS TO THE MERRY OLD GENTLEMAN AND HIS YOUTHFUL FRIENDS. XIII SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES ARE INTRODUCED TO THE INTELLIGENT READER, CONNECTED WITH WHOM VARIOUS PLEASANT MATTERS ARE RELATED, APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY XIV COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER’S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW’S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND XV SHOWING HOW VERY FOND OF OLIVER TWIST, THE MERRY OLD JEW AND MISS NANCY WERE XVI RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY NANCY XVII OLIVER’S DESTINY CONTINUING UNPROPITIOUS, BRINGS A GREAT MAN TO LONDON TO INJURE HIS REPUTATION XVIII HOW OLIVER PASSED HIS TIME IN THE IMPROVING SOCIETY OF HIS REPUTABLE FRIENDS XIX IN WHICH A NOTABLE PLAN IS DISCUSSED AND DETERMINED ON XX WHEREIN OLIVER IS DELIVERED OVER TO MR. WILLIAM SIKES XXI THE EXPEDITION XXII THE BURGLARY XXIII WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR. BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE MAY BE SUSCEPTIBLE ON SOME POINTS XXIV TREATS ON A VERY POOR SUBJECT, BUT IS A SHORT ONE, AND MAY BE FOUND OF IMPORTANCE IN THIS HISTORY XXV WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY XXVI IN WHICH A MYSTERIOUS CHARACTER APPEARS UPON THE SCENE; AND MANY THINGS, INSEPARABLE FROM THIS HISTORY, ARE DONE AND PERFORMED XXVII ATONES FOR THE UNPOLITENESS OF A FORMER CHAPTER; WHICH DESERTED A LADY, MOST UNCEREMONIOUSLY XXVIII LOOKS AFTER OLIVER, AND PROCEEDS WITH HIS ADVENTURES XXIX HAS AN INTRODUCTORY ACCOUNT OF THE INMATES OF THE HOUSE, TO WHICH OLIVER RESORTED XXX RELATES WHAT OLIVER’S NEW VISITORS THOUGHT OF HIM XXXI INVOLVES A CRITICAL POSITION XXXII OF THE HAPPY LIFE OLIVER BEGAN TO LEAD WITH HIS KIND FRIENDS XXXIII WHEREIN THE HAPPINESS OF OLIVER AND HIS FRIENDS, EXPERIENCES A SUDDEN CHECK XXXIV CONTAINS SOME INTRODUCTORY PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO NOW ARRIVES UPON THE SCENE; AND A NEW ADVENTURE WHICH HAPPENED TO OLIVER XXXV CONTAINING THE UNSATISFACTORY RESULT OF OLIVER’S ADVENTURE; AND A CONVERSATION OF SOME IMPORTANCE BETWEEN HARRY MAYLIE AND ROSE XXXVI IS A VERY SHORT ONE, AND MAY APPEAR OF NO GREAT IMPORTANCE IN ITS PLACE, BUT IT SHOULD BE READ NOTWITHSTANDING, AS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST, AND A KEY TO ONE THAT WILL FOLLOW WHEN ITS TIME ARRIVES XXXVII IN WHICH THE READER MAY PERCEIVE A CONTRAST, NOT UNCOMMON IN MATRIMONIAL CASES XXXVIII CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN MR. AND MRS. BUMBLE, AND MR. MONKS, AT THEIR NOCTURNAL INTERVIEW XXXIX INTRODUCES SOME RESPECTABLE CHARACTERS WITH WHOM THE READER IS ALREADY ACQUAINTED, AND SHOWS HOW MONKS AND THE JEW LAID THEIR WORTHY HEADS TOGETHER XL A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER XLI CONTAINING FRESH DISCOVERIES, AND SHOWING THAT SUPRISES, LIKE MISFORTUNES, SELDOM COME ALONE XLII AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE OF OLIVER’S, EXHIBITING DECIDED MARKS OF GENIUS, BECOMES A PUBLIC CHARACTER IN THE METROPOLIS XLIII WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE ARTFUL DODGER GOT INTO TROUBLE XLIV THE TIME ARRIVES FOR NANCY TO REDEEM HER PLEDGE TO ROSE MAYLIE. SHE FAILS. XLV NOAH CLAYPOLE IS EMPLOYED BY FAGIN ON A SECRET MISSION XLVI THE APPOINTMENT KEPT XLVII FATAL CONSEQUENCES XLVIII THE FLIGHT OF SIKES XLIX MONKS AND MR. BROWNLOW AT LENGTH MEET. THEIR CONVERSATION, AND THE INTELLIGENCE THAT INTERRUPTS IT L THE PURSUIT AND ESCAPE LI AFFORDING AN EXPLANATION OF MORE MYSTERIES THAN ONE, AND COMPREHENDING A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE WITH NO WORD OF SETTLEMENT OR PIN-MONEY LII FAGIN’S LAST NIGHT ALIVE LIII AND LAST

CHAPTER I. TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN AND OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDING HIS BIRTH

Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter.

For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether the child would survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared; or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise and faithful specimen of biography, extant in the literature of any age or country.

Although I am not disposed to maintain that being born in a workhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office of respiration,—a troublesome practice, but one which custom has rendered necessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and the next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver and Nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter.

As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, “Let me see the child, and die.”

The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed’s head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him:

“Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.”

“Lor bless her dear heart, no!” interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction.

“Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on ’em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she’ll know better than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there’s a dear young lamb, do.”

Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother’s prospects failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child.

The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back—and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long.

“It’s all over, Mrs. Thingummy!” said the surgeon at last.

“Ah, poor dear, so it is!” said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the child. “Poor dear!”

“You needn’t mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse,” said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. “It’s very likely it will be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is.” He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door, added, “She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?”

“She was brought here last night,” replied the old woman, “by the overseer’s order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows.”

The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. “The old story,” he said, shaking his head: “no wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good-night!”

The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having once more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant.

What an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; it would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assigned him his proper station in society. But now that he was enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow in the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his place at once—a parish child—the orphan of a workhouse—the humble, half-starved drudge—to be cuffed and buffeted through the world—despised by all, and pitied by none.

Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to the tender mercies of churchwardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder.

CHAPTER II. TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST’S GROWTH, EDUCATION, AND BOARD

For the next eight or ten months, Oliver was the victim of a systematic course of treachery and deception. He was brought up by hand. The hungry and destitute situation of the infant orphan was duly reported by the workhouse authorities to the parish authorities. The parish authorities inquired with dignity of the workhouse authorities, whether there was no female then domiciled in “the house” who was in a situation to impart to Oliver Twist, the consolation and nourishment of which he stood in need. The workhouse authorities replied with humility, that there was not. Upon this, the parish authorities magnanimously and humanely resolved, that Oliver should be “farmed,” or, in other words, that he should be dispatched to a branch-workhouse some three miles off, where twenty or thirty other juvenile offenders against the poor-laws, rolled about the floor all day, without the inconvenience of too much food or too much clothing, under the parental superintendence of an elderly female, who received the culprits at and for the consideration of sevenpence-halfpenny per small head per week. Sevenpence-halfpenny’s worth per week is a good round diet for a child; a great deal may be got for sevenpence-halfpenny, quite enough to overload its stomach, and make it uncomfortable. The elderly female was a woman of wisdom and experience; she knew what was good for children; and she had a very accurate perception of what was good for herself. So, she appropriated the greater part of the weekly stipend to her own use, and consigned the rising parochial generation to even a shorter allowance than was originally provided for them. Thereby finding in the lowest depth a deeper still; and proving herself a very great experimental philosopher.

Everybody knows the story of another experimental philosopher who had a great theory about a horse being able to live without eating, and who demonstrated it so well, that he had got his own horse down to a straw a day, and would unquestionably have rendered him a very spirited and rampacious animal on nothing at all, if he had not died, four-and-twenty hours before he was to have had his first comfortable bait of air. Unfortunately for the experimental philosophy of the female to whose protecting care Oliver Twist was delivered over, a similar result usually attended the operation of her system; for at the very moment when the child had contrived to exist upon the smallest possible portion of the weakest possible food, it did perversely happen in eight and a half cases out of ten, either that it sickened from want and cold, or fell into the fire from neglect, or got half-smothered by accident; in any one of which cases, the miserable little being was usually summoned into another world, and there gathered to the fathers it had never known in this.

Occasionally, when there was some more than usually interesting inquest upon a parish child who had been overlooked in turning up a bedstead, or inadvertently scalded to death when there happened to be a washing—though the latter accident was very scarce, anything approaching to a washing being of rare occurrence in the farm—the jury would take it into their heads to ask troublesome questions, or the parishioners would rebelliously affix their signatures to a remonstrance. But these impertinences were speedily checked by the evidence of the surgeon, and the testimony of the beadle; the former of whom had always opened the body and found nothing inside (which was very probable indeed), and the latter of whom invariably swore whatever the parish wanted; which was very self-devotional. Besides, the board made periodical pilgrimages to the farm, and always sent the beadle the day before, to say they were going. The children were neat and clean to behold, when they went; and what more would the people have!

It cannot be expected that this system of farming would produce any very extraordinary or luxuriant crop. Oliver Twist’s ninth birthday found him a pale thin child, somewhat diminutive in stature, and decidedly small in circumference. But nature or inheritance had implanted a good sturdy spirit in Oliver’s breast. It had had plenty of room to expand, thanks to the spare diet of the establishment; and perhaps to this circumstance may be attributed his having any ninth birth-day at all. Be this as it may, however, it was his ninth birthday; and he was keeping it in the coal-cellar with a select party of two other young gentleman, who, after participating with him in a sound thrashing, had been locked up for atrociously presuming to be hungry, when Mrs. Mann, the good lady of the house, was unexpectedly startled by the apparition of Mr. Bumble, the beadle, striving to undo the wicket of the garden-gate.

“Goodness gracious! Is that you, Mr. Bumble, sir?” said Mrs. Mann, thrusting her head out of the window in well-affected ecstasies of joy. “(Susan, take Oliver and them two brats upstairs, and wash ’em directly.)—My heart alive! Mr. Bumble, how glad I am to see you, sure-ly!”

Now, Mr. Bumble was a fat man, and a choleric; so, instead of responding to this open-hearted salutation in a kindred spirit, he gave the little wicket a tremendous shake, and then bestowed upon it a kick which could have emanated from no leg but a beadle’s.

“Lor, only think,” said Mrs. Mann, running out,—for the three boys had been removed by this time,—“only think of that! That I should have forgotten that the gate was bolted on the inside, on account of them dear children! Walk in sir; walk in, pray, Mr. Bumble, do, sir.”

Although this invitation was accompanied with a curtsey that might have softened the heart of a churchwarden, it by no means mollified the beadle.

“Do you think this respectful or proper conduct, Mrs. Mann,” inquired Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane, “to keep the parish officers a waiting at your garden-gate, when they come here upon porochial business with the porochial orphans? Are you aweer, Mrs. Mann, that you are, as I may say, a porochial delegate, and a stipendiary?”

“I’m sure Mr. Bumble, that I was only a telling one or two of the dear children as is so fond of you, that it was you a coming,” replied Mrs. Mann with great humility.

Mr. Bumble had a great idea of his oratorical powers and his importance. He had displayed the one, and vindicated the other. He relaxed.

“Well, well, Mrs. Mann,” he replied in a calmer tone; “it may be as you say; it may be. Lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, for I come on business, and have something to say.”

Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor; placed a seat for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and cane on the table before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his walk had engendered, glanced complacently at the cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beadles are but men: and Mr. Bumble smiled.

“Now don’t you be offended at what I’m a going to say,” observed Mrs. Mann, with captivating sweetness. “You’ve had a long walk, you know, or I wouldn’t mention it. Now, will you take a little drop of somethink, Mr. Bumble?”

“Not a drop. Nor a drop,” said Mr. Bumble, waving his right hand in a dignified, but placid manner.

“I think you will,” said Mrs. Mann, who had noticed the tone of the refusal, and the gesture that had accompanied it. “Just a leetle drop, with a little cold water, and a lump of sugar.”

Mr. Bumble coughed.

“Now, just a leetle drop,” said Mrs. Mann persuasively.

“What is it?” inquired the beadle.

“Why, it’s what I’m obliged to keep a little of in the house, to put into the blessed infants’ Daffy, when they ain’t well, Mr. Bumble,” replied Mrs. Mann as she opened a corner cupboard, and took down a bottle and glass. “It’s gin. I’ll not deceive you, Mr. B. It’s gin.”

“Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?” inquired Bumble, following with his eyes the interesting process of mixing.

“Ah, bless ’em, that I do, dear as it is,” replied the nurse. “I couldn’t see ’em suffer before my very eyes, you know sir.”

“No”; said Mr. Bumble approvingly; “no, you could not. You are a humane woman, Mrs. Mann.” (Here she set down the glass.) “I shall take a early opportunity of mentioning it to the board, Mrs. Mann.” (He drew it towards him.) “You feel as a mother, Mrs. Mann.” (He stirred the gin-and-water.) “I—I drink your health with cheerfulness, Mrs. Mann”; and he swallowed half of it.

“And now about business,” said the beadle, taking out a leathern pocket-book. “The child that was half-baptized Oliver Twist, is nine year old today.”

“Bless him!” interposed Mrs. Mann, inflaming her left eye with the corner of her apron.

“And notwithstanding a offered reward of ten pound, which was afterwards increased to twenty pound. Notwithstanding the most superlative, and, I may say, supernat’ral exertions on the part of this parish,” said Bumble, “we have never been able to discover who is his father, or what was his mother’s settlement, name, or condition.”

Mrs. Mann raised her hands in astonishment; but added, after a moment’s reflection, “How comes he to have any name at all, then?”

The beadle drew himself up with great pride, and said, “I inwented it.”

“You, Mr. Bumble!”

“I, Mrs. Mann. We name our fondlings in alphabetical order. The last was a S,—Swubble, I named him. This was a T,—Twist, I named him. The next one comes will be Unwin, and the next Vilkins. I have got names ready made to the end of the alphabet, and all the way through it again, when we come to Z.”

“Why, you’re quite a literary character, sir!” said Mrs. Mann.

“Well, well,” said the beadle, evidently gratified with the compliment; “perhaps I may be. Perhaps I may be, Mrs. Mann.” He finished the gin-and-water, and added, “Oliver being now too old to remain here, the board have determined to have him back into the house. I have come out myself to take him there. So let me see him at once.”

“I’ll fetch him directly,” said Mrs. Mann, leaving the room for that purpose. Oliver, having had by this time as much of the outer coat of dirt which encrusted his face and hands, removed, as could be scrubbed off in one washing, was led into the room by his benevolent protectress.

“Make a bow to the gentleman, Oliver,” said Mrs. Mann.

Oliver made a bow, which was divided between the beadle on the chair, and the cocked hat on the table.

“Will you go along with me, Oliver?” said Mr. Bumble, in a majestic voice.

Oliver was about to say that he would go along with anybody with great readiness, when, glancing upward, he caught sight of Mrs. Mann, who had got behind the beadle’s chair, and was shaking her fist at him with a furious countenance. He took the hint at once, for the fist had been too often impressed upon his body not to be deeply impressed upon his recollection.

“Will she go with me?” inquired poor Oliver.

“No, she can’t,” replied Mr. Bumble. “But she’ll come and see you sometimes.”

This was no very great consolation to the child. Young as he was, however, he had sense enough to make a feint of feeling great regret at going away. It was no very difficult matter for the boy to call tears into his eyes. Hunger and recent ill-usage are great assistants if you want to cry; and Oliver cried very naturally indeed. Mrs. Mann gave him a thousand embraces, and what Oliver wanted a great deal more, a piece of bread and butter, lest he should seem too hungry when he got to the workhouse. With the slice of bread in his hand, and the little brown-cloth parish cap on his head, Oliver was then led away by Mr. Bumble from the wretched home where one kind word or look had never lighted the gloom of his infant years. And yet he burst into an agony of childish grief, as the cottage-gate closed after him. Wretched as were the little companions in misery he was leaving behind, they were the only friends he had ever known; and a sense of his loneliness in the great wide world, sank into the child’s heart for the first time.

Mr. Bumble walked on with long strides; little Oliver, firmly grasping his gold-laced cuff, trotted beside him, inquiring at the end of every quarter of a mile whether they were “nearly there.” To these interrogations Mr. Bumble returned very brief and snappish replies; for the temporary blandness which gin-and-water awakens in some bosoms had by this time evaporated; and he was once again a beadle.

Oliver had not been within the walls of the workhouse a quarter of an hour, and had scarcely completed the demolition of a second slice of bread, when Mr. Bumble, who had handed him over to the care of an old woman, returned; and, telling him it was a board night, informed him that the board had said he was to appear before it forthwith.

Not having a very clearly defined notion of what a live board was, Oliver was rather astounded by this intelligence, and was not quite certain whether he ought to laugh or cry. He had no time to think about the matter, however; for Mr. Bumble gave him a tap on the head, with his cane, to wake him up: and another on the back to make him lively: and bidding him to follow, conducted him into a large whitewashed room, where eight or ten fat gentlemen were sitting round a table. At the top of the table, seated in an arm-chair rather higher than the rest, was a particularly fat gentleman with a very round, red face.

“Bow to the board,” said Bumble. Oliver brushed away two or three tears that were lingering in his eyes; and seeing no board but the table, fortunately bowed to that.

“What’s your name, boy?” said the gentleman in the high chair.

Oliver was frightened at the sight of so many gentlemen, which made him tremble: and the beadle gave him another tap behind, which made him cry. These two causes made him answer in a very low and hesitating voice; whereupon a gentleman in a white waistcoat said he was a fool. Which was a capital way of raising his spirits, and putting him quite at his ease.

“Boy,” said the gentleman in the high chair, “listen to me. You know you’re an orphan, I suppose?”

“What’s that, sir?” inquired poor Oliver.

“The boy is a fool—I thought he was,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

“Hush!” said the gentleman who had spoken first. “You know you’ve got no father or mother, and that you were brought up by the parish, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver, weeping bitterly.

“What are you crying for?” inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. And to be sure it was very extraordinary. What could the boy be crying for?

“I hope you say your prayers every night,” said another gentleman in a gruff voice; “and pray for the people who feed you, and take care of you—like a Christian.”

“Yes, sir,” stammered the boy. The gentleman who spoke last was unconsciously right. It would have been very like a Christian, and a marvellously good Christian too, if Oliver had prayed for the people who fed and took care of him. But he hadn’t, because nobody had taught him.

“Well! You have come here to be educated, and taught a useful trade,” said the red-faced gentleman in the high chair.

“So you’ll begin to pick oakum tomorrow morning at six o’clock,” added the surly one in the white waistcoat.

For the combination of both these blessings in the one simple process of picking oakum, Oliver bowed low by the direction of the beadle, and was then hurried away to a large ward; where, on a rough, hard bed, he sobbed himself to sleep. What a novel illustration of the tender laws of England! They let the paupers go to sleep!

Poor Oliver! He little thought, as he lay sleeping in happy unconsciousness of all around him, that the board had that very day arrived at a decision which would exercise the most material influence over all his future fortunes. But they had. And this was it:

The members of this board were very sage, deep, philosophical men; and when they came to turn their attention to the workhouse, they found out at once, what ordinary folks would never have discovered—the poor people liked it! It was a regular place of public entertainment for the poorer classes; a tavern where there was nothing to pay; a public breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper all the year round; a brick and mortar elysium, where it was all play and no work. “Oho!” said the board, looking very knowing; “we are the fellows to set this to rights; we’ll stop it all, in no time.” So, they established the rule, that all poor people should have the alternative (for they would compel nobody, not they), of being starved by a gradual process in the house, or by a quick one out of it. With this view, they contracted with the water-works to lay on an unlimited supply of water; and with a corn-factory to supply periodically small quantities of oatmeal; and issued three meals of thin gruel a day, with an onion twice a week, and half a roll of Sundays. They made a great many other wise and humane regulations, having reference to the ladies, which it is not necessary to repeat; kindly undertook to divorce poor married people, in consequence of the great expense of a suit in Doctors’ Commons; and, instead of compelling a man to support his family, as they had theretofore done, took his family away from him, and made him a bachelor! There is no saying how many applicants for relief, under these last two heads, might have started up in all classes of society, if it had not been coupled with the workhouse; but the board were long-headed men, and had provided for this difficulty. The relief was inseparable from the workhouse and the gruel; and that frightened people.

For the first six months after Oliver Twist was removed, the system was in full operation. It was rather expensive at first, in consequence of the increase in the undertaker’s bill, and the necessity of taking in the clothes of all the paupers, which fluttered loosely on their wasted, shrunken forms, after a week or two’s gruel. But the number of workhouse inmates got thin as well as the paupers; and the board were in ecstasies.

The room in which the boys were fed, was a large stone hall, with a copper at one end: out of which the master, dressed in an apron for the purpose, and assisted by one or two women, ladled the gruel at mealtimes. Of this festive composition each boy had one porringer, and no more—except on occasions of great public rejoicing, when he had two ounces and a quarter of bread besides. The bowls never wanted washing. The boys polished them with their spoons till they shone again; and when they had performed this operation (which never took very long, the spoons being nearly as large as the bowls), they would sit staring at the copper, with such eager eyes, as if they could have devoured the very bricks of which it was composed; employing themselves, meanwhile, in sucking their fingers most assiduously, with the view of catching up any stray splashes of gruel that might have been cast thereon. Boys have generally excellent appetites. Oliver Twist and his companions suffered the tortures of slow starvation for three months: at last they got so voracious and wild with hunger, that one boy, who was tall for his age, and hadn’t been used to that sort of thing (for his father had kept a small cook-shop), hinted darkly to his companions, that unless he had another basin of gruel per diem, he was afraid he might some night happen to eat the boy who slept next him, who happened to be a weakly youth of tender age. He had a wild, hungry eye; and they implicitly believed him. A council was held; lots were cast who should walk up to the master after supper that evening, and ask for more; and it fell to Oliver Twist.

The evening arrived; the boys took their places. The master, in his cook’s uniform, stationed himself at the copper; his pauper assistants ranged themselves behind him; the gruel was served out; and a long grace was said over the short commons. The gruel disappeared; the boys whispered each other, and winked at Oliver; while his next neighbors nudged him. Child as he was, he was desperate with hunger, and reckless with misery. He rose from the table; and advancing to the master, basin and spoon in hand, said: somewhat alarmed at his own temerity:

“Please, sir, I want some more.”

The master was a fat, healthy man; but he turned very pale. He gazed in stupefied astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then clung for support to the copper. The assistants were paralysed with wonder; the boys with fear.

“What!” said the master at length, in a faint voice.

“Please, sir,” replied Oliver, “I want some more.”

The master aimed a blow at Oliver’s head with the ladle; pinioned him in his arm; and shrieked aloud for the beadle.

The board were sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr. Bumble rushed into the room in great excitement, and addressing the gentleman in the high chair, said,

“Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! Oliver Twist has asked for more!”

There was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance.

“For more!” said Mr. Limbkins. “Compose yourself, Bumble, and answer me distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for more, after he had eaten the supper allotted by the dietary?”

“He did, sir,” replied Bumble.

“That boy will be hung,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. “I know that boy will be hung.”

Nobody controverted the prophetic gentleman’s opinion. An animated discussion took place. Oliver was ordered into instant confinement; and a bill was next morning pasted on the outside of the gate, offering a reward of five pounds to anybody who would take Oliver Twist off the hands of the parish. In other words, five pounds and Oliver Twist were offered to any man or woman who wanted an apprentice to any trade, business, or calling.

“I never was more convinced of anything in my life,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, as he knocked at the gate and read the bill next morning: “I never was more convinced of anything in my life, than I am that that boy will come to be hung.”

As I purpose to show in the sequel whether the white waistcoated gentleman was right or not, I should perhaps mar the interest of this narrative (supposing it to possess any at all), if I ventured to hint just yet, whether the life of Oliver Twist had this violent termination or no.

CHAPTER III. RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE WHICH WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN A SINECURE

For a week after the commission of the impious and profane offence of asking for more, Oliver remained a close prisoner in the dark and solitary room to which he had been consigned by the wisdom and mercy of the board. It appears, at first sight not unreasonable to suppose, that, if he had entertained a becoming feeling of respect for the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat, he would have established that sage individual’s prophetic character, once and for ever, by tying one end of his pocket-handkerchief to a hook in the wall, and attaching himself to the other. To the performance of this feat, however, there was one obstacle: namely, that pocket-handkerchiefs being decided articles of luxury, had been, for all future times and ages, removed from the noses of paupers by the express order of the board, in council assembled: solemnly given and pronounced under their hands and seals. There was a still greater obstacle in Oliver’s youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly all day; and, when the long, dismal night came on, spread his little hands before his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in the corner, tried to sleep: ever and anon waking with a start and tremble, and drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even its cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom and loneliness which surrounded him.

Let it not be supposed by the enemies of “the system,” that, during the period of his solitary incarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of exercise, the pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious consolation. As for exercise, it was nice cold weather, and he was allowed to perform his ablutions every morning under the pump, in a stone yard, in the presence of Mr. Bumble, who prevented his catching cold, and caused a tingling sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated applications of the cane. As for society, he was carried every other day into the hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged as a public warning and example. And so far from being denied the advantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, a general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein inserted by authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist: whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the very Devil himself.

It chanced one morning, while Oliver’s affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield’s most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.

“Wo—o!” said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey.

The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward.

Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey’s. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill.

The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the document; for five pounds was just the sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves. So, he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

“This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to ’prentis,” said Mr. Gamfield.

“Ay, my man,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile. “What of him?”

“If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good ’spectable chimbley-sweepin’ bisness,” said Mr. Gamfield, “I wants a ’prentis, and I am ready to take him.”

“Walk in,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him.

“It’s a nasty trade,” said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish.

“Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now,” said another gentleman.

“That’s acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make ’em come down again,” said Gamfield; “that’s all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke ain’t o’ no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only sinds him to sleep, and that’s wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen’l’men, and there’s nothink like a good hot blaze to make ’em come down vith a run. It’s humane too, gen’l’men, acause, even if they’ve stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes ’em struggle to hextricate theirselves.”

The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words “saving of expenditure,” “looked well in the accounts,” “have a printed report published,” were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, on account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis.

At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said:

“We have considered your proposition, and we don’t approve of it.”

“Not at all,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

“Decidedly not,” added the other members.

As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the board had, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table.

“So you won’t let me have him, gen’l’men?” said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near the door.

“No,” replied Mr. Limbkins; “at least, as it’s a nasty business, we think you ought to take something less than the premium we offered.”

Mr. Gamfield’s countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he returned to the table, and said,

“What’ll you give, gen’l’men? Come! Don’t be too hard on a poor man. What’ll you give?”

“I should say, three pound ten was plenty,” said Mr. Limbkins.

“Ten shillings too much,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

“Come!” said Gamfield; “say four pound, gen’l’men. Say four pound, and you’ve got rid of him for good and all. There!”

“Three pound ten,” repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly.

“Come! I’ll split the diff’erence, gen’l’men,” urged Gamfield. “Three pound fifteen.”

“Not a farthing more,” was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins.

“You’re desperate hard upon me, gen’l’men,” said Gamfield, wavering.

“Pooh! pooh! nonsense!” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. “He’d be cheap with nothing at all, as a premium. Take him, you silly fellow! He’s just the boy for you. He wants the stick, now and then: it’ll do him good; and his board needn’t come very expensive, for he hasn’t been overfed since he was born. Ha! ha! ha!”

Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table, and, observing a smile on all of them, gradually broke into a smile himself. The bargain was made. Mr. Bumble, was at once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to be conveyed before the magistrate, for signature and approval, that very afternoon.

In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his excessive astonishment, was released from bondage, and ordered to put himself into a clean shirt. He had hardly achieved this very unusual gymnastic performance, when Mr. Bumble brought him, with his own hands, a basin of gruel, and the holiday allowance of two ounces and a quarter of bread. At this tremendous sight, Oliver began to cry very piteously: thinking, not unnaturally, that the board must have determined to kill him for some useful purpose, or they never would have begun to fatten him up in that way.

“Don’t make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food and be thankful,” said Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity. “You’re a going to be made a ’prentice of, Oliver.”

“A prentice, sir!” said the child, trembling.

“Yes, Oliver,” said Mr. Bumble. “The kind and blessed gentleman which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own: are a going to “prentice” you: and to set you up in life, and make a man of you: although the expense to the parish is three pound ten!—three pound ten, Oliver!—seventy shillins—one hundred and forty sixpences!—and all for a naughty orphan which nobody can’t love.”

As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, after delivering this address in an awful voice, the tears rolled down the poor child’s face, and he sobbed bitterly.

“Come,” said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for it was gratifying to his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence had produced; “Come, Oliver! Wipe your eyes with the cuffs of your jacket, and don’t cry into your gruel; that’s a very foolish action, Oliver.” It certainly was, for there was quite enough water in it already.

On their way to the magistrate, Mr. Bumble instructed Oliver that all he would have to do, would be to look very happy, and say, when the gentleman asked him if he wanted to be apprenticed, that he should like it very much indeed; both of which injunctions Oliver promised to obey: the rather as Mr. Bumble threw in a gentle hint, that if he failed in either particular, there was no telling what would be done to him. When they arrived at the office, he was shut up in a little room by himself, and admonished by Mr. Bumble to stay there, until he came back to fetch him.

There the boy remained, with a palpitating heart, for half an hour. At the expiration of which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his head, unadorned with the cocked hat, and said aloud:

“Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman.” As Mr. Bumble said this, he put on a grim and threatening look, and added, in a low voice, “Mind what I told you, you young rascal!”

Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble’s face at this somewhat contradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his offering any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an adjoining room: the door of which was open. It was a large room, with a great window. Behind a desk, sat two old gentleman with powdered heads: one of whom was reading the newspaper; while the other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr. Limbkins was standing in front of the desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about.

The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.

“This is the boy, your worship,” said Mr. Bumble.

The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up.

“Oh, is this the boy?” said the old gentleman.

“This is him, sir,” replied Mr. Bumble. “Bow to the magistrate, my dear.”

Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates’ powder, whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that account.

“Well,” said the old gentleman, “I suppose he’s fond of chimney-sweeping?”

“He doats on it, your worship,” replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn’t.

“And he will be a sweep, will he?” inquired the old gentleman.

“If we was to bind him to any other trade tomorrow, he’d run away simultaneous, your worship,” replied Bumble.

“And this man that’s to be his master—you, sir—you’ll treat him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing, will you?” said the old gentleman.

“When I says I will, I means I will,” replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly.

“You’re a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest, open-hearted man,” said the old gentleman: turning his spectacles in the direction of the candidate for Oliver’s premium, whose villainous countenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty. But the magistrate was half blind and half childish, so he couldn’t reasonably be expected to discern what other people did.

“I hope I am, sir,” said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer.

“I have no doubt you are, my friend,” replied the old gentleman: fixing his spectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about him for the inkstand.

It was the critical moment of Oliver’s fate. If the inkstand had been where the old gentleman thought it was, he would have dipped his pen into it, and signed the indentures, and Oliver would have been straightway hurried off. But, as it chanced to be immediately under his nose, it followed, as a matter of course, that he looked all over his desk for it, without finding it; and happening in the course of his search to look straight before him, his gaze encountered the pale and terrified face of Oliver Twist: who, despite all the admonitory looks and pinches of Bumble, was regarding the repulsive countenance of his future master, with a mingled expression of horror and fear, too palpable to be mistaken, even by a half-blind magistrate.

The old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and looked from Oliver to Mr. Limbkins; who attempted to take snuff with a cheerful and unconcerned aspect.

“My boy!” said the old gentleman, “you look pale and alarmed. What is the matter?”

“Stand a little away from him, Beadle,” said the other magistrate: laying aside the paper, and leaning forward with an expression of interest. “Now, boy, tell us what’s the matter: don’t be afraid.”

Oliver fell on his knees, and clasping his hands together, prayed that they would order him back to the dark room—that they would starve him—beat him—kill him if they pleased—rather than send him away with that dreadful man.

“Well!” said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most impressive solemnity. “Well! of all the artful and designing orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest.”

“Hold your tongue, Beadle,” said the second old gentleman, when Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective.

“I beg your worship’s pardon,” said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of having heard aright. “Did your worship speak to me?”

“Yes. Hold your tongue.”

Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold his tongue! A moral revolution!

The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his companion, he nodded significantly.

“We refuse to sanction these indentures,” said the old gentleman: tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke.

“I hope,” stammered Mr. Limbkins: “I hope the magistrates will not form the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any improper conduct, on the unsupported testimony of a child.”

“The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the matter,” said the second old gentleman sharply. “Take the boy back to the workhouse, and treat him kindly. He seems to want it.”

That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally opposite description.

The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was again to let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him.

CHAPTER IV. OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE

In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay.

Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker.

Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand.

“I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble,” said the undertaker.

“You’ll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,” said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. “I say you’ll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,” repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane.

“Think so?” said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. “The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble.”

“So are the coffins,” replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in.

Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. “Well, well, Mr. Bumble,” he said at length, “there’s no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Bumble, “every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable.”

“Of course, of course,” replied the undertaker; “and if I don’t get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see—he! he! he!”

“Just so,” said Mr. Bumble.

“Though I must say,” continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: “though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one’s calculation makes a great hole in one’s profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir.”

As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme.

“By the bye,” said Mr. Bumble, “you don’t know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial ’prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?” As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words “five pounds”: which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size.

“Gadso!” said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; “that’s just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know—dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before.”

“Yes, I think it rather pretty,” said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. “The die is the same as the porochial seal—the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on Newyear’s morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight.”

“I recollect,” said the undertaker. “The jury brought it in, ‘Died from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life,’ didn’t they?”

Mr. Bumble nodded.

“And they made it a special verdict, I think,” said the undertaker, “by adding some words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had—”

“Tush! Foolery!” interposed the beadle. “If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they’d have enough to do.”

“Very true,” said the undertaker; “they would indeed.”

“Juries,” said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into a passion: “juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches.”

“So they are,” said the undertaker.

“They haven’t no more philosophy nor political economy about ’em than that,” said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously.

“No more they have,” acquiesced the undertaker.

“I despise ’em,” said the beadle, growing very red in the face.

“So do I,” rejoined the undertaker.

“And I only wish we’d a jury of the independent sort, in the house for a week or two,” said the beadle; “the rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for ’em.”

“Let ’em alone for that,” replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer.

Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered; fixed the cocked hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice:

“Well; what about the boy?”

“Oh!” replied the undertaker; “why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a good deal towards the poor’s rates.”

“Hem!” said Mr. Bumble. “Well?”

“Well,” replied the undertaker, “I was thinking that if I pay so much towards ’em, I’ve a right to get as much out of ’em as I can, Mr. Bumble; and so—I think I’ll take the boy myself.”

Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him into the building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five minutes; and it was arranged that Oliver should go to him that evening “upon liking”—a phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon a short trial, that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too much food into him, he shall have him for a term of years, to do what he likes with.

When little Oliver was taken before “the gentlemen” that evening; and informed that he was to go, that night, as general house-lad to a coffin-maker’s; and that if he complained of his situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would be sent to sea, there to be drowned, or knocked on the head, as the case might be, he evinced so little emotion, that they by common consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr. Bumble to remove him forthwith.

Now, although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they were rather out, in this particular instance. The simple fact was, that Oliver, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather too much; and was in a fair way of being reduced, for life, to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness by the ill usage he had received. He heard the news of his destination, in perfect silence; and, having had his luggage put into his hand—which was not very difficult to carry, inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits of a brown paper parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep—he pulled his cap over his eyes; and once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble’s coat cuff, was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering.

For some time, Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice or remark; for the beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should: and, it being a windy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr. Bumble’s coat as they blew open, and disclosed to great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches. As they drew near to their destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it expedient to look down, and see that the boy was in good order for inspection by his new master: which he accordingly did, with a fit and becoming air of gracious patronage.

“Oliver!” said Mr. Bumble.

“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice.

“Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir.”

Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once; and passed the back of his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another. The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble’s he covered his face with both; and wept until the tears sprung out from between his chin and bony fingers.

“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity. “Well! Of all the ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the—”

“No, no, sir,” sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-known cane; “no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so—so—”

“So what?” inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement.

“So lonely, sir! So very lonely!” cried the child. “Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don’t, don’t pray be cross to me!” The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion’s face, with tears of real agony.

Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver’s piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about “that troublesome cough,” bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence.

The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.

“Aha!” said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; “is that you, Bumble?”

“No one else, Mr. Sowerberry,” replied the beadle. “Here! I’ve brought the boy.” Oliver made a bow.

“Oh! that’s the boy, is it?” said the undertaker: raising the candle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. “Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?”

Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance.

“My dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, “this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of.” Oliver bowed again.

“Dear me!” said the undertaker’s wife, “he’s very small.”

“Why, he is rather small,” replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he was no bigger; “he is small. There’s no denying it. But he’ll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry—he’ll grow.”

“Ah! I dare say he will,” replied the lady pettishly, “on our victuals and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more to keep, than they’re worth. However, men always think they know best. There! Get downstairs, little bag o’ bones.” With this, the undertaker’s wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark: forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated “kitchen”; wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair.

“Here, Charlotte,” said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, “give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip. He hasn’t come home since the morning, so he may go without ’em. I dare say the boy isn’t too dainty to eat ’em—are you, boy?”

Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him.

I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected. I wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine. There is only one thing I should like better; and that would be to see the Philosopher making the same sort of meal himself, with the same relish.

“Well,” said the undertaker’s wife, when Oliver had finished his supper: which she had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful auguries of his future appetite: “have you done?”

There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the affirmative.

“Then come with me,” said Mrs. Sowerberry: taking up a dim and dirty lamp, and leading the way upstairs; “your bed’s under the counter. You don’t mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose? But it doesn’t much matter whether you do or don’t, for you can’t sleep anywhere else. Come; don’t keep me here all night!”

Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress.

CHAPTER V. OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR THE FIRST TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTER’S BUSINESS

Oliver, being left to himself in the undertaker’s shop, set the lamp down on a workman’s bench, and gazed timidly about him with a feeling of awe and dread, which many people a good deal older than he will be at no loss to understand. An unfinished coffin on black tressels, which stood in the middle of the shop, looked so gloomy and death-like that a cold tremble came over him, every time his eyes wandered in the direction of the dismal object: from which he almost expected to see some frightful form slowly rear its head, to drive him mad with terror. Against the wall were ranged, in regular array, a long row of elm boards cut in the same shape: looking in the dim light, like high-shouldered ghosts with their hands in their breeches pockets. Coffin-plates, elm-chips, bright-headed nails, and shreds of black cloth, lay scattered on the floor; and the wall behind the counter was ornamented with a lively representation of two mutes in very stiff neckcloths, on duty at a large private door, with a hearse drawn by four black steeds, approaching in the distance. The shop was close and hot. The atmosphere seemed tainted with the smell of coffins. The recess beneath the counter in which his flock mattress was thrust, looked like a grave.

Nor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He was alone in a strange place; and we all know how chilled and desolate the best of us will sometimes feel in such a situation. The boy had no friends to care for, or to care for him. The regret of no recent separation was fresh in his mind; the absence of no loved and well-remembered face sank heavily into his heart.

But his heart was heavy, notwithstanding; and he wished, as he crept into his narrow bed, that that were his coffin, and that he could be lain in a calm and lasting sleep in the churchyard ground, with the tall grass waving gently above his head, and the sound of the old deep bell to soothe him in his sleep.

Oliver was awakened in the morning, by a loud kicking at the outside of the shop-door: which, before he could huddle on his clothes, was repeated, in an angry and impetuous manner, about twenty-five times. When he began to undo the chain, the legs desisted, and a voice began.

“Open the door, will yer?” cried the voice which belonged to the legs which had kicked at the door.

“I will, directly, sir,” replied Oliver: undoing the chain, and turning the key.

“I suppose yer the new boy, ain’t yer?” said the voice through the key-hole.

“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver.

“How old are yer?” inquired the voice.

“Ten, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Then I’ll whop yer when I get in,” said the voice; “you just see if I don’t, that’s all, my work’us brat!” and having made this obliging promise, the voice began to whistle.

Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the very expressive monosyllable just recorded bears reference, to entertain the smallest doubt that the owner of the voice, whoever he might be, would redeem his pledge, most honourably. He drew back the bolts with a trembling hand, and opened the door.

For a second or two, Oliver glanced up the street, and down the street, and over the way: impressed with the belief that the unknown, who had addressed him through the key-hole, had walked a few paces off, to warm himself; for nobody did he see but a big charity-boy, sitting on a post in front of the house, eating a slice of bread and butter: which he cut into wedges, the size of his mouth, with a clasp-knife, and then consumed with great dexterity.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Oliver at length: seeing that no other visitor made his appearance; “did you knock?”

“I kicked,” replied the charity-boy.

“Did you want a coffin, sir?” inquired Oliver, innocently.

At this, the charity-boy looked monstrous fierce; and said that Oliver would want one before long, if he cut jokes with his superiors in that way.

“Yer don’t know who I am, I suppose, Work’us?” said the charity-boy, in continuation: descending from the top of the post, meanwhile, with edifying gravity.

“No, sir,” rejoined Oliver.

“I’m Mister Noah Claypole,” said the charity-boy, “and you’re under me. Take down the shutters, yer idle young ruffian!” With this, Mr. Claypole administered a kick to Oliver, and entered the shop with a dignified air, which did him great credit. It is difficult for a large-headed, small-eyed youth, of lumbering make and heavy countenance, to look dignified under any circumstances; but it is more especially so, when superadded to these personal attractions are a red nose and yellow smalls.

Oliver, having taken down the shutters, and broken a pane of glass in his effort to stagger away beneath the weight of the first one to a small court at the side of the house in which they were kept during the day, was graciously assisted by Noah: who having consoled him with the assurance that “he’d catch it,” condescended to help him. Mr. Sowerberry came down soon after. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Sowerberry appeared. Oliver having “caught it,” in fulfilment of Noah’s prediction, followed that young gentleman down the stairs to breakfast.

“Come near the fire, Noah,” said Charlotte. “I saved a nice little bit of bacon for you from master’s breakfast. Oliver, shut that door at Mister Noah’s back, and take them bits that I’ve put out on the cover of the bread-pan. There’s your tea; take it away to that box, and drink it there, and make haste, for they’ll want you to mind the shop. D’ye hear?”

“D’ye hear, Work’us?” said Noah Claypole.

“Lor, Noah!” said Charlotte, “what a rum creature you are! Why don’t you let the boy alone?”

“Let him alone!” said Noah. “Why everybody lets him alone enough, for the matter of that. Neither his father nor his mother will ever interfere with him. All his relations let him have his own way pretty well. Eh, Charlotte? He! he! he!”

“Oh, you queer soul!” said Charlotte, bursting into a hearty laugh, in which she was joined by Noah; after which they both looked scornfully at poor Oliver Twist, as he sat shivering on the box in the coldest corner of the room, and ate the stale pieces which had been specially reserved for him.

Noah was a charity-boy, but not a workhouse orphan. No chance-child was he, for he could trace his genealogy all the way back to his parents, who lived hard by; his mother being a washerwoman, and his father a drunken soldier, discharged with a wooden leg, and a diurnal pension of twopence-halfpenny and an unstateable fraction. The shop-boys in the neighbourhood had long been in the habit of branding Noah in the public streets, with the ignominious epithets of “leathers,” “charity,” and the like; and Noah had borne them without reply. But, now that fortune had cast in his way a nameless orphan, at whom even the meanest could point the finger of scorn, he retorted on him with interest. This affords charming food for contemplation. It shows us what a beautiful thing human nature may be made to be; and how impartially the same amiable qualities are developed in the finest lord and the dirtiest charity-boy.

Oliver had been sojourning at the undertaker’s some three weeks or a month. Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry—the shop being shut up—were taking their supper in the little back-parlour, when Mr. Sowerberry, after several deferential glances at his wife, said,

“My dear—” He was going to say more; but, Mrs. Sowerberry looking up, with a peculiarly unpropitious aspect, he stopped short.

“Well,” said Mrs. Sowerberry, sharply.

“Nothing, my dear, nothing,” said Mr. Sowerberry.

“Ugh, you brute!” said Mrs. Sowerberry.

“Not at all, my dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry humbly. “I thought you didn’t want to hear, my dear. I was only going to say—”

“Oh, don’t tell me what you were going to say,” interposed Mrs. Sowerberry. “I am nobody; don’t consult me, pray. I don’t want to intrude upon your secrets.” As Mrs. Sowerberry said this, she gave an hysterical laugh, which threatened violent consequences.

“But, my dear,” said Sowerberry, “I want to ask your advice.”

“No, no, don’t ask mine,” replied Mrs. Sowerberry, in an affecting manner: “ask somebody else’s.” Here, there was another hysterical laugh, which frightened Mr. Sowerberry very much. This is a very common and much-approved matrimonial course of treatment, which is often very effective. It at once reduced Mr. Sowerberry to begging, as a special favour, to be allowed to say what Mrs. Sowerberry was most curious to hear. After a short duration, the permission was most graciously conceded.

“It’s only about young Twist, my dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry. “A very good-looking boy, that, my dear.”

“He need be, for he eats enough,” observed the lady.

“There’s an expression of melancholy in his face, my dear,” resumed Mr. Sowerberry, “which is very interesting. He would make a delightful mute, my love.”

Mrs. Sowerberry looked up with an expression of considerable wonderment. Mr. Sowerberry remarked it and, without allowing time for any observation on the good lady’s part, proceeded.

“I don’t mean a regular mute to attend grown-up people, my dear, but only for children’s practice. It would be very new to have a mute in proportion, my dear. You may depend upon it, it would have a superb effect.”

Mrs. Sowerberry, who had a good deal of taste in the undertaking way, was much struck by the novelty of this idea; but, as it would have been compromising her dignity to have said so, under existing circumstances, she merely inquired, with much sharpness, why such an obvious suggestion had not presented itself to her husband’s mind before? Mr. Sowerberry rightly construed this, as an acquiescence in his proposition; it was speedily determined, therefore, that Oliver should be at once initiated into the mysteries of the trade; and, with this view, that he should accompany his master on the very next occasion of his services being required.

The occasion was not long in coming. Half an hour after breakfast next morning, Mr. Bumble entered the shop; and supporting his cane against the counter, drew forth his large leathern pocket-book: from which he selected a small scrap of paper, which he handed over to Sowerberry.

“Aha!” said the undertaker, glancing over it with a lively countenance; “an order for a coffin, eh?”

“For a coffin first, and a porochial funeral afterwards,” replied Mr. Bumble, fastening the strap of the leathern pocket-book: which, like himself, was very corpulent.

“Bayton,” said the undertaker, looking from the scrap of paper to Mr. Bumble. “I never heard the name before.”

Bumble shook his head, as he replied, “Obstinate people, Mr. Sowerberry; very obstinate. Proud, too, I’m afraid, sir.”

“Proud, eh?” exclaimed Mr. Sowerberry with a sneer. “Come, that’s too much.”

“Oh, it’s sickening,” replied the beadle. “Antimonial, Mr. Sowerberry!”

“So it is,” acquiesced the undertaker.

“We only heard of the family the night before last,” said the beadle; “and we shouldn’t have known anything about them, then, only a woman who lodges in the same house made an application to the porochial committee for them to send the porochial surgeon to see a woman as was very bad. He had gone out to dinner; but his ’prentice (which is a very clever lad) sent ’em some medicine in a blacking-bottle, offhand.”

“Ah, there’s promptness,” said the undertaker.

“Promptness, indeed!” replied the beadle. “But what’s the consequence; what’s the ungrateful behaviour of these rebels, sir? Why, the husband sends back word that the medicine won’t suit his wife’s complaint, and so she shan’t take it—says she shan’t take it, sir! Good, strong, wholesome medicine, as was given with great success to two Irish labourers and a coal-heaver, only a week before—sent ’em for nothing, with a blackin’-bottle in,—and he sends back word that she shan’t take it, sir!”

As the atrocity presented itself to Mr. Bumble’s mind in full force, he struck the counter sharply with his cane, and became flushed with indignation.

“Well,” said the undertaker, “I ne—ver—did—”

“Never did, sir!” ejaculated the beadle. “No, nor nobody never did; but now she’s dead, we’ve got to bury her; and that’s the direction; and the sooner it’s done, the better.”

Thus saying, Mr. Bumble put on his cocked hat wrong side first, in a fever of parochial excitement; and flounced out of the shop.

“Why, he was so angry, Oliver, that he forgot even to ask after you!” said Mr. Sowerberry, looking after the beadle as he strode down the street.

“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver, who had carefully kept himself out of sight, during the interview; and who was shaking from head to foot at the mere recollection of the sound of Mr. Bumble’s voice. He needn’t have taken the trouble to shrink from Mr. Bumble’s glance, however; for that functionary, on whom the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat had made a very strong impression, thought that now the undertaker had got Oliver upon trial the subject was better avoided, until such time as he should be firmly bound for seven years, and all danger of his being returned upon the hands of the parish should be thus effectually and legally overcome.

“Well,” said Mr. Sowerberry, taking up his hat, “the sooner this job is done, the better. Noah, look after the shop. Oliver, put on your cap, and come with me.” Oliver obeyed, and followed his master on his professional mission.

They walked on, for some time, through the most crowded and densely inhabited part of the town; and then, striking down a narrow street more dirty and miserable than any they had yet passed through, paused to look for the house which was the object of their search. The houses on either side were high and large, but very old, and tenanted by people of the poorest class: as their neglected appearance would have sufficiently denoted, without the concurrent testimony afforded by the squalid looks of the few men and women who, with folded arms and bodies half doubled, occasionally skulked along. A great many of the tenements had shop-fronts; but these were fast closed, and mouldering away; only the upper rooms being inhabited. Some houses which had become insecure from age and decay, were prevented from falling into the street, by huge beams of wood reared against the walls, and firmly planted in the road; but even these crazy dens seemed to have been selected as the nightly haunts of some houseless wretches, for many of the rough boards which supplied the place of door and window, were wrenched from their positions, to afford an aperture wide enough for the passage of a human body. The kennel was stagnant and filthy. The very rats, which here and there lay putrefying in its rottenness, were hideous with famine.

There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver and his master stopped; so, groping his way cautiously through the dark passage, and bidding Oliver keep close to him and not be afraid, the undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight of stairs. Stumbling against a door on the landing, he rapped at it with his knuckles.

It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker at once saw enough of what the room contained, to know it was the apartment to which he had been directed. He stepped in; Oliver followed him.

There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically, over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door, there lay upon the ground, something covered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward the place, and crept involuntarily closer to his master; for though it was covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse.

The man’s face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly; his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman’s face was wrinkled; her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside.

“Nobody shall go near her,” said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. “Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you’ve a life to lose!”

“Nonsense, my good man,” said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. “Nonsense!”

“I tell you,” said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor,—“I tell you I won’t have her put into the ground. She couldn’t rest there. The worms would worry her—not eat her—she is so worn away.”

The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body.

“Ah!” said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of the dead woman; “kneel down, kneel down—kneel round her, every one of you, and mark my words! I say she was starved to death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her; and then her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark—in the dark! She couldn’t even see her children’s faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I came back, she was dying; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they starved her to death. I swear it before the God that saw it! They starved her!” He twined his hands in his hair; and, with a loud scream, rolled grovelling upon the floor: his eyes fixed, and the foam covering his lips.

The terrified children cried bitterly; but the old woman, who had hitherto remained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that passed, menaced them into silence. Having unloosened the cravat of the man who still remained extended on the ground, she tottered towards the undertaker.

“She was my daughter,” said the old woman, nodding her head in the direction of the corpse; and speaking with an idiotic leer, more ghastly than even the presence of death in such a place. “Lord, Lord! Well, it is strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman then, should be alive and merry now, and she lying there: so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord!—to think of it; it’s as good as a play—as good as a play!”

As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment, the undertaker turned to go away.

“Stop, stop!” said the old woman in a loud whisper. “Will she be buried tomorrow, or next day, or tonight? I laid her out; and I must walk, you know. Send me a large cloak: a good warm one: for it is bitter cold. We should have cake and wine, too, before we go! Never mind; send some bread—only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Shall we have some bread, dear?” she said eagerly: catching at the undertaker’s coat, as he once more moved towards the door.

“Yes, yes,” said the undertaker, “of course. Anything you like!” He disengaged himself from the old woman’s grasp; and, drawing Oliver after him, hurried away.

The next day, (the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half-quartern loaf and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself,) Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode; where Mr. Bumble had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An old black cloak had been thrown over the rags of the old woman and the man; and the bare coffin having been screwed down, was hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried into the street.

“Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady!” whispered Sowerberry in the old woman’s ear; “we are rather late; and it won’t do, to keep the clergyman waiting. Move on, my men,—as quick as you like!”

Thus directed, the bearers trotted on under their light burden; and the two mourners kept as near them, as they could. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked at a good smart pace in front; and Oliver, whose legs were not so long as his master’s, ran by the side.

There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Sowerberry had anticipated, however; for when they reached the obscure corner of the churchyard in which the nettles grew, and where the parish graves were made, the clergyman had not arrived; and the clerk, who was sitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means improbable that it might be an hour or so, before he came. So, they put the bier on the brink of the grave; and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp clay, with a cold rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys whom the spectacle had attracted into the churchyard played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements by jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the paper.

At length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, and Sowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave. Immediately afterwards, the clergyman appeared: putting on his surplice as he came along. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the burial service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplice to the clerk, and walked away again.

“Now, Bill!” said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. “Fill up!”

It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full, that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped it loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.

“Come, my good fellow!” said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. “They want to shut up the yard.”

The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the grave side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces; and fell down in a swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off), to pay him any attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him; and when he came to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed on their different ways.

“Well, Oliver,” said Sowerberry, as they walked home, “how do you like it?”

“Pretty well, thank you, sir” replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. “Not very much, sir.”

“Ah, you’ll get used to it in time, Oliver,” said Sowerberry. “Nothing when you are used to it, my boy.”

Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr. Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask the question; and walked back to the shop: thinking over all he had seen and heard.

CHAPTER VI. OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND RATHER ASTONISHES HIM

The month’s trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a nice sickly season just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins were looking up; and, in the course of a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great deal of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry’s ingenious speculation, exceeded even his most sanguine hopes. The oldest inhabitants recollected no period at which measles had been so prevalent, or so fatal to infant existence; and many were the mournful processions which little Oliver headed, in a hat-band reaching down to his knees, to the indescribable admiration and emotion of all the mothers in the town. As Oliver accompanied his master in most of his adult expeditions too, in order that he might acquire that equanimity of demeanour and full command of nerve which was essential to a finished undertaker, he had many opportunities of observing the beautiful resignation and fortitude with which some strong-minded people bear their trials and losses.

For instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich old lady or gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number of nephews and nieces, who had been perfectly inconsolable during the previous illness, and whose grief had been wholly irrepressible even on the most public occasions, they would be as happy among themselves as need be—quite cheerful and contented—conversing together with as much freedom and gaiety, as if nothing whatever had happened to disturb them. Husbands, too, bore the loss of their wives with the most heroic calmness. Wives, again, put on weeds for their husbands, as if, so far from grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds to render it as becoming and attractive as possible. It was observable, too, that ladies and gentlemen who were in passions of anguish during the ceremony of interment, recovered almost as soon as they reached home, and became quite composed before the tea-drinking was over. All this was very pleasant and improving to see; and Oliver beheld it with great admiration.

That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good people, I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm with any degree of confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for many months he continued meekly to submit to the domination and ill-treatment of Noah Claypole: who used him far worse than before, now that his jealousy was roused by seeing the new boy promoted to the black stick and hat-band, while he, the old one, remained stationary in the muffin-cap and leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, because Noah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry was disposed to be his friend; so, between these three on one side, and a glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as comfortable as the hungry pig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain department of a brewery.

And now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver’s history; for I have to record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance, but which indirectly produced a material change in all his future prospects and proceedings.

One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton—a pound and a half of the worst end of the neck; when Charlotte being called out of the way, there ensued a brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than aggravating and tantalising young Oliver Twist.

Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the table-cloth; and pulled Oliver’s hair; and twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion that he was a “sneak”; and furthermore announced his intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever that desirable event should take place; and entered upon various topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this day, when they want to be funny. He got rather personal.

“Work’us,” said Noah, “how’s your mother?”

“She’s dead,” replied Oliver; “don’t you say anything about her to me!”

Oliver’s colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge.

“What did she die of, Work’us?” said Noah.

“Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me,” replied Oliver: more as if he were talking to himself, than answering Noah. “I think I know what it must be to die of that!”

“Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work’us,” said Noah, as a tear rolled down Oliver’s cheek. “What’s set you a snivelling now?”

“Not you,” replied Oliver, sharply. “There; that’s enough. Don’t say anything more to me about her; you’d better not!”

“Better not!” exclaimed Noah. “Well! Better not! Work’us, don’t be impudent. Your mother, too! She was a nice ’un, she was. Oh, Lor!” And here, Noah nodded his head expressively; and curled up as much of his small red nose as muscular action could collect together, for the occasion.

“Yer know, Work’us,” continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver’s silence, and speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity: of all tones the most annoying: “Yer know, Work’us, it can’t be helped now; and of course yer couldn’t help it then; and I am very sorry for it; and I’m sure we all are, and pity yer very much. But yer must know, Work’us, yer mother was a regular right-down bad ’un.”

“What did you say?” inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly.

“A regular right-down bad ’un, Work’us,” replied Noah, coolly. “And it’s a great deal better, Work’us, that she died when she did, or else she’d have been hard labouring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung; which is more likely than either, isn’t it?”

Crimson with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the chair and table; seized Noah by the throat; shook him, in the violence of his rage, till his teeth chattered in his head; and collecting his whole force into one heavy blow, felled him to the ground.

A minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet child, mild, dejected creature that harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused at last; the cruel insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire. His breast heaved; his attitude was erect; his eye bright and vivid; his whole person changed, as he stood glaring over the cowardly tormentor who now lay crouching at his feet; and defied him with an energy he had never known before.

“He’ll murder me!” blubbered Noah. “Charlotte! missis! Here’s the new boy a murdering of me! Help! help! Oliver’s gone mad! Char—lotte!”

Noah’s shouts were responded to, by a loud scream from Charlotte, and a louder from Mrs. Sowerberry; the former of whom rushed into the kitchen by a side-door, while the latter paused on the staircase till she was quite certain that it was consistent with the preservation of human life, to come further down.

“Oh, you little wretch!” screamed Charlotte: seizing Oliver with her utmost force, which was about equal to that of a moderately strong man in particularly good training. “Oh, you little un-grate-ful, mur-de-rous, hor-rid villain!” And between every syllable, Charlotte gave Oliver a blow with all her might: accompanying it with a scream, for the benefit of society.

Charlotte’s fist was by no means a light one; but, lest it should not be effectual in calming Oliver’s wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry plunged into the kitchen, and assisted to hold him with one hand, while she scratched his face with the other. In this favourable position of affairs, Noah rose from the ground, and pommelled him behind.

This was rather too violent exercise to last long. When they were all wearied out, and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged Oliver, struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and there locked him up. This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a chair, and burst into tears.

“Bless her, she’s going off!” said Charlotte. “A glass of water, Noah, dear. Make haste!”

“Oh! Charlotte,” said Mrs. Sowerberry: speaking as well as she could, through a deficiency of breath, and a sufficiency of cold water, which Noah had poured over her head and shoulders. “Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy we have not all been murdered in our beds!”

“Ah! mercy indeed, ma’am,” was the reply. “I only hope this’ll teach master not to have any more of these dreadful creatures, that are born to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah! He was all but killed, ma’am, when I came in.”

“Poor fellow!” said Mrs. Sowerberry, looking piteously on the charity-boy.

Noah, whose top waistcoat-button might have been somewhere on a level with the crown of Oliver’s head, rubbed his eyes with the inside of his wrists while this commiseration was bestowed upon him, and performed some affecting tears and sniffs.

“What’s to be done!” exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. “Your master’s not at home; there’s not a man in the house, and he’ll kick that door down in ten minutes.” Oliver’s vigorous plunges against the bit of timber in question, rendered this occurance highly probable.

“Dear, dear! I don’t know, ma’am,” said Charlotte, “unless we send for the police-officers.”

“Or the millingtary,” suggested Mr. Claypole.

“No, no,” said Mrs. Sowerberry: bethinking herself of Oliver’s old friend. “Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly, and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap! Make haste! You can hold a knife to that black eye, as you run along. It’ll keep the swelling down.”

Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed; and very much it astonished the people who were out walking, to see a charity-boy tearing through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his head, and a clasp-knife at his eye.

CHAPTER VII. 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.

CHAPTER VIII. OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON. HE ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD A STRANGE SORT OF YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Oliver reached the stile at which the by-path terminated; and once more gained the high-road. It was eight o’clock now. Though he was nearly five miles away from the town, he ran, and hid behind the hedges, by turns, till noon, fearing that he might be pursued and overtaken. Then he sat down to rest by the side of the milestone, and began to think, for the first time, where he had better go and try to live.

The stone by which he was seated, bore, in large characters, an intimation that it was just seventy miles from that spot to London. The name awakened a new train of ideas in the boy’s mind.

London!—that great place!—nobody—not even Mr. Bumble—could ever find him there! He had often heard the old men in the workhouse, too, say that no lad of spirit need want in London; and that there were ways of living in that vast city, which those who had been bred up in country parts had no idea of. It was the very place for a homeless boy, who must die in the streets unless some one helped him. As these things passed through his thoughts, he jumped upon his feet, and again walked forward.

He had diminished the distance between himself and London by full four miles more, before he recollected how much he must undergo ere he could hope to reach his place of destination. As this consideration forced itself upon him, he slackened his pace a little, and meditated upon his means of getting there. He had a crust of bread, a coarse shirt, and two pairs of stockings, in his bundle. He had a penny too—a gift of Sowerberry’s after some funeral in which he had acquitted himself more than ordinarily well—in his pocket. “A clean shirt,” thought Oliver, “is a very comfortable thing; and so are two pairs of darned stockings; and so is a penny; but they are small helps to a sixty-five miles’ walk in winter time.” But Oliver’s thoughts, like those of most other people, although they were extremely ready and active to point out his difficulties, were wholly at a loss to suggest any feasible mode of surmounting them; so, after a good deal of thinking to no particular purpose, he changed his little bundle over to the other shoulder, and trudged on.

Oliver walked twenty miles that day; and all that time tasted nothing but the crust of dry bread, and a few draughts of water, which he begged at the cottage-doors by the road-side. When the night came, he turned into a meadow; and, creeping close under a hay-rick, determined to lie there, till morning. He felt frightened at first, for the wind moaned dismally over the empty fields, and he was cold and hungry, and more alone than he had ever felt before. Being very tired with his walk, however, he soon fell asleep and forgot his troubles.

He felt cold and stiff, when he got up next morning, and so hungry that he was obliged to exchange the penny for a small loaf, in the very first village through which he passed. He had walked no more than twelve miles, when night closed in again. His feet were sore, and his legs so weak that they trembled beneath him. Another night passed in the bleak damp air, made him worse; when he set forward on his journey next morning he could hardly crawl along.

He waited at the bottom of a steep hill till a stage-coach came up, and then begged of the outside passengers; but there were very few who took any notice of him: and even those told him to wait till they got to the top of the hill, and then let them see how far he could run for a halfpenny. Poor Oliver tried to keep up with the coach a little way, but was unable to do it, by reason of his fatigue and sore feet. When the outsides saw this, they put their halfpence back into their pockets again, declaring that he was an idle young dog, and didn’t deserve anything; and the coach rattled away and left only a cloud of dust behind.

In some villages, large painted boards were fixed up: warning all persons who begged within the district, that they would be sent to jail. This frightened Oliver very much, and made him glad to get out of those villages with all possible expedition. In others, he would stand about the inn-yards, and look mournfully at every one who passed: a proceeding which generally terminated in the landlady’s ordering one of the post-boys who were lounging about, to drive that strange boy out of the place, for she was sure he had come to steal something. If he begged at a farmer’s house, ten to one but they threatened to set the dog on him; and when he showed his nose in a shop, they talked about the beadle—which brought Oliver’s heart into his mouth,—very often the only thing he had there, for many hours together.

In fact, if it had not been for a good-hearted turnpike-man, and a benevolent old lady, Oliver’s troubles would have been shortened by the very same process which had put an end to his mother’s; in other words, he would most assuredly have fallen dead upon the king’s highway. But the turnpike-man gave him a meal of bread and cheese; and the old lady, who had a shipwrecked grandson wandering barefoot in some distant part of the earth, took pity upon the poor orphan, and gave him what little she could afford—and more—with such kind and gentle words, and such tears of sympathy and compassion, that they sank deeper into Oliver’s soul, than all the sufferings he had ever undergone.

Early on the seventh morning after he had left his native place, Oliver limped slowly into the little town of Barnet. The window-shutters were closed; the street was empty; not a soul had awakened to the business of the day. The sun was rising in all its splendid beauty; but the light only served to show the boy his own lonesomeness and desolation, as he sat, with bleeding feet and covered with dust, upon a door-step.

By degrees, the shutters were opened; the window-blinds were drawn up; and people began passing to and fro. Some few stopped to gaze at Oliver for a moment or two, or turned round to stare at him as they hurried by; but none relieved him, or troubled themselves to inquire how he came there. He had no heart to beg. And there he sat.

He had been crouching on the step for some time: wondering at the great number of public-houses (every other house in Barnet was a tavern, large or small), gazing listlessly at the coaches as they passed through, and thinking how strange it seemed that they could do, with ease, in a few hours, what it had taken him a whole week of courage and determination beyond his years to accomplish: when he was roused by observing that a boy, who had passed him carelessly some minutes before, had returned, and was now surveying him most earnestly from the opposite side of the way. He took little heed of this at first; but the boy remained in the same attitude of close observation so long, that Oliver raised his head, and returned his steady look. Upon this, the boy crossed over; and walking close up to Oliver, said,

“Hullo, my covey! What’s the row?”

The boy who addressed this inquiry to the young wayfarer, was about his own age: but one of the queerest looking boys that Oliver had even seen. He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and as dirty a juvenile as one would wish to see; but he had about him all the airs and manners of a man. He was short of his age: with rather bow-legs, and little, sharp, ugly eyes. His hat was stuck on the top of his head so lightly, that it threatened to fall off every moment—and would have done so, very often, if the wearer had not had a knack of every now and then giving his head a sudden twitch, which brought it back to its old place again. He wore a man’s coat, which reached nearly to his heels. He had turned the cuffs back, half-way up his arm, to get his hands out of the sleeves: apparently with the ultimate view of thrusting them into the pockets of his corduroy trousers; for there he kept them. He was, altogether, as roystering and swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood four feet six, or something less, in the bluchers.

“Hullo, my covey! What’s the row?” said this strange young gentleman to Oliver.

“I am very hungry and tired,” replied Oliver: the tears standing in his eyes as he spoke. “I have walked a long way. I have been walking these seven days.”

“Walking for sivin days!” said the young gentleman. “Oh, I see. Beak’s order, eh? But,” he added, noticing Oliver’s look of surprise, “I suppose you don’t know what a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on.”

Oliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird’s mouth described by the term in question.

“My eyes, how green!” exclaimed the young gentleman. “Why, a beak’s a madgst’rate; and when you walk by a beak’s order, it’s not straight forerd, but always agoing up, and niver a coming down agin. Was you never on the mill?”

“What mill?” inquired Oliver.

“What mill! Why, the mill—the mill as takes up so little room that it’ll work inside a Stone Jug; and always goes better when the wind’s low with people, than when it’s high; acos then they can’t get workmen. But come,” said the young gentleman; “you want grub, and you shall have it. I’m at low-water-mark myself—only one bob and a magpie; but, as far as it goes, I’ll fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There! Now then! Morrice!”

Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent chandler’s shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham and a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, “a fourpenny bran!” the ham being kept clean and preserved from dust, by the ingenious expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a portion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentleman turned into a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at his new friend’s bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention.

“Going to London?” said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.

“Yes.”

“Got any lodgings?”

“No.”

“Money?”

“No.”

The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go.

“Do you live in London?” inquired Oliver.

“Yes. I do, when I’m at home,” replied the boy. “I suppose you want some place to sleep in tonight, don’t you?”

“I do, indeed,” answered Oliver. “I have not slept under a roof since I left the country.”

“Don’t fret your eyelids on that score,” said the young gentleman. “I’ve got to be in London tonight; and I know a ’spectable old gentleman as lives there, wot’ll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change—that is, if any gentleman he knows interduces you. And don’t he know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!”

The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments of discourse were playfully ironical; and finished the beer as he did so.

This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted; especially as it was immediately followed up, by the assurance that the old gentleman referred to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a comfortable place, without loss of time. This led to a more friendly and confidential dialogue; from which Oliver discovered that his friend’s name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a peculiar pet and protégé of the elderly gentleman before mentioned.

Mr. Dawkins’s appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the comforts which his patron’s interest obtained for those whom he took under his protection; but, as he had a rather flightly and dissolute mode of conversing, and furthermore avowed that among his intimate friends he was better known by the sobriquet of “The Artful Dodger,” Oliver concluded that, being of a dissipated and careless turn, the moral precepts of his benefactor had hitherto been thrown away upon him. Under this impression, he secretly resolved to cultivate the good opinion of the old gentleman as quickly as possible; and, if he found the Dodger incorrigible, as he more than half suspected he should, to decline the honour of his farther acquaintance.

As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it was nearly eleven o’clock when they reached the turnpike at Islington. They crossed from the Angel into St. John’s Road; struck down the small street which terminates at Sadler’s Wells Theatre; through Exmouth Street and Coppice Row; down the little court by the side of the workhouse; across the classic ground which once bore the name of Hockley-in-the-Hole; thence into Little Saffron Hill; and so into Saffron Hill the Great: along which the Dodger scudded at a rapid pace, directing Oliver to follow close at his heels.

Although Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping sight of his leader, he could not help bestowing a few hasty glances on either side of the way, as he passed along. A dirtier or more wretched place he had never seen. The street was very narrow and muddy, and the air was impregnated with filthy odours.

There were a good many small shops; but the only stock in trade appeared to be heaps of children, who, even at that time of night, were crawling in and out at the doors, or screaming from the inside. The sole places that seemed to prosper amid the general blight of the place, were the public-houses; and in them, the lowest orders of Irish were wrangling with might and main. Covered ways and yards, which here and there diverged from the main street, disclosed little knots of houses, where drunken men and women were positively wallowing in filth; and from several of the door-ways, great ill-looking fellows were cautiously emerging, bound, to all appearance, on no very well-disposed or harmless errands.

Oliver was just considering whether he hadn’t better run away, when they reached the bottom of the hill. His conductor, catching him by the arm, pushed open the door of a house near Field Lane; and drawing him into the passage, closed it behind them.

“Now, then!” cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle from the Dodger.

“Plummy and slam!” was the reply.

This seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right; for the light of a feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the remote end of the passage; and a man’s face peeped out, from where a balustrade of the old kitchen staircase had been broken away.

“There’s two on you,” said the man, thrusting the candle farther out, and shielding his eyes with his hand. “Who’s the t’other one?”

“A new pal,” replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward.

“Where did he come from?”

“Greenland. Is Fagin upstairs?”

“Yes, he’s a sortin’ the wipes. Up with you!” The candle was drawn back, and the face disappeared.

Oliver, groping his way with one hand, and having the other firmly grasped by his companion, ascended with much difficulty the dark and broken stairs: which his conductor mounted with an ease and expedition that showed he was well acquainted with them.

He threw open the door of a back-room, and drew Oliver in after him.

The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black with age and dirt. There was a deal table before the fire: upon which were a candle, stuck in a ginger-beer bottle, two or three pewter pots, a loaf and butter, and a plate. In a frying-pan, which was on the fire, and which was secured to the mantelshelf by a string, some sausages were cooking; and standing over them, with a toasting-fork in his hand, was a very old shrivelled Jew, whose villainous-looking and repulsive face was obscured by a quantity of matted red hair. He was dressed in a greasy flannel gown, with his throat bare; and seemed to be dividing his attention between the frying-pan and the clothes-horse, over which a great number of silk handkerchiefs were hanging. Several rough beds made of old sacks, were huddled side by side on the floor. Seated round the table were four or five boys, none older than the Dodger, smoking long clay pipes, and drinking spirits with the air of middle-aged men. These all crowded about their associate as he whispered a few words to the Jew; and then turned round and grinned at Oliver. So did the Jew himself, toasting-fork in hand.

“This is him, Fagin,” said Jack Dawkins; “my friend Oliver Twist.”

The Jew grinned; and, making a low obeisance to Oliver, took him by the hand, and hoped he should have the honour of his intimate acquaintance. Upon this, the young gentleman with the pipes came round him, and shook both his hands very hard—especially the one in which he held his little bundle. One young gentleman was very anxious to hang up his cap for him; and another was so obliging as to put his hands in his pockets, in order that, as he was very tired, he might not have the trouble of emptying them, himself, when he went to bed. These civilities would probably be extended much farther, but for a liberal exercise of the Jew’s toasting-fork on the heads and shoulders of the affectionate youths who offered them.

“We are very glad to see you, Oliver, very,” said the Jew. “Dodger, take off the sausages; and draw a tub near the fire for Oliver. Ah, you’re a-staring at the pocket-handkerchiefs! eh, my dear? There are a good many of ’em, ain’t there? We’ve just looked ’em out, ready for the wash; that’s all, Oliver; that’s all. Ha! ha! ha!”

The latter part of this speech, was hailed by a boisterous shout from all the hopeful pupils of the merry old gentleman. In the midst of which they went to supper.

Oliver ate his share, and the Jew then mixed him a glass of hot gin and water, telling him he must drink it off directly, because another gentleman wanted the tumbler. Oliver did as he was desired. Immediately afterwards he felt himself gently lifted on to one of the sacks; and then he sunk into a deep sleep.

CHAPTER IX. CONTAINING FURTHER PARTICULARS CONCERNING THE PLEASANT OLD GENTLEMAN, AND HIS HOPEFUL PUPILS

It was late next morning when Oliver awoke, from a sound, long sleep. There was no other person in the room but the old Jew, who was boiling some coffee in a saucepan for breakfast, and whistling softly to himself as he stirred it round and round, with an iron spoon. He would stop every now and then to listen when there was the least noise below: and when he had satisfied himself, he would go on whistling and stirring again, as before.

Although Oliver had roused himself from sleep, he was not thoroughly awake. There is a drowsy state, between sleeping and waking, when you dream more in five minutes with your eyes half open, and yourself half conscious of everything that is passing around you, than you would in five nights with your eyes fast closed, and your senses wrapt in perfect unconsciousness. At such time, a mortal knows just enough of what his mind is doing, to form some glimmering conception of its mighty powers, its bounding from earth and spurning time and space, when freed from the restraint of its corporeal associate.

Oliver was precisely in this condition. He saw the Jew with his half-closed eyes; heard his low whistling; and recognised the sound of the spoon grating against the saucepan’s sides: and yet the self-same senses were mentally engaged, at the same time, in busy action with almost everybody he had ever known.

When the coffee was done, the Jew drew the saucepan to the hob. Standing, then in an irresolute attitude for a few minutes, as if he did not well know how to employ himself, he turned round and looked at Oliver, and called him by his name. He did not answer, and was to all appearances asleep.

After satisfying himself upon this head, the Jew stepped gently to the door: which he fastened. He then drew forth: as it seemed to Oliver, from some trap in the floor: a small box, which he placed carefully on the table. His eyes glistened as he raised the lid, and looked in. Dragging an old chair to the table, he sat down; and took from it a magnificent gold watch, sparkling with jewels.

“Aha!” said the Jew, shrugging up his shoulders, and distorting every feature with a hideous grin. “Clever dogs! Clever dogs! Staunch to the last! Never told the old parson where they were. Never poached upon old Fagin! And why should they? It wouldn’t have loosened the knot, or kept the drop up, a minute longer. No, no, no! Fine fellows! Fine fellows!”

With these, and other muttered reflections of the like nature, the Jew once more deposited the watch in its place of safety. At least half a dozen more were severally drawn forth from the same box, and surveyed with equal pleasure; besides rings, brooches, bracelets, and other articles of jewellery, of such magnificent materials, and costly workmanship, that Oliver had no idea, even of their names.

Having replaced these trinkets, the Jew took out another: so small that it lay in the palm of his hand. There seemed to be some very minute inscription on it; for the Jew laid it flat upon the table, and shading it with his hand, pored over it, long and earnestly. At length he put it down, as if despairing of success; and, leaning back in his chair, muttered:

“What a fine thing capital punishment is! Dead men never repent; dead men never bring awkward stories to light. Ah, it’s a fine thing for the trade! Five of ’em strung up in a row, and none left to play booty, or turn white-livered!”

As the Jew uttered these words, his bright dark eyes, which had been staring vacantly before him, fell on Oliver’s face; the boy’s eyes were fixed on his in mute curiousity; and although the recognition was only for an instant—for the briefest space of time that can possibly be conceived—it was enough to show the old man that he had been observed.

He closed the lid of the box with a loud crash; and, laying his hand on a bread knife which was on the table, started furiously up. He trembled very much though; for, even in his terror, Oliver could see that the knife quivered in the air.

“What’s that?” said the Jew. “What do you watch me for? Why are you awake? What have you seen? Speak out, boy! Quick—quick! for your life.”

“I wasn’t able to sleep any longer, sir,” replied Oliver, meekly. “I am very sorry if I have disturbed you, sir.”

“You were not awake an hour ago?” said the Jew, scowling fiercely on the boy.

“No! No, indeed!” replied Oliver.

“Are you sure?” cried the Jew: with a still fiercer look than before: and a threatening attitude.

“Upon my word I was not, sir,” replied Oliver, earnestly. “I was not, indeed, sir.”

“Tush, tush, my dear!” said the Jew, abruptly resuming his old manner, and playing with the knife a little, before he laid it down; as if to induce the belief that he had caught it up, in mere sport. “Of course I know that, my dear. I only tried to frighten you. You’re a brave boy. Ha! ha! you’re a brave boy, Oliver.” The Jew rubbed his hands with a chuckle, but glanced uneasily at the box, notwithstanding.

“Did you see any of these pretty things, my dear?” said the Jew, laying his hand upon it after a short pause.

“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Ah!” said the Jew, turning rather pale. “They—they’re mine, Oliver; my little property. All I have to live upon, in my old age. The folks call me a miser, my dear. Only a miser; that’s all.”

Oliver thought the old gentleman must be a decided miser to live in such a dirty place, with so many watches; but, thinking that perhaps his fondness for the Dodger and the other boys, cost him a good deal of money, he only cast a deferential look at the Jew, and asked if he might get up.

“Certainly, my dear, certainly,” replied the old gentleman. “Stay. There’s a pitcher of water in the corner by the door. Bring it here; and I’ll give you a basin to wash in, my dear.”

Oliver got up; walked across the room; and stooped for an instant to raise the pitcher. When he turned his head, the box was gone.

He had scarcely washed himself, and made everything tidy, by emptying the basin out of the window, agreeably to the Jew’s directions, when the Dodger returned: accompanied by a very sprightly young friend, whom Oliver had seen smoking on the previous night, and who was now formally introduced to him as Charley Bates. The four sat down, to breakfast, on the coffee, and some hot rolls and ham which the Dodger had brought home in the crown of his hat.

“Well,” said the Jew, glancing slyly at Oliver, and addressing himself to the Dodger, “I hope you’ve been at work this morning, my dears?”

“Hard,” replied the Dodger.

“As nails,” added Charley Bates.

“Good boys, good boys!” said the Jew. “What have you got, Dodger?”

“A couple of pocket-books,” replied that young gentleman.

“Lined?” inquired the Jew, with eagerness.

“Pretty well,” replied the Dodger, producing two pocket-books; one green, and the other red.

“Not so heavy as they might be,” said the Jew, after looking at the insides carefully; “but very neat and nicely made. Ingenious workman, ain’t he, Oliver?”

“Very indeed, sir,” said Oliver. At which Mr. Charles Bates laughed uproariously; very much to the amazement of Oliver, who saw nothing to laugh at, in anything that had passed.

“And what have you got, my dear?” said Fagin to Charley Bates.

“Wipes,” replied Master Bates; at the same time producing four pocket-handkerchiefs.

“Well,” said the Jew, inspecting them closely; “they’re very good ones, very. You haven’t marked them well, though, Charley; so the marks shall be picked out with a needle, and we’ll teach Oliver how to do it. Shall us, Oliver, eh? Ha! ha! ha!”

“If you please, sir,” said Oliver.

“You’d like to be able to make pocket-handkerchiefs as easy as Charley Bates, wouldn’t you, my dear?” said the Jew.

“Very much, indeed, if you’ll teach me, sir,” replied Oliver.

Master Bates saw something so exquisitely ludicrous in this reply, that he burst into another laugh; which laugh, meeting the coffee he was drinking, and carrying it down some wrong channel, very nearly terminated in his premature suffocation.

“He is so jolly green!” said Charley when he recovered, as an apology to the company for his unpolite behaviour.

The Dodger said nothing, but he smoothed Oliver’s hair over his eyes, and said he’d know better, by and by; upon which the old gentleman, observing Oliver’s colour mounting, changed the subject by asking whether there had been much of a crowd at the execution that morning? This made him wonder more and more; for it was plain from the replies of the two boys that they had both been there; and Oliver naturally wondered how they could possibly have found time to be so very industrious.

When the breakfast was cleared away; the merry old gentleman and the two boys played at a very curious and uncommon game, which was performed in this way. The merry old gentleman, placing a snuff-box in one pocket of his trousers, a note-case in the other, and a watch in his waistcoat pocket, with a guard-chain round his neck, and sticking a mock diamond pin in his shirt: buttoned his coat tight round him, and putting his spectacle-case and handkerchief in his pockets, trotted up and down the room with a stick, in imitation of the manner in which old gentlemen walk about the streets any hour in the day. Sometimes he stopped at the fire-place, and sometimes at the door, making believe that he was staring with all his might into shop-windows. At such times, he would look constantly round him, for fear of thieves, and would keep slapping all his pockets in turn, to see that he hadn’t lost anything, in such a very funny and natural manner, that Oliver laughed till the tears ran down his face. All this time, the two boys followed him closely about: getting out of his sight, so nimbly, every time he turned round, that it was impossible to follow their motions. At last, the Dodger trod upon his toes, or ran upon his boot accidently, while Charley Bates stumbled up against him behind; and in that one moment they took from him, with the most extraordinary rapidity, snuff-box, note-case, watch-guard, chain, shirt-pin, pocket-handkerchief, even the spectacle-case. If the old gentleman felt a hand in any one of his pockets, he cried out where it was; and then the game began all over again.

When this game had been played a great many times, a couple of young ladies called to see the young gentleman; one of whom was named Bet, and the other Nancy. They wore a good deal of hair, not very neatly turned up behind, and were rather untidy about the shoes and stockings. They were not exactly pretty, perhaps; but they had a great deal of colour in their faces, and looked quite stout and hearty. Being remarkably free and agreeable in their manners, Oliver thought them very nice girls indeed, as there is no doubt they were.

The visitors stopped a long time. Spirits were produced, in consequence of one of the young ladies complaining of a coldness in her inside; and the conversation took a very convivial and improving turn. At length, Charley Bates expressed his opinion that it was time to pad the hoof. This, it occurred to Oliver, must be French for going out; for directly afterwards, the Dodger, and Charley, and the two young ladies, went away together, having been kindly furnished by the amiable old Jew with money to spend.

“There, my dear,” said Fagin. “That’s a pleasant life, isn’t it? They have gone out for the day.”

“Have they done work, sir?” inquired Oliver.

“Yes,” said the Jew; “that is, unless they should unexpectedly come across any, when they are out; and they won’t neglect it, if they do, my dear, depend upon it. Make ’em your models, my dear. Make ’em your models,” tapping the fire-shovel on the hearth to add force to his words; “do everything they bid you, and take their advice in all matters—especially the Dodger’s, my dear. He’ll be a great man himself, and will make you one too, if you take pattern by him.—Is my handkerchief hanging out of my pocket, my dear?” said the Jew, stopping short.

“Yes, sir,” said Oliver.

“See if you can take it out, without my feeling it; as you saw them do, when we were at play this morning.”

Oliver held up the bottom of the pocket with one hand, as he had seen the Dodger hold it, and drew the handkerchief lightly out of it with the other.

“Is it gone?” cried the Jew.

“Here it is, sir,” said Oliver, showing it in his hand.

“You’re a clever boy, my dear,” said the playful old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head approvingly. “I never saw a sharper lad. Here’s a shilling for you. If you go on, in this way, you’ll be the greatest man of the time. And now come here, and I’ll show you how to take the marks out of the handkerchiefs.”

Oliver wondered what picking the old gentleman’s pocket in play, had to do with his chances of being a great man. But, thinking that the Jew, being so much his senior, must know best, he followed him quietly to the table, and was soon deeply involved in his new study.

CHAPTER X. OLIVER BECOMES BETTER ACQUAINTED WITH THE CHARACTERS OF HIS NEW ASSOCIATES; AND PURCHASES EXPERIENCE AT A HIGH PRICE. BEING A SHORT, BUT VERY IMPORTANT CHAPTER, IN THIS HISTORY

For many days, Oliver remained in the Jew’s room, picking the marks out of the pocket-handkerchief, (of which a great number were brought home,) and sometimes taking part in the game already described: which the two boys and the Jew played, regularly, every morning. At length, he began to languish for fresh air, and took many occasions of earnestly entreating the old gentleman to allow him to go out to work with his two companions.

Oliver was rendered the more anxious to be actively employed, by what he had seen of the stern morality of the old gentleman’s character. Whenever the Dodger or Charley Bates came home at night, empty-handed, he would expatiate with great vehemence on the misery of idle and lazy habits; and would enforce upon them the necessity of an active life, by sending them supperless to bed. On one occasion, indeed, he even went so far as to knock them both down a flight of stairs; but this was carrying out his virtuous precepts to an unusual extent.

At length, one morning, Oliver obtained the permission he had so eagerly sought. There had been no handkerchiefs to work upon, for two or three days, and the dinners had been rather meagre. Perhaps these were reasons for the old gentleman’s giving his assent; but, whether they were or no, he told Oliver he might go, and placed him under the joint guardianship of Charley Bates, and his friend the Dodger.

The three boys sallied out; the Dodger with his coat-sleeves tucked up, and his hat cocked, as usual; Master Bates sauntering along with his hands in his pockets; and Oliver between them, wondering where they were going, and what branch of manufacture he would be instructed in first.

The pace at which they went, was such a very lazy, ill-looking saunter, that Oliver soon began to think his companions were going to deceive the old gentleman, by not going to work at all. The Dodger had a vicious propensity, too, of pulling the caps from the heads of small boys and tossing them down areas; while Charley Bates exhibited some very loose notions concerning the rights of property, by pilfering divers apples and onions from the stalls at the kennel sides, and thrusting them into pockets which were so surprisingly capacious, that they seemed to undermine his whole suit of clothes in every direction. These things looked so bad, that Oliver was on the point of declaring his intention of seeking his way back, in the best way he could; when his thoughts were suddenly directed into another channel, by a very mysterious change of behaviour on the part of the Dodger.

They were just emerging from a narrow court not far from the open square in Clerkenwell, which is yet called, by some strange perversion of terms, “The Green”: when the Dodger made a sudden stop; and, laying his finger on his lip, drew his companions back again, with the greatest caution and circumspection.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Oliver.

“Hush!” replied the Dodger. “Do you see that old cove at the book-stall?”

“The old gentleman over the way?” said Oliver. “Yes, I see him.”

“He’ll do,” said the Dodger.

“A prime plant,” observed Master Charley Bates.

Oliver looked from one to the other, with the greatest surprise; but he was not permitted to make any inquiries; for the two boys walked stealthily across the road, and slunk close behind the old gentleman towards whom his attention had been directed. Oliver walked a few paces after them; and, not knowing whether to advance or retire, stood looking on in silent amazement.

The old gentleman was a very respectable-looking personage, with a powdered head and gold spectacles. He was dressed in a bottle-green coat with a black velvet collar; wore white trousers; and carried a smart bamboo cane under his arm. He had taken up a book from the stall, and there he stood, reading away, as hard as if he were in his elbow-chair, in his own study. It is very possible that he fancied himself there, indeed; for it was plain, from his abstraction, that he saw not the book-stall, nor the street, nor the boys, nor, in short, anything but the book itself: which he was reading straight through: turning over the leaf when he got to the bottom of a page, beginning at the top line of the next one, and going regularly on, with the greatest interest and eagerness.

What was Oliver’s horror and alarm as he stood a few paces off, looking on with his eyelids as wide open as they would possibly go, to see the Dodger plunge his hand into the old gentleman’s pocket, and draw from thence a handkerchief! To see him hand the same to Charley Bates; and finally to behold them, both running away round the corner at full speed!

In an instant the whole mystery of the hankerchiefs, and the watches, and the jewels, and the Jew, rushed upon the boy’s mind.

He stood, for a moment, with the blood so tingling through all his veins from terror, that he felt as if he were in a burning fire; then, confused and frightened, he took to his heels; and, not knowing what he did, made off as fast as he could lay his feet to the ground.

This was all done in a minute’s space. In the very instant when Oliver began to run, the old gentleman, putting his hand to his pocket, and missing his handkerchief, turned sharp round. Seeing the boy scudding away at such a rapid pace, he very naturally concluded him to be the depredator; and shouting “Stop thief!” with all his might, made off after him, book in hand.

But the old gentleman was not the only person who raised the hue-and-cry. The Dodger and Master Bates, unwilling to attract public attention by running down the open street, had merely retired into the very first doorway round the corner. They no sooner heard the cry, and saw Oliver running, than, guessing exactly how the matter stood, they issued forth with great promptitude; and, shouting “Stop thief!” too, joined in the pursuit like good citizens.

Although Oliver had been brought up by philosophers, he was not theoretically acquainted with the beautiful axiom that self-preservation is the first law of nature. If he had been, perhaps he would have been prepared for this. Not being prepared, however, it alarmed him the more; so away he went like the wind, with the old gentleman and the two boys roaring and shouting behind him.

“Stop thief! Stop thief!” There is a magic in the sound. The tradesman leaves his counter, and the car-man his waggon; the butcher throws down his tray; the baker his basket; the milkman his pail; the errand-boy his parcels; the school-boy his marbles; the paviour his pickaxe; the child his battledore. Away they run, pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash: tearing, yelling, screaming, knocking down the passengers as they turn the corners, rousing up the dogs, and astonishing the fowls: and streets, squares, and courts, re-echo with the sound.

“Stop thief! Stop thief!” The cry is taken up by a hundred voices, and the crowd accumulate at every turning. Away they fly, splashing through the mud, and rattling along the pavements: up go the windows, out run the people, onward bear the mob, a whole audience desert Punch in the very thickest of the plot, and, joining the rushing throng, swell the shout, and lend fresh vigour to the cry, “Stop thief! Stop thief!”

“Stop thief! Stop thief!” There is a passion for hunting something deeply implanted in the human breast. One wretched breathless child, panting with exhaustion; terror in his looks; agony in his eyes; large drops of perspiration streaming down his face; strains every nerve to make head upon his pursuers; and as they follow on his track, and gain upon him every instant, they hail his decreasing strength with joy. “Stop thief!” Ay, stop him for God’s sake, were it only in mercy!

Stopped at last! A clever blow. He is down upon the pavement; and the crowd eagerly gather round him: each new comer, jostling and struggling with the others to catch a glimpse. “Stand aside!” “Give him a little air!” “Nonsense! he don’t deserve it.” “Where’s the gentleman?” “Here he is, coming down the street.” “Make room there for the gentleman!” “Is this the boy, sir!” “Yes.”

Oliver lay, covered with mud and dust, and bleeding from the mouth, looking wildly round upon the heap of faces that surrounded him, when the old gentleman was officiously dragged and pushed into the circle by the foremost of the pursuers.

“Yes,” said the gentleman, “I am afraid it is the boy.”

“Afraid!” murmured the crowd. “That’s a good ’un!”

“Poor fellow!” said the gentleman, “he has hurt himself.”

“I did that, sir,” said a great lubberly fellow, stepping forward; “and preciously I cut my knuckle agin’ his mouth. I stopped him, sir.”

The fellow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for his pains; but, the old gentleman, eyeing him with an expression of dislike, look anxiously round, as if he contemplated running away himself: which it is very possible he might have attempted to do, and thus have afforded another chase, had not a police officer (who is generally the last person to arrive in such cases) at that moment made his way through the crowd, and seized Oliver by the collar.

“Come, get up,” said the man, roughly.

“It wasn’t me indeed, sir. Indeed, indeed, it was two other boys,” said Oliver, clasping his hands passionately, and looking round. “They are here somewhere.”

“Oh no, they ain’t,” said the officer. He meant this to be ironical, but it was true besides; for the Dodger and Charley Bates had filed off down the first convenient court they came to.

“Come, get up!”

“Don’t hurt him,” said the old gentleman, compassionately.

“Oh no, I won’t hurt him,” replied the officer, tearing his jacket half off his back, in proof thereof. “Come, I know you; it won’t do. Will you stand upon your legs, you young devil?”

Oliver, who could hardly stand, made a shift to raise himself on his feet, and was at once lugged along the streets by the jacket-collar, at a rapid pace. The gentleman walked on with them by the officer’s side; and as many of the crowd as could achieve the feat, got a little ahead, and stared back at Oliver from time to time. The boys shouted in triumph; and on they went.

CHAPTER XI. TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE; AND FURNISHES A SLIGHT SPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE

The offence had been committed within the district, and indeed in the immediate neighborhood of, a very notorious metropolitan police office. The crowd had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two or three streets, and down a place called Mutton Hill, when he was led beneath a low archway, and up a dirty court, into this dispensary of summary justice, by the back way. It was a small paved yard into which they turned; and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of whiskers on his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand.

“What’s the matter now?” said the man carelessly.

“A young fogle-hunter,” replied the man who had Oliver in charge.

“Are you the party that’s been robbed, sir?” inquired the man with the keys.

“Yes, I am,” replied the old gentleman; “but I am not sure that this boy actually took the handkerchief. I—I would rather not press the case.”

“Must go before the magistrate now, sir,” replied the man. “His worship will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows!”

This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was searched; and nothing being found upon him, locked up.

This cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar, only not so light. It was most intolerably dirty; for it was Monday morning; and it had been tenanted by six drunken people, who had been locked up, elsewhere, since Saturday night. But this is little. In our station-houses, men and women are every night confined on the most trivial charges—the word is worth noting—in dungeons, compared with which, those in Newgate, occupied by the most atrocious felons, tried, found guilty, and under sentence of death, are palaces. Let any one who doubts this, compare the two.

The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key grated in the lock. He turned with a sigh to the book, which had been the innocent cause of all this disturbance.

“There is something in that boy’s face,” said the old gentleman to himself as he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the cover of the book, in a thoughtful manner; “something that touches and interests me. Can he be innocent? He looked like— Bye the bye,” exclaimed the old gentleman, halting very abruptly, and staring up into the sky, “Bless my soul!—where have I seen something like that look before?”

After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked, with the same meditative face, into a back anteroom opening from the yard; and there, retiring into a corner, called up before his mind’s eye a vast amphitheatre of faces over which a dusky curtain had hung for many years. “No,” said the old gentleman, shaking his head; “it must be imagination.”

He wandered over them again. He had called them into view, and it was not easy to replace the shroud that had so long concealed them. There were the faces of friends, and foes, and of many that had been almost strangers peering intrusively from the crowd; there were the faces of young and blooming girls that were now old women; there were faces that the grave had changed and closed upon, but which the mind, superior to its power, still dressed in their old freshness and beauty, calling back the lustre of the eyes, the brightness of the smile, the beaming of the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering of beauty beyond the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from earth only to be set up as a light, to shed a soft and gentle glow upon the path to Heaven.

But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver’s features bore a trace. So, he heaved a sigh over the recollections he awakened; and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman, buried them again in the pages of the musty book.

He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the man with the keys to follow him into the office. He closed his book hastily; and was at once ushered into the imposing presence of the renowned Mr. Fang.

The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr. Fang sat behind a bar, at the upper end; and on one side of the door was a sort of wooden pen in which poor little Oliver was already deposited; trembling very much at the awfulness of the scene.

Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with no great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and sides of his head. His face was stern, and much flushed. If he were really not in the habit of drinking rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy damages.

The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the magistrate’s desk, said, suiting the action to the word, “That is my name and address, sir.” He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned.

Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was out of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl.

“Who are you?” said Mr. Fang.

The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.

“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper. “Who is this fellow?”

“My name, sir,” said the old gentleman, speaking like a gentleman, “my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable person, under the protection of the bench.” Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information.

“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, “what’s this fellow charged with?”

“He’s not charged at all, your worship,” replied the officer. “He appears against this boy, your worship.”

His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe one.

“Appears against the boy, does he?” said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. “Swear him!”

“Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word,” said Mr. Brownlow; “and that is, that I really never, without actual experience, could have believed—”

“Hold your tongue, sir!” said Mr. Fang, peremptorily.

“I will not, sir!” replied the old gentleman.

“Hold your tongue this instant, or I’ll have you turned out of the office!” said Mr. Fang. “You’re an insolent impertinent fellow. How dare you bully a magistrate!”

“What!” exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.

“Swear this person!” said Fang to the clerk. “I’ll not hear another word. Swear him.”

Mr. Brownlow’s indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting perhaps, that he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed his feelings and submitted to be sworn at once.

“Now,” said Fang, “what’s the charge against this boy? What have you got to say, sir?”

“I was standing at a bookstall—” Mr. Brownlow began.

“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Mr. Fang. “Policeman! Where’s the policeman? Here, swear this policeman. Now, policeman, what is this?”

The policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had taken the charge; how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his person; and how that was all he knew about it.

“Are there any witnesses?” inquired Mr. Fang.

“None, your worship,” replied the policeman.

Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the prosecutor, said in a towering passion.

“Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, man, or do you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing to give evidence, I’ll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will, by—”

By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailor coughed very loud, just at the right moment; and the former dropped a heavy book upon the floor, thus preventing the word from being heard—accidently, of course.

With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived to state his case; observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he had run after the boy because he had seen him running away; and expressing his hope that, if the magistrate should believe him, although not actually the thief, to be connected with the thieves, he would deal as leniently with him as justice would allow.

“He has been hurt already,” said the old gentleman in conclusion. “And I fear,” he added, with great energy, looking towards the bar, “I really fear that he is ill.”

“Oh! yes, I dare say!” said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. “Come, none of your tricks here, you young vagabond; they won’t do. What’s your name?”

Oliver tried to reply but his tongue failed him. He was deadly pale; and the whole place seemed turning round and round.

“What’s your name, you hardened scoundrel?” demanded Mr. Fang. “Officer, what’s his name?”

This was addressed to a bluff old fellow, in a striped waistcoat, who was standing by the bar. He bent over Oliver, and repeated the inquiry; but finding him really incapable of understanding the question; and knowing that his not replying would only infuriate the magistrate the more, and add to the severity of his sentence; he hazarded a guess.

“He says his name’s Tom White, your worship,” said the kind-hearted thief-taker.

“Oh, he won’t speak out, won’t he?” said Fang. “Very well, very well. Where does he live?”

“Where he can, your worship,” replied the officer; again pretending to receive Oliver’s answer.

“Has he any parents?” inquired Mr. Fang.

“He says they died in his infancy, your worship,” replied the officer: hazarding the usual reply.

At this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head; and, looking round with imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of water.

“Stuff and nonsense!” said Mr. Fang: “don’t try to make a fool of me.”

“I think he really is ill, your worship,” remonstrated the officer.

“I know better,” said Mr. Fang.

“Take care of him, officer,” said the old gentleman, raising his hands instinctively; “he’ll fall down.”

“Stand away, officer,” cried Fang; “let him, if he likes.”

Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell to the floor in a fainting fit. The men in the office looked at each other, but no one dared to stir.

“I knew he was shamming,” said Fang, as if this were incontestable proof of the fact. “Let him lie there; he’ll soon be tired of that.”

“How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?” inquired the clerk in a low voice.

“Summarily,” replied Mr. Fang. “He stands committed for three months—hard labour of course. Clear the office.”

The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were preparing to carry the insensible boy to his cell; when an elderly man of decent but poor appearance, clad in an old suit of black, rushed hastily into the office, and advanced towards the bench.

“Stop, stop! don’t take him away! For Heaven’s sake stop a moment!” cried the new comer, breathless with haste.

Although the presiding Genii in such an office as this, exercise a summary and arbitrary power over the liberties, the good name, the character, almost the lives, of Her Majesty’s subjects, especially of the poorer class; and although, within such walls, enough fantastic tricks are daily played to make the angels blind with weeping; they are closed to the public, save through the medium of the daily press. Mr. Fang was consequently not a little indignant to see an unbidden guest enter in such irreverent disorder.

“What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the office!” cried Mr. Fang.

“I will speak,” cried the man; “I will not be turned out. I saw it all. I keep the book-stall. I demand to be sworn. I will not be put down. Mr. Fang, you must hear me. You must not refuse, sir.”

The man was right. His manner was determined; and the matter was growing rather too serious to be hushed up.

“Swear the man,” growled Mr. Fang, with a very ill grace. “Now, man, what have you got to say?”

“This,” said the man: “I saw three boys: two others and the prisoner here: loitering on the opposite side of the way, when this gentleman was reading. The robbery was committed by another boy. I saw it done; and I saw that this boy was perfectly amazed and stupified by it.” Having by this time recovered a little breath, the worthy book-stall keeper proceeded to relate, in a more coherent manner the exact circumstances of the robbery.

“Why didn’t you come here before?” said Fang, after a pause.

“I hadn’t a soul to mind the shop,” replied the man. “Everybody who could have helped me, had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobody till five minutes ago; and I’ve run here all the way.”

“The prosecutor was reading, was he?” inquired Fang, after another pause.

“Yes,” replied the man. “The very book he has in his hand.”

“Oh, that book, eh?” said Fang. “Is it paid for?”

“No, it is not,” replied the man, with a smile.

“Dear me, I forgot all about it!” exclaimed the absent old gentleman, innocently.

“A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!” said Fang, with a comical effort to look humane. “I consider, sir, that you have obtained possession of that book, under very suspicious and disreputable circumstances; and you may think yourself very fortunate that the owner of the property declines to prosecute. Let this be a lesson to you, my man, or the law will overtake you yet. The boy is discharged. Clear the office!”

“D—n me!” cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had kept down so long, “d—n me! I’ll—”

“Clear the office!” said the magistrate. “Officers, do you hear? Clear the office!”

The mandate was obeyed; and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was conveyed out, with the book in one hand, and the bamboo cane in the other: in a perfect phrenzy of rage and defiance. He reached the yard; and his passion vanished in a moment. Little Oliver Twist lay on his back on the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned, and his temples bathed with water; his face a deadly white; and a cold tremble convulsing his whole frame.

“Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. “Call a coach, somebody, pray. Directly!”

A coach was obtained, and Oliver having been carefully laid on the seat, the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.

“May I accompany you?” said the book-stall keeper, looking in.

“Bless me, yes, my dear sir,” said Mr. Brownlow quickly. “I forgot you. Dear, dear! I have this unhappy book still! Jump in. Poor fellow! There’s no time to lose.”

The book-stall keeper got into the coach; and away they drove.

CHAPTER XII. IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. AND IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE REVERTS TO THE MERRY OLD GENTLEMAN AND HIS YOUTHFUL FRIENDS.

The coach rattled away, over nearly the same ground as that which Oliver had traversed when he first entered London in company with the Dodger; and, turning a different way when it reached the Angel at Islington, stopped at length before a neat house, in a quiet shady street near Pentonville. Here, a bed was prepared, without loss of time, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his young charge carefully and comfortably deposited; and here, he was tended with a kindness and solicitude that knew no bounds.

But, for many days, Oliver remained insensible to all the goodness of his new friends. The sun rose and sank, and rose and sank again, and many times after that; and still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy bed, dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever. The worm does not work more surely on the dead body, than does this slow creeping fire upon the living frame.

Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to have been a long and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in the bed, with his head resting on his trembling arm, he looked anxiously around.

“What room is this? Where have I been brought to?” said Oliver. “This is not the place I went to sleep in.”

He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and weak; but they were overheard at once. The curtain at the bed’s head was hastily drawn back, and a motherly old lady, very neatly and precisely dressed, rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair close by, in which she had been sitting at needle-work.

“Hush, my dear,” said the old lady softly. “You must be very quiet, or you will be ill again; and you have been very bad,—as bad as bad could be, pretty nigh. Lie down again; there’s a dear!” With those words, the old lady very gently placed Oliver’s head upon the pillow; and, smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and loving in his face, that he could not help placing his little withered hand in hers, and drawing it round his neck.

“Save us!” said the old lady, with tears in her eyes. “What a grateful little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel if she had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!”

“Perhaps she does see me,” whispered Oliver, folding his hands together; “perhaps she has sat by me. I almost feel as if she had.”

“That was the fever, my dear,” said the old lady mildly.

“I suppose it was,” replied Oliver, “because heaven is a long way off; and they are too happy there, to come down to the bedside of a poor boy. But if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me, even there; for she was very ill herself before she died. She can’t know anything about me though,” added Oliver after a moment’s silence. “If she had seen me hurt, it would have made her sorrowful; and her face has always looked sweet and happy, when I have dreamed of her.”

The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first, and her spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were part and parcel of those features, brought some cool stuff for Oliver to drink; and then, patting him on the cheek, told him he must lie very quiet, or he would be ill again.

So, Oliver kept very still; partly because he was anxious to obey the kind old lady in all things; and partly, to tell the truth, because he was completely exhausted with what he had already said. He soon fell into a gentle doze, from which he was awakened by the light of a candle: which, being brought near the bed, showed him a gentleman with a very large and loud-ticking gold watch in his hand, who felt his pulse, and said he was a great deal better.

“You are a great deal better, are you not, my dear?” said the gentleman.

“Yes, thank you, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Yes, I know you are,” said the gentleman: “You’re hungry too, an’t you?”

“No, sir,” answered Oliver.

“Hem!” said the gentleman. “No, I know you’re not. He is not hungry, Mrs. Bedwin,” said the gentleman: looking very wise.

The old lady made a respectful inclination of the head, which seemed to say that she thought the doctor was a very clever man. The doctor appeared much of the same opinion himself.

“You feel sleepy, don’t you, my dear?” said the doctor.

“No, sir,” replied Oliver.

“No,” said the doctor, with a very shrewd and satisfied look. “You’re not sleepy. Nor thirsty. Are you?”

“Yes, sir, rather thirsty,” answered Oliver.

“Just as I expected, Mrs. Bedwin,” said the doctor. “It’s very natural that he should be thirsty. You may give him a little tea, ma’am, and some dry toast without any butter. Don’t keep him too warm, ma’am; but be careful that you don’t let him be too cold; will you have the goodness?”

The old lady dropped a curtsey. The doctor, after tasting the cool stuff, and expressing a qualified approval of it, hurried away: his boots creaking in a very important and wealthy manner as he went downstairs.

Oliver dozed off again, soon after this; when he awoke, it was nearly twelve o’clock. The old lady tenderly bade him good-night shortly afterwards, and left him in charge of a fat old woman who had just come: bringing with her, in a little bundle, a small Prayer Book and a large nightcap. Putting the latter on her head and the former on the table, the old woman, after telling Oliver that she had come to sit up with him, drew her chair close to the fire and went off into a series of short naps, chequered at frequent intervals with sundry tumblings forward, and divers moans and chokings. These, however, had no worse effect than causing her to rub her nose very hard, and then fall asleep again.

And thus the night crept slowly on. Oliver lay awake for some time, counting the little circles of light which the reflection of the rushlight-shade threw upon the ceiling; or tracing with his languid eyes the intricate pattern of the paper on the wall. The darkness and the deep stillness of the room were very solemn; as they brought into the boy’s mind the thought that death had been hovering there, for many days and nights, and might yet fill it with the gloom and dread of his awful presence, he turned his face upon the pillow, and fervently prayed to Heaven.

Gradually, he fell into that deep tranquil sleep which ease from recent suffering alone imparts; that calm and peaceful rest which it is pain to wake from. Who, if this were death, would be roused again to all the struggles and turmoils of life; to all its cares for the present; its anxieties for the future; more than all, its weary recollections of the past!

It had been bright day, for hours, when Oliver opened his eyes; he felt cheerful and happy. The crisis of the disease was safely past. He belonged to the world again.

In three days’ time he was able to sit in an easy-chair, well propped up with pillows; and, as he was still too weak to walk, Mrs. Bedwin had him carried downstairs into the little housekeeper’s room, which belonged to her. Having him set, here, by the fire-side, the good old lady sat herself down too; and, being in a state of considerable delight at seeing him so much better, forthwith began to cry most violently.

“Never mind me, my dear,” said the old lady; “I’m only having a regular good cry. There; it’s all over now; and I’m quite comfortable.”

“You’re very, very kind to me, ma’am,” said Oliver.

“Well, never you mind that, my dear,” said the old lady; “that’s got nothing to do with your broth; and it’s full time you had it; for the doctor says Mr. Brownlow may come in to see you this morning; and we must get up our best looks, because the better we look, the more he’ll be pleased.” And with this, the old lady applied herself to warming up, in a little saucepan, a basin full of broth: strong enough, Oliver thought, to furnish an ample dinner, when reduced to the regulation strength, for three hundred and fifty paupers, at the lowest computation.

“Are you fond of pictures, dear?” inquired the old lady, seeing that Oliver had fixed his eyes, most intently, on a portrait which hung against the wall; just opposite his chair.

“I don’t quite know, ma’am,” said Oliver, without taking his eyes from the canvas; “I have seen so few that I hardly know. What a beautiful, mild face that lady’s is!”

“Ah!” said the old lady, “painters always make ladies out prettier than they are, or they wouldn’t get any custom, child. The man that invented the machine for taking likenesses might have known that would never succeed; it’s a deal too honest. A deal,” said the old lady, laughing very heartily at her own acuteness.

“Is—is that a likeness, ma’am?” said Oliver.

“Yes,” said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the broth; “that’s a portrait.”

“Whose, ma’am?” asked Oliver.

“Why, really, my dear, I don’t know,” answered the old lady in a good-humoured manner. “It’s not a likeness of anybody that you or I know, I expect. It seems to strike your fancy, dear.”

“It is so pretty,” replied Oliver.

“Why, sure you’re not afraid of it?” said the old lady: observing in great surprise, the look of awe with which the child regarded the painting.

“Oh no, no,” returned Oliver quickly; “but the eyes look so sorrowful; and where I sit, they seem fixed upon me. It makes my heart beat,” added Oliver in a low voice, “as if it was alive, and wanted to speak to me, but couldn’t.”

“Lord save us!” exclaimed the old lady, starting; “don’t talk in that way, child. You’re weak and nervous after your illness. Let me wheel your chair round to the other side; and then you won’t see it. There!” said the old lady, suiting the action to the word; “you don’t see it now, at all events.”

Oliver did see it in his mind’s eye as distinctly as if he had not altered his position; but he thought it better not to worry the kind old lady; so he smiled gently when she looked at him; and Mrs. Bedwin, satisfied that he felt more comfortable, salted and broke bits of toasted bread into the broth, with all the bustle befitting so solemn a preparation. Oliver got through it with extraordinary expedition. He had scarcely swallowed the last spoonful, when there came a soft rap at the door. “Come in,” said the old lady; and in walked Mr. Brownlow.

Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but, he had no sooner raised his spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his hands behind the skirts of his dressing-gown to take a good long look at Oliver, than his countenance underwent a very great variety of odd contortions. Oliver looked very worn and shadowy from sickness, and made an ineffectual attempt to stand up, out of respect to his benefactor, which terminated in his sinking back into the chair again; and the fact is, if the truth must be told, that Mr. Brownlow’s heart, being large enough for any six ordinary old gentlemen of humane disposition, forced a supply of tears into his eyes, by some hydraulic process which we are not sufficiently philosophical to be in a condition to explain.

“Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his throat. “I’m rather hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I’m afraid I have caught cold.”

“I hope not, sir,” said Mrs. Bedwin. “Everything you have had, has been well aired, sir.”

“I don’t know, Bedwin. I don’t know,” said Mr. Brownlow; “I rather think I had a damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday; but never mind that. How do you feel, my dear?”

“Very happy, sir,” replied Oliver. “And very grateful indeed, sir, for your goodness to me.”

“Good boy,” said Mr. Brownlow, stoutly. “Have you given him any nourishment, Bedwin? Any slops, eh?”

“He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir,” replied Mrs. Bedwin, drawing herself up slightly, and laying strong emphasis on the last word, to intimate that between slops, and broth well compounded, there existed no affinity or connection whatsoever.

“Ugh!” said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder; “a couple of glasses of port wine would have done him a great deal more good. Wouldn’t they, Tom White, eh?”

“My name is Oliver, sir,” replied the little invalid with a look of great astonishment.

“Oliver,” said Mr. Brownlow; “Oliver what? Oliver White, eh?”

“No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist.”

“Queer name!” said the old gentleman. “What made you tell the magistrate your name was White?”

“I never told him so, sir,” returned Oliver in amazement.

This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked somewhat sternly in Oliver’s face. It was impossible to doubt him; there was truth in every one of its thin and sharpened lineaments.

“Some mistake,” said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive for looking steadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the resemblance between his features and some familiar face came upon him so strongly, that he could not withdraw his gaze.

“I hope you are not angry with me, sir?” said Oliver, raising his eyes beseechingly.

“No, no,” replied the old gentleman. “Why! what’s this? Bedwin, look there!”

As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture over Oliver’s head, and then to the boy’s face. There was its living copy. The eyes, the head, the mouth; every feature was the same. The expression was, for the instant, so precisely alike, that the minutest line seemed copied with startling accuracy!

Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation; for, not being strong enough to bear the start it gave him, he fainted away. A weakness on his part, which affords the narrative an opportunity of relieving the reader from suspense, in behalf of the two young pupils of the Merry Old Gentleman; and of recording—

That when the Dodger, and his accomplished friend Master Bates, joined in the hue-and-cry which was raised at Oliver’s heels, in consequence of their executing an illegal conveyance of Mr. Brownlow’s personal property, as has been already described, they were actuated by a very laudable and becoming regard for themselves; and forasmuch as the freedom of the subject and the liberty of the individual are among the first and proudest boasts of a true-hearted Englishman, so, I need hardly beg the reader to observe, that this action should tend to exalt them in the opinion of all public and patriotic men, in almost as great a degree as this strong proof of their anxiety for their own preservation and safety goes to corroborate and confirm the little code of laws which certain profound and sound-judging philosophers have laid down as the main-springs of all Nature’s deeds and actions: the said philosophers very wisely reducing the good lady’s proceedings to matters of maxim and theory: and, by a very neat and pretty compliment to her exalted wisdom and understanding, putting entirely out of sight any considerations of heart, or generous impulse and feeling. For, these are matters totally beneath a female who is acknowledged by universal admission to be far above the numerous little foibles and weaknesses of her sex.

If I wanted any further proof of the strictly philosophical nature of the conduct of these young gentlemen in their very delicate predicament, I should at once find it in the fact (also recorded in a foregoing part of this narrative), of their quitting the pursuit, when the general attention was fixed upon Oliver; and making immediately for their home by the shortest possible cut. Although I do not mean to assert that it is usually the practice of renowned and learned sages, to shorten the road to any great conclusion (their course indeed being rather to lengthen the distance, by various circumlocutions and discursive staggerings, like unto those in which drunken men under the pressure of a too mighty flow of ideas, are prone to indulge); still, I do mean to say, and do say distinctly, that it is the invariable practice of many mighty philosophers, in carrying out their theories, to evince great wisdom and foresight in providing against every possible contingency which can be supposed at all likely to affect themselves. Thus, to do a great right, you may do a little wrong; and you may take any means which the end to be attained, will justify; the amount of the right, or the amount of the wrong, or indeed the distinction between the two, being left entirely to the philosopher concerned, to be settled and determined by his clear, comprehensive, and impartial view of his own particular case.

It was not until the two boys had scoured, with great rapidity, through a most intricate maze of narrow streets and courts, that they ventured to halt beneath a low and dark archway. Having remained silent here, just long enough to recover breath to speak, Master Bates uttered an exclamation of amusement and delight; and, bursting into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, flung himself upon a doorstep, and rolled thereon in a transport of mirth.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the Dodger.

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Charley Bates.

“Hold your noise,” remonstrated the Dodger, looking cautiously round. “Do you want to be grabbed, stupid?”

“I can’t help it,” said Charley, “I can’t help it! To see him splitting away at that pace, and cutting round the corners, and knocking up again’ the posts, and starting on again as if he was made of iron as well as them, and me with the wipe in my pocket, singing out arter him—oh, my eye!” The vivid imagination of Master Bates presented the scene before him in too strong colours. As he arrived at this apostrophe, he again rolled upon the door-step, and laughed louder than before.

“What’ll Fagin say?” inquired the Dodger; taking advantage of the next interval of breathlessness on the part of his friend to propound the question.

“What?” repeated Charley Bates.

“Ah, what?” said the Dodger.

“Why, what should he say?” inquired Charley: stopping rather suddenly in his merriment; for the Dodger’s manner was impressive. “What should he say?”

Mr. Dawkins whistled for a couple of minutes; then, taking off his hat, scratched his head, and nodded thrice.

“What do you mean?” said Charley.

“Toor rul lol loo, gammon and spinnage, the frog he wouldn’t, and high cockolorum,” said the Dodger: with a slight sneer on his intellectual countenance.

This was explanatory, but not satisfactory. Master Bates felt it so; and again said, “What do you mean?”

The Dodger made no reply; but putting his hat on again, and gathering the skirts of his long-tailed coat under his arm, thrust his tongue into his cheek, slapped the bridge of his nose some half-dozen times in a familiar but expressive manner, and turning on his heel, slunk down the court. Master Bates followed, with a thoughtful countenance.

The noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs, a few minutes after the occurrence of this conversation, roused the merry old gentleman as he sat over the fire with a saveloy and a small loaf in his hand; a pocket-knife in his right; and a pewter pot on the trivet. There was a rascally smile on his white face as he turned round, and looking sharply out from under his thick red eyebrows, bent his ear towards the door, and listened.

“Why, how’s this?” muttered the Jew: changing countenance; “only two of ’em? Where’s the third? They can’t have got into trouble. Hark!”

The footsteps approached nearer; they reached the landing. The door was slowly opened; and the Dodger and Charley Bates entered, closing it behind them.

CHAPTER XIII. SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES ARE INTRODUCED TO THE INTELLIGENT READER, CONNECTED WITH WHOM VARIOUS PLEASANT MATTERS ARE RELATED, APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY

“Where’s Oliver?” said the Jew, rising with a menacing look. “Where’s the boy?”

The young thieves eyed their preceptor as if they were alarmed at his violence; and looked uneasily at each other. But they made no reply.

“What’s become of the boy?” said the Jew, seizing the Dodger tightly by the collar, and threatening him with horrid imprecations. “Speak out, or I’ll throttle you!”

Mr. Fagin looked so very much in earnest, that Charley Bates, who deemed it prudent in all cases to be on the safe side, and who conceived it by no means improbable that it might be his turn to be throttled second, dropped upon his knees, and raised a loud, well-sustained, and continuous roar—something between a mad bull and a speaking trumpet.

“Will you speak?” thundered the Jew: shaking the Dodger so much that his keeping in the big coat at all, seemed perfectly miraculous.

“Why, the traps have got him, and that’s all about it,” said the Dodger, sullenly. “Come, let go o’ me, will you!” And, swinging himself, at one jerk, clean out of the big coat, which he left in the Jew’s hands, the Dodger snatched up the toasting fork, and made a pass at the merry old gentleman’s waistcoat; which, if it had taken effect, would have let a little more merriment out than could have been easily replaced.

The Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more agility than could have been anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the pot, prepared to hurl it at his assailant’s head. But Charley Bates, at this moment, calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl, he suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full at that young gentleman.

“Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!” growled a deep voice. “Who pitched that ’ere at me? It’s well it’s the beer, and not the pot, as hit me, or I’d have settled somebody. I might have know’d, as nobody but an infernal, rich, plundering, thundering old Jew could afford to throw away any drink but water—and not that, unless he done the River Company every quarter. Wot’s it all about, Fagin? D—me, if my neck-handkercher an’t lined with beer! Come in, you sneaking warmint; wot are you stopping outside for, as if you was ashamed of your master! Come in!”

The man who growled out these words, was a stoutly-built fellow of about five-and-thirty, in a black velveteen coat, very soiled drab breeches, lace-up half boots, and grey cotton stockings which inclosed a bulky pair of legs, with large swelling calves;—the kind of legs, which in such costume, always look in an unfinished and incomplete state without a set of fetters to garnish them. He had a brown hat on his head, and a dirty belcher handkerchief round his neck: with the long frayed ends of which he smeared the beer from his face as he spoke. He disclosed, when he had done so, a broad heavy countenance with a beard of three days’ growth, and two scowling eyes; one of which displayed various parti-coloured symptoms of having been recently damaged by a blow.

“Come in, d’ye hear?” growled this engaging ruffian.

A white shaggy dog, with his face scratched and torn in twenty different places, skulked into the room.

“Why didn’t you come in afore?” said the man. “You’re getting too proud to own me afore company, are you? Lie down!”

This command was accompanied with a kick, which sent the animal to the other end of the room. He appeared well used to it, however; for he coiled himself up in a corner very quietly, without uttering a sound, and winking his very ill-looking eyes twenty times in a minute, appeared to occupy himself in taking a survey of the apartment.

“What are you up to? Ill-treating the boys, you covetous, avaricious, in-sa-ti-a-ble old fence?” said the man, seating himself deliberately. “I wonder they don’t murder you! I would if I was them. If I’d been your ’prentice, I’d have done it long ago, and—no, I couldn’t have sold you afterwards, for you’re fit for nothing but keeping as a curiousity of ugliness in a glass bottle, and I suppose they don’t blow glass bottles large enough.”

“Hush! hush! Mr. Sikes,” said the Jew, trembling; “don’t speak so loud!”

“None of your mistering,” replied the ruffian; “you always mean mischief when you come that. You know my name: out with it! I shan’t disgrace it when the time comes.”

“Well, well, then—Bill Sikes,” said the Jew, with abject humility. “You seem out of humour, Bill.”

“Perhaps I am,” replied Sikes; “I should think you was rather out of sorts too, unless you mean as little harm when you throw pewter pots about, as you do when you blab and—”

“Are you mad?” said the Jew, catching the man by the sleeve, and pointing towards the boys.

Mr. Sikes contented himself with tying an imaginary knot under his left ear, and jerking his head over on the right shoulder; a piece of dumb show which the Jew appeared to understand perfectly. He then, in cant terms, with which his whole conversation was plentifully besprinkled, but which would be quite unintelligible if they were recorded here, demanded a glass of liquor.

“And mind you don’t poison it,” said Mr. Sikes, laying his hat upon the table.

This was said in jest; but if the speaker could have seen the evil leer with which the Jew bit his pale lip as he turned round to the cupboard, he might have thought the caution not wholly unnecessary, or the wish (at all events) to improve upon the distiller’s ingenuity not very far from the old gentleman’s merry heart.

After swallowing two of three glasses of spirits, Mr. Sikes condescended to take some notice of the young gentlemen; which gracious act led to a conversation, in which the cause and manner of Oliver’s capture were circumstantially detailed, with such alterations and improvements on the truth, as to the Dodger appeared most advisable under the circumstances.

“I’m afraid,” said the Jew, “that he may say something which will get us into trouble.”

“That’s very likely,” returned Sikes with a malicious grin. “You’re blowed upon, Fagin.”

“And I’m afraid, you see,” added the Jew, speaking as if he had not noticed the interruption; and regarding the other closely as he did so,—“I’m afraid that, if the game was up with us, it might be up with a good many more, and that it would come out rather worse for you than it would for me, my dear.”

The man started, and turned round upon the Jew. But the old gentleman’s shoulders were shrugged up to his ears; and his eyes were vacantly staring on the opposite wall.

There was a long pause. Every member of the respectable coterie appeared plunged in his own reflections; not excepting the dog, who by a certain malicious licking of his lips seemed to be meditating an attack upon the legs of the first gentleman or lady he might encounter in the streets when he went out.

“Somebody must find out wot’s been done at the office,” said Mr. Sikes in a much lower tone than he had taken since he came in.

The Jew nodded assent.

“If he hasn’t peached, and is committed, there’s no fear till he comes out again,” said Mr. Sikes, “and then he must be taken care on. You must get hold of him somehow.”

Again the Jew nodded.

The prudence of this line of action, indeed, was obvious; but, unfortunately, there was one very strong objection to its being adopted. This was, that the Dodger, and Charley Bates, and Fagin, and Mr. William Sikes, happened, one and all, to entertain a violent and deeply-rooted antipathy to going near a police-office on any ground or pretext whatever.

How long they might have sat and looked at each other, in a state of uncertainty not the most pleasant of its kind, it is difficult to guess. It is not necessary to make any guesses on the subject, however; for the sudden entrance of the two young ladies whom Oliver had seen on a former occasion, caused the conversation to flow afresh.

“The very thing!” said the Jew. “Bet will go; won’t you, my dear?”

“Wheres?” inquired the young lady.

“Only just up to the office, my dear,” said the Jew coaxingly.

It is due to the young lady to say that she did not positively affirm that she would not, but that she merely expressed an emphatic and earnest desire to be “blessed” if she would; a polite and delicate evasion of the request, which shows the young lady to have been possessed of that natural good breeding which cannot bear to inflict upon a fellow-creature, the pain of a direct and pointed refusal.

The Jew’s countenance fell. He turned from this young lady, who was gaily, not to say gorgeously attired, in a red gown, green boots, and yellow curl-papers, to the other female.

“Nancy, my dear,” said the Jew in a soothing manner, “what do you say?”

“That it won’t do; so it’s no use a-trying it on, Fagin,” replied Nancy.

“What do you mean by that?” said Mr. Sikes, looking up in a surly manner.

“What I say, Bill,” replied the lady collectedly.

“Why, you’re just the very person for it,” reasoned Mr. Sikes: “nobody about here knows anything of you.”

“And as I don’t want ’em to, neither,” replied Nancy in the same composed manner, “it’s rather more no than yes with me, Bill.”

“She’ll go, Fagin,” said Sikes.

“No, she won’t, Fagin,” said Nancy.

“Yes, she will, Fagin,” said Sikes.

And Mr. Sikes was right. By dint of alternate threats, promises, and bribes, the lady in question was ultimately prevailed upon to undertake the commission. She was not, indeed, withheld by the same considerations as her agreeable friend; for, having recently removed into the neighborhood of Field Lane from the remote but genteel suburb of Ratcliffe, she was not under the same apprehension of being recognised by any of her numerous acquaintances.

Accordingly, with a clean white apron tied over her gown, and her curl-papers tucked up under a straw bonnet,—both articles of dress being provided from the Jew’s inexhaustible stock,—Miss Nancy prepared to issue forth on her errand.

“Stop a minute, my dear,” said the Jew, producing, a little covered basket. “Carry that in one hand. It looks more respectable, my dear.”

“Give her a door-key to carry in her t’other one, Fagin,” said Sikes; “it looks real and genivine like.”

“Yes, yes, my dear, so it does,” said the Jew, hanging a large street-door key on the forefinger of the young lady’s right hand. “There; very good! Very good indeed, my dear!” said the Jew, rubbing his hands.

“Oh, my brother! My poor, dear, sweet, innocent little brother!” exclaimed Nancy, bursting into tears, and wringing the little basket and the street-door key in an agony of distress. “What has become of him! Where have they taken him to! Oh, do have pity, and tell me what’s been done with the dear boy, gentlemen; do, gentlemen, if you please, gentlemen!”

Having uttered those words in a most lamentable and heart-broken tone: to the immeasurable delight of her hearers: Miss Nancy paused, winked to the company, nodded smilingly round, and disappeared.

“Ah, she’s a clever girl, my dears,” said the Jew, turning round to his young friends, and shaking his head gravely, as if in mute admonition to them to follow the bright example they had just beheld.

“She’s a honour to her sex,” said Mr. Sikes, filling his glass, and smiting the table with his enormous fist. “Here’s her health, and wishing they was all like her!”

While these, and many other encomiums, were being passed on the accomplished Nancy, that young lady made the best of her way to the police-office; whither, notwithstanding a little natural timidity consequent upon walking through the streets alone and unprotected, she arrived in perfect safety shortly afterwards.

Entering by the back way, she tapped softly with the key at one of the cell-doors, and listened. There was no sound within: so she coughed and listened again. Still there was no reply: so she spoke.

“Nolly, dear?” murmured Nancy in a gentle voice; “Nolly?”

There was nobody inside but a miserable shoeless criminal, who had been taken up for playing the flute, and who, the offence against society having been clearly proved, had been very properly committed by Mr. Fang to the House of Correction for one month; with the appropriate and amusing remark that since he had so much breath to spare, it would be more wholesomely expended on the treadmill than in a musical instrument. He made no answer: being occupied mentally bewailing the loss of the flute, which had been confiscated for the use of the county: so Nancy passed on to the next cell, and knocked there.

“Well!” cried a faint and feeble voice.

“Is there a little boy here?” inquired Nancy, with a preliminary sob.

“No,” replied the voice; “God forbid.”

This was a vagrant of sixty-five, who was going to prison for not playing the flute; or, in other words, for begging in the streets, and doing nothing for his livelihood. In the next cell was another man, who was going to the same prison for hawking tin saucepans without license; thereby doing something for his living, in defiance of the Stamp-office.

But, as neither of these criminals answered to the name of Oliver, or knew anything about him, Nancy made straight up to the bluff officer in the striped waistcoat; and with the most piteous wailings and lamentations, rendered more piteous by a prompt and efficient use of the street-door key and the little basket, demanded her own dear brother.

“I haven’t got him, my dear,” said the old man.

“Where is he?” screamed Nancy, in a distracted manner.

“Why, the gentleman’s got him,” replied the officer.

“What gentleman! Oh, gracious heavens! What gentleman?” exclaimed Nancy.

In reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the deeply affected sister that Oliver had been taken ill in the office, and discharged in consequence of a witness having proved the robbery to have been committed by another boy, not in custody; and that the prosecutor had carried him away, in an insensible condition, to his own residence: of and concerning which, all the informant knew was, that it was somewhere in Pentonville, he having heard that word mentioned in the directions to the coachman.

In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young woman staggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a swift run, returned by the most devious and complicated route she could think of, to the domicile of the Jew.

Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered, than he very hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat, expeditiously departed: without devoting any time to the formality of wishing the company good-morning.

“We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found,” said the Jew greatly excited. “Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear,—to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay,” added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; “there’s money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop tonight. You’ll know where to find me! Don’t stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!”

With these words, he pushed them from the room: and carefully double-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of concealment the box which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver. Then, he hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery beneath his clothing.

A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. “Who’s there?” he cried in a shrill tone.

“Me!” replied the voice of the Dodger, through the key-hole.

“What now?” cried the Jew impatiently.

“Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?” inquired the Dodger.

“Yes,” replied the Jew, “wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find him out, that’s all. I shall know what to do next; never fear.”

The boy murmured a reply of intelligence: and hurried downstairs after his companions.

“He has not peached so far,” said the Jew as he pursued his occupation. “If he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth yet.”

CHAPTER XIV. COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER’S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW’S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND

Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow’s abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver’s history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper’s room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed.

“Ah!” said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver’s eyes. “It is gone, you see.”

“I see it is ma’am,” replied Oliver. “Why have they taken it away?”

“It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know,” rejoined the old lady.

“Oh, no, indeed. It didn’t worry me, ma’am,” said Oliver. “I liked to see it. I quite loved it.”

“Well, well!” said the old lady, good-humouredly; “you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else.”

This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea. After tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage: which he learnt as quickly as she could teach: and at which game they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and then to go cosily to bed.

They were happy days, those of Oliver’s recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that after the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like Heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver was told that he might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to think that they were safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger of his ever being able to wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell the truth; and Oliver had never had a new suit before.

One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he was sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr. Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like to see him in his study, and talk to him a little while.

“Bless us, and save us! Wash your hands, and let me part your hair nicely for you, child,” said Mrs. Bedwin. “Dear heart alive! If we had known he would have asked for you, we would have put you a clean collar on, and made you as smart as sixpence!”

Oliver did as the old lady bade him; and, although she lamented grievously, meanwhile, that there was not even time to crimp the little frill that bordered his shirt-collar; he looked so delicate and handsome, despite that important personal advantage, that she went so far as to say: looking at him with great complacency from head to foot, that she really didn’t think it would have been possible, on the longest notice, to have made much difference in him for the better.

Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door. On Mr. Brownlow calling to him to come in, he found himself in a little back room, quite full of books, with a window, looking into some pleasant little gardens. There was a table drawn up before the window, at which Mr. Brownlow was seated reading. When he saw Oliver, he pushed the book away from him, and told him to come near the table, and sit down. Oliver complied; marvelling where the people could be found to read such a great number of books as seemed to be written to make the world wiser. Which is still a marvel to more experienced people than Oliver Twist, every day of their lives.

“There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?” said Mr. Brownlow, observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling.

“A great number, sir,” replied Oliver. “I never saw so many.”

“You shall read them, if you behave well,” said the old gentleman kindly; “and you will like that, better than looking at the outsides,—that is, some cases; because there are books of which the backs and covers are by far the best parts.”

“I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir,” said Oliver, pointing to some large quartos, with a good deal of gilding about the binding.

“Not always those,” said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head, and smiling as he did so; “there are other equally heavy ones, though of a much smaller size. How should you like to grow up a clever man, and write books, eh?”

“I think I would rather read them, sir,” replied Oliver.

“What! wouldn’t you like to be a book-writer?” said the old gentleman.

Oliver considered a little while; and at last said, he should think it would be a much better thing to be a book-seller; upon which the old gentleman laughed heartily, and declared he had said a very good thing. Which Oliver felt glad to have done, though he by no means knew what it was.

“Well, well,” said the old gentleman, composing his features. “Don’t be afraid! We won’t make an author of you, while there’s an honest trade to be learnt, or brick-making to turn to.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Oliver. At the earnest manner of his reply, the old gentleman laughed again; and said something about a curious instinct, which Oliver, not understanding, paid no very great attention to.

“Now,” said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possible in a kinder, but at the same time in a much more serious manner, than Oliver had ever known him assume yet, “I want you to pay great attention, my boy, to what I am going to say. I shall talk to you without any reserve; because I am sure you are well able to understand me, as many older persons would be.”

“Oh, don’t tell you are going to send me away, sir, pray!” exclaimed Oliver, alarmed at the serious tone of the old gentleman’s commencement! “Don’t turn me out of doors to wander in the streets again. Let me stay here, and be a servant. Don’t send me back to the wretched place I came from. Have mercy upon a poor boy, sir!”

“My dear child,” said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of Oliver’s sudden appeal; “you need not be afraid of my deserting you, unless you give me cause.”

“I never, never will, sir,” interposed Oliver.

“I hope not,” rejoined the old gentleman. “I do not think you ever will. I have been deceived, before, in the objects whom I have endeavoured to benefit; but I feel strongly disposed to trust you, nevertheless; and I am more interested in your behalf than I can well account for, even to myself. The persons on whom I have bestowed my dearest love, lie deep in their graves; but, although the happiness and delight of my life lie buried there too, I have not made a coffin of my heart, and sealed it up, forever, on my best affections. Deep affliction has but strengthened and refined them.”

As the old gentleman said this in a low voice: more to himself than to his companion: and as he remained silent for a short time afterwards: Oliver sat quite still.

“Well, well!” said the old gentleman at length, in a more cheerful tone, “I only say this, because you have a young heart; and knowing that I have suffered great pain and sorrow, you will be more careful, perhaps, not to wound me again. You say you are an orphan, without a friend in the world; all the inquiries I have been able to make, confirm the statement. Let me hear your story; where you come from; who brought you up; and how you got into the company in which I found you. Speak the truth, and you shall not be friendless while I live.”

Oliver’s sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; when he was on the point of beginning to relate how he had been brought up at the farm, and carried to the workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a peculiarly impatient little double-knock was heard at the street-door: and the servant, running upstairs, announced Mr. Grimwig.

“Is he coming up?” inquired Mr. Brownlow.

“Yes, sir,” replied the servant. “He asked if there were any muffins in the house; and, when I told him yes, he said he had come to tea.”

Mr. Brownlow smiled; and, turning to Oliver, said that Mr. Grimwig was an old friend of his, and he must not mind his being a little rough in his manners; for he was a worthy creature at bottom, as he had reason to know.

“Shall I go downstairs, sir?” inquired Oliver.

“No,” replied Mr. Brownlow, “I would rather you remained here.”

At this moment, there walked into the room: supporting himself by a thick stick: a stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, who was dressed in a blue coat, striped waistcoat, nankeen breeches and gaiters, and a broad-brimmed white hat, with the sides turned up with green. A very small-plaited shirt frill stuck out from his waistcoat; and a very long steel watch-chain, with nothing but a key at the end, dangled loosely below it. The ends of his white neckerchief were twisted into a ball about the size of an orange; the variety of shapes into which his countenance was twisted, defy description. He had a manner of screwing his head on one side when he spoke; and of looking out of the corners of his eyes at the same time: which irresistibly reminded the beholder of a parrot. In this attitude, he fixed himself, the moment he made his appearance; and, holding out a small piece of orange-peel at arm’s length, exclaimed, in a growling, discontented voice,

“Look here! do you see this! Isn’t it a most wonderful and extraordinary thing that I can’t call at a man’s house but I find a piece of this poor surgeon’s friend on the staircase? I’ve been lamed with orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel will be my death, or I’ll be content to eat my own head, sir!”

This was the handsome offer with which Mr. Grimwig backed and confirmed nearly every assertion he made; and it was the more singular in his case, because, even admitting for the sake of argument, the possibility of scientific improvements being brought to that pass which will enable a gentleman to eat his own head in the event of his being so disposed, Mr. Grimwig’s head was such a particularly large one, that the most sanguine man alive could hardly entertain a hope of being able to get through it at a sitting—to put entirely out of the question, a very thick coating of powder.

“I’ll eat my head, sir,” repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick upon the ground. “Hallo! what’s that!” looking at Oliver, and retreating a pace or two.

“This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about,” said Mr. Brownlow.

Oliver bowed.

“You don’t mean to say that’s the boy who had the fever, I hope?” said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little more. “Wait a minute! Don’t speak! Stop—” continued Mr. Grimwig, abruptly, losing all dread of the fever in his triumph at the discovery; “that’s the boy who had the orange! If that’s not the boy, sir, who had the orange, and threw this bit of peel upon the staircase, I’ll eat my head, and his too.”

“No, no, he has not had one,” said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. “Come! Put down your hat; and speak to my young friend.”

“I feel strongly on this subject, sir,” said the irritable old gentleman, drawing off his gloves. “There’s always more or less orange-peel on the pavement in our street; and I know it’s put there by the surgeon’s boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit last night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got up I saw her look towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light. ‘Don’t go to him,’ I called out of the window, ‘he’s an assassin! A man-trap!’ So he is. If he is not—” Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick; which was always understood, by his friends, to imply the customary offer, whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass, which he wore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again.

“That’s the boy, is it?” said Mr. Grimwig, at length.

“That’s the boy,” replied Mr. Brownlow.

“How are you, boy?” said Mr. Grimwig.

“A great deal better, thank you, sir,” replied Oliver.

Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea; which, as he did not half like the visitor’s manner, he was very happy to do.

“He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?” inquired Mr. Brownlow.

“I don’t know,” replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly.

“Don’t know?”

“No. I don’t know. I never see any difference in boys. I only knew two sort of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys.”

“And which is Oliver?”

“Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy, they call him; with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid boy; with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes; with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I know him! The wretch!”

“Come,” said Mr. Brownlow, “these are not the characteristics of young Oliver Twist; so he needn’t excite your wrath.”

“They are not,” replied Mr. Grimwig. “He may have worse.”

Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to afford Mr. Grimwig the most exquisite delight.

“He may have worse, I say,” repeated Mr. Grimwig. “Where does he come from! Who is he? What is he? He has had a fever. What of that? Fevers are not peculiar to good people; are they? Bad people have fevers sometimes; haven’t they, eh? I knew a man who was hung in Jamaica for murdering his master. He had had a fever six times; he wasn’t recommended to mercy on that account. Pooh! nonsense!”

Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr. Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver’s appearance and manner were unusually prepossessing; but he had a strong appetite for contradiction, sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the orange-peel; and, inwardly determining that no man should dictate to him whether a boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved, from the first, to oppose his friend. When Mr. Brownlow admitted that on no one point of inquiry could he yet return a satisfactory answer; and that he had postponed any investigation into Oliver’s previous history until he thought the boy was strong enough to hear it; Mr. Grimwig chuckled maliciously. And he demanded, with a sneer, whether the housekeeper was in the habit of counting the plate at night; because if she didn’t find a table-spoon or two missing some sunshiny morning, why, he would be content to—and so forth.

All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous gentleman: knowing his friend’s peculiarities, bore with great good humour; as Mr. Grimwig, at tea, was graciously pleased to express his entire approval of the muffins, matters went on very smoothly; and Oliver, who made one of the party, began to feel more at his ease than he had yet done in the fierce old gentleman’s presence.

“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 his subject.

“Tomorrow morning,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “I would rather he was alone with me at the time. Come up to me tomorrow 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 tomorrow 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 tonight.”

“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,” said Oliver, eagerly. Having buttoned up the bank-note 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 corner. 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 gas-light 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 the 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 in 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 nightcap. 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 eye-brows, 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 distant, 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 accidently 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 have found him! Oh! Oliver! Oliver! Oh you naughty boy, to make me suffer such 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!”

“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 heels; “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 him!”

Weak with recent illness; stupified 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 neighborhood; 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 HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY NANCY

The narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open space; scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other indications of a cattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they reached this spot: the girl being quite unable to support any longer, the rapid rate at which they had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he roughly commanded him to take hold of Nancy’s hand.

“Do you hear?” growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round.

They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers.

Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers.

“Give me the other,” said Sikes, seizing Oliver’s unoccupied hand. “Here, Bull’s-Eye!”

The dog looked up, and growled.

“See here, boy!” said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver’s throat; “if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D’ye mind!”

The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.

“He’s as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn’t!” said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. “Now, you know what you’ve got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young ’un!”

Bull’s-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the benefit of Oliver, led the way onward.

It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was dark and foggy. The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle through the heavy mist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the streets and houses in gloom; rendering the strange place still stranger in Oliver’s eyes; and making his uncertainty the more dismal and depressing.

They had hurried on a few paces, when a deep church-bell struck the hour. With its first stroke, his two conductors stopped, and turned their heads in the direction whence the sound proceeded.

“Eight o’clock, Bill,” said Nancy, when the bell ceased.

“What’s the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can’t I?” replied Sikes.

“I wonder whether they can hear it,” said Nancy.

“Of course they can,” replied Sikes. “It was Bartlemy time when I was shopped; and there warn’t a penny trumpet in the fair, as I couldn’t hear the squeaking on. Arter I was locked up for the night, the row and din outside made the thundering old jail so silent, that I could almost have beat my brains out against the iron plates of the door.”

“Poor fellow!” said Nancy, who still had her face turned towards the quarter in which the bell had sounded. “Oh, Bill, such fine young chaps as them!”

“Yes; that’s all you women think of,” answered Sikes. “Fine young chaps! Well, they’re as good as dead, so it don’t much matter.”

With this consolation, Mr. Sikes appeared to repress a rising tendency to jealousy, and, clasping Oliver’s wrist more firmly, told him to step out again.

“Wait a minute!” said the girl: “I wouldn’t hurry by, if it was you that was coming out to be hung, the next time eight o’clock struck, Bill. I’d walk round and round the place till I dropped, if the snow was on the ground, and I hadn’t a shawl to cover me.”

“And what good would that do?” inquired the unsentimental Mr. Sikes. “Unless you could pitch over a file and twenty yards of good stout rope, you might as well be walking fifty mile off, or not walking at all, for all the good it would do me. Come on, and don’t stand preaching there.”

The girl burst into a laugh; drew her shawl more closely round her; and they walked away. But Oliver felt her hand tremble, and, looking up in her face as they passed a gas-lamp, saw that it had turned a deadly white.

They walked on, by little-frequented and dirty ways, for a full half-hour: meeting very few people, and those appearing from their looks to hold much the same position in society as Mr. Sikes himself. At length they turned into a very filthy narrow street, nearly full of old-clothes shops; the dog running forward, as if conscious that there was no further occasion for his keeping on guard, stopped before the door of a shop that was closed and apparently untenanted; the house was in a ruinous condition, and on the door was nailed a board, intimating that it was to let: which looked as if it had hung there for many years.

“All right,” cried Sikes, glancing cautiously about.

Nancy stooped below the shutters, and Oliver heard the sound of a bell. They crossed to the opposite side of the street, and stood for a few moments under a lamp. A noise, as if a sash window were gently raised, was heard; and soon afterwards the door softly opened. Mr. Sikes then seized the terrified boy by the collar with very little ceremony; and all three were quickly inside the house.

The passage was perfectly dark. They waited, while the person who had let them in, chained and barred the door.

“Anybody here?” inquired Sikes.

“No,” replied a voice, which Oliver thought he had heard before.

“Is the old ’un here?” asked the robber.

“Yes,” replied the voice, “and precious down in the mouth he has been. Won’t he be glad to see you? Oh, no!”

The style of this reply, as well as the voice which delivered it, seemed familiar to Oliver’s ears: but it was impossible to distinguish even the form of the speaker in the darkness.

“Let’s have a glim,” said Sikes, “or we shall go breaking our necks, or treading on the dog. Look after your legs if you do!”

“Stand still a moment, and I’ll get you one,” replied the voice. The receding footsteps of the speaker were heard; and, in another minute, the form of Mr. John Dawkins, otherwise the Artful Dodger, appeared. He bore in his right hand a tallow candle stuck in the end of a cleft stick.

The young gentleman did not stop to bestow any other mark of recognition upon Oliver than a humourous grin; but, turning away, beckoned the visitors to follow him down a flight of stairs. They crossed an empty kitchen; and, opening the door of a low earthy-smelling room, which seemed to have been built in a small back-yard, were received with a shout of laughter.

“Oh, my wig, my wig!” cried Master Charles Bates, from whose lungs the laughter had proceeded: “here he is! oh, cry, here he is! Oh, Fagin, look at him! Fagin, do look at him! I can’t bear it; it is such a jolly game, I can’t bear it. Hold me, somebody, while I laugh it out.”

With this irrepressible ebullition of mirth, Master Bates laid himself flat on the floor: and kicked convulsively for five minutes, in an ectasy of facetious joy. Then jumping to his feet, he snatched the cleft stick from the Dodger; and, advancing to Oliver, viewed him round and round; while the Jew, taking off his nightcap, made a great number of low bows to the bewildered boy. The Artful, meantime, who was of a rather saturnine disposition, and seldom gave way to merriment when it interfered with business, rifled Oliver’s pockets with steady assiduity.

“Look at his togs, Fagin!” said Charley, putting the light so close to his new jacket as nearly to set him on fire. “Look at his togs! Superfine cloth, and the heavy swell cut! Oh, my eye, what a game! And his books, too! Nothing but a gentleman, Fagin!”

“Delighted to see you looking so well, my dear,” said the Jew, bowing with mock humility. “The Artful shall give you another suit, my dear, for fear you should spoil that Sunday one. Why didn’t you write, my dear, and say you were coming? We’d have got something warm for supper.”

At his, Master Bates roared again: so loud, that Fagin himself relaxed, and even the Dodger smiled; but as the Artful drew forth the five-pound note at that instant, it is doubtful whether the sally of the discovery awakened his merriment.

“Hallo, what’s that?” inquired Sikes, stepping forward as the Jew seized the note. “That’s mine, Fagin.”

“No, no, my dear,” said the Jew. “Mine, Bill, mine. You shall have the books.”

“If that ain’t mine!” said Bill Sikes, putting on his hat with a determined air; “mine and Nancy’s that is; I’ll take the boy back again.”

The Jew started. Oliver started too, though from a very different cause; for he hoped that the dispute might really end in his being taken back.

“Come! Hand over, will you?” said Sikes.

“This is hardly fair, Bill; hardly fair, is it, Nancy?” inquired the Jew.

“Fair, or not fair,” retorted Sikes, “hand over, I tell you! Do you think Nancy and me has got nothing else to do with our precious time but to spend it in scouting arter, and kidnapping, every young boy as gets grabbed through you? Give it here, you avaricious old skeleton, give it here!”

With this gentle remonstrance, Mr. Sikes plucked the note from between the Jew’s finger and thumb; and looking the old man coolly in the face, folded it up small, and tied it in his neckerchief.

“That’s for our share of the trouble,” said Sikes; “and not half enough, neither. You may keep the books, if you’re fond of reading. If you ain’t, sell ’em.”

“They’re very pretty,” said Charley Bates: who, with sundry grimaces, had been affecting to read one of the volumes in question; “beautiful writing, isn’t is, Oliver?” At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more boisterous than the first.

“They belong to the old gentleman,” said Oliver, wringing his hands; “to the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had me nursed, when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him back the books and money. Keep me here all my life long; but pray, pray send them back. He’ll think I stole them; the old lady: all of them who were so kind to me: will think I stole them. Oh, do have mercy upon me, and send them back!”

With these words, which were uttered with all the energy of passionate grief, Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jew’s feet; and beat his hands together, in perfect desperation.

“The boy’s right,” remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting his shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. “You’re right, Oliver, you’re right; they will think you have stolen ’em. Ha! ha!” chuckled the Jew, rubbing his hands, “it couldn’t have happened better, if we had chosen our time!”

“Of course it couldn’t,” replied Sikes; “I know’d that, directly I see him coming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It’s all right enough. They’re soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn’t have taken him in at all; and they’ll ask no questions after him, fear they should be obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged. He’s safe enough.”

Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being spoken, as if he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and tore wildly from the room: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare old house echo to the roof.

“Keep back the dog, Bill!” cried Nancy, springing before the door, and closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. “Keep back the dog; he’ll tear the boy to pieces.”

“Serve him right!” cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl’s grasp. “Stand off from me, or I’ll split your head against the wall.”

“I don’t care for that, Bill, I don’t care for that,” screamed the girl, struggling violently with the man, “the child shan’t be torn down by the dog, unless you kill me first.”

“Shan’t he!” said Sikes, setting his teeth. “I’ll soon do that, if you don’t keep off.”

The housebreaker flung the girl from him to the further end of the room, just as the Jew and the two boys returned, dragging Oliver among them.

“What’s the matter here!” said Fagin, looking round.

“The girl’s gone mad, I think,” replied Sikes, savagely.

“No, she hasn’t,” said Nancy, pale and breathless from the scuffle; “no, she hasn’t, Fagin; don’t think it.”

“Then keep quiet, will you?” said the Jew, with a threatening look.

“No, I won’t do that, neither,” replied Nancy, speaking very loud. “Come! What do you think of that?”

Mr. Fagin was sufficiently well acquainted with the manners and customs of that particular species of humanity to which Nancy belonged, to feel tolerably certain that it would be rather unsafe to prolong any conversation with her, at present. With the view of diverting the attention of the company, he turned to Oliver.

“So you wanted to get away, my dear, did you?” said the Jew, taking up a jagged and knotted club which lay in a corner of the fireplace; “eh?”

Oliver made no reply. But he watched the Jew’s motions, and breathed quickly.

“Wanted to get assistance; called for the police; did you?” sneered the Jew, catching the boy by the arm. “We’ll cure you of that, my young master.”

The Jew inflicted a smart blow on Oliver’s shoulders with the club; and was raising it for a second, when the girl, rushing forward, wrested it from his hand. She flung it into the fire, with a force that brought some of the glowing coals whirling out into the room.

“I won’t stand by and see it done, Fagin,” cried the girl. “You’ve got the boy, and what more would you have?—Let him be—let him be—or I shall put that mark on some of you, that will bring me to the gallows before my time.”

The girl stamped her foot violently on the floor as she vented this threat; and with her lips compressed, and her hands clenched, looked alternately at the Jew and the other robber: her face quite colourless from the passion of rage into which she had gradually worked herself.

“Why, Nancy!” said the Jew, in a soothing tone; after a pause, during which he and Mr. Sikes had stared at one another in a disconcerted manner; “you,—you’re more clever than ever tonight. Ha! ha! my dear, you are acting beautifully.”

“Am I?” said the girl. “Take care I don’t overdo it. You will be the worse for it, Fagin, if I do; and so I tell you in good time to keep clear of me.”

There is something about a roused woman: especially if she add to all her other strong passions, the fierce impulses of recklessness and despair; which few men like to provoke. The Jew saw that it would be hopeless to affect any further mistake regarding the reality of Miss Nancy’s rage; and, shrinking involuntarily back a few paces, cast a glance, half imploring and half cowardly, at Sikes: as if to hint that he was the fittest person to pursue the dialogue.

Mr. Sikes, thus mutely appealed to; and possibly feeling his personal pride and influence interested in the immediate reduction of Miss Nancy to reason; gave utterance to about a couple of score of curses and threats, the rapid production of which reflected great credit on the fertility of his invention. As they produced no visible effect on the object against whom they were discharged, however, he resorted to more tangible arguments.

“What do you mean by this?” said Sikes; backing the inquiry with a very common imprecation concerning the most beautiful of human features: which, if it were heard above, only once out of every fifty thousand times that it is uttered below, would render blindness as common a disorder as measles: “what do you mean by it? Burn my body! Do you know who you are, and what you are?”

“Oh, yes, I know all about it,” replied the girl, laughing hysterically; and shaking her head from side to side, with a poor assumption of indifference.

“Well, then, keep quiet,” rejoined Sikes, with a growl like that he was accustomed to use when addressing his dog, “or I’ll quiet you for a good long time to come.”

The girl laughed again: even less composedly than before; and, darting a hasty look at Sikes, turned her face aside, and bit her lip till the blood came.

“You’re a nice one,” added Sikes, as he surveyed her with a contemptuous air, “to take up the humane and gen—teel side! A pretty subject for the child, as you call him, to make a friend of!”

“God Almighty help me, I am!” cried the girl passionately; “and I wish I had been struck dead in the street, or had changed places with them we passed so near tonight, before I had lent a hand in bringing him here. He’s a thief, a liar, a devil, all that’s bad, from this night forth. Isn’t that enough for the old wretch, without blows?”

“Come, come, Sikes,” said the Jew appealing to him in a remonstratory tone, and motioning towards the boys, who were eagerly attentive to all that passed; “we must have civil words; civil words, Bill.”

“Civil words!” cried the girl, whose passion was frightful to see. “Civil words, you villain! Yes, you deserve ’em from me. I thieved for you when I was a child not half as old as this!” pointing to Oliver. “I have been in the same trade, and in the same service, for twelve years since. Don’t you know it? Speak out! Don’t you know it?”

“Well, well,” replied the Jew, with an attempt at pacification; “and, if you have, it’s your living!”

“Aye, it is!” returned the girl; not speaking, but pouring out the words in one continuous and vehement scream. “It is my living; and the cold, wet, dirty streets are my home; and you’re the wretch that drove me to them long ago, and that’ll keep me there, day and night, day and night, till I die!”

“I shall do you a mischief!” interposed the Jew, goaded by these reproaches; “a mischief worse than that, if you say much more!”

The girl said nothing more; but, tearing her hair and dress in a transport of passion, made such a rush at the Jew as would probably have left signal marks of her revenge upon him, had not her wrists been seized by Sikes at the right moment; upon which, she made a few ineffectual struggles, and fainted.

“She’s all right now,” said Sikes, laying her down in a corner. “She’s uncommon strong in the arms, when she’s up in this way.”

The Jew wiped his forehead: and smiled, as if it were a relief to have the disturbance over; but neither he, nor Sikes, nor the dog, nor the boys, seemed to consider it in any other light than a common occurance incidental to business.

“It’s the worst of having to do with women,” said the Jew, replacing his club; “but they’re clever, and we can’t get on, in our line, without ’em. Charley, show Oliver to bed.”

“I suppose he’d better not wear his best clothes tomorrow, Fagin, had he?” inquired Charley Bates.

“Certainly not,” replied the Jew, reciprocating the grin with which Charley put the question.

Master Bates, apparently much delighted with his commission, took the cleft stick: and led Oliver into an adjacent kitchen, where there were two or three of the beds on which he had slept before; and here, with many uncontrollable bursts of laughter, he produced the identical old suit of clothes which Oliver had so much congratulated himself upon leaving off at Mr. Brownlow’s; and the accidental display of which, to Fagin, by the Jew who purchased them, had been the very first clue received, of his whereabout.

“Put off the smart ones,” said Charley, “and I’ll give ’em to Fagin to take care of. What fun it is!”

Poor Oliver unwillingly complied. Master Bates rolling up the new clothes under his arm, departed from the room, leaving Oliver in the dark, and locking the door behind him.

The noise of Charley’s laughter, and the voice of Miss Betsy, who opportunely arrived to throw water over her friend, and perform other feminine offices for the promotion of her recovery, might have kept many people awake under more happy circumstances than those in which Oliver was placed. But he was sick and weary; and he soon fell sound asleep.

CHAPTER XVII. OLIVER’S DESTINY CONTINUING UNPROPITIOUS, BRINGS A GREAT MAN TO LONDON TO INJURE HIS REPUTATION

It is the custom on the stage, in all good murderous melodramas, to present the tragic and the comic scenes, in as regular alternation, as the layers of red and white in a side of streaky bacon. The hero sinks upon his straw bed, weighed down by fetters and misfortunes; in the next scene, his faithful but unconscious squire regales the audience with a comic song. We behold, with throbbing bosoms, the heroine in the grasp of a proud and ruthless baron: her virtue and her life alike in danger, drawing forth her dagger to preserve the one at the cost of the other; and just as our expectations are wrought up to the highest pitch, a whistle is heard, and we are straightway transported to the great hall of the castle; where a grey-headed seneschal sings a funny chorus with a funnier body of vassals, who are free of all sorts of places, from church vaults to palaces, and roam about in company, carolling perpetually.

Such changes appear absurd; but they are not so unnatural as they would seem at first sight. The transitions in real life from well-spread boards to death-beds, and from mourning-weeds to holiday garments, are not a whit less startling; only, there, we are busy actors, instead of passive lookers-on, which makes a vast difference. The actors in the mimic life of the theatre, are blind to violent transitions and abrupt impulses of passion or feeling, which, presented before the eyes of mere spectators, are at once condemned as outrageous and preposterous.

As sudden shiftings of the scene, and rapid changes of time and place, are not only sanctioned in books by long usage, but are by many considered as the great art of authorship: an author’s skill in his craft being, by such critics, chiefly estimated with relation to the dilemmas in which he leaves his characters at the end of every chapter: this brief introduction to the present one may perhaps be deemed unnecessary. If so, let it be considered a delicate intimation on the part of the historian that he is going back to the town in which Oliver Twist was born; the reader taking it for granted that there are good and substantial reasons for making the journey, or he would not be invited to proceed upon such an expedition.

Mr. Bumble emerged at early morning from the workhouse-gate, and walked with portly carriage and commanding steps, up the High Street. He was in the full bloom and pride of beadlehood; his cocked hat and coat were dazzling in the morning sun; he clutched his cane with the vigorous tenacity of health and power. Mr. Bumble always carried his head high; but this morning it was higher than usual. There was an abstraction in his eye, an elevation in his air, which might have warned an observant stranger that thoughts were passing in the beadle’s mind, too great for utterance.

Mr. Bumble stopped not to converse with the small shopkeepers and others who spoke to him, deferentially, as he passed along. He merely returned their salutations with a wave of his hand, and relaxed not in his dignified pace, until he reached the farm where Mrs. Mann tended the infant paupers with parochial care.

“Drat that beadle!” said Mrs. Mann, hearing the well-known shaking at the garden-gate. “If it isn’t him at this time in the morning! Lauk, Mr. Bumble, only think of its being you! Well, dear me, it is a pleasure, this is! Come into the parlour, sir, please.”

The first sentence was addressed to Susan; and the exclamations of delight were uttered to Mr. Bumble: as the good lady unlocked the garden-gate: and showed him, with great attention and respect, into the house.

“Mrs. Mann,” said Mr. Bumble; not sitting upon, or dropping himself into a seat, as any common jackanapes would: but letting himself gradually and slowly down into a chair; “Mrs. Mann, ma’am, good morning.”

“Well, and good morning to you, sir,” replied Mrs. Mann, with many smiles; “and hoping you find yourself well, sir!”

“So-so, Mrs. Mann,” replied the beadle. “A porochial life is not a bed of roses, Mrs. Mann.”

“Ah, that it isn’t indeed, Mr. Bumble,” rejoined the lady. And all the infant paupers might have chorussed the rejoinder with great propriety, if they had heard it.

“A porochial life, ma’am,” continued Mr. Bumble, striking the table with his cane, “is a life of worrit, and vexation, and hardihood; but all public characters, as I may say, must suffer prosecution.”

Mrs. Mann, not very well knowing what the beadle meant, raised her hands with a look of sympathy, and sighed.

“Ah! You may well sigh, Mrs. Mann!” said the beadle.

Finding she had done right, Mrs. Mann sighed again: evidently to the satisfaction of the public character: who, repressing a complacent smile by looking sternly at his cocked hat, said,

“Mrs. Mann, I am going to London.”

“Lauk, Mr. Bumble!” cried Mrs. Mann, starting back.

“To London, ma’am,” resumed the inflexible beadle, “by coach. I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has appointed me—me, Mrs. Mann—to dispose to the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question,” added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, “whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me.”

“Oh! you mustn’t be too hard upon them, sir,” said Mrs. Mann, coaxingly.

“The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble; “and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they come off rather worse than they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have only themselves to thank.”

There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs. Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said,

“You’re going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them paupers in carts.”

“That’s when they’re ill, Mrs. Mann,” said the beadle. “We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Mann.

“The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap,” said Mr. Bumble. “They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come two pound cheaper to move ’em than to bury ’em—that is, if we can throw ’em upon another parish, which I think we shall be able to do, if they don’t die upon the road to spite us. Ha! ha! ha!”

When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered the cocked hat; and he became grave.

“We are forgetting business, ma’am,” said the beadle; “here is your porochial stipend for the month.”

Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his pocket-book; and requested a receipt: which Mrs. Mann wrote.

“It’s very much blotted, sir,” said the farmer of infants; “but it’s formal enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much obliged to you, I’m sure.”

Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann’s curtsey; and inquired how the children were.

“Bless their dear little hearts!” said Mrs. Mann with emotion, “they’re as well as can be, the dears! Of course, except the two that died last week. And little Dick.”

“Isn’t that boy no better?” inquired Mr. Bumble.

Mrs. Mann shook her head.

“He’s a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child that,” said Mr. Bumble angrily. “Where is he?”

“I’ll bring him to you in one minute, sir,” replied Mrs. Mann. “Here, you Dick!”

After some calling, Dick was discovered. Having had his face put under the pump, and dried upon Mrs. Mann’s gown, he was led into the awful presence of Mr. Bumble, the beadle.

The child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken; and his eyes large and bright. The scanty parish dress, the livery of his misery, hung loosely on his feeble body; and his young limbs had wasted away, like those of an old man.

Such was the little being who stood trembling beneath Mr. Bumble’s glance; not daring to lift his eyes from the floor; and dreading even to hear the beadle’s voice.

“Can’t you look at the gentleman, you obstinate boy?” said Mrs. Mann.

The child meekly raised his eyes, and encountered those of Mr. Bumble.

“What’s the matter with you, porochial Dick?” inquired Mr. Bumble, with well-timed jocularity.

“Nothing, sir,” replied the child faintly.

“I should think not,” said Mrs. Mann, who had of course laughed very much at Mr. Bumble’s humour.

“You want for nothing, I’m sure.”

“I should like—” faltered the child.

“Hey-day!” interposed Mrs. Mann, “I suppose you’re going to say that you do want for something, now? Why, you little wretch—”

“Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop!” said the beadle, raising his hand with a show of authority. “Like what, sir, eh?”

“I should like,” faltered the child, “if somebody that can write, would put a few words down for me on a piece of paper, and fold it up and seal it, and keep it for me, after I am laid in the ground.”

“Why, what does the boy mean?” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, on whom the earnest manner and wan aspect of the child had made some impression: accustomed as he was to such things. “What do you mean, sir?”

“I should like,” said the child, “to leave my dear love to poor Oliver Twist; and to let him know how often I have sat by myself and cried to think of his wandering about in the dark nights with nobody to help him. And I should like to tell him,” said the child pressing his small hands together, and speaking with great fervour, “that I was glad to die when I was very young; for, perhaps, if I had lived to be a man, and had grown old, my little sister who is in Heaven, might forget me, or be unlike me; and it would be so much happier if we were both children there together.”

Mr. Bumble surveyed the little speaker, from head to foot, with indescribable astonishment; and, turning to his companion, said, “They’re all in one story, Mrs. Mann. That out-dacious Oliver had demogalized them all!”

“I couldn’t have believed it, sir” said Mrs Mann, holding up her hands, and looking malignantly at Dick. “I never see such a hardened little wretch!”

“Take him away, ma’am!” said Mr. Bumble imperiously. “This must be stated to the board, Mrs. Mann.”

“I hope the gentleman will understand that it isn’t my fault, sir?” said Mrs. Mann, whimpering pathetically.

“They shall understand that, ma’am; they shall be acquainted with the true state of the case,” said Mr. Bumble. “There; take him away, I can’t bear the sight on him.”

Dick was immediately taken away, and locked up in the coal-cellar. Mr. Bumble shortly afterwards took himself off, to prepare for his journey.

At six o’clock next morning, Mr. Bumble: having exchanged his cocked hat for a round one, and encased his person in a blue great-coat with a cape to it: took his place on the outside of the coach, accompanied by the criminals whose settlement was disputed; with whom, in due course of time, he arrived in London.

He experienced no other crosses on the way, than those which originated in the perverse behaviour of the two paupers, who persisted in shivering, and complaining of the cold, in a manner which, Mr. Bumble declared, caused his teeth to chatter in his head, and made him feel quite uncomfortable; although he had a great-coat on.

Having disposed of these evil-minded persons for the night, Mr. Bumble sat himself down in the house at which the coach stopped; and took a temperate dinner of steaks, oyster sauce, and porter. Putting a glass of hot gin-and-water on the chimney-piece, he drew his chair to the fire; and, with sundry moral reflections on the too-prevalent sin of discontent and complaining, composed himself to read the paper.

The very first paragraph upon which Mr. Bumble’s eye rested, was the following advertisement.

“FIVE GUINEAS REWARD

“Whereas a young boy, named Oliver Twist, absconded, or was enticed, on Thursday evening last, from his home, at Pentonville; and has not since been heard of. The above reward will be paid to any person who will give such information as will lead to the discovery of the said Oliver Twist, or tend to throw any light upon his previous history, in which the advertiser is, for many reasons, warmly interested.”

And then followed a full description of Oliver’s dress, person, appearance, and disappearance: with the name and address of Mr. Brownlow at full length.

Mr. Bumble opened his eyes; read the advertisement, slowly and carefully, three several times; and in something more than five minutes was on his way to Pentonville: having actually, in his excitement, left the glass of hot gin-and-water, untasted.

“Is Mr. Brownlow at home?” inquired Mr. Bumble of the girl who opened the door.

To this inquiry the girl returned the not uncommon, but rather evasive reply of “I don’t know; where do you come from?”

Mr. Bumble no sooner uttered Oliver’s name, in explanation of his errand, than Mrs. Bedwin, who had been listening at the parlour door, hastened into the passage in a breathless state.

“Come in, come in,” said the old lady: “I knew we should hear of him. Poor dear! I knew we should! I was certain of it. Bless his heart! I said so all along.”

Having said this, the worthy old lady hurried back into the parlour again; and seating herself on a sofa, burst into tears. The girl, who was not quite so susceptible, had run upstairs meanwhile; and now returned with a request that Mr. Bumble would follow her immediately: which he did.

He was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr. Brownlow and his friend Mr. Grimwig, with decanters and glasses before them. The latter gentleman at once burst into the exclamation:

“A beadle. A parish beadle, or I’ll eat my head.”

“Pray don’t interrupt just now,” said Mr. Brownlow. “Take a seat, will you?”

Mr. Bumble sat himself down; quite confounded by the oddity of Mr. Grimwig’s manner. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp, so as to obtain an uninterrupted view of the beadle’s countenance; and said, with a little impatience,

“Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the advertisement?”

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Bumble.

“And you are a beadle, are you not?” inquired Mr. Grimwig.

“I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen,” rejoined Mr. Bumble proudly.

“Of course,” observed Mr. Grimwig aside to his friend, “I knew he was. A beadle all over!”

Mr. Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence on his friend, and resumed:

“Do you know where this poor boy is now?”

“No more than nobody,” replied Mr. Bumble.

“Well, what do you know of him?” inquired the old gentleman. “Speak out, my friend, if you have anything to say. What do you know of him?”

“You don’t happen to know any good of him, do you?” said Mr. Grimwig, caustically; after an attentive perusal of Mr. Bumble’s features.

Mr. Bumble, catching at the inquiry very quickly, shook his head with portentous solemnity.

“You see?” said Mr. Grimwig, looking triumphantly at Mr. Brownlow.

Mr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr. Bumble’s pursed-up countenance; and requested him to communicate what he knew regarding Oliver, in as few words as possible.

Mr. Bumble put down his hat; unbuttoned his coat; folded his arms; inclined his head in a retrospective manner; and, after a few moments’ reflection, commenced his story.

It would be tedious if given in the beadle’s words: occupying, as it did, some twenty minutes in the telling; but the sum and substance of it was, that Oliver was a foundling, born of low and vicious parents. That he had, from his birth, displayed no better qualities than treachery, ingratitude, and malice. That he had terminated his brief career in the place of his birth, by making a sanguinary and cowardly attack on an unoffending lad, and running away in the night-time from his master’s house. In proof of his really being the person he represented himself, Mr. Bumble laid upon the table the papers he had brought to town. Folding his arms again, he then awaited Mr. Brownlow’s observations.

“I fear it is all too true,” said the old gentleman sorrowfully, after looking over the papers. “This is not much for your intelligence; but I would gladly have given you treble the money, if it had been favourable to the boy.”

It is not improbable that if Mr. Bumble had been possessed of this information at an earlier period of the interview, he might have imparted a very different colouring to his little history. It was too late to do it now, however; so he shook his head gravely, and, pocketing the five guineas, withdrew.

Mr. Brownlow paced the room to and fro for some minutes; evidently so much disturbed by the beadle’s tale, that even Mr. Grimwig forbore to vex him further.

At length he stopped, and rang the bell violently.

“Mrs. Bedwin,” said Mr. Brownlow, when the housekeeper appeared; “that boy, Oliver, is an imposter.”

“It can’t be, sir. It cannot be,” said the old lady energetically.

“I tell you he is,” retorted the old gentleman. “What do you mean by can’t be? We have just heard a full account of him from his birth; and he has been a thorough-paced little villain, all his life.”

“I never will believe it, sir,” replied the old lady, firmly. “Never!”

“You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying story-books,” growled Mr. Grimwig. “I knew it all along. Why didn’t you take my advice in the beginning; you would if he hadn’t had a fever, I suppose, eh? He was interesting, wasn’t he? Interesting! Bah!” And Mr. Grimwig poked the fire with a flourish.

“He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir,” retorted Mrs. Bedwin, indignantly. “I know what children are, sir; and have done these forty years; and people who can’t say the same, shouldn’t say anything about them. That’s my opinion!”

This was a hard hit at Mr. Grimwig, who was a bachelor. As it extorted nothing from that gentleman but a smile, the old lady tossed her head, and smoothed down her apron preparatory to another speech, when she was stopped by Mr. Brownlow.

“Silence!” said the old gentleman, feigning an anger he was far from feeling. “Never let me hear the boy’s name again. I rang to tell you that. Never. Never, on any pretence, mind! You may leave the room, Mrs. Bedwin. Remember! I am in earnest.”

There were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow’s that night.

Oliver’s heart sank within him, when he thought of his good friends; it was well for him that he could not know what they had heard, or it might have broken outright.

CHAPTER XVIII. HOW OLIVER PASSED HIS TIME IN THE IMPROVING SOCIETY OF HIS REPUTABLE FRIENDS

About noon next day, when the Dodger and Master Bates had gone out to pursue their customary avocations, Mr. Fagin took the opportunity of reading Oliver a long lecture on the crying sin of ingratitude; of which he clearly demonstrated he had been guilty, to no ordinary extent, in wilfully absenting himself from the society of his anxious friends; and, still more, in endeavouring to escape from them after so much trouble and expense had been incurred in his recovery. Mr. Fagin laid great stress on the fact of his having taken Oliver in, and cherished him, when, without his timely aid, he might have perished with hunger; and he related the dismal and affecting history of a young lad whom, in his philanthropy, he had succoured under parallel circumstances, but who, proving unworthy of his confidence and evincing a desire to communicate with the police, had unfortunately come to be hanged at the Old Bailey one morning. Mr. Fagin did not seek to conceal his share in the catastrophe, but lamented with tears in his eyes that the wrong-headed and treacherous behaviour of the young person in question, had rendered it necessary that he should become the victim of certain evidence for the crown: which, if it were not precisely true, was indispensably necessary for the safety of him (Mr. Fagin) and a few select friends. Mr. Fagin concluded by drawing a rather disagreeable picture of the discomforts of hanging; and, with great friendliness and politeness of manner, expressed his anxious hopes that he might never be obliged to submit Oliver Twist to that unpleasant operation.

Little Oliver’s blood ran cold, as he listened to the Jew’s words, and imperfectly comprehended the dark threats conveyed in them. That it was possible even for justice itself to confound the innocent with the guilty when they were in accidental companionship, he knew already; and that deeply-laid plans for the destruction of inconveniently knowing or over-communicative persons, had been really devised and carried out by the Jew on more occasions than one, he thought by no means unlikely, when he recollected the general nature of the altercations between that gentleman and Mr. Sikes: which seemed to bear reference to some foregone conspiracy of the kind. As he glanced timidly up, and met the Jew’s searching look, he felt that his pale face and trembling limbs were neither unnoticed nor unrelished by that wary old gentleman.

The Jew, smiling hideously, patted Oliver on the head, and said, that if he kept himself quiet, and applied himself to business, he saw they would be very good friends yet. Then, taking his hat, and covering himself with an old patched great-coat, he went out, and locked the room-door behind him.

And so Oliver remained all that day, and for the greater part of many subsequent days, seeing nobody, between early morning and midnight, and left during the long hours to commune with his own thoughts. Which, never failing to revert to his kind friends, and the opinion they must long ago have formed of him, were sad indeed.

After the lapse of a week or so, the Jew left the room-door unlocked; and he was at liberty to wander about the house.

It was a very dirty place. The rooms upstairs had great high wooden chimney-pieces and large doors, with panelled walls and cornices to the ceiling; which, although they were black with neglect and dust, were ornamented in various ways. From all of these tokens Oliver concluded that a long time ago, before the old Jew was born, it had belonged to better people, and had perhaps been quite gay and handsome: dismal and dreary as it looked now.

Spiders had built their webs in the angles of the walls and ceilings; and sometimes, when Oliver walked softly into a room, the mice would scamper across the floor, and run back terrified to their holes. With these exceptions, there was neither sight nor sound of any living thing; and often, when it grew dark, and he was tired of wandering from room to room, he would crouch in the corner of the passage by the street-door, to be as near living people as he could; and would remain there, listening and counting the hours, until the Jew or the boys returned.

In all the rooms, the mouldering shutters were fast closed: the bars which held them were screwed tight into the wood; the only light which was admitted, stealing its way through round holes at the top: which made the rooms more gloomy, and filled them with strange shadows. There was a back-garret window with rusty bars outside, which had no shutter; and out of this, Oliver often gazed with a melancholy face for hours together; but nothing was to be descried from it but a confused and crowded mass of housetops, blackened chimneys, and gable-ends. Sometimes, indeed, a grizzly head might be seen, peering over the parapet-wall of a distant house; but it was quickly withdrawn again; and as the window of Oliver’s observatory was nailed down, and dimmed with the rain and smoke of years, it was as much as he could do to make out the forms of the different objects beyond, without making any attempt to be seen or heard,—which he had as much chance of being, as if he had lived inside the ball of St. Paul’s Cathedral.

One afternoon, the Dodger and Master Bates being engaged out that evening, the first-named young gentleman took it into his head to evince some anxiety regarding the decoration of his person (to do him justice, this was by no means an habitual weakness with him); and, with this end and aim, he condescendingly commanded Oliver to assist him in his toilet, straightway.

Oliver was but too glad to make himself useful; too happy to have some faces, however bad, to look upon; too desirous to conciliate those about him when he could honestly do so; to throw any objection in the way of this proposal. So he at once expressed his readiness; and, kneeling on the floor, while the Dodger sat upon the table so that he could take his foot in his laps, he applied himself to a process which Mr. Dawkins designated as “japanning his trotter-cases.” The phrase, rendered into plain English, signifieth, cleaning his boots.

Whether it was the sense of freedom and independence which a rational animal may be supposed to feel when he sits on a table in an easy attitude smoking a pipe, swinging one leg carelessly to and fro, and having his boots cleaned all the time, without even the past trouble of having taken them off, or the prospective misery of putting them on, to disturb his reflections; or whether it was the goodness of the tobacco that soothed the feelings of the Dodger, or the mildness of the beer that mollified his thoughts; he was evidently tinctured, for the nonce, with a spice of romance and enthusiasm, foreign to his general nature. He looked down on Oliver, with a thoughtful countenance, for a brief space; and then, raising his head, and heaving a gentle sigh, said, half in abstraction, and half to Master Bates:

“What a pity it is he isn’t a prig!”

“Ah!” said Master Charles Bates; “he don’t know what’s good for him.”

The Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe: as did Charley Bates. They both smoked, for some seconds, in silence.

“I suppose you don’t even know what a prig is?” said the Dodger mournfully.

“I think I know that,” replied Oliver, looking up. “It’s a the—; you’re one, are you not?” inquired Oliver, checking himself.

“I am,” replied the Dodger. “I’d scorn to be anything else.” Mr. Dawkins gave his hat a ferocious cock, after delivering this sentiment, and looked at Master Bates, as if to denote that he would feel obliged by his saying anything to the contrary.

“I am,” repeated the Dodger. “So’s Charley. So’s Fagin. So’s Sikes. So’s Nancy. So’s Bet. So we all are, down to the dog. And he’s the downiest one of the lot!”

“And the least given to peaching,” added Charley Bates.

“He wouldn’t so much as bark in a witness-box, for fear of committing himself; no, not if you tied him up in one, and left him there without wittles for a fortnight,” said the Dodger.

“Not a bit of it,” observed Charley.

“He’s a rum dog. Don’t he look fierce at any strange cove that laughs or sings when he’s in company!” pursued the Dodger. “Won’t he growl at all, when he hears a fiddle playing! And don’t he hate other dogs as ain’t of his breed! Oh, no!”

“He’s an out-and-out Christian,” said Charley.

This was merely intended as a tribute to the animal’s abilities, but it was an appropriate remark in another sense, if Master Bates had only known it; for there are a good many ladies and gentlemen, claiming to be out-and-out Christians, between whom, and Mr. Sikes’ dog, there exist strong and singular points of resemblance.

“Well, well,” said the Dodger, recurring to the point from which they had strayed: with that mindfulness of his profession which influenced all his proceedings. “This hasn’t got anything to do with young Green here.”

“No more it has,” said Charley. “Why don’t you put yourself under Fagin, Oliver?”

“And make your fortun’ out of hand?” added the Dodger, with a grin.

“And so be able to retire on your property, and do the gen-teel: as I mean to, in the very next leap-year but four that ever comes, and the forty-second Tuesday in Trinity-week,” said Charley Bates.

“I don’t like it,” rejoined Oliver, timidly; “I wish they would let me go. I—I—would rather go.”

“And Fagin would rather not!” rejoined Charley.

Oliver knew this too well; but thinking it might be dangerous to express his feelings more openly, he only sighed, and went on with his boot-cleaning.

“Go!” exclaimed the Dodger. “Why, where’s your spirit? Don’t you take any pride out of yourself? Would you go and be dependent on your friends?”

“Oh, blow that!” said Master Bates: drawing two or three silk handkerchiefs from his pocket, and tossing them into a cupboard, “that’s too mean; that is.”

“I couldn’t do it,” said the Dodger, with an air of haughty disgust.

“You can leave your friends, though,” said Oliver with a half smile; “and let them be punished for what you did.”

“That,” rejoined the Dodger, with a wave of his pipe, “That was all out of consideration for Fagin, ’cause the traps know that we work together, and he might have got into trouble if we hadn’t made our lucky; that was the move, wasn’t it, Charley?”

Master Bates nodded assent, and would have spoken, but the recollection of Oliver’s flight came so suddenly upon him, that the smoke he was inhaling got entangled with a laugh, and went up into his head, and down into his throat: and brought on a fit of coughing and stamping, about five minutes long.

“Look here!” said the Dodger, drawing forth a handful of shillings and halfpence. “Here’s a jolly life! What’s the odds where it comes from? Here, catch hold; there’s plenty more where they were took from. You won’t, won’t you? Oh, you precious flat!”

“It’s naughty, ain’t it, Oliver?” inquired Charley Bates. “He’ll come to be scragged, won’t he?”

“I don’t know what that means,” replied Oliver.

“Something in this way, old feller,” said Charley. As he said it, Master Bates caught up an end of his neckerchief; and, holding it erect in the air, dropped his head on his shoulder, and jerked a curious sound through his teeth; thereby indicating, by a lively pantomimic representation, that scragging and hanging were one and the same thing.

“That’s what it means,” said Charley. “Look how he stares, Jack! I never did see such prime company as that ’ere boy; he’ll be the death of me, I know he will.” Master Charley Bates, having laughed heartily again, resumed his pipe with tears in his eyes.

“You’ve been brought up bad,” said the Dodger, surveying his boots with much satisfaction when Oliver had polished them. “Fagin will make something of you, though, or you’ll be the first he ever had that turned out unprofitable. You’d better begin at once; for you’ll come to the trade long before you think of it; and you’re only losing time, Oliver.”

Master Bates backed this advice with sundry moral admonitions of his own: which, being exhausted, he and his friend Mr. Dawkins launched into a glowing description of the numerous pleasures incidental to the life they led, interspersed with a variety of hints to Oliver that the best thing he could do, would be to secure Fagin’s favour without more delay, by the means which they themselves had employed to gain it.

“And always put this in your pipe, Nolly,” said the Dodger, as the Jew was heard unlocking the door above, “if you don’t take fogels and tickers—”

“What’s the good of talking in that way?” interposed Master Bates; “he don’t know what you mean.”

“If you don’t take pocket-handkechers and watches,” said the Dodger, reducing his conversation to the level of Oliver’s capacity, “some other cove will; so that the coves that lose ’em will be all the worse, and you’ll be all the worse, too, and nobody half a ha’p’orth the better, except the chaps wot gets them—and you’ve just as good a right to them as they have.”

“To be sure, to be sure!” said the Jew, who had entered unseen by Oliver. “It all lies in a nutshell my dear; in a nutshell, take the Dodger’s word for it. Ha! ha! ha! He understands the catechism of his trade.”

The old man rubbed his hands gleefully together, as he corroborated the Dodger’s reasoning in these terms; and chuckled with delight at his pupil’s proficiency.

The conversation proceeded no farther at this time, for the Jew had returned home accompanied by Miss Betsy, and a gentleman whom Oliver had never seen before, but who was accosted by the Dodger as Tom Chitling; and who, having lingered on the stairs to exchange a few gallantries with the lady, now made his appearance.

Mr. Chitling was older in years than the Dodger: having perhaps numbered eighteen winters; but there was a degree of deference in his deportment towards that young gentleman which seemed to indicate that he felt himself conscious of a slight inferiority in point of genius and professional aquirements. He had small twinkling eyes, and a pock-marked face; wore a fur cap, a dark corduroy jacket, greasy fustian trousers, and an apron. His wardrobe was, in truth, rather out of repair; but he excused himself to the company by stating that his “time” was only out an hour before; and that, in consequence of having worn the regimentals for six weeks past, he had not been able to bestow any attention on his private clothes. Mr. Chitling added, with strong marks of irritation, that the new way of fumigating clothes up yonder was infernal unconstitutional, for it burnt holes in them, and there was no remedy against the county. The same remark he considered to apply to the regulation mode of cutting the hair: which he held to be decidedly unlawful. Mr. Chitling wound up his observations by stating that he had not touched a drop of anything for forty-two moral long hard-working days; and that he “wished he might be busted if he warn’t as dry as a lime-basket.”

“Where do you think the gentleman has come from, Oliver?” inquired the Jew, with a grin, as the other boys put a bottle of spirits on the table.

“I—I—don’t know, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Who’s that?” inquired Tom Chitling, casting a contemptuous look at Oliver.

“A young friend of mine, my dear,” replied the Jew.

“He’s in luck, then,” said the young man, with a meaning look at Fagin. “Never mind where I came from, young ’un; you’ll find your way there, soon enough, I’ll bet a crown!”

At this sally, the boys laughed. After some more jokes on the same subject, they exchanged a few short whispers with Fagin; and withdrew.

After some words apart between the last comer and Fagin, they drew their chairs towards the fire; and the Jew, telling Oliver to come and sit by him, led the conversation to the topics most calculated to interest his hearers. These were, the great advantages of the trade, the proficiency of the Dodger, the amiability of Charley Bates, and the liberality of the Jew himself. At length these subjects displayed signs of being thoroughly exhausted; and Mr. Chitling did the same: for the house of correction becomes fatiguing after a week or two. Miss Betsy accordingly withdrew; and left the party to their repose.

From this day, Oliver was seldom left alone; but was placed in almost constant communication with the two boys, who played the old game with the Jew every day: whether for their own improvement or Oliver’s, Mr. Fagin best knew. At other times the old man would tell them stories of robberies he had committed in his younger days: mixed up with so much that was droll and curious, that Oliver could not help laughing heartily, and showing that he was amused in spite of all his better feelings.

In short, the wily old Jew had the boy in his toils. Having prepared his mind, by solitude and gloom, to prefer any society to the companionship of his own sad thoughts in such a dreary place, he was now slowly instilling into his soul the poison which he hoped would blacken it, and change its hue for ever.

CHAPTER XIX. IN WHICH A NOTABLE PLAN IS DISCUSSED AND DETERMINED ON

It was a chill, damp, windy night, when the Jew: buttoning his great-coat tight round his shrivelled body, and pulling the collar up over his ears so as completely to obscure the lower part of his face: emerged from his den. He paused on the step as the door was locked and chained behind him; and having listened while the boys made all secure, and until their retreating footsteps were no longer audible, slunk down the street as quickly as he could.

The house to which Oliver had been conveyed, was in the neighborhood of Whitechapel. The Jew stopped for an instant at the corner of the street; and, glancing suspiciously round, crossed the road, and struck off in the direction of the Spitalfields.

The mud lay thick upon the stones, and a black mist hung over the streets; the rain fell sluggishly down, and everything felt cold and clammy to the touch. It seemed just the night when it befitted such a being as the Jew to be abroad. As he glided stealthily along, creeping beneath the shelter of the walls and doorways, the hideous old man seemed like some loathsome reptile, engendered in the slime and darkness through which he moved: crawling forth, by night, in search of some rich offal for a meal.

He kept on his course, through many winding and narrow ways, until he reached Bethnal Green; then, turning suddenly off to the left, he soon became involved in a maze of the mean and dirty streets which abound in that close and densely-populated quarter.

The Jew was evidently too familiar with the ground he traversed to be at all bewildered, either by the darkness of the night, or the intricacies of the way. He hurried through several alleys and streets, and at length turned into one, lighted only by a single lamp at the farther end. At the door of a house in this street, he knocked; having exchanged a few muttered words with the person who opened it, he walked upstairs.

A dog growled as he touched the handle of a room-door; and a man’s voice demanded who was there.

“Only me, Bill; only me, my dear,” said the Jew looking in.

“Bring in your body then,” said Sikes. “Lie down, you stupid brute! Don’t you know the devil when he’s got a great-coat on?”

Apparently, the dog had been somewhat deceived by Mr. Fagin’s outer garment; for as the Jew unbuttoned it, and threw it over the back of a chair, he retired to the corner from which he had risen: wagging his tail as he went, to show that he was as well satisfied as it was in his nature to be.

“Well!” said Sikes.

“Well, my dear,” replied the Jew.—“Ah! Nancy.”

The latter recognition was uttered with just enough of embarrassment to imply a doubt of its reception; for Mr. Fagin and his young friend had not met, since she had interfered in behalf of Oliver. All doubts upon the subject, if he had any, were speedily removed by the young lady’s behaviour. She took her feet off the fender, pushed back her chair, and bade Fagin draw up his, without saying more about it: for it was a cold night, and no mistake.

“It is cold, Nancy dear,” said the Jew, as he warmed his skinny hands over the fire. “It seems to go right through one,” added the old man, touching his side.

“It must be a piercer, if it finds its way through your heart,” said Mr. Sikes. “Give him something to drink, Nancy. Burn my body, make haste! It’s enough to turn a man ill, to see his lean old carcase shivering in that way, like a ugly ghost just rose from the grave.”

Nancy quickly brought a bottle from a cupboard, in which there were many: which, to judge from the diversity of their appearance, were filled with several kinds of liquids. Sikes pouring out a glass of brandy, bade the Jew drink it off.

“Quite enough, quite, thankye, Bill,” replied the Jew, putting down the glass after just setting his lips to it.

“What! You’re afraid of our getting the better of you, are you?” inquired Sikes, fixing his eyes on the Jew. “Ugh!”

With a hoarse grunt of contempt, Mr. Sikes seized the glass, and threw the remainder of its contents into the ashes: as a preparatory ceremony to filling it again for himself: which he did at once.

The Jew glanced round the room, as his companion tossed down the second glassful; not in curiousity, for he had seen it often before; but in a restless and suspicious manner habitual to him. It was a meanly furnished apartment, with nothing but the contents of the closet to induce the belief that its occupier was anything but a working man; and with no more suspicious articles displayed to view than two or three heavy bludgeons which stood in a corner, and a “life-preserver” that hung over the chimney-piece.

“There,” said Sikes, smacking his lips. “Now I’m ready.”

“For business?” inquired the Jew.

“For business,” replied Sikes; “so say what you’ve got to say.”

“About the crib at Chertsey, Bill?” said the Jew, drawing his chair forward, and speaking in a very low voice.

“Yes. Wot about it?” inquired Sikes.

“Ah! you know what I mean, my dear,” said the Jew. “He knows what I mean, Nancy; don’t he?”

“No, he don’t,” sneered Mr. Sikes. “Or he won’t, and that’s the same thing. Speak out, and call things by their right names; don’t sit there, winking and blinking, and talking to me in hints, as if you warn’t the very first that thought about the robbery. Wot d’ye mean?”

“Hush, Bill, hush!” said the Jew, who had in vain attempted to stop this burst of indignation; “somebody will hear us, my dear. Somebody will hear us.”

“Let ’em hear!” said Sikes; “I don’t care.” But as Mr. Sikes did care, on reflection, he dropped his voice as he said the words, and grew calmer.

“There, there,” said the Jew, coaxingly. “It was only my caution, nothing more. Now, my dear, about that crib at Chertsey; when is it to be done, Bill, eh? When is it to be done? Such plate, my dear, such plate!” said the Jew: rubbing his hands, and elevating his eyebrows in a rapture of anticipation.

“Not at all,” replied Sikes coldly.

“Not to be done at all!” echoed the Jew, leaning back in his chair.

“No, not at all,” rejoined Sikes. “At least it can’t be a put-up job, as we expected.”

“Then it hasn’t been properly gone about,” said the Jew, turning pale with anger. “Don’t tell me!”

“But I will tell you,” retorted Sikes. “Who are you that’s not to be told? I tell you that Toby Crackit has been hanging about the place for a fortnight, and he can’t get one of the servants in line.”

“Do you mean to tell me, Bill,” said the Jew: softening as the other grew heated: “that neither of the two men in the house can be got over?”

“Yes, I do mean to tell you so,” replied Sikes. “The old lady has had ’em these twenty years; and if you were to give ’em five hundred pound, they wouldn’t be in it.”

“But do you mean to say, my dear,” remonstrated the Jew, “that the women can’t be got over?”

“Not a bit of it,” replied Sikes.

“Not by flash Toby Crackit?” said the Jew incredulously. “Think what women are, Bill,”

“No; not even by flash Toby Crackit,” replied Sikes. “He says he’s worn sham whiskers, and a canary waistcoat, the whole blessed time he’s been loitering down there, and it’s all of no use.”

“He should have tried mustachios and a pair of military trousers, my dear,” said the Jew.

“So he did,” rejoined Sikes, “and they warn’t of no more use than the other plant.”

The Jew looked blank at this information. After ruminating for some minutes with his chin sunk on his breast, he raised his head and said, with a deep sigh, that if flash Toby Crackit reported aright, he feared the game was up.

“And yet,” said the old man, dropping his hands on his knees, “it’s a sad thing, my dear, to lose so much when we had set our hearts upon it.”

“So it is,” said Mr. Sikes. “Worse luck!”

A long silence ensued; during which the Jew was plunged in deep thought, with his face wrinkled into an expression of villainy perfectly demoniacal. Sikes eyed him furtively from time to time. Nancy, apparently fearful of irritating the housebreaker, sat with her eyes fixed upon the fire, as if she had been deaf to all that passed.

“Fagin,” said Sikes, abruptly breaking the stillness that prevailed; “is it worth fifty shiners extra, if it’s safely done from the outside?”

“Yes,” said the Jew, as suddenly rousing himself.

“Is it a bargain?” inquired Sikes.

“Yes, my dear, yes,” rejoined the Jew; his eyes glistening, and every muscle in his face working, with the excitement that the inquiry had awakened.

“Then,” said Sikes, thrusting aside the Jew’s hand, with some disdain, “let it come off as soon as you like. Toby and me were over the garden-wall the night afore last, sounding the panels of the door and shutters. The crib’s barred up at night like a jail; but there’s one part we can crack, safe and softly.”

“Which is that, Bill?” asked the Jew eagerly.

“Why,” whispered Sikes, “as you cross the lawn—”

“Yes?” said the Jew, bending his head forward, with his eyes almost starting out of it.

“Umph!” cried Sikes, stopping short, as the girl, scarcely moving her head, looked suddenly round, and pointed for an instant to the Jew’s face. “Never mind which part it is. You can’t do it without me, I know; but it’s best to be on the safe side when one deals with you.”

“As you like, my dear, as you like” replied the Jew. “Is there no help wanted, but yours and Toby’s?”

“None,” said Sikes, “’cept a centre-bit and a boy. The first we’ve both got; the second you must find us.”

“A boy!” exclaimed the Jew. “Oh! then it’s a panel, eh?”

“Never mind wot it is!” replied Sikes. “I want a boy, and he musn’t be a big ’un. Lord!” said Mr. Sikes, reflectively, “if I’d only got that young boy of Ned, the chimbley-sweeper’s! He kept him small on purpose, and let him out by the job. But the father gets lagged; and then the Juvenile Delinquent Society comes, and takes the boy away from a trade where he was earning money, teaches him to read and write, and in time makes a ’prentice of him. And so they go on,” said Mr. Sikes, his wrath rising with the recollection of his wrongs, “so they go on; and, if they’d got money enough (which it’s a Providence they haven’t,) we shouldn’t have half a dozen boys left in the whole trade, in a year or two.”

“No more we should,” acquiesced the Jew, who had been considering during this speech, and had only caught the last sentence. “Bill!”

“What now?” inquired Sikes.

The Jew nodded his head towards Nancy, who was still gazing at the fire; and intimated, by a sign, that he would have her told to leave the room. Sikes shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as if he thought the precaution unnecessary; but complied, nevertheless, by requesting Miss Nancy to fetch him a jug of beer.

“You don’t want any beer,” said Nancy, folding her arms, and retaining her seat very composedly.

“I tell you I do!” replied Sikes.

“Nonsense,” rejoined the girl coolly, “Go on, Fagin. I know what he’s going to say, Bill; he needn’t mind me.”

The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the other in some surprise.

“Why, you don’t mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?” he asked at length. “You’ve known her long enough to trust her, or the Devil’s in it. She ain’t one to blab. Are you Nancy?”

“I should think not!” replied the young lady: drawing her chair up to the table, and putting her elbows upon it.

“No, no, my dear, I know you’re not,” said the Jew; “but—” and again the old man paused.

“But wot?” inquired Sikes.

“I didn’t know whether she mightn’t p’r’aps be out of sorts, you know, my dear, as she was the other night,” replied the Jew.

At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into sundry exclamations of “Keep the game a-going!” “Never say die!” and the like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise.

“Now, Fagin,” said Nancy with a laugh. “Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!”

“Ha! you’re a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!” said the Jew, patting her on the neck. “It was about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!”

“What about him?” demanded Sikes.

“He’s the boy for you, my dear,” replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully.

“He!” exclaimed Sikes.

“Have him, Bill!” said Nancy. “I would, if I was in your place. He mayn’t be so much up, as any of the others; but that’s not what you want, if he’s only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he’s a safe one, Bill.”

“I know he is,” rejoined Fagin. “He’s been in good training these last few weeks, and it’s time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big.”

“Well, he is just the size I want,” said Mr. Sikes, ruminating.

“And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear,” interposed the Jew; “he can’t help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough.”

“Frighten him!” echoed Sikes. “It’ll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there’s anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won’t see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!” said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead.

“I’ve thought of it all,” said the Jew with energy. “I’ve—I’ve had my eye upon him, my dears, close—close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he’s ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn’t have come about better!” The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy.

“Ours!” said Sikes. “Yours, you mean.”

“Perhaps I do, my dear,” said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. “Mine, if you like, Bill.”

“And wot,” said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, “wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?”

“Because they’re of no use to me, my dear,” replied the Jew, with some confusion, “not worth the taking. Their looks convict ’em when they get into trouble, and I lose ’em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what I couldn’t with twenty of them. Besides,” said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, “he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it’s quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that’s all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way—which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides.”

“When is it to be done?” asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin’s affectation of humanity.

“Ah, to be sure,” said the Jew; “when is it to be done, Bill?”

“I planned with Toby, the night arter tomorrow,” rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, “if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy.”

“Good,” said the Jew; “there’s no moon.”

“No,” rejoined Sikes.

“It’s all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?” asked the Jew.

Sikes nodded.

“And about—”

“Oh, ah, it’s all planned,” rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. “Never mind particulars. You’d better bring the boy here tomorrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that’s all you’ll have to do.”

After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew’s next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit.

These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools: which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell.

“Good-night, Nancy,” said the Jew, muffling himself up as before.

“Good-night.”

Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no flinching about the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as Toby Crackit himself could be.

The Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a sly kick upon the prostrate form of Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, groped downstairs.

“Always the way!” muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homeward. “The worst of these women is, that a very little thing serves to call up some long-forgotten feeling; and, the best of them is, that it never lasts. Ha! ha! The man against the child, for a bag of gold!”

Beguiling the time with these pleasant reflections, Mr. Fagin wended his way, through mud and mire, to his gloomy abode: where the Dodger was sitting up, impatiently awaiting his return.

“Is Oliver a-bed? I want to speak to him,” was his first remark as they descended the stairs.

“Hours ago,” replied the Dodger, throwing open a door. “Here he is!”

The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the floor; so pale with anxiety, and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he looked like death; not death as it shows in shroud and coffin, but in the guise it wears when life has just departed; when a young and gentle spirit has, but an instant, fled to Heaven, and the gross air of the world has not had time to breathe upon the changing dust it hallowed.

“Not now,” said the Jew, turning softly away. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow.”

CHAPTER XX. WHEREIN OLIVER IS DELIVERED OVER TO MR. WILLIAM SIKES

When Oliver awoke in the morning, he was a good deal surprised to find that a new pair of shoes, with strong thick soles, had been placed at his bedside; and that his old shoes had been removed. At first, he was pleased with the discovery: hoping that it might be the forerunner of his release; but such thoughts were quickly dispelled, on his sitting down to breakfast along with the Jew, who told him, in a tone and manner which increased his alarm, that he was to be taken to the residence of Bill Sikes that night.

“To—to—stop there, sir?” asked Oliver, anxiously.

“No, no, my dear. Not to stop there,” replied the Jew. “We shouldn’t like to lose you. Don’t be afraid, Oliver, you shall come back to us again. Ha! ha! ha! We won’t be so cruel as to send you away, my dear. Oh no, no!”

The old man, who was stooping over the fire toasting a piece of bread, looked round as he bantered Oliver thus; and chuckled as if to show that he knew he would still be very glad to get away if he could.

“I suppose,” said the Jew, fixing his eyes on Oliver, “you want to know what you’re going to Bill’s for—eh, my dear?”

Oliver coloured, involuntarily, to find that the old thief had been reading his thoughts; but boldly said, Yes, he did want to know.

“Why, do you think?” inquired Fagin, parrying the question.

“Indeed I don’t know, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Bah!” said the Jew, turning away with a disappointed countenance from a close perusal of the boy’s face. “Wait till Bill tells you, then.”

The Jew seemed much vexed by Oliver’s not expressing any greater curiosity on the subject; but the truth is, that, although Oliver felt very anxious, he was too much confused by the earnest cunning of Fagin’s looks, and his own speculations, to make any further inquiries just then. He had no other opportunity: for the Jew remained very surly and silent till night: when he prepared to go abroad.

“You may burn a candle,” said the Jew, putting one upon the table. “And here’s a book for you to read, till they come to fetch you. Good-night!”

“Good-night!” replied Oliver, softly.

The Jew walked to the door: looking over his shoulder at the boy as he went. Suddenly stopping, he called him by his name.

Oliver looked up; the Jew, pointing to the candle, motioned him to light it. He did so; and, as he placed the candlestick upon the table, saw that the Jew was gazing fixedly at him, with lowering and contracted brows, from the dark end of the room.

“Take heed, Oliver! take heed!” said the old man, shaking his right hand before him in a warning manner. “He’s a rough man, and thinks nothing of blood when his own is up. Whatever falls out, say nothing; and do what he bids you. Mind!” Placing a strong emphasis on the last word, he suffered his features gradually to resolve themselves into a ghastly grin, and, nodding his head, left the room.

Oliver leaned his head upon his hand when the old man disappeared, and pondered, with a trembling heart, on the words he had just heard. The more he thought of the Jew’s admonition, the more he was at a loss to divine its real purpose and meaning.

He could think of no bad object to be attained by sending him to Sikes, which would not be equally well answered by his remaining with Fagin; and after meditating for a long time, concluded that he had been selected to perform some ordinary menial offices for the housebreaker, until another boy, better suited for his purpose could be engaged. He was too well accustomed to suffering, and had suffered too much where he was, to bewail the prospect of change very severely. He remained lost in thought for some minutes; and then, with a heavy sigh, snuffed the candle, and, taking up the book which the Jew had left with him, began to read.

He turned over the leaves. Carelessly at first; but, lighting on a passage which attracted his attention, he soon became intent upon the volume. It was a history of the lives and trials of great criminals; and the pages were soiled and thumbed with use. Here, he read of dreadful crimes that made the blood run cold; of secret murders that had been committed by the lonely wayside; of bodies hidden from the eye of man in deep pits and wells: which would not keep them down, deep as they were, but had yielded them up at last, after many years, and so maddened the murderers with the sight, that in their horror they had confessed their guilt, and yelled for the gibbet to end their agony. Here, too, he read of men who, lying in their beds at dead of night, had been tempted (so they said) and led on, by their own bad thoughts, to such dreadful bloodshed as it made the flesh creep, and the limbs quail, to think of. The terrible descriptions were so real and vivid, that the sallow pages seemed to turn red with gore; and the words upon them, to be sounded in his ears, as if they were whispered, in hollow murmurs, by the spirits of the dead.

In a paroxysm of fear, the boy closed the book, and thrust it from him. Then, falling upon his knees, he prayed Heaven to spare him from such deeds; and rather to will that he should die at once, than be reserved for crimes, so fearful and appalling. By degrees, he grew more calm, and besought, in a low and broken voice, that he might be rescued from his present dangers; and that if any aid were to be raised up for a poor outcast boy who had never known the love of friends or kindred, it might come to him now, when, desolate and deserted, he stood alone in the midst of wickedness and guilt.

He had concluded his prayer, but still remained with his head buried in his hands, when a rustling noise aroused him.

“What’s that!” he cried, starting up, and catching sight of a figure standing by the door. “Who’s there?”

“Me. Only me,” replied a tremulous voice.

Oliver raised the candle above his head: and looked towards the door. It was Nancy.

“Put down the light,” said the girl, turning away her head. “It hurts my eyes.”

Oliver saw that she was very pale, and gently inquired if she were ill. The girl threw herself into a chair, with her back towards him: and wrung her hands; but made no reply.

“God forgive me!” she cried after a while, “I never thought of this.”

“Has anything happened?” asked Oliver. “Can I help you? I will if I can. I will, indeed.”

She rocked herself to and fro; caught her throat; and, uttering a gurgling sound, gasped for breath.

“Nancy!” cried Oliver, “What is it?”

The girl beat her hands upon her knees, and her feet upon the ground; and, suddenly stopping, drew her shawl close round her: and shivered with cold.

Oliver stirred the fire. Drawing her chair close to it, she sat there, for a little time, without speaking; but at length she raised her head, and looked round.

“I don’t know what comes over me sometimes,” said she, affecting to busy herself in arranging her dress; “it’s this damp dirty room, I think. Now, Nolly, dear, are you ready?”

“Am I to go with you?” asked Oliver.

“Yes. I have come from Bill,” replied the girl. “You are to go with me.”

“What for?” asked Oliver, recoiling.

“What for?” echoed the girl, raising her eyes, and averting them again, the moment they encountered the boy’s face. “Oh! For no harm.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Oliver: who had watched her closely.

“Have it your own way,” rejoined the girl, affecting to laugh. “For no good, then.”

Oliver could see that he had some power over the girl’s better feelings, and, for an instant, thought of appealing to her compassion for his helpless state. But, then, the thought darted across his mind that it was barely eleven o’clock; and that many people were still in the streets: of whom surely some might be found to give credence to his tale. As the reflection occured to him, he stepped forward: and said, somewhat hastily, that he was ready.

Neither his brief consideration, nor its purport, was lost on his companion. She eyed him narrowly, while he spoke; and cast upon him a look of intelligence which sufficiently showed that she guessed what had been passing in his thoughts.

“Hush!” said the girl, stooping over him, and pointing to the door as she looked cautiously round. “You can’t help yourself. I have tried hard for you, but all to no purpose. You are hedged round and round. If ever you are to get loose from here, this is not the time.”

Struck by the energy of her manner, Oliver looked up in her face with great surprise. She seemed to speak the truth; her countenance was white and agitated; and she trembled with very earnestness.

“I have saved you from being ill-used once, and I will again, and I do now,” continued the girl aloud; “for those who would have fetched you, if I had not, would have been far more rough than me. I have promised for your being quiet and silent; if you are not, you will only do harm to yourself and me too, and perhaps be my death. See here! I have borne all this for you already, as true as God sees me show it.”

She pointed, hastily, to some livid bruises on her neck and arms; and continued, with great rapidity:

“Remember this! And don’t let me suffer more for you, just now. If I could help you, I would; but I have not the power. They don’t mean to harm you; whatever they make you do, is no fault of yours. Hush! Every word from you is a blow for me. Give me your hand. Make haste! Your hand!”

She caught the hand which Oliver instinctively placed in hers, and, blowing out the light, drew him after her up the stairs. The door was opened, quickly, by some one shrouded in the darkness, and was as quickly closed, when they had passed out. A hackney-cabriolet was in waiting; with the same vehemence which she had exhibited in addressing Oliver, the girl pulled him in with her, and drew the curtains close. The driver wanted no directions, but lashed his horse into full speed, without the delay of an instant.

The girl still held Oliver fast by the hand, and continued to pour into his ear, the warnings and assurances she had already imparted. All was so quick and hurried, that he had scarcely time to recollect where he was, or how he came there, when the carriage stopped at the house to which the Jew’s steps had been directed on the previous evening.

For one brief moment, Oliver cast a hurried glance along the empty street, and a cry for help hung upon his lips. But the girl’s voice was in his ear, beseeching him in such tones of agony to remember her, that he had not the heart to utter it. While he hesitated, the opportunity was gone; he was already in the house, and the door was shut.

“This way,” said the girl, releasing her hold for the first time. “Bill!”

“Hallo!” replied Sikes: appearing at the head of the stairs, with a candle. “Oh! That’s the time of day. Come on!”

This was a very strong expression of approbation, an uncommonly hearty welcome, from a person of Mr. Sikes’ temperament. Nancy, appearing much gratified thereby, saluted him cordially.

“Bull’s-eye’s gone home with Tom,” observed Sikes, as he lighted them up. “He’d have been in the way.”

“That’s right,” rejoined Nancy.

“So you’ve got the kid,” said Sikes when they had all reached the room: closing the door as he spoke.

“Yes, here he is,” replied Nancy.

“Did he come quiet?” inquired Sikes.

“Like a lamb,” rejoined Nancy.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Sikes, looking grimly at Oliver; “for the sake of his young carcase: as would otherways have suffered for it. Come here, young ’un; and let me read you a lectur’, which is as well got over at once.”

Thus addressing his new pupil, Mr. Sikes pulled off Oliver’s cap and threw it into a corner; and then, taking him by the shoulder, sat himself down by the table, and stood the boy in front of him.

“Now, first: do you know wot this is?” inquired Sikes, taking up a pocket-pistol which lay on the table.

Oliver replied in the affirmative.

“Well, then, look here,” continued Sikes. “This is powder; that ’ere’s a bullet; and this is a little bit of a old hat for waddin’.”

Oliver murmured his comprehension of the different bodies referred to; and Mr. Sikes proceeded to load the pistol, with great nicety and deliberation.

“Now it’s loaded,” said Mr. Sikes, when he had finished.

“Yes, I see it is, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Well,” said the robber, grasping Oliver’s wrist, and putting the barrel so close to his temple that they touched; at which moment the boy could not repress a start; “if you speak a word when you’re out o’doors with me, except when I speak to you, that loading will be in your head without notice. So, if you do make up your mind to speak without leave, say your prayers first.”

Having bestowed a scowl upon the object of this warning, to increase its effect, Mr. Sikes continued.

“As near as I know, there isn’t anybody as would be asking very partickler arter you, if you was disposed of; so I needn’t take this devil-and-all of trouble to explain matters to you, if it warn’t for your own good. D’ye hear me?”

“The short and the long of what you mean,” said Nancy: speaking very emphatically, and slightly frowning at Oliver as if to bespeak his serious attention to her words: “is, that if you’re crossed by him in this job you have on hand, you’ll prevent his ever telling tales afterwards, by shooting him through the head, and will take your chance of swinging for it, as you do for a great many other things in the way of business, every month of your life.”

“That’s it!” observed Mr. Sikes, approvingly; “women can always put things in fewest words.—Except when it’s blowing up; and then they lengthens it out. And now that he’s thoroughly up to it, let’s have some supper, and get a snooze before starting.”

In pursuance of this request, Nancy quickly laid the cloth; disappearing for a few minutes, she presently returned with a pot of porter and a dish of sheep’s heads: which gave occasion to several pleasant witticisms on the part of Mr. Sikes, founded upon the singular coincidence of “jemmies” being a can name, common to them, and also to an ingenious implement much used in his profession. Indeed, the worthy gentleman, stimulated perhaps by the immediate prospect of being on active service, was in great spirits and good humour; in proof whereof, it may be here remarked, that he humourously drank all the beer at a draught, and did not utter, on a rough calculation, more than four-score oaths during the whole progress of the meal.

Supper being ended—it may be easily conceived that Oliver had no great appetite for it—Mr. Sikes disposed of a couple of glasses of spirits and water, and threw himself on the bed; ordering Nancy, with many imprecations in case of failure, to call him at five precisely. Oliver stretched himself in his clothes, by command of the same authority, on a mattress upon the floor; and the girl, mending the fire, sat before it, in readiness to rouse them at the appointed time.

For a long time Oliver lay awake, thinking it not impossible that Nancy might seek that opportunity of whispering some further advice; but the girl sat brooding over the fire, without moving, save now and then to trim the light. Weary with watching and anxiety, he at length fell asleep.

When he awoke, the table was covered with tea-things, and Sikes was thrusting various articles into the pockets of his great-coat, which hung over the back of a chair. Nancy was busily engaged in preparing breakfast. It was not yet daylight; for the candle was still burning, and it was quite dark outside. A sharp rain, too, was beating against the window-panes; and the sky looked black and cloudy.

“Now, then!” growled Sikes, as Oliver started up; “half-past five! Look sharp, or you’ll get no breakfast; for it’s late as it is.”

Oliver was not long in making his toilet; having taken some breakfast, he replied to a surly inquiry from Sikes, by saying that he was quite ready.

Nancy, scarcely looking at the boy, threw him a handkerchief to tie round his throat; Sikes gave him a large rough cape to button over his shoulders. Thus attired, he gave his hand to the robber, who, merely pausing to show him with a menacing gesture that he had that same pistol in a side-pocket of his great-coat, clasped it firmly in his, and, exchanging a farewell with Nancy, led him away.

Oliver turned, for an instant, when they reached the door, in the hope of meeting a look from the girl. But she had resumed her old seat in front of the fire, and sat, perfectly motionless before it.

CHAPTER XXI. THE EXPEDITION

It was a cheerless morning when they got into the street; blowing and raining hard; and the clouds looking dull and stormy. The night had been very wet: large pools of water had collected in the road: and the kennels were overflowing. There was a faint glimmering of the coming day in the sky; but it rather aggravated than relieved the gloom of the scene: the sombre light only serving to pale that which the street lamps afforded, without shedding any warmer or brighter tints upon the wet house-tops, and dreary streets. There appeared to be nobody stirring in that quarter of the town; the windows of the houses were all closely shut; and the streets through which they passed, were noiseless and empty.

By the time they had turned into the Bethnal Green Road, the day had fairly begun to break. Many of the lamps were already extinguished; a few country waggons were slowly toiling on, towards London; now and then, a stage-coach, covered with mud, rattled briskly by: the driver bestowing, as he passed, an admonitory lash upon the heavy waggoner who, by keeping on the wrong side of the road, had endangered his arriving at the office, a quarter of a minute after his time. The public-houses, with gas-lights burning inside, were already open. By degrees, other shops began to be unclosed, and a few scattered people were met with. Then, came straggling groups of labourers going to their work; then, men and women with fish-baskets on their heads; donkey-carts laden with vegetables; chaise-carts filled with live-stock or whole carcasses of meat; milk-women with pails; an unbroken concourse of people, trudging out with various supplies to the eastern suburbs of the town. As they approached the City, the noise and traffic gradually increased; when they threaded the streets between Shoreditch and Smithfield, it had swelled into a roar of sound and bustle. It was as light as it was likely to be, till night came on again, and the busy morning of half the London population had begun.

Turning down Sun Street and Crown Street, and crossing Finsbury square, Mr. Sikes struck, by way of Chiswell Street, into Barbican: thence into Long Lane, and so into Smithfield; from which latter place arose a tumult of discordant sounds that filled Oliver Twist with amazement.

It was market-morning. The ground was covered, nearly ankle-deep, with filth and mire; a thick steam, perpetually rising from the reeking bodies of the cattle, and mingling with the fog, which seemed to rest upon the chimney-tops, hung heavily above. All the pens in the centre of the large area, and as many temporary pens as could be crowded into the vacant space, were filled with sheep; tied up to posts by the gutter side were long lines of beasts and oxen, three or four deep. Countrymen, butchers, drovers, hawkers, boys, thieves, idlers, and vagabonds of every low grade, were mingled together in a mass; the whistling of drovers, the barking dogs, the bellowing and plunging of the oxen, the bleating of sheep, the grunting and squeaking of pigs, the cries of hawkers, the shouts, oaths, and quarrelling on all sides; the ringing of bells and roar of voices, that issued from every public-house; the crowding, pushing, driving, beating, whooping and yelling; the hideous and discordant dim that resounded from every corner of the market; and the unwashed, unshaven, squalid, and dirty figures constantly running to and fro, and bursting in and out of the throng; rendered it a stunning and bewildering scene, which quite confounded the senses.

Mr. Sikes, dragging Oliver after him, elbowed his way through the thickest of the crowd, and bestowed very little attention on the numerous sights and sounds, which so astonished the boy. He nodded, twice or thrice, to a passing friend; and, resisting as many invitations to take a morning dram, pressed steadily onward, until they were clear of the turmoil, and had made their way through Hosier Lane into Holborn.

“Now, young ’un!” said Sikes, looking up at the clock of St. Andrew’s Church, “hard upon seven! you must step out. Come, don’t lag behind already, Lazy-legs!”

Mr. Sikes accompanied this speech with a jerk at his little companion’s wrist; Oliver, quickening his pace into a kind of trot between a fast walk and a run, kept up with the rapid strides of the house-breaker as well as he could.

They held their course at this rate, until they had passed Hyde Park corner, and were on their way to Kensington: when Sikes relaxed his pace, until an empty cart which was at some little distance behind, came up. Seeing “Hounslow” written on it, he asked the driver with as much civility as he could assume, if he would give them a lift as far as Isleworth.

“Jump up,” said the man. “Is that your boy?”

“Yes; he’s my boy,” replied Sikes, looking hard at Oliver, and putting his hand abstractedly into the pocket where the pistol was.

“Your father walks rather too quick for you, don’t he, my man?” inquired the driver: seeing that Oliver was out of breath.

“Not a bit of it,” replied Sikes, interposing. “He’s used to it. Here, take hold of my hand, Ned. In with you!”

Thus addressing Oliver, he helped him into the cart; and the driver, pointing to a heap of sacks, told him to lie down there, and rest himself.

As they passed the different mile-stones, Oliver wondered, more and more, where his companion meant to take him. Kensington, Hammersmith, Chiswick, Kew Bridge, Brentford, were all passed; and yet they went on as steadily as if they had only just begun their journey. At length, they came to a public-house called the Coach and Horses; a little way beyond which, another road appeared to run off. And here, the cart stopped.

Sikes dismounted with great precipitation, holding Oliver by the hand all the while; and lifting him down directly, bestowed a furious look upon him, and rapped the side-pocket with his fist, in a significant manner.

“Good-bye, boy,” said the man.

“He’s sulky,” replied Sikes, giving him a shake; “he’s sulky. A young dog! Don’t mind him.”

“Not I!” rejoined the other, getting into his cart. “It’s a fine day, after all.” And he drove away.

Sikes waited until he had fairly gone; and then, telling Oliver he might look about him if he wanted, once again led him onward on his journey.

They turned round to the left, a short way past the public-house; and then, taking a right-hand road, walked on for a long time: passing many large gardens and gentlemen’s houses on both sides of the way, and stopping for nothing but a little beer, until they reached a town. Here against the wall of a house, Oliver saw written up in pretty large letters, “Hampton.” They lingered about, in the fields, for some hours. At length they came back into the town; and, turning into an old public-house with a defaced sign-board, ordered some dinner by the kitchen fire.

The kitchen was an old, low-roofed room; with a great beam across the middle of the ceiling, and benches, with high backs to them, by the fire; on which were seated several rough men in smock-frocks, drinking and smoking. They took no notice of Oliver; and very little of Sikes; and, as Sikes took very little notice of them, he and his young comrade sat in a corner by themselves, without being much troubled by their company.

They had some cold meat for dinner, and sat so long after it, while Mr. Sikes indulged himself with three or four pipes, that Oliver began to feel quite certain they were not going any further. Being much tired with the walk, and getting up so early, he dozed a little at first; then, quite overpowered by fatigue and the fumes of the tobacco, fell asleep.

It was quite dark when he was awakened by a push from Sikes. Rousing himself sufficiently to sit up and look about him, he found that worthy in close fellowship and communication with a labouring man, over a pint of ale.

“So, you’re going on to Lower Halliford, are you?” inquired Sikes.

“Yes, I am,” replied the man, who seemed a little the worse—or better, as the case might be—for drinking; “and not slow about it neither. My horse hasn’t got a load behind him going back, as he had coming up in the mornin’; and he won’t be long a-doing of it. Here’s luck to him. Ecod! he’s a good ’un!”

“Could you give my boy and me a lift as far as there?” demanded Sikes, pushing the ale towards his new friend.

“If you’re going directly, I can,” replied the man, looking out of the pot. “Are you going to Halliford?”

“Going on to Shepperton,” replied Sikes.

“I’m your man, as far as I go,” replied the other. “Is all paid, Becky?”

“Yes, the other gentleman’s paid,” replied the girl.

“I say!” said the man, with tipsy gravity; “that won’t do, you know.”

“Why not?” rejoined Sikes. “You’re a-going to accommodate us, and wot’s to prevent my standing treat for a pint or so, in return?”

The stranger reflected upon this argument, with a very profound face; having done so, he seized Sikes by the hand: and declared he was a real good fellow. To which Mr. Sikes replied, he was joking; as, if he had been sober, there would have been strong reason to suppose he was.

After the exchange of a few more compliments, they bade the company good-night, and went out; the girl gathering up the pots and glasses as they did so, and lounging out to the door, with her hands full, to see the party start.

The horse, whose health had been drunk in his absence, was standing outside: ready harnessed to the cart. Oliver and Sikes got in without any further ceremony; and the man to whom he belonged, having lingered for a minute or two “to bear him up,” and to defy the hostler and the world to produce his equal, mounted also. Then, the hostler was told to give the horse his head; and, his head being given him, he made a very unpleasant use of it: tossing it into the air with great disdain, and running into the parlour windows over the way; after performing those feats, and supporting himself for a short time on his hind-legs, he started off at great speed, and rattled out of the town right gallantly.

The night was very dark. A damp mist rose from the river, and the marshy ground about; and spread itself over the dreary fields. It was piercing cold, too; all was gloomy and black. Not a word was spoken; for the driver had grown sleepy; and Sikes was in no mood to lead him into conversation. Oliver sat huddled together, in a corner of the cart; bewildered with alarm and apprehension; and figuring strange objects in the gaunt trees, whose branches waved grimly to and fro, as if in some fantastic joy at the desolation of the scene.

As they passed Sunbury Church, the clock struck seven. There was a light in the ferry-house window opposite: which streamed across the road, and threw into more sombre shadow a dark yew-tree with graves beneath it. There was a dull sound of falling water not far off; and the leaves of the old tree stirred gently in the night wind. It seemed like quiet music for the repose of the dead.

Sunbury was passed through, and they came again into the lonely road. Two or three miles more, and the cart stopped. Sikes alighted, took Oliver by the hand, and they once again walked on.

They turned into no house at Shepperton, as the weary boy had expected; but still kept walking on, in mud and darkness, through gloomy lanes and over cold open wastes, until they came within sight of the lights of a town at no great distance. On looking intently forward, Oliver saw that the water was just below them, and that they were coming to the foot of a bridge.

Sikes kept straight on, until they were close upon the bridge; then turned suddenly down a bank upon the left.

“The water!” thought Oliver, turning sick with fear. “He has brought me to this lonely place to murder me!”

He was about to throw himself on the ground, and make one struggle for his young life, when he saw that they stood before a solitary house: all ruinous and decayed. There was a window on each side of the dilapidated entrance; and one story above; but no light was visible. The house was dark, dismantled: and, to all appearance, uninhabited.

Sikes, with Oliver’s hand still in his, softly approached the low porch, and raised the latch. The door yielded to the pressure, and they passed in together.

CHAPTER XXII. THE BURGLARY

“Hallo!” cried a loud, hoarse voice, as soon as they set foot in the passage.

“Don’t make such a row,” said Sikes, bolting the door. “Show a glim, Toby.”

“Aha! my pal!” cried the same voice. “A glim, Barney, a glim! Show the gentleman in, Barney; wake up first, if convenient.”

The speaker appeared to throw a boot-jack, or some such article, at the person he addressed, to rouse him from his slumbers: for the noise of a wooden body, falling violently, was heard; and then an indistinct muttering, as of a man between sleep and awake.

“Do you hear?” cried the same voice. “There’s Bill Sikes in the passage with nobody to do the civil to him; and you sleeping there, as if you took laudanum with your meals, and nothing stronger. Are you any fresher now, or do you want the iron candlestick to wake you thoroughly?”

A pair of slipshod feet shuffled, hastily, across the bare floor of the room, as this interrogatory was put; and there issued, from a door on the right hand; first, a feeble candle: and next, the form of the same individual who has been heretofore described as labouring under the infirmity of speaking through his nose, and officiating as waiter at the public-house on Saffron Hill.

“Bister Sikes!” exclaimed Barney, with real or counterfeit joy; “cub id, sir; cub id.”

“Here! you get on first,” said Sikes, putting Oliver in front of him. “Quicker! or I shall tread upon your heels.”

Muttering a curse upon his tardiness, Sikes pushed Oliver before him; and they entered a low dark room with a smoky fire, two or three broken chairs, a table, and a very old couch: on which, with his legs much higher than his head, a man was reposing at full length, smoking a long clay pipe. He was dressed in a smartly-cut snuff-coloured coat, with large brass buttons; an orange neckerchief; a coarse, staring, shawl-pattern waistcoat; and drab breeches. Mr. Crackit (for he it was) had no very great quantity of hair, either upon his head or face; but what he had, was of a reddish dye, and tortured into long corkscrew curls, through which he occasionally thrust some very dirty fingers, ornamented with large common rings. He was a trifle above the middle size, and apparently rather weak in the legs; but this circumstance by no means detracted from his own admiration of his top-boots, which he contemplated, in their elevated situation, with lively satisfaction.

“Bill, my boy!” said this figure, turning his head towards the door, “I’m glad to see you. I was almost afraid you’d given it up: in which case I should have made a personal wentur. Hallo!”

Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as his eyes rested on Oliver, Mr. Toby Crackit brought himself into a sitting posture, and demanded who that was.

“The boy. Only the boy!” replied Sikes, drawing a chair towards the fire.

“Wud of Bister Fagid’s lads,” exclaimed Barney, with a grin.

“Fagin’s, eh!” exclaimed Toby, looking at Oliver. “Wot an inwalable boy that’ll make, for the old ladies’ pockets in chapels! His mug is a fortin’ to him.”

“There—there’s enough of that,” interposed Sikes, impatiently; and stooping over his recumbant friend, he whispered a few words in his ear: at which Mr. Crackit laughed immensely, and honoured Oliver with a long stare of astonishment.

“Now,” said Sikes, as he resumed his seat, “if you’ll give us something to eat and drink while we’re waiting, you’ll put some heart in us; or in me, at all events. Sit down by the fire, younker, and rest yourself; for you’ll have to go out with us again tonight, though not very far off.”

Oliver looked at Sikes, in mute and timid wonder; and drawing a stool to the fire, sat with his aching head upon his hands, scarcely knowing where he was, or what was passing around him.

“Here,” said Toby, as the young Jew placed some fragments of food, and a bottle upon the table, “Success to the crack!” He rose to honour the toast; and, carefully depositing his empty pipe in a corner, advanced to the table, filled a glass with spirits, and drank off its contents. Mr. Sikes did the same.

“A drain for the boy,” said Toby, half-filling a wine-glass. “Down with it, innocence.”

“Indeed,” said Oliver, looking piteously up into the man’s face; “indeed, I—”

“Down with it!” echoed Toby. “Do you think I don’t know what’s good for you? Tell him to drink it, Bill.”

“He had better!” said Sikes clapping his hand upon his pocket. “Burn my body, if he isn’t more trouble than a whole family of Dodgers. Drink it, you perwerse imp; drink it!”

Frightened by the menacing gestures of the two men, Oliver hastily swallowed the contents of the glass, and immediately fell into a violent fit of coughing: which delighted Toby Crackit and Barney, and even drew a smile from the surly Mr. Sikes.

This done, and Sikes having satisfied his appetite (Oliver could eat nothing but a small crust of bread which they made him swallow), the two men laid themselves down on chairs for a short nap. Oliver retained his stool by the fire; Barney wrapped in a blanket, stretched himself on the floor: close outside the fender.

They slept, or appeared to sleep, for some time; nobody stirring but Barney, who rose once or twice to throw coals on the fire. Oliver fell into a heavy doze: imagining himself straying along the gloomy lanes, or wandering about the dark churchyard, or retracing some one or other of the scenes of the past day: when he was roused by Toby Crackit jumping up and declaring it was half-past one.

In an instant, the other two were on their legs, and all were actively engaged in busy preparation. Sikes and his companion enveloped their necks and chins in large dark shawls, and drew on their great-coats; Barney, opening a cupboard, brought forth several articles, which he hastily crammed into the pockets.

“Barkers for me, Barney,” said Toby Crackit.

“Here they are,” replied Barney, producing a pair of pistols. “You loaded them yourself.”

“All right!” replied Toby, stowing them away. “The persuaders?”

“I’ve got ’em,” replied Sikes.

“Crape, keys, centre-bits, darkies—nothing forgotten?” inquired Toby: fastening a small crowbar to a loop inside the skirt of his coat.

“All right,” rejoined his companion. “Bring them bits of timber, Barney. That’s the time of day.”

With these words, he took a thick stick from Barney’s hands, who, having delivered another to Toby, busied himself in fastening on Oliver’s cape.

“Now then!” said Sikes, holding out his hand.

Oliver: who was completely stupified by the unwonted exercise, and the air, and the drink which had been forced upon him: put his hand mechanically into that which Sikes extended for the purpose.

“Take his other hand, Toby,” said Sikes. “Look out, Barney.”

The man went to the door, and returned to announce that all was quiet. The two robbers issued forth with Oliver between them. Barney, having made all fast, rolled himself up as before, and was soon asleep again.

It was now intensely dark. The fog was much heavier than it had been in the early part of the night; and the atmosphere was so damp, that, although no rain fell, Oliver’s hair and eyebrows, within a few minutes after leaving the house, had become stiff with the half-frozen moisture that was floating about. They crossed the bridge, and kept on towards the lights which he had seen before. They were at no great distance off; and, as they walked pretty briskly, they soon arrived at Chertsey.

“Slap through the town,” whispered Sikes; “there’ll be nobody in the way, tonight, to see us.”

Toby acquiesced; and they hurried through the main street of the little town, which at that late hour was wholly deserted. A dim light shone at intervals from some bed-room window; and the hoarse barking of dogs occasionally broke the silence of the night. But there was nobody abroad. They had cleared the town, as the church-bell struck two.

Quickening their pace, they turned up a road upon the left hand. After walking about a quarter of a mile, they stopped before a detached house surrounded by a wall: to the top of which, Toby Crackit, scarcely pausing to take breath, climbed in a twinkling.

“The boy next,” said Toby. “Hoist him up; I’ll catch hold of him.”

Before Oliver had time to look round, Sikes had caught him under the arms; and in three or four seconds he and Toby were lying on the grass on the other side. Sikes followed directly. And they stole cautiously towards the house.

And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and terror, saw that housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the objects of the expedition. He clasped his hands together, and involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamation of horror. A mist came before his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs failed him; and he sank upon his knees.

“Get up!” murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol from his pocket; “Get up, or I’ll strew your brains upon the grass.”

“Oh! for God’s sake let me go!” cried Oliver; “let me run away and die in the fields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray have mercy on me, and do not make me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!”

The man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had cocked the pistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his hand upon the boy’s mouth, and dragged him to the house.

“Hush!” cried the man; “it won’t answer here. Say another word, and I’ll do your business myself with a crack on the head. That makes no noise, and is quite as certain, and more genteel. Here, Bill, wrench the shutter open. He’s game enough now, I’ll engage. I’ve seen older hands of his age took the same way, for a minute or two, on a cold night.”

Sikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin’s head for sending Oliver on such an errand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but with little noise. After some delay, and some assistance from Toby, the shutter to which he had referred, swung open on its hinges.

It was a little lattice window, about five feet and a half above the ground, at the back of the house: which belonged to a scullery, or small brewing-place, at the end of the passage. The aperture was so small, that the inmates had probably not thought it worth while to defend it more securely; but it was large enough to admit a boy of Oliver’s size, nevertheless. A very brief exercise of Mr. Sikes’s art, sufficed to overcome the fastening of the lattice; and it soon stood wide open also.

“Now listen, you young limb,” whispered Sikes, drawing a dark lantern from his pocket, and throwing the glare full on Oliver’s face; “I’m a going to put you through there. Take this light; go softly up the steps straight afore you, and along the little hall, to the street door; unfasten it, and let us in.”

“There’s a bolt at the top, you won’t be able to reach,” interposed Toby. “Stand upon one of the hall chairs. There are three there, Bill, with a jolly large blue unicorn and gold pitchfork on ’em: which is the old lady’s arms.”

“Keep quiet, can’t you?” replied Sikes, with a threatening look. “The room-door is open, is it?”

“Wide,” replied Toby, after peeping in to satisfy himself. “The game of that is, that they always leave it open with a catch, so that the dog, who’s got a bed in here, may walk up and down the passage when he feels wakeful. Ha! ha! Barney ’ticed him away tonight. So neat!”

Although Mr. Crackit spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, and laughed without noise, Sikes imperiously commanded him to be silent, and to get to work. Toby complied, by first producing his lantern, and placing it on the ground; then by planting himself firmly with his head against the wall beneath the window, and his hands upon his knees, so as to make a step of his back. This was no sooner done, than Sikes, mounting upon him, put Oliver gently through the window with his feet first; and, without leaving hold of his collar, planted him safely on the floor inside.

“Take this lantern,” said Sikes, looking into the room. “You see the stairs afore you?”

Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out, “Yes.” Sikes, pointing to the street-door with the pistol-barrel, briefly advised him to take notice that he was within shot all the way; and that if he faltered, he would fall dead that instant.

“It’s done in a minute,” said Sikes, in the same low whisper. “Directly I leave go of you, do your work. Hark!”

“What’s that?” whispered the other man.

They listened intently.

“Nothing,” said Sikes, releasing his hold of Oliver. “Now!”

In the short time he had had to collect his senses, the boy had firmly resolved that, whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one effort to dart upstairs from the hall, and alarm the family. Filled with this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthily.

“Come back!” suddenly cried Sikes aloud. “Back! back!”

Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and by a loud cry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew not whether to advance or fly.

The cry was repeated—a light appeared—a vision of two terrified half-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes—a flash—a loud noise—a smoke—a crash somewhere, but where he knew not,—and he staggered back.

Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again, and had him by the collar before the smoke had cleared away. He fired his own pistol after the men, who were already retreating; and dragged the boy up.

“Clasp your arm tighter,” said Sikes, as he drew him through the window. “Give me a shawl here. They’ve hit him. Quick! How the boy bleeds!”

Then came the loud ringing of a bell, mingled with the noise of fire-arms, and the shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried over uneven ground at a rapid pace. And then, the noises grew confused in the distance; and a cold deadly feeling crept over the boy’s heart; and he saw or heard no more.

CHAPTER XXIII. WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR. BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE MAY BE SUSCEPTIBLE ON SOME POINTS

The night was bitter cold. The snow lay on the ground, frozen into a hard thick crust, so that only the heaps that had drifted into byways and corners were affected by the sharp wind that howled abroad: which, as if expending increased fury on such prey as it found, caught it savagely up in clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies, scattered it in air. Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night for the well-housed and fed to draw round the bright fire and thank God they were at home; and for the homeless, starving wretch to lay him down and die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare streets, at such times, who, let their crimes have been what they may, can hardly open them in a more bitter world.

Such was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs, when Mrs. Corney, the matron of the workhouse to which our readers have been already introduced as the birthplace of Oliver Twist, sat herself down before a cheerful fire in her own little room, and glanced, with no small degree of complacency, at a small round table: on which stood a tray of corresponding size, furnished with all necessary materials for the most grateful meal that matrons enjoy. In fact, Mrs. Corney was about to solace herself with a cup of tea. As she glanced from the table to the fireplace, where the smallest of all possible kettles was singing a small song in a small voice, her inward satisfaction evidently increased,—so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Corney smiled.

“Well!” said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and looking reflectively at the fire; “I’m sure we have all on us a great deal to be grateful for! A great deal, if we did but know it. Ah!”

Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental blindness of those paupers who did not know it; and thrusting a silver spoon (private property) into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin tea-caddy, proceeded to make the tea.

How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds! The black teapot, being very small and easily filled, ran over while Mrs. Corney was moralising; and the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney’s hand.

“Drat the pot!” said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on the hob; “a little stupid thing, that only holds a couple of cups! What use is it of, to anybody! Except,” said Mrs. Corney, pausing, “except to a poor desolate creature like me. Oh dear!”

With these words, the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more resting her elbow on the table, thought of her solitary fate. The small teapot, and the single cup, had awakened in her mind sad recollections of Mr. Corney (who had not been dead more than five-and-twenty years); and she was overpowered.

“I shall never get another!” said Mrs. Corney, pettishly; “I shall never get another—like him.”

Whether this remark bore reference to the husband, or the teapot, is uncertain. It might have been the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it as she spoke; and took it up afterwards. She had just tasted her first cup, when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room-door.

“Oh, come in with you!” said Mrs. Corney, sharply. “Some of the old women dying, I suppose. They always die when I’m at meals. Don’t stand there, letting the cold air in, don’t. What’s amiss now, eh?”

“Nothing, ma’am, nothing,” replied a man’s voice.

“Dear me!” exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, “is that Mr. Bumble?”

“At your service, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping outside to rub his shoes clean, and to shake the snow off his coat; and who now made his appearance, bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a bundle in the other. “Shall I shut the door, ma’am?”

The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any impropriety in holding an interview with Mr. Bumble, with closed doors. Mr. Bumble taking advantage of the hesitation, and being very cold himself, shut it without permission.

“Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,” said the matron.

“Hard, indeed, ma’am,” replied the beadle. “Anti-porochial weather this, ma’am. We have given away, Mrs. Corney, we have given away a matter of twenty quartern loaves and a cheese and a half, this very blessed afternoon; and yet them paupers are not contented.”

“Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?” said the matron, sipping her tea.

“When, indeed, ma’am!” rejoined Mr. Bumble. “Why here’s one man that, in consideration of his wife and large family, has a quartern loaf and a good pound of cheese, full weight. Is he grateful, ma’am? Is he grateful? Not a copper farthing’s worth of it! What does he do, ma’am, but ask for a few coals; if it’s only a pocket handkerchief full, he says! Coals! What would he do with coals? Toast his cheese with ’em and then come back for more. That’s the way with these people, ma’am; give ’em a apron full of coals today, and they’ll come back for another, the day after tomorrow, as brazen as alabaster.”

The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible simile; and the beadle went on.

“I never,” said Mr. Bumble, “see anything like the pitch it’s got to. The day afore yesterday, a man—you have been a married woman, ma’am, and I may mention it to you—a man, with hardly a rag upon his back (here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer’s door when he has got company coming to dinner; and says, he must be relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn’t go away, and shocked the company very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a pint of oatmeal. ‘My heart!’ says the ungrateful villain, ‘what’s the use of this to me? You might as well give me a pair of iron spectacles!’ ‘Very good,’ says our overseer, taking ’em away again, ‘you won’t get anything else here.’ ‘Then I’ll die in the streets!’ says the vagrant. ‘Oh no, you won’t,’ says our overseer.”

“Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn’t it?” interposed the matron. “Well, Mr. Bumble?”

“Well, ma’am,” rejoined the beadle, “he went away; and he did die in the streets. There’s a obstinate pauper for you!”

“It beats anything I could have believed,” observed the matron emphatically. “But don’t you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing, any way, Mr. Bumble? You’re a gentleman of experience, and ought to know. Come.”

“Mrs. Corney,” said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious of superior information, “out-of-door relief, properly managed: properly managed, ma’am: is the porochial safeguard. The great principle of out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what they don’t want; and then they get tired of coming.”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Corney. “Well, that is a good one, too!”

“Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma’am,” returned Mr. Bumble, “that’s the great principle; and that’s the reason why, if you look at any cases that get into them owdacious newspapers, you’ll always observe that sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese. That’s the rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however,” said the beadle, stopping to unpack his bundle, “these are official secrets, ma’am; not to be spoken of; except, as I may say, among the porochial officers, such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma’am, that the board ordered for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine; only out of the cask this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!”

Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to test its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of drawers; folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it carefully in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go.

“You’ll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble,” said the matron.

“It blows, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar, “enough to cut one’s ears off.”

The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was moving towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether—whether he wouldn’t take a cup of tea?

Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat and stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled.

Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she sat down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle; she coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again Mr. Bumble coughed—louder this time than he had coughed yet.

“Sweet? Mr. Bumble?” inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin.

“Very sweet, indeed, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that moment.

The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department.

“You have a cat, ma’am, I see,” said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; “and kittens too, I declare!”

“I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can’t think,” replied the matron. “They’re so happy, so frolicsome, and so cheerful, that they are quite companions for me.”

“Very nice animals, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; “so very domestic.”

“Oh, yes!” rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; “so fond of their home too, that it’s quite a pleasure, I’m sure.”

“Mrs. Corney, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, “I mean to say this, ma’am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma’am, and not be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma’am.”

“Oh, Mr. Bumble!” remonstrated Mrs. Corney.

“It’s of no use disguising facts, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; “I would drown it myself, with pleasure.”

“Then you’re a cruel man,” said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand for the beadle’s cup; “and a very hard-hearted man besides.”

“Hard-hearted, ma’am?” said Mr. Bumble. “Hard?” Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney’s little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire.

It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great heroism on Mr. Bumble’s part: he being in some sort tempted by time, place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings, which however well they may become the lips of the light and thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other great public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who (as is well known) should be the sternest and most inflexible among them all.

Whatever were Mr. Bumble’s intentions, however (and no doubt they were of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close to that in which the matron was seated.

Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble stopped.

Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have been scorched by the fire; and if to the left, she must have fallen into Mr. Bumble’s arms; so (being a discreet matron, and no doubt foreseeing these consequences at a glance) she remained where she was, and handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea.

“Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?” said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and looking up into the matron’s face; “are you hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?”

“Dear me!” exclaimed the matron, “what a very curious question from a single man. What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble?”

The beadle drank his tea to the last drop; finished a piece of toast; whisked the crumbs off his knees; wiped his lips; and deliberately kissed the matron.

“Mr. Bumble!” cried that discreet lady in a whisper; for the fright was so great, that she had quite lost her voice, “Mr. Bumble, I shall scream!” Mr. Bumble made no reply; but in a slow and dignified manner, put his arm round the matron’s waist.

As the lady had stated her intention of screaming, of course she would have screamed at this additional boldness, but that the exertion was rendered unnecessary by a hasty knocking at the door: which was no sooner heard, than Mr. Bumble darted, with much agility, to the wine bottles, and began dusting them with great violence: while the matron sharply demanded who was there.

It is worthy of remark, as a curious physical instance of the efficacy of a sudden surprise in counteracting the effects of extreme fear, that her voice had quite recovered all its official asperity.

“If you please, mistress,” said a withered old female pauper, hideously ugly: putting her head in at the door, “Old Sally is a-going fast.”

“Well, what’s that to me?” angrily demanded the matron. “I can’t keep her alive, can I?”

“No, no, mistress,” replied the old woman, “nobody can; she’s far beyond the reach of help. I’ve seen a many people die; little babes and great strong men; and I know when death’s a-coming, well enough. But she’s troubled in her mind: and when the fits are not on her,—and that’s not often, for she is dying very hard,—she says she has got something to tell, which you must hear. She’ll never die quiet till you come, mistress.”

At this intelligence, the worthy Mrs. Corney muttered a variety of invectives against old women who couldn’t even die without purposely annoying their betters; and, muffling herself in a thick shawl which she hastily caught up, briefly requested Mr. Bumble to stay till she came back, lest anything particular should occur. Bidding the messenger walk fast, and not be all night hobbling up the stairs, she followed her from the room with a very ill grace, scolding all the way.

Mr. Bumble’s conduct on being left to himself, was rather inexplicable. He opened the closet, counted the teaspoons, weighed the sugar-tongs, closely inspected a silver milk-pot to ascertain that it was of the genuine metal, and, having satisfied his curiosity on these points, put on his cocked hat corner-wise, and danced with much gravity four distinct times round the table.

Having gone through this very extraordinary performance, he took off the cocked hat again, and, spreading himself before the fire with his back towards it, seemed to be mentally engaged in taking an exact inventory of the furniture.

CHAPTER XXIV. TREATS ON A VERY POOR SUBJECT, BUT IS A SHORT ONE, AND MAY BE FOUND OF IMPORTANCE IN THIS HISTORY

It was no unfit messenger of death, who had disturbed the quiet of the matron’s room. Her body was bent by age; her limbs trembled with palsy; her face, distorted into a mumbling leer, resembled more the grotesque shaping of some wild pencil, than the work of Nature’s hand.

Alas! How few of Nature’s faces are left alone to gladden us with their beauty! The cares, and sorrows, and hungerings, of the world, change them as they change hearts; and it is only when those passions sleep, and have lost their hold for ever, that the troubled clouds pass off, and leave Heaven’s surface clear. It is a common thing for the countenances of the dead, even in that fixed and rigid state, to subside into the long-forgotten expression of sleeping infancy, and settle into the very look of early life; so calm, so peaceful, do they grow again, that those who knew them in their happy childhood, kneel by the coffin’s side in awe, and see the Angel even upon earth.

The old crone tottered along the passages, and up the stairs, muttering some indistinct answers to the chidings of her companion; being at length compelled to pause for breath, she gave the light into her hand, and remained behind to follow as she might: while the more nimble superior made her way to the room where the sick woman lay.

It was a bare garret-room, with a dim light burning at the farther end. There was another old woman watching by the bed; the parish apothecary’s apprentice was standing by the fire, making a toothpick out of a quill.

“Cold night, Mrs. Corney,” said this young gentleman, as the matron entered.

“Very cold, indeed, sir,” replied the mistress, in her most civil tones, and dropping a curtsey as she spoke.

“You should get better coals out of your contractors,” said the apothecary’s deputy, breaking a lump on the top of the fire with the rusty poker; “these are not at all the sort of thing for a cold night.”

“They’re the board’s choosing, sir,” returned the matron. “The least they could do, would be to keep us pretty warm: for our places are hard enough.”

The conversation was here interrupted by a moan from the sick woman.

“Oh!” said the young man, turning his face towards the bed, as if he had previously quite forgotten the patient, “it’s all U.P. there, Mrs. Corney.”

“It is, is it, sir?” asked the matron.

“If she lasts a couple of hours, I shall be surprised,” said the apothecary’s apprentice, intent upon the toothpick’s point. “It’s a break-up of the system altogether. Is she dozing, old lady?”

The attendant stooped over the bed, to ascertain; and nodded in the affirmative.

“Then perhaps she’ll go off in that way, if you don’t make a row,” said the young man. “Put the light on the floor. She won’t see it there.”

The attendant did as she was told: shaking her head meanwhile, to intimate that the woman would not die so easily; having done so, she resumed her seat by the side of the other nurse, who had by this time returned. The mistress, with an expression of impatience, wrapped herself in her shawl, and sat at the foot of the bed.

The apothecary’s apprentice, having completed the manufacture of the toothpick, planted himself in front of the fire and made good use of it for ten minutes or so: when apparently growing rather dull, he wished Mrs. Corney joy of her job, and took himself off on tiptoe.

When they had sat in silence for some time, the two old women rose from the bed, and crouching over the fire, held out their withered hands to catch the heat. The flame threw a ghastly light on their shrivelled faces, and made their ugliness appear terrible, as, in this position, they began to converse in a low voice.

“Did she say any more, Anny dear, while I was gone?” inquired the messenger.

“Not a word,” replied the other. “She plucked and tore at her arms for a little time; but I held her hands, and she soon dropped off. She hasn’t much strength in her, so I easily kept her quiet. I ain’t so weak for an old woman, although I am on parish allowance; no, no!”

“Did she drink the hot wine the doctor said she was to have?” demanded the first.

“I tried to get it down,” rejoined the other. “But her teeth were tight set, and she clenched the mug so hard that it was as much as I could do to get it back again. So I drank it; and it did me good!”

Looking cautiously round, to ascertain that they were not overheard, the two hags cowered nearer to the fire, and chuckled heartily.

“I mind the time,” said the first speaker, “when she would have done the same, and made rare fun of it afterwards.”

“Ay, that she would,” rejoined the other; “she had a merry heart. A many, many, beautiful corpses she laid out, as nice and neat as waxwork. My old eyes have seen them—ay, and those old hands touched them too; for I have helped her, scores of times.”

Stretching forth her trembling fingers as she spoke, the old creature shook them exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket, brought out an old time-discoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook a few grains into the outstretched palm of her companion, and a few more into her own. While they were thus employed, the matron, who had been impatiently watching until the dying woman should awaken from her stupor, joined them by the fire, and sharply asked how long she was to wait?

“Not long, mistress,” replied the second woman, looking up into her face. “We have none of us long to wait for Death. Patience, patience! He’ll be here soon enough for us all.”

“Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!” said the matron sternly. “You, Martha, tell me; has she been in this way before?”

“Often,” answered the first woman.

“But will never be again,” added the second one; “that is, she’ll never wake again but once—and mind, mistress, that won’t be for long!”

“Long or short,” said the matron, snappishly, “she won’t find me here when she does wake; take care, both of you, how you worry me again for nothing. It’s no part of my duty to see all the old women in the house die, and I won’t—that’s more. Mind that, you impudent old harridans. If you make a fool of me again, I’ll soon cure you, I warrant you!”

She was bouncing away, when a cry from the two women, who had turned towards the bed, caused her to look round. The patient had raised herself upright, and was stretching her arms towards them.

“Who’s that?” she cried, in a hollow voice.

“Hush, hush!” said one of the women, stooping over her. “Lie down, lie down!”

“I’ll never lie down again alive!” said the woman, struggling. “I will tell her! Come here! Nearer! Let me whisper in your ear.”

She clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her into a chair by the bedside, was about to speak, when looking round, she caught sight of the two old women bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners.

“Turn them away,” said the woman, drowsily; “make haste! make haste!”

The two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous lamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best friends; and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her, when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy old ladies themselves.

“Now listen to me,” said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort to revive one latent spark of energy. “In this very room—in this very bed—I once nursed a pretty young creetur’, that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think—what was the year again!”

“Never mind the year,” said the impatient auditor; “what about her?”

“Ay,” murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, “what about her?—what about—I know!” she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head—“I robbed her, so I did! She wasn’t cold—I tell you she wasn’t cold, when I stole it!”

“Stole what, for God’s sake?” cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help.

“It!” replied the woman, laying her hand over the other’s mouth. “The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!”

“Gold!” echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. “Go on, go on—yes—what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?”

“She charged me to keep it safe,” replied the woman with a groan, “and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child’s death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!”

“Known what?” asked the other. “Speak!”

“The boy grew so like his mother,” said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, “that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there’s more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?”

“No, no,” replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. “Be quick, or it may be too late!”

“The mother,” said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; “the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named. ‘And oh, kind Heaven!’ she said, folding her thin hands together, ‘whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!’”

“The boy’s name?” demanded the matron.

“They called him Oliver,” replied the woman, feebly. “The gold I stole was—”

“Yes, yes—what?” cried the other.

She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed.

“Stone dead!” said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened.

“And nothing to tell, after all,” rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away.

The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body.

CHAPTER XXV. WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY

While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den—the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl—brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars.

At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and Mr. Chitling: all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy against Master Bates and Mr. Chitling. The countenance of the first-named gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired great additional interest from his close observance of the game, and his attentive perusal of Mr. Chitling’s hand; upon which, from time to time, as occasion served, he bestowed a variety of earnest glances: wisely regulating his own play by the result of his observations upon his neighbour’s cards. It being a cold night, the Dodger wore his hat, as, indeed, was often his custom within doors. He also sustained a clay pipe between his teeth, which he only removed for a brief space when he deemed it necessary to apply for refreshment to a quart pot upon the table, which stood ready filled with gin-and-water for the accommodation of the company.

Master Bates was also attentive to the play; but being of a more excitable nature than his accomplished friend, it was observable that he more frequently applied himself to the gin-and-water, and moreover indulged in many jests and irrelevant remarks, all highly unbecoming a scientific rubber. Indeed, the Artful, presuming upon their close attachment, more than once took occasion to reason gravely with his companion upon these improprieties; all of which remonstrances, Master Bates received in extremely good part; merely requesting his friend to be “blowed,” or to insert his head in a sack, or replying with some other neatly-turned witticism of a similar kind, the happy application of which, excited considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling. It was remarkable that the latter gentleman and his partner invariably lost; and that the circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates, appeared to afford him the highest amusement, inasmuch as he laughed most uproariously at the end of every deal, and protested that he had never seen such a jolly game in all his born days.

“That’s two doubles and the rub,” said Mr. Chitling, with a very long face, as he drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket. “I never see such a feller as you, Jack; you win everything. Even when we’ve good cards, Charley and I can’t make nothing of ’em.”

Either the matter or the manner of this remark, which was made very ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that his consequent shout of laughter roused the Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire what was the matter.

“Matter, Fagin!” cried Charley. “I wish you had watched the play. Tommy Chitling hasn’t won a point; and I went partners with him against the Artful and dumb.”

“Ay, ay!” said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated that he was at no loss to understand the reason. “Try ’em again, Tom; try ’em again.”

“No more of it for me, thank ’ee, Fagin,” replied Mr. Chitling; “I’ve had enough. That ’ere Dodger has such a run of luck that there’s no standing again’ him.”

“Ha! ha! my dear,” replied the Jew, “you must get up very early in the morning, to win against the Dodger.”

“Morning!” said Charley Bates; “you must put your boots on over-night, and have a telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass between your shoulders, if you want to come over him.”

Mr. Dawkins received these handsome compliments with much philosophy, and offered to cut any gentleman in company, for the first picture-card, at a shilling at a time. Nobody accepting the challenge, and his pipe being by this time smoked out, he proceeded to amuse himself by sketching a ground-plan of Newgate on the table with the piece of chalk which had served him in lieu of counters; whistling, meantime, with peculiar shrillness.

“How precious dull you are, Tommy!” said the Dodger, stopping short when there had been a long silence; and addressing Mr. Chitling. “What do you think he’s thinking of, Fagin?”

“How should I know, my dear?” replied the Jew, looking round as he plied the bellows. “About his losses, maybe; or the little retirement in the country that he’s just left, eh? Ha! ha! Is that it, my dear?”

“Not a bit of it,” replied the Dodger, stopping the subject of discourse as Mr. Chitling was about to reply. “What do you say, Charley?”

“I should say,” replied Master Bates, with a grin, “that he was uncommon sweet upon Betsy. See how he’s a-blushing! Oh, my eye! here’s a merry-go-rounder! Tommy Chitling’s in love! Oh, Fagin, Fagin! what a spree!”

Thoroughly overpowered with the notion of Mr. Chitling being the victim of the tender passion, Master Bates threw himself back in his chair with such violence, that he lost his balance, and pitched over upon the floor; where (the accident abating nothing of his merriment) he lay at full length until his laugh was over, when he resumed his former position, and began another laugh.

“Never mind him, my dear,” said the Jew, winking at Mr. Dawkins, and giving Master Bates a reproving tap with the nozzle of the bellows. “Betsy’s a fine girl. Stick up to her, Tom. Stick up to her.”

“What I mean to say, Fagin,” replied Mr. Chitling, very red in the face, “is, that that isn’t anything to anybody here.”

“No more it is,” replied the Jew; “Charley will talk. Don’t mind him, my dear; don’t mind him. Betsy’s a fine girl. Do as she bids you, Tom, and you will make your fortune.”

“So I do do as she bids me,” replied Mr. Chitling; “I shouldn’t have been milled, if it hadn’t been for her advice. But it turned out a good job for you; didn’t it, Fagin! And what’s six weeks of it? It must come, some time or another, and why not in the winter time when you don’t want to go out a-walking so much; eh, Fagin?”

“Ah, to be sure, my dear,” replied the Jew.

“You wouldn’t mind it again, Tom, would you,” asked the Dodger, winking upon Charley and the Jew, “if Bet was all right?”

“I mean to say that I shouldn’t,” replied Tom, angrily. “There, now. Ah! Who’ll say as much as that, I should like to know; eh, Fagin?”

“Nobody, my dear,” replied the Jew; “not a soul, Tom. I don’t know one of ’em that would do it besides you; not one of ’em, my dear.”

“I might have got clear off, if I’d split upon her; mightn’t I, Fagin?” angrily pursued the poor half-witted dupe. “A word from me would have done it; wouldn’t it, Fagin?”

“To be sure it would, my dear,” replied the Jew.

“But I didn’t blab it; did I, Fagin?” demanded Tom, pouring question upon question with great volubility.

“No, no, to be sure,” replied the Jew; “you were too stout-hearted for that. A deal too stout, my dear!”

“Perhaps I was,” rejoined Tom, looking round; “and if I was, what’s to laugh at, in that; eh, Fagin?”

The Jew, perceiving that Mr. Chitling was considerably roused, hastened to assure him that nobody was laughing; and to prove the gravity of the company, appealed to Master Bates, the principal offender. But, unfortunately, Charley, in opening his mouth to reply that he was never more serious in his life, was unable to prevent the escape of such a violent roar, that the abused Mr. Chitling, without any preliminary ceremonies, rushed across the room and aimed a blow at the offender; who, being skilful in evading pursuit, ducked to avoid it, and chose his time so well that it lighted on the chest of the merry old gentleman, and caused him to stagger to the wall, where he stood panting for breath, while Mr. Chitling looked on in intense dismay.

“Hark!” cried the Dodger at this moment, “I heard the tinkler.” Catching up the light, he crept softly upstairs.

The bell was rung again, with some impatience, while the party were in darkness. After a short pause, the Dodger reappeared, and whispered Fagin mysteriously.

“What!” cried the Jew, “alone?”

The Dodger nodded in the affirmative, and, shading the flame of the candle with his hand, gave Charley Bates a private intimation, in dumb show, that he had better not be funny just then. Having performed this friendly office, he fixed his eyes on the Jew’s face, and awaited his directions.

The old man bit his yellow fingers, and meditated for some seconds; his face working with agitation the while, as if he dreaded something, and feared to know the worst. At length he raised his head.

“Where is he?” he asked.

The Dodger pointed to the floor above, and made a gesture, as if to leave the room.

“Yes,” said the Jew, answering the mute inquiry; “bring him down. Hush! Quiet, Charley! Gently, Tom! Scarce, scarce!”

This brief direction to Charley Bates, and his recent antagonist, was softly and immediately obeyed. There was no sound of their whereabout, when the Dodger descended the stairs, bearing the light in his hand, and followed by a man in a coarse smock-frock; who, after casting a hurried glance round the room, pulled off a large wrapper which had concealed the lower portion of his face, and disclosed: all haggard, unwashed, and unshorn: the features of flash Toby Crackit.

“How are you, Faguey?” said this worthy, nodding to the Jew. “Pop that shawl away in my castor, Dodger, so that I may know where to find it when I cut; that’s the time of day! You’ll be a fine young cracksman afore the old file now.”

With these words he pulled up the smock-frock; and, winding it round his middle, drew a chair to the fire, and placed his feet upon the hob.

“See there, Faguey,” he said, pointing disconsolately to his top boots; “not a drop of Day and Martin since you know when; not a bubble of blacking, by Jove! But don’t look at me in that way, man. All in good time. I can’t talk about business till I’ve eat and drank; so produce the sustainance, and let’s have a quiet fill-out for the first time these three days!”

The Jew motioned to the Dodger to place what eatables there were, upon the table; and, seating himself opposite the housebreaker, waited his leisure.

To judge from appearances, Toby was by no means in a hurry to open the conversation. At first, the Jew contented himself with patiently watching his countenance, as if to gain from its expression some clue to the intelligence he brought; but in vain.

He looked tired and worn, but there was the same complacent repose upon his features that they always wore: and through dirt, and beard, and whisker, there still shone, unimpaired, the self-satisfied smirk of flash Toby Crackit. Then the Jew, in an agony of impatience, watched every morsel he put into his mouth; pacing up and down the room, meanwhile, in irrepressible excitement. It was all of no use. Toby continued to eat with the utmost outward indifference, until he could eat no more; then, ordering the Dodger out, he closed the door, mixed a glass of spirits and water, and composed himself for talking.

“First and foremost, Faguey,” said Toby.

“Yes, yes!” interposed the Jew, drawing up his chair.

Mr. Crackit stopped to take a draught of spirits and water, and to declare that the gin was excellent; then placing his feet against the low mantelpiece, so as to bring his boots to about the level of his eye, he quietly resumed.

“First and foremost, Faguey,” said the housebreaker, “how’s Bill?”

“What!” screamed the Jew, starting from his seat.

“Why, you don’t mean to say—” began Toby, turning pale.

“Mean!” cried the Jew, stamping furiously on the ground. “Where are they? Sikes and the boy! Where are they? Where have they been? Where are they hiding? Why have they not been here?”

“The crack failed,” said Toby faintly.

“I know it,” replied the Jew, tearing a newspaper from his pocket and pointing to it. “What more?”

“They fired and hit the boy. We cut over the fields at the back, with him between us—straight as the crow flies—through hedge and ditch. They gave chase. Damme! the whole country was awake, and the dogs upon us.”

“The boy!”

“Bill had him on his back, and scudded like the wind. We stopped to take him between us; his head hung down, and he was cold. They were close upon our heels; every man for himself, and each from the gallows! We parted company, and left the youngster lying in a ditch. Alive or dead, that’s all I know about him.”

The Jew stopped to hear no more; but uttering a loud yell, and twining his hands in his hair, rushed from the room, and from the house.

CHAPTER XXVI. IN WHICH A MYSTERIOUS CHARACTER APPEARS UPON THE SCENE; AND MANY THINGS, INSEPARABLE FROM THIS HISTORY, ARE DONE AND PERFORMED

The old man had gained the street corner, before he began to recover the effect of Toby Crackit’s intelligence. He had relaxed nothing of his unusual speed; but was still pressing onward, in the same wild and disordered manner, when the sudden dashing past of a carriage: and a boisterous cry from the foot passengers, who saw his danger: drove him back upon the pavement. Avoiding, as much as was possible, all the main streets, and skulking only through the by-ways and alleys, he at length emerged on Snow Hill. Here he walked even faster than before; nor did he linger until he had again turned into a court; when, as if conscious that he was now in his proper element, he fell into his usual shuffling pace, and seemed to breathe more freely.

Near to the spot on which Snow Hill and Holborn Hill meet, opens, upon the right hand as you come out of the City, a narrow and dismal alley, leading to Saffron Hill. In its filthy shops are exposed for sale huge bunches of second-hand silk handkerchiefs, of all sizes and patterns; for here reside the traders who purchase them from pick-pockets. Hundreds of these handkerchiefs hang dangling from pegs outside the windows or flaunting from the door-posts; and the shelves, within, are piled with them. Confined as the limits of Field Lane are, it has its barber, its coffee-shop, its beer-shop, and its fried-fish warehouse. It is a commercial colony of itself: the emporium of petty larceny: visited at early morning, and setting-in of dusk, by silent merchants, who traffic in dark back-parlours, and who go as strangely as they come. Here, the clothesman, the shoe-vamper, and the rag-merchant, display their goods, as sign-boards to the petty thief; here, stores of old iron and bones, and heaps of mildewy fragments of woollen-stuff and linen, rust and rot in the grimy cellars.

It was into this place that the Jew turned. He was well known to the sallow denizens of the lane; for such of them as were on the look-out to buy or sell, nodded, familiarly, as he passed along. He replied to their salutations in the same way; but bestowed no closer recognition until he reached the further end of the alley; when he stopped, to address a salesman of small stature, who had squeezed as much of his person into a child’s chair as the chair would hold, and was smoking a pipe at his warehouse door.

“Why, the sight of you, Mr. Fagin, would cure the hoptalmy!” said this respectable trader, in acknowledgment of the Jew’s inquiry after his health.

“The neighbourhood was a little too hot, Lively,” said Fagin, elevating his eyebrows, and crossing his hands upon his shoulders.

“Well, I’ve heerd that complaint of it, once or twice before,” replied the trader; “but it soon cools down again; don’t you find it so?”

Fagin nodded in the affirmative. Pointing in the direction of Saffron Hill, he inquired whether any one was up yonder tonight.

“At the Cripples?” inquired the man.

The Jew nodded.

“Let me see,” pursued the merchant, reflecting. “Yes, there’s some half-dozen of ’em gone in, that I knows. I don’t think your friend’s there.”

“Sikes is not, I suppose?” inquired the Jew, with a disappointed countenance.

“Non istwentus, as the lawyers say,” replied the little man, shaking his head, and looking amazingly sly. “Have you got anything in my line tonight?”

“Nothing tonight,” said the Jew, turning away.

“Are you going up to the Cripples, Fagin?” cried the little man, calling after him. “Stop! I don’t mind if I have a drop there with you!”

But as the Jew, looking back, waved his hand to intimate that he preferred being alone; and, moreover, as the little man could not very easily disengage himself from the chair; the sign of the Cripples was, for a time, bereft of the advantage of Mr. Lively’s presence. By the time he had got upon his legs, the Jew had disappeared; so Mr. Lively, after ineffectually standing on tiptoe, in the hope of catching sight of him, again forced himself into the little chair, and, exchanging a shake of the head with a lady in the opposite shop, in which doubt and mistrust were plainly mingled, resumed his pipe with a grave demeanour.

The Three Cripples, or rather the Cripples; which was the sign by which the establishment was familiarly known to its patrons: was the public-house in which Mr. Sikes and his dog have already figured. Merely making a sign to a man at the bar, Fagin walked straight upstairs, and opening the door of a room, and softly insinuating himself into the chamber, looked anxiously about: shading his eyes with his hand, as if in search of some particular person.

The room was illuminated by two gas-lights; the glare of which was prevented by the barred shutters, and closely-drawn curtains of faded red, from being visible outside. The ceiling was blackened, to prevent its colour from being injured by the flaring of the lamps; and the place was so full of dense tobacco smoke, that at first it was scarcely possible to discern anything more. By degrees, however, as some of it cleared away through the open door, an assemblage of heads, as confused as the noises that greeted the ear, might be made out; and as the eye grew more accustomed to the scene, the spectator gradually became aware of the presence of a numerous company, male and female, crowded round a long table: at the upper end of which, sat a chairman with a hammer of office in his hand; while a professional gentleman with a bluish nose, and his face tied up for the benefit of a toothache, presided at a jingling piano in a remote corner.

As Fagin stepped softly in, the professional gentleman, running over the keys by way of prelude, occasioned a general cry of order for a song; which having subsided, a young lady proceeded to entertain the company with a ballad in four verses, between each of which the accompanyist played the melody all through, as loud as he could. When this was over, the chairman gave a sentiment, after which, the professional gentleman on the chairman’s right and left volunteered a duet, and sang it, with great applause.

It was curious to observe some faces which stood out prominently from among the group. There was the chairman himself, (the landlord of the house,) a coarse, rough, heavy built fellow, who, while the songs were proceeding, rolled his eyes hither and thither, and, seeming to give himself up to joviality, had an eye for everything that was done, and an ear for everything that was said—and sharp ones, too. Near him were the singers: receiving, with professional indifference, the compliments of the company, and applying themselves, in turn, to a dozen proffered glasses of spirits and water, tendered by their more boisterous admirers; whose countenances, expressive of almost every vice in almost every grade, irresistibly attracted the attention, by their very repulsiveness. Cunning, ferocity, and drunkeness in all its stages, were there, in their strongest aspect; and women: some with the last lingering tinge of their early freshness almost fading as you looked: others with every mark and stamp of their sex utterly beaten out, and presenting but one loathsome blank of profligacy and crime; some mere girls, others but young women, and none past the prime of life; formed the darkest and saddest portion of this dreary picture.

Fagin, troubled by no grave emotions, looked eagerly from face to face while these proceedings were in progress; but apparently without meeting that of which he was in search. Succeeding, at length, in catching the eye of the man who occupied the chair, he beckoned to him slightly, and left the room, as quietly as he had entered it.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Fagin?” inquired the man, as he followed him out to the landing. “Won’t you join us? They’ll be delighted, every one of ’em.”

The Jew shook his head impatiently, and said in a whisper, “Is he here?”

“No,” replied the man.

“And no news of Barney?” inquired Fagin.

“None,” replied the landlord of the Cripples; for it was he. “He won’t stir till it’s all safe. Depend on it, they’re on the scent down there; and that if he moved, he’d blow upon the thing at once. He’s all right enough, Barney is, else I should have heard of him. I’ll pound it, that Barney’s managing properly. Let him alone for that.”

“Will he be here tonight?” asked the Jew, laying the same emphasis on the pronoun as before.

“Monks, do you mean?” inquired the landlord, hesitating.

“Hush!” said the Jew. “Yes.”

“Certain,” replied the man, drawing a gold watch from his fob; “I expected him here before now. If you’ll wait ten minutes, he’ll be—”

“No, no,” said the Jew, hastily; as though, however desirous he might be to see the person in question, he was nevertheless relieved by his absence. “Tell him I came here to see him; and that he must come to me tonight. No, say tomorrow. As he is not here, tomorrow will be time enough.”

“Good!” said the man. “Nothing more?”

“Not a word now,” said the Jew, descending the stairs.

“I say,” said the other, looking over the rails, and speaking in a hoarse whisper; “what a time this would be for a sell! I’ve got Phil Barker here: so drunk, that a boy might take him!”

“Ah! But it’s not Phil Barker’s time,” said the Jew, looking up. “Phil has something more to do, before we can afford to part with him; so go back to the company, my dear, and tell them to lead merry lives—while they last. Ha! ha! ha!”

The landlord reciprocated the old man’s laugh; and returned to his guests. The Jew was no sooner alone, than his countenance resumed its former expression of anxiety and thought. After a brief reflection, he called a hack-cabriolet, and bade the man drive towards Bethnal Green. He dismissed him within some quarter of a mile of Mr. Sikes’s residence, and performed the short remainder of the distance on foot.

“Now,” muttered the Jew, as he knocked at the door, “if there is any deep play here, I shall have it out of you, my girl, cunning as you are.”

She was in her room, the woman said. Fagin crept softly upstairs, and entered it without any previous ceremony. The girl was alone; lying with her head upon the table, and her hair straggling over it.

“She has been drinking,” thought the Jew, cooly, “or perhaps she is only miserable.”

The old man turned to close the door, as he made this reflection; the noise thus occasioned, roused the girl. She eyed his crafty face narrowly, as she inquired to his recital of Toby Crackit’s story. When it was concluded, she sank into her former attitude, but spoke not a word. She pushed the candle impatiently away; and once or twice as she feverishly changed her position, shuffled her feet upon the ground; but this was all.

During the silence, the Jew looked restlessly about the room, as if to assure himself that there were no appearances of Sikes having covertly returned. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he coughed twice or thrice, and made as many efforts to open a conversation; but the girl heeded him no more than if he had been made of stone. At length he made another attempt; and rubbing his hands together, said, in his most conciliatory tone,

“And where should you think Bill was now, my dear?”

The girl moaned out some half intelligible reply, that she could not tell; and seemed, from the smothered noise that escaped her, to be crying.

“And the boy, too,” said the Jew, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of her face. “Poor leetle child! Left in a ditch, Nance; only think!”

“The child,” said the girl, suddenly looking up, “is better where he is, than among us; and if no harm comes to Bill from it, I hope he lies dead in the ditch and that his young bones may rot there.”

“What!” cried the Jew, in amazement.

“Ay, I do,” returned the girl, meeting his gaze. “I shall be glad to have him away from my eyes, and to know that the worst is over. I can’t bear to have him about me. The sight of him turns me against myself, and all of you.”

“Pooh!” said the Jew, scornfully. “You’re drunk.”

“Am I?” cried the girl bitterly. “It’s no fault of yours, if I am not! You’d never have me anything else, if you had your will, except now;—the humour doesn’t suit you, doesn’t it?”

“No!” rejoined the Jew, furiously. “It does not.”

“Change it, then!” responded the girl, with a laugh.

“Change it!” exclaimed the Jew, exasperated beyond all bounds by his companion’s unexpected obstinacy, and the vexation of the night, “I will change it! Listen to me, you drab. Listen to me, who with six words, can strangle Sikes as surely as if I had his bull’s throat between my fingers now. If he comes back, and leaves the boy behind him; if he gets off free, and dead or alive, fails to restore him to me; murder him yourself if you would have him escape Jack Ketch. And do it the moment he sets foot in this room, or mind me, it will be too late!”

“What is all this?” cried the girl involuntarily.

“What is it?” pursued Fagin, mad with rage. “When the boy’s worth hundreds of pounds to me, am I to lose what chance threw me in the way of getting safely, through the whims of a drunken gang that I could whistle away the lives of! And me bound, too, to a born devil that only wants the will, and has the power to, to—”

Panting for breath, the old man stammered for a word; and in that instant checked the torrent of his wrath, and changed his whole demeanour. A moment before, his clenched hands had grasped the air; his eyes had dilated; and his face grown livid with passion; but now, he shrunk into a chair, and, cowering together, trembled with the apprehension of having himself disclosed some hidden villainy. After a short silence, he ventured to look round at his companion. He appeared somewhat reassured, on beholding her in the same listless attitude from which he had first roused her.

“Nancy, dear!” croaked the Jew, in his usual voice. “Did you mind me, dear?”

“Don’t worry me now, Fagin!” replied the girl, raising her head languidly. “If Bill has not done it this time, he will another. He has done many a good job for you, and will do many more when he can; and when he can’t he won’t; so no more about that.”

“Regarding this boy, my dear?” said the Jew, rubbing the palms of his hands nervously together.

“The boy must take his chance with the rest,” interrupted Nancy, hastily; “and I say again, I hope he is dead, and out of harm’s way, and out of yours,—that is, if Bill comes to no harm. And if Toby got clear off, Bill’s pretty sure to be safe; for Bill’s worth two of Toby any time.”

“And about what I was saying, my dear?” observed the Jew, keeping his glistening eye steadily upon her.

“You must say it all over again, if it’s anything you want me to do,” rejoined Nancy; “and if it is, you had better wait till tomorrow. You put me up for a minute; but now I’m stupid again.”

Fagin put several other questions: all with the same drift of ascertaining whether the girl had profited by his unguarded hints; but, she answered them so readily, and was withal so utterly unmoved by his searching looks, that his original impression of her being more than a trifle in liquor, was confirmed. Nancy, indeed, was not exempt from a failing which was very common among the Jew’s female pupils; and in which, in their tenderer years, they were rather encouraged than checked. Her disordered appearance, and a wholesale perfume of Geneva which pervaded the apartment, afforded strong confirmatory evidence of the justice of the Jew’s supposition; and when, after indulging in the temporary display of violence above described, she subsided, first into dullness, and afterwards into a compound of feelings: under the influence of which she shed tears one minute, and in the next gave utterance to various exclamations of “Never say die!” and divers calculations as to what might be the amount of the odds so long as a lady or gentleman was happy, Mr. Fagin, who had had considerable experience of such matters in his time, saw, with great satisfaction, that she was very far gone indeed.

Having eased his mind by this discovery; and having accomplished his twofold object of imparting to the girl what he had, that night, heard, and of ascertaining, with his own eyes, that Sikes had not returned, Mr. Fagin again turned his face homeward: leaving his young friend asleep, with her head upon the table.

It was within an hour of midnight. The weather being dark, and piercing cold, he had no great temptation to loiter. The sharp wind that scoured the streets, seemed to have cleared them of passengers, as of dust and mud, for few people were abroad, and they were to all appearance hastening fast home. It blew from the right quarter for the Jew, however, and straight before it he went: trembling, and shivering, as every fresh gust drove him rudely on his way.

He had reached the corner of his own street, and was already fumbling in his pocket for the door-key, when a dark figure emerged from a projecting entrance which lay in deep shadow, and, crossing the road, glided up to him unperceived.

“Fagin!” whispered a voice close to his ear.

“Ah!” said the Jew, turning quickly round, “is that—”

“Yes!” interrupted the stranger. “I have been lingering here these two hours. Where the devil have you been?”

“On your business, my dear,” replied the Jew, glancing uneasily at his companion, and slackening his pace as he spoke. “On your business all night.”

“Oh, of course!” said the stranger, with a sneer. “Well; and what’s come of it?”

“Nothing good,” said the Jew.

“Nothing bad, I hope?” said the stranger, stopping short, and turning a startled look on his companion.

The Jew shook his head, and was about to reply, when the stranger, interrupting him, motioned to the house, before which they had by this time arrived: remarking, that he had better say what he had got to say, under cover: for his blood was chilled with standing about so long, and the wind blew through him.

Fagin looked as if he could have willingly excused himself from taking home a visitor at that unseasonable hour; and, indeed, muttered something about having no fire; but his companion repeating his request in a peremptory manner, he unlocked the door, and requested him to close it softly, while he got a light.

“It’s as dark as the grave,” said the man, groping forward a few steps. “Make haste!”

“Shut the door,” whispered Fagin from the end of the passage. As he spoke, it closed with a loud noise.

“That wasn’t my doing,” said the other man, feeling his way. “The wind blew it to, or it shut of its own accord: one or the other. Look sharp with the light, or I shall knock my brains out against something in this confounded hole.”

Fagin stealthily descended the kitchen stairs. After a short absence, he returned with a lighted candle, and the intelligence that Toby Crackit was asleep in the back room below, and that the boys were in the front one. Beckoning the man to follow him, he led the way upstairs.

“We can say the few words we’ve got to say in here, my dear,” said the Jew, throwing open a door on the first floor; “and as there are holes in the shutters, and we never show lights to our neighbours, we’ll set the candle on the stairs. There!”

With those words, the Jew, stooping down, placed the candle on an upper flight of stairs, exactly opposite to the room door. This done, he led the way into the apartment; which was destitute of all movables save a broken arm-chair, and an old couch or sofa without covering, which stood behind the door. Upon this piece of furniture, the stranger sat himself with the air of a weary man; and the Jew, drawing up the arm-chair opposite, they sat face to face. It was not quite dark; the door was partially open; and the candle outside, threw a feeble reflection on the opposite wall.

They conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the conversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that the latter was in a state of considerable irritation. They might have been talking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or more, when Monks—by which name the Jew had designated the strange man several times in the course of their colloquy—said, raising his voice a little,

“I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?”

“Only hear him!” exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders.

“Why, do you mean to say you couldn’t have done it, if you had chosen?” demanded Monks, sternly. “Haven’t you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn’t you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?”

“Whose turn would that have served, my dear?” inquired the Jew humbly.

“Mine,” replied Monks.

“But not mine,” said the Jew, submissively. “He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?”

“What then?” demanded Monks.

“I saw it was not easy to train him to the business,” replied the Jew; “he was not like other boys in the same circumstances.”

“Curse him, no!” muttered the man, “or he would have been a thief, long ago.”

“I had no hold upon him to make him worse,” pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. “His hand was not in. I had nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have in the beginning, or we labour in vain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all.”

“That was not my doing,” observed Monks.

“No, no, my dear!” renewed the Jew. “And I don’t quarrel with it now; because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you were looking for. Well! I got him back for you by means of the girl; and then she begins to favour him.”

“Throttle the girl!” said Monks, impatiently.

“Why, we can’t afford to do that just now, my dear,” replied the Jew, smiling; “and, besides, that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one of these days, I might be glad to have it done. I know what these girls are, Monks, well. As soon as the boy begins to harden, she’ll care no more for him, than for a block of wood. You want him made a thief. If he is alive, I can make him one from this time; and, if—if—” said the Jew, drawing nearer to the other,—“it’s not likely, mind,—but if the worst comes to the worst, and he is dead—”

“It’s no fault of mine if he is!” interposed the other man, with a look of terror, and clasping the Jew’s arm with trembling hands. “Mind that. Fagin! I had no hand in it. Anything but his death, I told you from the first. I won’t shed blood; it’s always found out, and haunts a man besides. If they shot him dead, I was not the cause; do you hear me? Fire this infernal den! What’s that?”

“What!” cried the Jew, grasping the coward round the body, with both arms, as he sprung to his feet. “Where?”

“Yonder!” replied the man, glaring at the opposite wall. “The shadow! I saw the shadow of a woman, in a cloak and bonnet, pass along the wainscot like a breath!”

The Jew released his hold, and they rushed tumultuously from the room. The candle, wasted by the draught, was standing where it had been placed. It showed them only the empty staircase, and their own white faces. They listened intently: a profound silence reigned throughout the house.

“It’s your fancy,” said the Jew, taking up the light and turning to his companion.

“I’ll swear I saw it!” replied Monks, trembling. “It was bending forward when I saw it first; and when I spoke, it darted away.”

The Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate, and, telling him he could follow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs. They looked into all the rooms; they were cold, bare, and empty. They descended into the passage, and thence into the cellars below. The green damp hung upon the low walls; the tracks of the snail and slug glistened in the light of the candle; but all was still as death.

“What do you think now?” said the Jew, when they had regained the passage. “Besides ourselves, there’s not a creature in the house except Toby and the boys; and they’re safe enough. See here!”

As a proof of the fact, the Jew drew forth two keys from his pocket; and explained, that when he first went downstairs, he had locked them in, to prevent any intrusion on the conference.

This accumulated testimony effectually staggered Mr. Monks. His protestations had gradually become less and less vehement as they proceeded in their search without making any discovery; and, now, he gave vent to several very grim laughs, and confessed it could only have been his excited imagination. He declined any renewal of the conversation, however, for that night: suddenly remembering that it was past one o’clock. And so the amiable couple parted.

CHAPTER XXVII. ATONES FOR THE UNPOLITENESS OF A FORMER CHAPTER; WHICH DESERTED A LADY, MOST UNCEREMONIOUSLY

As it would be, by no means, seemly in a humble author to keep so mighty a personage as a beadle waiting, with his back to the fire, and the skirts of his coat gathered up under his arms, until such time as it might suit his pleasure to relieve him; and as it would still less become his station, or his gallantry to involve in the same neglect a lady on whom that beadle had looked with an eye of tenderness and affection, and in whose ear he had whispered sweet words, which, coming from such a quarter, might well thrill the bosom of maid or matron of whatsoever degree; the historian whose pen traces these words—trusting that he knows his place, and that he entertains a becoming reverence for those upon earth to whom high and important authority is delegated—hastens to pay them that respect which their position demands, and to treat them with all that duteous ceremony which their exalted rank, and (by consequence) great virtues, imperatively claim at his hands. Towards this end, indeed, he had purposed to introduce, in this place, a dissertation touching the divine right of beadles, and elucidative of the position, that a beadle can do no wrong: which could not fail to have been both pleasurable and profitable to the right-minded reader but which he is unfortunately compelled, by want of time and space, to postpone to some more convenient and fitting opportunity; on the arrival of which, he will be prepared to show, that a beadle properly constituted: that is to say, a parochial beadle, attached to a parochial workhouse, and attending in his official capacity the parochial church: is, in right and virtue of his office, possessed of all the excellences and best qualities of humanity; and that to none of those excellences, can mere companies’ beadles, or court-of-law beadles, or even chapel-of-ease beadles (save the last, and they in a very lowly and inferior degree), lay the remotest sustainable claim.

Mr. Bumble had re-counted the teaspoons, re-weighed the sugar-tongs, made a closer inspection of the milk-pot, and ascertained to a nicety the exact condition of the furniture, down to the very horse-hair seats of the chairs; and had repeated each process full half a dozen times; before he began to think that it was time for Mrs. Corney to return. Thinking begets thinking; as there were no sounds of Mrs. Corney’s approach, it occured to Mr. Bumble that it would be an innocent and virtuous way of spending the time, if he were further to allay his curiousity by a cursory glance at the interior of Mrs. Corney’s chest of drawers.

Having listened at the keyhole, to assure himself that nobody was approaching the chamber, Mr. Bumble, beginning at the bottom, proceeded to make himself acquainted with the contents of the three long drawers: which, being filled with various garments of good fashion and texture, carefully preserved between two layers of old newspapers, speckled with dried lavender: seemed to yield him exceeding satisfaction. Arriving, in course of time, at the right-hand corner drawer (in which was the key), and beholding therein a small padlocked box, which, being shaken, gave forth a pleasant sound, as of the chinking of coin, Mr. Bumble returned with a stately walk to the fireplace; and, resuming his old attitude, said, with a grave and determined air, “I’ll do it!” He followed up this remarkable declaration, by shaking his head in a waggish manner for ten minutes, as though he were remonstrating with himself for being such a pleasant dog; and then, he took a view of his legs in profile, with much seeming pleasure and interest.

He was still placidly engaged in this latter survey, when Mrs. Corney, hurrying into the room, threw herself, in a breathless state, on a chair by the fireside, and covering her eyes with one hand, placed the other over her heart, and gasped for breath.

“Mrs. Corney,” said Mr. Bumble, stooping over the matron, “what is this, ma’am? Has anything happened, ma’am? Pray answer me: I’m on—on—” Mr. Bumble, in his alarm, could not immediately think of the word “tenterhooks,” so he said “broken bottles.”

“Oh, Mr. Bumble!” cried the lady, “I have been so dreadfully put out!”

“Put out, ma’am!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble; “who has dared to—? I know!” said Mr. Bumble, checking himself, with native majesty, “this is them wicious paupers!”

“It’s dreadful to think of!” said the lady, shuddering.

“Then don’t think of it, ma’am,” rejoined Mr. Bumble.

“I can’t help it,” whimpered the lady.

“Then take something, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble soothingly. “A little of the wine?”

“Not for the world!” replied Mrs. Corney. “I couldn’t,—oh! The top shelf in the right-hand corner—oh!” Uttering these words, the good lady pointed, distractedly, to the cupboard, and underwent a convulsion from internal spasms. Mr. Bumble rushed to the closet; and, snatching a pint green-glass bottle from the shelf thus incoherently indicated, filled a tea-cup with its contents, and held it to the lady’s lips.

“I’m better now,” said Mrs. Corney, falling back, after drinking half of it.

Mr. Bumble raised his eyes piously to the ceiling in thankfulness; and, bringing them down again to the brim of the cup, lifted it to his nose.

“Peppermint,” exclaimed Mrs. Corney, in a faint voice, smiling gently on the beadle as she spoke. “Try it! There’s a little—a little something else in it.”

Mr. Bumble tasted the medicine with a doubtful look; smacked his lips; took another taste; and put the cup down empty.

“It’s very comforting,” said Mrs. Corney.

“Very much so indeed, ma’am,” said the beadle. As he spoke, he drew a chair beside the matron, and tenderly inquired what had happened to distress her.

“Nothing,” replied Mrs. Corney. “I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur.”

“Not weak, ma’am,” retorted Mr. Bumble, drawing his chair a little closer. “Are you a weak creetur, Mrs. Corney?”

“We are all weak creeturs,” said Mrs. Corney, laying down a general principle.

“So we are,” said the beadle.

Nothing was said on either side, for a minute or two afterwards. By the expiration of that time, Mr. Bumble had illustrated the position by removing his left arm from the back of Mrs. Corney’s chair, where it had previously rested, to Mrs. Corney’s apron-string, round which it gradually became entwined.

“We are all weak creeturs,” said Mr. Bumble.

Mrs. Corney sighed.

“Don’t sigh, Mrs. Corney,” said Mr. Bumble.

“I can’t help it,” said Mrs. Corney. And she sighed again.

“This is a very comfortable room, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble looking round. “Another room, and this, ma’am, would be a complete thing.”

“It would be too much for one,” murmured the lady.

“But not for two, ma’am,” rejoined Mr. Bumble, in soft accents. “Eh, Mrs. Corney?”

Mrs. Corney drooped her head, when the beadle said this; the beadle drooped his, to get a view of Mrs. Corney’s face. Mrs. Corney, with great propriety, turned her head away, and released her hand to get at her pocket-handkerchief; but insensibly replaced it in that of Mr. Bumble.

“The board allows you coals, don’t they, Mrs. Corney?” inquired the beadle, affectionately pressing her hand.

“And candles,” replied Mrs. Corney, slightly returning the pressure.

“Coals, candles, and house-rent free,” said Mr. Bumble. “Oh, Mrs. Corney, what an Angel you are!”

The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She sank into Mr. Bumble’s arms; and that gentleman in his agitation, imprinted a passionate kiss upon her chaste nose.

“Such porochial perfection!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, rapturously. “You know that Mr. Slout is worse tonight, my fascinator?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Corney, bashfully.

“He can’t live a week, the doctor says,” pursued Mr. Bumble. “He is the master of this establishment; his death will cause a wacancy; that wacancy must be filled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this opens! What a opportunity for a jining of hearts and housekeepings!”

Mrs. Corney sobbed.

“The little word?” said Mr. Bumble, bending over the bashful beauty. “The one little, little, little word, my blessed Corney?”

“Ye—ye—yes!” sighed out the matron.

“One more,” pursued the beadle; “compose your darling feelings for only one more. When is it to come off?”

Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak: and twice failed. At length summoning up courage, she threw her arms around Mr. Bumble’s neck, and said, it might be as soon as ever he pleased, and that he was “a irresistible duck.”

Matters being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged, the contract was solemnly ratified in another teacupful of the peppermint mixture; which was rendered the more necessary, by the flutter and agitation of the lady’s spirits. While it was being disposed of, she acquainted Mr. Bumble with the old woman’s decease.

“Very good,” said that gentleman, sipping his peppermint; “I’ll call at Sowerberry’s as I go home, and tell him to send tomorrow morning. Was it that as frightened you, love?”

“It wasn’t anything particular, dear,” said the lady evasively.

“It must have been something, love,” urged Mr. Bumble. “Won’t you tell your own B.?”

“Not now,” rejoined the lady; “one of these days. After we’re married, dear.”

“After we’re married!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble. “It wasn’t any impudence from any of them male paupers as—”

“No, no, love!” interposed the lady, hastily.

“If I thought it was,” continued Mr. Bumble; “if I thought as any one of ’em had dared to lift his wulgar eyes to that lovely countenance—”

“They wouldn’t have dared to do it, love,” responded the lady.

“They had better not!” said Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist. “Let me see any man, porochial or extra-porochial, as would presume to do it; and I can tell him that he wouldn’t do it a second time!”

Unembellished by any violence of gesticulation, this might have seemed no very high compliment to the lady’s charms; but, as Mr. Bumble accompanied the threat with many warlike gestures, she was much touched with this proof of his devotion, and protested, with great admiration, that he was indeed a dove.

The dove then turned up his coat-collar, and put on his cocked hat; and, having exchanged a long and affectionate embrace with his future partner, once again braved the cold wind of the night: merely pausing, for a few minutes, in the male paupers’ ward, to abuse them a little, with the view of satisfying himself that he could fill the office of workhouse-master with needful acerbity. Assured of his qualifications, Mr. Bumble left the building with a light heart, and bright visions of his future promotion: which served to occupy his mind until he reached the shop of the undertaker.

Now, Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry having gone out to tea and supper: and Noah Claypole not being at any time disposed to take upon himself a greater amount of physical exertion than is necessary to a convenient performance of the two functions of eating and drinking, the shop was not closed, although it was past the usual hour of shutting-up. Mr. Bumble tapped with his cane on the counter several times; but, attracting no attention, and beholding a light shining through the glass-window of the little parlour at the back of the shop, he made bold to peep in and see what was going forward; and when he saw what was going forward, he was not a little surprised.

The cloth was laid for supper; the table was covered with bread and butter, plates and glasses; a porter-pot and a wine-bottle. At the upper end of the table, Mr. Noah Claypole lolled negligently in an easy-chair, with his legs thrown over one of the arms: an open clasp-knife in one hand, and a mass of buttered bread in the other. Close beside him stood Charlotte, opening oysters from a barrel: which Mr. Claypole condescended to swallow, with remarkable avidity. A more than ordinary redness in the region of the young gentleman’s nose, and a kind of fixed wink in his right eye, denoted that he was in a slight degree intoxicated; these symptoms were confirmed by the intense relish with which he took his oysters, for which nothing but a strong appreciation of their cooling properties, in cases of internal fever, could have sufficiently accounted.

“Here’s a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!” said Charlotte; “try him, do; only this one.”

“What a delicious thing is a oyster!” remarked Mr. Claypole, after he had swallowed it. “What a pity it is, a number of ’em should ever make you feel uncomfortable; isn’t it, Charlotte?”

“It’s quite a cruelty,” said Charlotte.

“So it is,” acquiesced Mr. Claypole. “An’t yer fond of oysters?”

“Not overmuch,” replied Charlotte. “I like to see you eat ’em, Noah dear, better than eating ’em myself.”

“Lor!” said Noah, reflectively; “how queer!”

“Have another,” said Charlotte. “Here’s one with such a beautiful, delicate beard!”

“I can’t manage any more,” said Noah. “I’m very sorry. Come here, Charlotte, and I’ll kiss yer.”

“What!” said Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room. “Say that again, sir.”

Charlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face in her apron. Mr. Claypole, without making any further change in his position than suffering his legs to reach the ground, gazed at the beadle in drunken terror.

“Say it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!” said Mr. Bumble. “How dare you mention such a thing, sir? And how dare you encourage him, you insolent minx? Kiss her!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, in strong indignation. “Faugh!”

“I didn’t mean to do it!” said Noah, blubbering. “She’s always a-kissing of me, whether I like it, or not.”

“Oh, Noah,” cried Charlotte, reproachfully.

“Yer are; yer know yer are!” retorted Noah. “She’s always a-doin’ of it, Mr. Bumble, sir; she chucks me under the chin, please, sir; and makes all manner of love!”

“Silence!” cried Mr. Bumble, sternly. “Take yourself downstairs, ma’am. Noah, you shut up the shop; say another word till your master comes home, at your peril; and, when he does come home, tell him that Mr. Bumble said he was to send a old woman’s shell after breakfast tomorrow morning. Do you hear sir? Kissing!” cried Mr. Bumble, holding up his hands. “The sin and wickedness of the lower orders in this porochial district is frightful! If Parliament don’t take their abominable courses under consideration, this country’s ruined, and the character of the peasantry gone for ever!” With these words, the beadle strode, with a lofty and gloomy air, from the undertaker’s premises.

And now that we have accompanied him so far on his road home, and have made all necessary preparations for the old woman’s funeral, let us set on foot a few inquires after young Oliver Twist, and ascertain whether he be still lying in the ditch where Toby Crackit left him.

CHAPTER XXVIII. LOOKS AFTER OLIVER, AND PROCEEDS WITH HIS ADVENTURES

“Wolves tear your throats!” muttered Sikes, grinding his teeth. “I wish I was among some of you; you’d howl the hoarser for it.”

As Sikes growled forth this imprecation, with the most desperate ferocity that his desperate nature was capable of, he rested the body of the wounded boy across his bended knee; and turned his head, for an instant, to look back at his pursuers.

There was little to be made out, in the mist and darkness; but the loud shouting of men vibrated through the air, and the barking of the neighbouring dogs, roused by the sound of the alarm bell, resounded in every direction.

“Stop, you white-livered hound!” cried the robber, shouting after Toby Crackit, who, making the best use of his long legs, was already ahead. “Stop!”

The repetition of the word, brought Toby to a dead stand-still. For he was not quite satisfied that he was beyond the range of pistol-shot; and Sikes was in no mood to be played with.

“Bear a hand with the boy,” cried Sikes, beckoning furiously to his confederate. “Come back!”

Toby made a show of returning; but ventured, in a low voice, broken for want of breath, to intimate considerable reluctance as he came slowly along.

“Quicker!” cried Sikes, laying the boy in a dry ditch at his feet, and drawing a pistol from his pocket. “Don’t play booty with me.”

At this moment the noise grew louder. Sikes, again looking round, could discern that the men who had given chase were already climbing the gate of the field in which he stood; and that a couple of dogs were some paces in advance of them.

“It’s all up, Bill!” cried Toby; “drop the kid, and show ’em your heels.” With this parting advice, Mr. Crackit, preferring the chance of being shot by his friend, to the certainty of being taken by his enemies, fairly turned tail, and darted off at full speed. Sikes clenched his teeth; took one look around; threw over the prostrate form of Oliver, the cape in which he had been hurriedly muffled; ran along the front of the hedge, as if to distract the attention of those behind, from the spot where the boy lay; paused, for a second, before another hedge which met it at right angles; and whirling his pistol high into the air, cleared it at a bound, and was gone.

“Ho, ho, there!” cried a tremulous voice in the rear. “Pincher! Neptune! Come here, come here!”

The dogs, who, in common with their masters, seemed to have no particular relish for the sport in which they were engaged, readily answered to the command. Three men, who had by this time advanced some distance into the field, stopped to take counsel together.

“My advice, or, leastways, I should say, my orders, is,” said the fattest man of the party, “that we ’mediately go home again.”

“I am agreeable to anything which is agreeable to Mr. Giles,” said a shorter man; who was by no means of a slim figure, and who was very pale in the face, and very polite: as frightened men frequently are.

“I shouldn’t wish to appear ill-mannered, gentlemen,” said the third, who had called the dogs back, “Mr. Giles ought to know.”

“Certainly,” replied the shorter man; “and whatever Mr. Giles says, it isn’t our place to contradict him. No, no, I know my sitiwation! Thank my stars, I know my sitiwation.” To tell the truth, the little man did seem to know his situation, and to know perfectly well that it was by no means a desirable one; for his teeth chattered in his head as he spoke.

“You are afraid, Brittles,” said Mr. Giles.

“I an’t,” said Brittles.

“You are,” said Giles.

“You’re a falsehood, Mr. Giles,” said Brittles.

“You’re a lie, Brittles,” said Mr. Giles.

Now, these four retorts arose from Mr. Giles’s taunt; and Mr. Giles’s taunt had arisen from his indignation at having the responsibility of going home again, imposed upon himself under cover of a compliment. The third man brought the dispute to a close, most philosophically.

“I’ll tell you what it is, gentlemen,” said he, “we’re all afraid.”

“Speak for yourself, sir,” said Mr. Giles, who was the palest of the party.

“So I do,” replied the man. “It’s natural and proper to be afraid, under such circumstances. I am.”

“So am I,” said Brittles; “only there’s no call to tell a man he is, so bounceably.”

These frank admissions softened Mr. Giles, who at once owned that he was afraid; upon which, they all three faced about, and ran back again with the completest unanimity, until Mr. Giles (who had the shortest wind of the party, as was encumbered with a pitchfork) most handsomely insisted on stopping, to make an apology for his hastiness of speech.

“But it’s wonderful,” said Mr. Giles, when he had explained, “what a man will do, when his blood is up. I should have committed murder—I know I should—if we’d caught one of them rascals.”

As the other two were impressed with a similar presentiment; and as their blood, like his, had all gone down again; some speculation ensued upon the cause of this sudden change in their temperament.

“I know what it was,” said Mr. Giles; “it was the gate.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if it was,” exclaimed Brittles, catching at the idea.

“You may depend upon it,” said Giles, “that that gate stopped the flow of the excitement. I felt all mine suddenly going away, as I was climbing over it.”

By a remarkable coincidence, the other two had been visited with the same unpleasant sensation at that precise moment. It was quite obvious, therefore, that it was the gate; especially as there was no doubt regarding the time at which the change had taken place, because all three remembered that they had come in sight of the robbers at the instant of its occurance.

This dialogue was held between the two men who had surprised the burglars, and a travelling tinker who had been sleeping in an outhouse, and who had been roused, together with his two mongrel curs, to join in the pursuit. Mr. Giles acted in the double capacity of butler and steward to the old lady of the mansion; Brittles was a lad of all-work: who, having entered her service a mere child, was treated as a promising young boy still, though he was something past thirty.

Encouraging each other with such converse as this; but, keeping very close together, notwithstanding, and looking apprehensively round, whenever a fresh gust rattled through the boughs; the three men hurried back to a tree, behind which they had left their lantern, lest its light should inform the thieves in what direction to fire. Catching up the light, they made the best of their way home, at a good round trot; and long after their dusky forms had ceased to be discernible, the light might have been seen twinkling and dancing in the distance, like some exhalation of the damp and gloomy atmosphere through which it was swiftly borne.

The air grew colder, as day came slowly on; and the mist rolled along the ground like a dense cloud of smoke. The grass was wet; the pathways, and low places, were all mire and water; the damp breath of an unwholesome wind went languidly by, with a hollow moaning. Still, Oliver lay motionless and insensible on the spot where Sikes had left him.

Morning drew on apace. The air became more sharp and piercing, as its first dull hue—the death of night, rather than the birth of day—glimmered faintly in the sky. The objects which had looked dim and terrible in the darkness, grew more and more defined, and gradually resolved into their familiar shapes. The rain came down, thick and fast, and pattered noisily among the leafless bushes. But, Oliver felt it not, as it beat against him; for he still lay stretched, helpless and unconscious, on his bed of clay.

At length, a low cry of pain broke the stillness that prevailed; and uttering it, the boy awoke. His left arm, rudely bandaged in a shawl, hung heavy and useless at his side; the bandage was saturated with blood. He was so weak, that he could scarcely raise himself into a sitting posture; when he had done so, he looked feebly round for help, and groaned with pain. Trembling in every joint, from cold and exhaustion, he made an effort to stand upright; but, shuddering from head to foot, fell prostrate on the ground.

After a short return of the stupor in which he had been so long plunged, Oliver: urged by a creeping sickness at his heart, which seemed to warn him that if he lay there, he must surely die: got upon his feet, and essayed to walk. His head was dizzy, and he staggered to and fro like a drunken man. But he kept up, nevertheless, and, with his head drooping languidly on his breast, went stumbling onward, he knew not whither.

And now, hosts of bewildering and confused ideas came crowding on his mind. He seemed to be still walking between Sikes and Crackit, who were angrily disputing—for the very words they said, sounded in his ears; and when he caught his own attention, as it were, by making some violent effort to save himself from falling, he found that he was talking to them. Then, he was alone with Sikes, plodding on as on the previous day; and as shadowy people passed them, he felt the robber’s grasp upon his wrist. Suddenly, he started back at the report of firearms; there rose into the air, loud cries and shouts; lights gleamed before his eyes; all was noise and tumult, as some unseen hand bore him hurriedly away. Through all these rapid visions, there ran an undefined, uneasy consciousness of pain, which wearied and tormented him incessantly.

Thus he staggered on, creeping, almost mechanically, between the bars of gates, or through hedge-gaps as they came in his way, until he reached a road. Here the rain began to fall so heavily, that it roused him.

He looked about, and saw that at no great distance there was a house, which perhaps he could reach. Pitying his condition, they might have compassion on him; and if they did not, it would be better, he thought, to die near human beings, than in the lonely open fields. He summoned up all his strength for one last trial, and bent his faltering steps towards it.

As he drew nearer to this house, a feeling come over him that he had seen it before. He remembered nothing of its details; but the shape and aspect of the building seemed familiar to him.

That garden wall! On the grass inside, he had fallen on his knees last night, and prayed the two men’s mercy. It was the very house they had attempted to rob.

Oliver felt such fear come over him when he recognised the place, that, for the instant, he forgot the agony of his wound, and thought only of flight. Flight! He could scarcely stand: and if he were in full possession of all the best powers of his slight and youthful frame, whither could he fly? He pushed against the garden-gate; it was unlocked, and swung open on its hinges. He tottered across the lawn; climbed the steps; knocked faintly at the door; and, his whole strength failing him, sunk down against one of the pillars of the little portico.

It happened that about this time, Mr. Giles, Brittles, and the tinker, were recruiting themselves, after the fatigues and terrors of the night, with tea and sundries, in the kitchen. Not that it was Mr. Giles’s habit to admit to too great familiarity the humbler servants: towards whom it was rather his wont to deport himself with a lofty affability, which, while it gratified, could not fail to remind them of his superior position in society. But, death, fires, and burglary, make all men equals; so Mr. Giles sat with his legs stretched out before the kitchen fender, leaning his left arm on the table, while, with his right, he illustrated a circumstantial and minute account of the robbery, to which his hearers (but especially the cook and housemaid, who were of the party) listened with breathless interest.

“It was about half-past two,” said Mr. Giles, “or I wouldn’t swear that it mightn’t have been a little nearer three, when I woke up, and, turning round in my bed, as it might be so, (here Mr. Giles turned round in his chair, and pulled the corner of the table-cloth over him to imitate bed-clothes,) I fancied I heerd a noise.”

At this point of the narrative the cook turned pale, and asked the housemaid to shut the door: who asked Brittles, who asked the tinker, who pretended not to hear.

“—Heerd a noise,” continued Mr. Giles. “I says, at first, ‘This is illusion’; and was composing myself off to sleep, when I heerd the noise again, distinct.”

“What sort of a noise?” asked the cook.

“A kind of a busting noise,” replied Mr. Giles, looking round him.

“More like the noise of powdering a iron bar on a nutmeg-grater,” suggested Brittles.

“It was, when you heerd it, sir,” rejoined Mr. Giles; “but, at this time, it had a busting sound. I turned down the clothes”; continued Giles, rolling back the table-cloth, “sat up in bed; and listened.”

The cook and housemaid simultaneously ejaculated “Lor!” and drew their chairs closer together.

“I heerd it now, quite apparent,” resumed Mr. Giles. “‘Somebody,’ I says, ‘is forcing of a door, or window; what’s to be done? I’ll call up that poor lad, Brittles, and save him from being murdered in his bed; or his throat,’ I says, ‘may be cut from his right ear to his left, without his ever knowing it.’”

Here, all eyes were turned upon Brittles, who fixed his upon the speaker, and stared at him, with his mouth wide open, and his face expressive of the most unmitigated horror.

“I tossed off the clothes,” said Giles, throwing away the table-cloth, and looking very hard at the cook and housemaid, “got softly out of bed; drew on a pair of—”

“Ladies present, Mr. Giles,” murmured the tinker.

“—Of shoes, sir,” said Giles, turning upon him, and laying great emphasis on the word; “seized the loaded pistol that always goes upstairs with the plate-basket; and walked on tiptoes to his room. ‘Brittles,’ I says, when I had woke him, ‘don’t be frightened!’”

“So you did,” observed Brittles, in a low voice.

“‘We’re dead men, I think, Brittles,’ I says,” continued Giles; “‘but don’t be frightened.’”

“Was he frightened?” asked the cook.

“Not a bit of it,” replied Mr. Giles. “He was as firm—ah! pretty near as firm as I was.”

“I should have died at once, I’m sure, if it had been me,” observed the housemaid.

“You’re a woman,” retorted Brittles, plucking up a little.

“Brittles is right,” said Mr. Giles, nodding his head, approvingly; “from a woman, nothing else was to be expected. We, being men, took a dark lantern that was standing on Brittle’s hob, and groped our way downstairs in the pitch dark,—as it might be so.”

Mr. Giles had risen from his seat, and taken two steps with his eyes shut, to accompany his description with appropriate action, when he started violently, in common with the rest of the company, and hurried back to his chair. The cook and housemaid screamed.

“It was a knock,” said Mr. Giles, assuming perfect serenity. “Open the door, somebody.”

Nobody moved.

“It seems a strange sort of a thing, a knock coming at such a time in the morning,” said Mr. Giles, surveying the pale faces which surrounded him, and looking very blank himself; “but the door must be opened. Do you hear, somebody?”

Mr. Giles, as he spoke, looked at Brittles; but that young man, being naturally modest, probably considered himself nobody, and so held that the inquiry could not have any application to him; at all events, he tendered no reply. Mr. Giles directed an appealing glance at the tinker; but he had suddenly fallen asleep. The women were out of the question.

“If Brittles would rather open the door, in the presence of witnesses,” said Mr. Giles, after a short silence, “I am ready to make one.”

“So am I,” said the tinker, waking up, as suddenly as he had fallen asleep.

Brittles capitulated on these terms; and the party being somewhat re-assured by the discovery (made on throwing open the shutters) that it was now broad day, took their way upstairs; with the dogs in front. The two women, who were afraid to stay below, brought up the rear. By the advice of Mr. Giles, they all talked very loud, to warn any evil-disposed person outside, that they were strong in numbers; and by a master-stoke of policy, originating in the brain of the same ingenious gentleman, the dogs’ tails were well pinched, in the hall, to make them bark savagely.

These precautions having been taken, Mr. Giles held on fast by the tinker’s arm (to prevent his running away, as he pleasantly said), and gave the word of command to open the door. Brittles obeyed; the group, peeping timorously over each other’s shoulders, beheld no more formidable object than poor little Oliver Twist, speechless and exhausted, who raised his heavy eyes, and mutely solicited their compassion.

“A boy!” exclaimed Mr. Giles, valiantly, pushing the tinker into the background. “What’s the matter with the—eh?—Why—Brittles—look here—don’t you know?”

Brittles, who had got behind the door to open it, no sooner saw Oliver, than he uttered a loud cry. Mr. Giles, seizing the boy by one leg and one arm (fortunately not the broken limb) lugged him straight into the hall, and deposited him at full length on the floor thereof.

“Here he is!” bawled Giles, calling in a state of great excitement, up the staircase; “here’s one of the thieves, ma’am! Here’s a thief, miss! Wounded, miss! I shot him, miss; and Brittles held the light.”

“—In a lantern, miss,” cried Brittles, applying one hand to the side of his mouth, so that his voice might travel the better.

The two women-servants ran upstairs to carry the intelligence that Mr. Giles had captured a robber; and the tinker busied himself in endeavouring to restore Oliver, lest he should die before he could be hanged. In the midst of all this noise and commotion, there was heard a sweet female voice, which quelled it in an instant.

“Giles!” whispered the voice from the stair-head.

“I’m here, miss,” replied Mr. Giles. “Don’t be frightened, miss; I ain’t much injured. He didn’t make a very desperate resistance, miss! I was soon too many for him.”

“Hush!” replied the young lady; “you frighten my aunt as much as the thieves did. Is the poor creature much hurt?”

“Wounded desperate, miss,” replied Giles, with indescribable complacency.

“He looks as if he was a-going, miss,” bawled Brittles, in the same manner as before. “Wouldn’t you like to come and look at him, miss, in case he should?”

“Hush, pray; there’s a good man!” rejoined the lady. “Wait quietly only one instant, while I speak to aunt.”

With a footstep as soft and gentle as the voice, the speaker tripped away. She soon returned, with the direction that the wounded person was to be carried, carefully, upstairs to Mr. Giles’s room; and that Brittles was to saddle the pony and betake himself instantly to Chertsey: from which place, he was to despatch, with all speed, a constable and doctor.

“But won’t you take one look at him, first, miss?” asked Mr. Giles, with as much pride as if Oliver were some bird of rare plumage, that he had skilfully brought down. “Not one little peep, miss?”

“Not now, for the world,” replied the young lady. “Poor fellow! Oh! treat him kindly, Giles for my sake!”

The old servant looked up at the speaker, as she turned away, with a glance as proud and admiring as if she had been his own child. Then, bending over Oliver, he helped to carry him upstairs, with the care and solicitude of a woman.

CHAPTER XXIX. HAS AN INTRODUCTORY ACCOUNT OF THE INMATES OF THE HOUSE, TO WHICH OLIVER RESORTED

In a handsome room: though its furniture had rather the air of old-fashioned comfort, than of modern elegance: there sat two ladies at a well-spread breakfast-table. Mr. Giles, dressed with scrupulous care in a full suit of black, was in attendance upon them. He had taken his station some half-way between the side-board and the breakfast-table; and, with his body drawn up to its full height, his head thrown back, and inclined the merest trifle on one side, his left leg advanced, and his right hand thrust into his waist-coat, while his left hung down by his side, grasping a waiter, looked like one who laboured under a very agreeable sense of his own merits and importance.

Of the two ladies, one was well advanced in years; but the high-backed oaken chair in which she sat, was not more upright than she. Dressed with the utmost nicety and precision, in a quaint mixture of by-gone costume, with some slight concessions to the prevailing taste, which rather served to point the old style pleasantly than to impair its effect, she sat, in a stately manner, with her hands folded on the table before her. Her eyes (and age had dimmed but little of their brightness) were attentively upon her young companion.

The younger lady was in the lovely bloom and spring-time of womanhood; at that age, when, if ever angels be for God’s good purposes enthroned in mortal forms, they may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in such as hers.

She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould; so mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, nor its rough creatures her fit companions. The very intelligence that shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon her noble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of the world; and yet the changing expression of sweetness and good humour, the thousand lights that played about the face, and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside peace and happiness.

She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her.

“And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?” asked the old lady, after a pause.

“An hour and twelve minutes, ma’am,” replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon.

“He is always slow,” remarked the old lady.

“Brittles always was a slow boy, ma’am,” replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one.

“He gets worse instead of better, I think,” said the elder lady.

“It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys,” said the young lady, smiling.

Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a respectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate: out of which there jumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door: and who, getting quickly into the house by some mysterious process, burst into the room, and nearly overturned Mr. Giles and the breakfast-table together.

“I never heard of such a thing!” exclaimed the fat gentleman. “My dear Mrs. Maylie—bless my soul—in the silence of the night, too—I never heard of such a thing!”

With these expressions of condolence, the fat gentleman shook hands with both ladies, and drawing up a chair, inquired how they found themselves.

“You ought to be dead; positively dead with the fright,” said the fat gentleman. “Why didn’t you send? Bless me, my man should have come in a minute; and so would I; and my assistant would have been delighted; or anybody, I’m sure, under such circumstances. Dear, dear! So unexpected! In the silence of the night, too!”

The doctor seemed especially troubled by the fact of the robbery having been unexpected, and attempted in the night-time; as if it were the established custom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact business at noon, and to make an appointment, by post, a day or two previous.

“And you, Miss Rose,” said the doctor, turning to the young lady, “I—”

“Oh! very much so, indeed,” said Rose, interrupting him; “but there is a poor creature upstairs, whom aunt wishes you to see.”

“Ah! to be sure,” replied the doctor, “so there is. That was your handiwork, Giles, I understand.”

Mr. Giles, who had been feverishly putting the tea-cups to rights, blushed very red, and said that he had had that honour.

“Honour, eh?” said the doctor; “well, I don’t know; perhaps it’s as honourable to hit a thief in a back kitchen, as to hit your man at twelve paces. Fancy that he fired in the air, and you’ve fought a duel, Giles.”

Mr. Giles, who thought this light treatment of the matter an unjust attempt at diminishing his glory, answered respectfully, that it was not for the like of him to judge about that; but he rather thought it was no joke to the opposite party.

“Gad, that’s true!” said the doctor. “Where is he? Show me the way. I’ll look in again, as I come down, Mrs. Maylie. That’s the little window that he got in at, eh? Well, I couldn’t have believed it!”

Talking all the way, he followed Mr. Giles upstairs; and while he is going upstairs, the reader may be informed, that Mr. Losberne, a surgeon in the neighbourhood, known through a circuit of ten miles round as “the doctor,” had grown fat, more from good-humour than from good living: and was as kind and hearty, and withal as eccentric an old bachelor, as will be found in five times that space, by any explorer alive.

The doctor was absent, much longer than either he or the ladies had anticipated. A large flat box was fetched out of the gig; and a bedroom bell was rung very often; and the servants ran up and down stairs perpetually; from which tokens it was justly concluded that something important was going on above. At length he returned; and in reply to an anxious inquiry after his patient; looked very mysterious, and closed the door, carefully.

“This is a very extraordinary thing, Mrs. Maylie,” said the doctor, standing with his back to the door, as if to keep it shut.

“He is not in danger, I hope?” said the old lady.

“Why, that would not be an extraordinary thing, under the circumstances,” replied the doctor; “though I don’t think he is. Have you seen the thief?”

“No,” rejoined the old lady.

“Nor heard anything about him?”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” interposed Mr. Giles; “but I was going to tell you about him when Doctor Losberne came in.”

The fact was, that Mr. Giles had not, at first, been able to bring his mind to the avowal, that he had only shot a boy. Such commendations had been bestowed upon his bravery, that he could not, for the life of him, help postponing the explanation for a few delicious minutes; during which he had flourished, in the very zenith of a brief reputation for undaunted courage.

“Rose wished to see the man,” said Mrs. Maylie, “but I wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Humph!” rejoined the doctor. “There is nothing very alarming in his appearance. Have you any objection to see him in my presence?”

“If it be necessary,” replied the old lady, “certainly not.”

“Then I think it is necessary,” said the doctor; “at all events, I am quite sure that you would deeply regret not having done so, if you postponed it. He is perfectly quiet and comfortable now. Allow me—Miss Rose, will you permit me? Not the slightest fear, I pledge you my honour!”

CHAPTER XXX. 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.

CHAPTER XXXI. INVOLVES A CRITICAL POSITION

“Who’s that?” inquired Brittles, opening the door a little way, with the chain up, and peeping out, shading the candle with his hand.

“Open the door,” replied a man outside; “it’s the officers from Bow Street, as was sent to today.”

Much comforted by this assurance, Brittles opened the door to its full width, and confronted a portly man in a great-coat; who walked in, without saying anything more, and wiped his shoes on the mat, as coolly as if he lived there.

“Just send somebody out to relieve my mate, will you, young man?” said the officer; “he’s in the gig, a-minding the prad. Have you got a coach ’us here, that you could put it up in, for five or ten minutes?”

Brittles replying in the affirmative, and pointing out the building, the portly man stepped back to the garden-gate, and helped his companion to put up the gig: while Brittles lighted them, in a state of great admiration. This done, they returned to the house, and, being shown into a parlour, took off their great-coats and hats, and showed like what they were.

The man who had knocked at the door, was a stout personage of middle height, aged about fifty: with shiny black hair, cropped pretty close; half-whiskers, a round face, and sharp eyes. The other was a red-headed, bony man, in top-boots; with a rather ill-favoured countenance, and a turned-up sinister-looking nose.

“Tell your governor that Blathers and Duff is here, will you?” said the stouter man, smoothing down his hair, and laying a pair of handcuffs on the table. “Oh! Good-evening, master. Can I have a word or two with you in private, if you please?”

This was addressed to Mr. Losberne, who now made his appearance; that gentleman, motioning Brittles to retire, brought in the two ladies, and shut the door.

“This is the lady of the house,” said Mr. Losberne, motioning towards Mrs. Maylie.

Mr. Blathers made a bow. Being desired to sit down, he put his hat on the floor, and taking a chair, motioned to Duff to do the same. The latter gentleman, who did not appear quite so much accustomed to good society, or quite so much at his ease in it—one of the two—seated himself, after undergoing several muscular affections of the limbs, and the head of his stick into his mouth, with some embarrassment.

“Now, with regard to this here robbery, master,” said Blathers. “What are the circumstances?”

Mr. Losberne, who appeared desirous of gaining time, recounted them at great length, and with much circumlocution. Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked very knowing meanwhile, and occasionally exchanged a nod.

“I can’t say, for certain, till I see the work, of course,” said Blathers; “but my opinion at once is,—I don’t mind committing myself to that extent,—that this wasn’t done by a yokel; eh, Duff?”

“Certainly not,” replied Duff.

“And, translating the word yokel for the benefit of the ladies, I apprehend your meaning to be, that this attempt was not made by a countryman?” said Mr. Losberne, with a smile.

“That’s it, master,” replied Blathers. “This is all about the robbery, is it?”

“All,” replied the doctor.

“Now, what is this, about this here boy that the servants are a-talking on?” said Blathers.

“Nothing at all,” replied the doctor. “One of the frightened servants chose to take it into his head, that he had something to do with this attempt to break into the house; but it’s nonsense: sheer absurdity.”

“Wery easy disposed of, if it is,” remarked Duff.

“What he says is quite correct,” observed Blathers, nodding his head in a confirmatory way, and playing carelessly with the handcuffs, as if they were a pair of castanets. “Who is the boy? What account does he give of himself? Where did he come from? He didn’t drop out of the clouds, did he, master?”

“Of course not,” replied the doctor, with a nervous glance at the two ladies. “I know his whole history: but we can talk about that presently. You would like, first, to see the place where the thieves made their attempt, I suppose?”

“Certainly,” rejoined Mr. Blathers. “We had better inspect the premises first, and examine the servants afterwards. That’s the usual way of doing business.”

Lights were then procured; and Messrs. Blathers and Duff, attended by the native constable, Brittles, Giles, and everybody else in short, went into the little room at the end of the passage and looked out at the window; and afterwards went round by way of the lawn, and looked in at the window; and after that, had a candle handed out to inspect the shutter with; and after that, a lantern to trace the footsteps with; and after that, a pitchfork to poke the bushes with. This done, amidst the breathless interest of all beholders, they came in again; and Mr. Giles and Brittles were put through a melodramatic representation of their share in the previous night’s adventures: which they performed some six times over: contradicting each other, in not more than one important respect, the first time, and in not more than a dozen the last. This consummation being arrived at, Blathers and Duff cleared the room, and held a long council together, compared with which, for secrecy and solemnity, a consultation of great doctors on the knottiest point in medicine, would be mere child’s play.

Meanwhile, the doctor walked up and down the next room in a very uneasy state; and Mrs. Maylie and Rose looked on, with anxious faces.

“Upon my word,” he said, making a halt, after a great number of very rapid turns, “I hardly know what to do.”

“Surely,” said Rose, “the poor child’s story, faithfully repeated to these men, will be sufficient to exonerate him.”

“I doubt it, my dear young lady,” said the doctor, shaking his head. “I don’t think it would exonerate him, either with them, or with legal functionaries of a higher grade. What is he, after all, they would say? A runaway. Judged by mere worldly considerations and probabilities, his story is a very doubtful one.”

“You believe it, surely?” interrupted Rose.

“I believe it, strange as it is; and perhaps I may be an old fool for doing so,” rejoined the doctor; “but I don’t think it is exactly the tale for a practical police-officer, nevertheless.”

“Why not?” demanded Rose.

“Because, my pretty cross-examiner,” replied the doctor: “because, viewed with their eyes, there are many ugly points about it; he can only prove the parts that look ill, and none of those that look well. Confound the fellows, they will have the why and the wherefore, and will take nothing for granted. On his own showing, you see, he has been the companion of thieves for some time past; he has been carried to a police-officer, on a charge of picking a gentleman’s pocket; he has been taken away, forcibly, from that gentleman’s house, to a place which he cannot describe or point out, and of the situation of which he has not the remotest idea. He is brought down to Chertsey, by men who seem to have taken a violent fancy to him, whether he will or no; and is put through a window to rob a house; and then, just at the very moment when he is going to alarm the inmates, and so do the very thing that would set him all to rights, there rushes into the way, a blundering dog of a half-bred butler, and shoots him! As if on purpose to prevent his doing any good for himself! Don’t you see all this?”

“I see it, of course,” replied Rose, smiling at the doctor’s impetuosity; “but still I do not see anything in it, to criminate the poor child.”

“No,” replied the doctor; “of course not! Bless the bright eyes of your sex! They never see, whether for good or bad, more than one side of any question; and that is, always, the one which first presents itself to them.”

Having given vent to this result of experience, the doctor put his hands into his pockets, and walked up and down the room with even greater rapidity than before.

“The more I think of it,” said the doctor, “the more I see that it will occasion endless trouble and difficulty if we put these men in possession of the boy’s real story. I am certain it will not be believed; and even if they can do nothing to him in the end, still the dragging it forward, and giving publicity to all the doubts that will be cast upon it, must interfere, materially, with your benevolent plan of rescuing him from misery.”

“Oh! what is to be done?” cried Rose. “Dear, dear! why did they send for these people?”

“Why, indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Maylie. “I would not have had them here, for the world.”

“All I know is,” said Mr. Losberne, at last: sitting down with a kind of desperate calmness, “that we must try and carry it off with a bold face. The object is a good one, and that must be our excuse. The boy has strong symptoms of fever upon him, and is in no condition to be talked to any more; that’s one comfort. We must make the best of it; and if bad be the best, it is no fault of ours. Come in!”

“Well, master,” said Blathers, entering the room followed by his colleague, and making the door fast, before he said any more. “This warn’t a put-up thing.”

“And what the devil’s a put-up thing?” demanded the doctor, impatiently.

“We call it a put-up robbery, ladies,” said Blathers, turning to them, as if he pitied their ignorance, but had a contempt for the doctor’s, “when the servants is in it.”

“Nobody suspected them, in this case,” said Mrs. Maylie.

“Wery likely not, ma’am,” replied Blathers; “but they might have been in it, for all that.”

“More likely on that wery account,” said Duff.

“We find it was a town hand,” said Blathers, continuing his report; “for the style of work is first-rate.”

“Wery pretty indeed it is,” remarked Duff, in an undertone.

“There was two of ’em in it,” continued Blathers; “and they had a boy with ’em; that’s plain from the size of the window. That’s all to be said at present. We’ll see this lad that you’ve got upstairs at once, if you please.”

“Perhaps they will take something to drink first, Mrs. Maylie?” said the doctor: his face brightening, as if some new thought had occurred to him.

“Oh! to be sure!” exclaimed Rose, eagerly. “You shall have it immediately, if you will.”

“Why, thank you, miss!” said Blathers, drawing his coat-sleeve across his mouth; “it’s dry work, this sort of duty. Anythink that’s handy, miss; don’t put yourself out of the way, on our accounts.”

“What shall it be?” asked the doctor, following the young lady to the sideboard.

“A little drop of spirits, master, if it’s all the same,” replied Blathers. “It’s a cold ride from London, ma’am; and I always find that spirits comes home warmer to the feelings.”

This interesting communication was addressed to Mrs. Maylie, who received it very graciously. While it was being conveyed to her, the doctor slipped out of the room.

“Ah!” said Mr. Blathers: not holding his wine-glass by the stem, but grasping the bottom between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand: and placing it in front of his chest; “I have seen a good many pieces of business like this, in my time, ladies.”

“That crack down in the back lane at Edmonton, Blathers,” said Mr. Duff, assisting his colleague’s memory.

“That was something in this way, warn’t it?” rejoined Mr. Blathers; “that was done by Conkey Chickweed, that was.”

“You always gave that to him” replied Duff. “It was the Family Pet, I tell you. Conkey hadn’t any more to do with it than I had.”

“Get out!” retorted Mr. Blathers; “I know better. Do you mind that time when Conkey was robbed of his money, though? What a start that was! Better than any novel-book I ever see!”

“What was that?” inquired Rose: anxious to encourage any symptoms of good-humour in the unwelcome visitors.

“It was a robbery, miss, that hardly anybody would have been down upon,” said Blathers. “This here Conkey Chickweed—”

“Conkey means Nosey, ma’am,” interposed Duff.

“Of course the lady knows that, don’t she?” demanded Mr. Blathers. “Always interrupting, you are, partner! This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept a public-house over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar, where a good many young lords went to see cock-fighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a wery intellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I’ve seen ’em off’en. He warn’t one of the family, at that time; and one night he was robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag, that was stole out of his bedroom in the dead of night, by a tall man with a black patch over his eye, who had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the robbery, jumped slap out of window: which was only a story high. He was wery quick about it. But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a blunderbuss arter him, and roused the neighbourhood. They set up a hue-and-cry, directly, and when they came to look about ’em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there was traces of blood, all the way to some palings a good distance off; and there they lost ’em. However, he had made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrupts; and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don’t know what all, was got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind about his loss, and went up and down the streets, for three or four days, a pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be going to make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house. ‘I see him, Spyers,’ said Chickweed, ‘pass my house yesterday morning,’ ‘Why didn’t you up, and collar him!’ says Spyers. ‘I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,’ says the poor man; ‘but we’re sure to have him; for between ten and eleven o’clock at night he passed again.’ Spyers no sooner heard this, than he put some clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he should have to stop a day or two; and away he goes, and sets himself down at one of the public-house windows behind the little red curtain, with his hat on, all ready to bolt out, at a moment’s notice. He was smoking his pipe here, late at night, when all of a sudden Chickweed roars out, ‘Here he is! Stop thief! Murder!’ Jem Spyers dashes out; and there he sees Chickweed, a-tearing down the street full cry. Away goes Spyers; on goes Chickweed; round turns the people; everybody roars out, ‘Thieves!’ and Chickweed himself keeps on shouting, all the time, like mad. Spyers loses sight of him a minute as he turns a corner; shoots round; sees a little crowd; dives in; ‘Which is the man?’ ‘D—me!’ says Chickweed, ‘I’ve lost him again!’ It was a remarkable occurrence, but he warn’t to be seen nowhere, so they went back to the public-house. Next morning, Spyers took his old place, and looked out, from behind the curtain, for a tall man with a black patch over his eye, till his own two eyes ached again. At last, he couldn’t help shutting ’em, to ease ’em a minute; and the very moment he did so, he hears Chickweed a-roaring out, ‘Here he is!’ Off he starts once more, with Chickweed half-way down the street ahead of him; and after twice as long a run as the yesterday’s one, the man’s lost again! This was done, once or twice more, till one-half the neighbours gave out that Mr. Chickweed had been robbed by the devil, who was playing tricks with him arterwards; and the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweed had gone mad with grief.”

“What did Jem Spyers say?” inquired the doctor; who had returned to the room shortly after the commencement of the story.

“Jem Spyers,” resumed the officer, “for a long time said nothing at all, and listened to everything without seeming to, which showed he understood his business. But, one morning, he walked into the bar, and taking out his snuffbox, says ‘Chickweed, I’ve found out who done this here robbery.’ ‘Have you?’ said Chickweed. ‘Oh, my dear Spyers, only let me have wengeance, and I shall die contented! Oh, my dear Spyers, where is the villain!’ ‘Come!’ said Spyers, offering him a pinch of snuff, ‘none of that gammon! You did it yourself.’ So he had; and a good bit of money he had made by it, too; and nobody would never have found it out, if he hadn’t been so precious anxious to keep up appearances!” said Mr. Blathers, putting down his wine-glass, and clinking the handcuffs together.

“Very curious, indeed,” observed the doctor. “Now, if you please, you can walk upstairs.”

“If you please, sir,” returned Mr. Blathers. Closely following Mr. Losberne, the two officers ascended to Oliver’s bedroom; Mr. Giles preceding the party, with a lighted candle.

Oliver had been dozing; but looked worse, and was more feverish than he had appeared yet. Being assisted by the doctor, he managed to sit up in bed for a minute or so; and looked at the strangers without at all understanding what was going forward—in fact, without seeming to recollect where he was, or what had been passing.

“This,” said Mr. Losberne, speaking softly, but with great vehemence notwithstanding, “this is the lad, who, being accidently wounded by a spring-gun in some boyish trespass on Mr. What-d’ ye-call-him’s grounds, at the back here, comes to the house for assistance this morning, and is immediately laid hold of and maltreated, by that ingenious gentleman with the candle in his hand: who has placed his life in considerable danger, as I can professionally certify.”

Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr. Giles, as he was thus recommended to their notice. The bewildered butler gazed from them towards Oliver, and from Oliver towards Mr. Losberne, with a most ludicrous mixture of fear and perplexity.

“You don’t mean to deny that, I suppose?” said the doctor, laying Oliver gently down again.

“It was all done for the—for the best, sir,” answered Giles. “I am sure I thought it was the boy, or I wouldn’t have meddled with him. I am not of an inhuman disposition, sir.”

“Thought it was what boy?” inquired the senior officer.

“The housebreaker’s boy, sir!” replied Giles. “They—they certainly had a boy.”

“Well? Do you think so now?” inquired Blathers.

“Think what, now?” replied Giles, looking vacantly at his questioner.

“Think it’s the same boy, Stupid-head?” rejoined Blathers, impatiently.

“I don’t know; I really don’t know,” said Giles, with a rueful countenance. “I couldn’t swear to him.”

“What do you think?” asked Mr. Blathers.

“I don’t know what to think,” replied poor Giles. “I don’t think it is the boy; indeed, I’m almost certain that it isn’t. You know it can’t be.”

“Has this man been a-drinking, sir?” inquired Blathers, turning to the doctor.

“What a precious muddle-headed chap you are!” said Duff, addressing Mr. Giles, with supreme contempt.

Mr. Losberne had been feeling the patient’s pulse during this short dialogue; but he now rose from the chair by the bedside, and remarked, that if the officers had any doubts upon the subject, they would perhaps like to step into the next room, and have Brittles before them.

Acting upon this suggestion, they adjourned to a neighbouring apartment, where Mr. Brittles, being called in, involved himself and his respected superior in such a wonderful maze of fresh contradictions and impossibilities, as tended to throw no particular light on anything, but the fact of his own strong mystification; except, indeed, his declarations that he shouldn’t know the real boy, if he were put before him that instant; that he had only taken Oliver to be he, because Mr. Giles had said he was; and that Mr. Giles had, five minutes previously, admitted in the kitchen, that he began to be very much afraid he had been a little too hasty.

Among other ingenious surmises, the question was then raised, whether Mr. Giles had really hit anybody; and upon examination of the fellow pistol to that which he had fired, it turned out to have no more destructive loading than gunpowder and brown paper: a discovery which made a considerable impression on everybody but the doctor, who had drawn the ball about ten minutes before. Upon no one, however, did it make a greater impression than on Mr. Giles himself; who, after labouring, for some hours, under the fear of having mortally wounded a fellow-creature, eagerly caught at this new idea, and favoured it to the utmost. Finally, the officers, without troubling themselves very much about Oliver, left the Chertsey constable in the house, and took up their rest for that night in the town; promising to return the next morning.

With the next morning, there came a rumour, that two men and a boy were in the cage at Kingston, who had been apprehended over night under suspicious circumstances; and to Kingston Messrs. Blathers and Duff journeyed accordingly. The suspicious circumstances, however, resolving themselves, on investigation, into the one fact, that they had been discovered sleeping under a haystack; which, although a great crime, is only punishable by imprisonment, and is, in the merciful eye of the English law, and its comprehensive love of all the King’s subjects, held to be no satisfactory proof, in the absence of all other evidence, that the sleeper, or sleepers, have committed burglary accompanied with violence, and have therefore rendered themselves liable to the punishment of death; Messrs. Blathers and Duff came back again, as wise as they went.

In short, after some more examination, and a great deal more conversation, a neighbouring magistrate was readily induced to take the joint bail of Mrs. Maylie and Mr. Losberne for Oliver’s appearance if he should ever be called upon; and Blathers and Duff, being rewarded with a couple of guineas, returned to town with divided opinions on the subject of their expedition: the latter gentleman on a mature consideration of all the circumstances, inclining to the belief that the burglarious attempt had originated with the Family Pet; and the former being equally disposed to concede the full merit of it to the great Mr. Conkey Chickweed.

Meanwhile, Oliver gradually throve and prospered under the united care of Mrs. Maylie, Rose, and the kind-hearted Mr. Losberne. If fervent prayers, gushing from hearts overcharged with gratitude, be heard in heaven—and if they be not, what prayers are!—the blessings which the orphan child called down upon them, sunk into their souls, diffusing peace and happiness.

CHAPTER XXXII. OF THE HAPPY LIFE OLIVER BEGAN TO LEAD WITH HIS KIND FRIENDS

Oliver’s ailings were neither slight nor few. In addition to the pain and delay attendant on a broken limb, his exposure to the wet and cold had brought on fever and ague: which hung about him for many weeks, and reduced him sadly. But, at length, he began, by slow degrees, to get better, and to be able to say sometimes, in a few tearful words, how deeply he felt the goodness of the two sweet ladies, and how ardently he hoped that when he grew strong and well again, he could do something to show his gratitude; only something, which would let them see the love and duty with which his breast was full; something, however slight, which would prove to them that their gentle kindness had not been cast away; but that the poor boy whom their charity had rescued from misery, or death, was eager to serve them with his whole heart and soul.

“Poor fellow!” said Rose, when Oliver had been one day feebly endeavouring to utter the words of thankfulness that rose to his pale lips; “you shall have many opportunities of serving us, if you will. We are going into the country, and my aunt intends that you shall accompany us. The quiet place, the pure air, and all the pleasure and beauties of spring, will restore you in a few days. We will employ you in a hundred ways, when you can bear the trouble.”

“The trouble!” cried Oliver. “Oh! dear lady, if I could but work for you; if I could only give you pleasure by watering your flowers, or watching your birds, or running up and down the whole day long, to make you happy; what would I give to do it!”

“You shall give nothing at all,” said Miss Maylie, smiling; “for, as I told you before, we shall employ you in a hundred ways; and if you only take half the trouble to please us, that you promise now, you will make me very happy indeed.”

“Happy, ma’am!” cried Oliver; “how kind of you to say so!”

“You will make me happier than I can tell you,” replied the young lady. “To think that my dear good aunt should have been the means of rescuing any one from such sad misery as you have described to us, would be an unspeakable pleasure to me; but to know that the object of her goodness and compassion was sincerely grateful and attached, in consequence, would delight me, more than you can well imagine. Do you understand me?” she inquired, watching Oliver’s thoughtful face.

“Oh yes, ma’am, yes!” replied Oliver eagerly; “but I was thinking that I am ungrateful now.”

“To whom?” inquired the young lady.

“To the kind gentleman, and the dear old nurse, who took so much care of me before,” rejoined Oliver. “If they knew how happy I am, they would be pleased, I am sure.”

“I am sure they would,” rejoined Oliver’s benefactress; “and Mr. Losberne has already been kind enough to promise that when you are well enough to bear the journey, he will carry you to see them.”

“Has he, ma’am?” cried Oliver, his face brightening with pleasure. “I don’t know what I shall do for joy when I see their kind faces once again!”

In a short time Oliver was sufficiently recovered to undergo the fatigue of this expedition. One morning he and Mr. Losberne set out, accordingly, in a little carriage which belonged to Mrs. Maylie. When they came to Chertsey Bridge, Oliver turned very pale, and uttered a loud exclamation.

“What’s the matter with the boy?” cried the doctor, as usual, all in a bustle. “Do you see anything—hear anything—feel anything—eh?”

“That, sir,” cried Oliver, pointing out of the carriage window. “That house!”

“Yes; well, what of it? Stop coachman. Pull up here,” cried the doctor. “What of the house, my man; eh?”

“The thieves—the house they took me to!” whispered Oliver.

“The devil it is!” cried the doctor. “Hallo, there! let me out!”

But, before the coachman could dismount from his box, he had tumbled out of the coach, by some means or other; and, running down to the deserted tenement, began kicking at the door like a madman.

“Halloa?” said a little ugly hump-backed man: opening the door so suddenly, that the doctor, from the very impetus of his last kick, nearly fell forward into the passage. “What’s the matter here?”

“Matter!” exclaimed the other, collaring him, without a moment’s reflection. “A good deal. Robbery is the matter.”

“There’ll be Murder the matter, too,” replied the hump-backed man, coolly, “if you don’t take your hands off. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” said the doctor, giving his captive a hearty shake.

“Where’s—confound the fellow, what’s his rascally name—Sikes; that’s it. Where’s Sikes, you thief?”

The hump-backed man stared, as if in excess of amazement and indignation; then, twisting himself, dexterously, from the doctor’s grasp, growled forth a volley of horrid oaths, and retired into the house. Before he could shut the door, however, the doctor had passed into the parlour, without a word of parley.

He looked anxiously round; not an article of furniture; not a vestige of anything, animate or inanimate; not even the position of the cupboards; answered Oliver’s description!

“Now!” said the hump-backed man, who had watched him keenly, “what do you mean by coming into my house, in this violent way? Do you want to rob me, or to murder me? Which is it?”

“Did you ever know a man come out to do either, in a chariot and pair, you ridiculous old vampire?” said the irritable doctor.

“What do you want, then?” demanded the hunchback. “Will you take yourself off, before I do you a mischief? Curse you!”

“As soon as I think proper,” said Mr. Losberne, looking into the other parlour; which, like the first, bore no resemblance whatever to Oliver’s account of it. “I shall find you out, some day, my friend.”

“Will you?” sneered the ill-favoured cripple. “If you ever want me, I’m here. I haven’t lived here mad and all alone, for five-and-twenty years, to be scared by you. You shall pay for this; you shall pay for this.” And so saying, the mis-shapen little demon set up a yell, and danced upon the ground, as if wild with rage.

“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 eyed 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 tranquillity, 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 almost 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 the 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, but full of humble mounds, covered with fresh turf and moss: beneath 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.

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 good-will, until Miss Rose made her appearance: when there were a thousand commendations 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; it is 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 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, when 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 over 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 well.

“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 corner 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 years: 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 shall 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 had devolved upon her, steadily, and, to all external appearances, 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?

An anxious night ensued. When morning came, Mrs. Maylie’s predictions were but too well verified. Rose was in the first stage of a high and dangerous fever.

“We must be active, Oliver, and not give way to useless grief,” said Mrs. Maylie, laying her finger on her lip, as she looked steadily into his face; “this letter must be sent, with all possible expedition, to Mr. Losberne. It must be carried to the market-town: which is not more than four miles off, by the footpath across the field: and thence dispatched, by an express on horseback, straight to Chertsey. The people at the inn will undertake to do this: and I can trust to you to see it done, I know.”

Oliver could make no reply, but looked his anxiety to be gone at once.

“Here is another letter,” said Mrs. Maylie, pausing to reflect; “but whether to send it now, or wait until I see how Rose goes on, I scarcely know. I would not forward it, unless I feared the worst.”

“Is it for Chertsey, too, ma’am?” inquired Oliver; impatient to execute his commission, and holding out his trembling hand for the letter.

“No,” replied the old lady, giving it to him mechanically. Oliver glanced at it, and saw that it was directed to Harry Maylie, Esquire, at some great lord’s house in the country; where, he could not make out.

“Shall it go, ma’am?” asked Oliver, looking up, impatiently.

“I think not,” replied Mrs. Maylie, taking it back. “I will wait until tomorrow.”

With these words, she gave Oliver her purse, and he started off, without more delay, at the greatest speed he could muster.

Swiftly he ran across the fields, and down the little lanes which sometimes divided them: now almost hidden by the high corn on either side, and now emerging on an open field, where the mowers and haymakers were busy at their work: nor did he stop once, save now and then, for a few seconds, to recover breath, until he came, in a great heat, and covered with dust, on the little market-place of the market-town.

Here he paused, and looked about for the inn. There were a white bank, and a red brewery, and a yellow town-hall; and in one corner there was a large house, with all the wood about it painted green: before which was the sign of “The George.” To this he hastened, as soon as it caught his eye.

He spoke to a postboy who was dozing under the gateway; and who, after hearing what he wanted, referred him to the ostler; who after hearing all he had to say again, referred him to the landlord; who was a tall gentleman in a blue neckcloth, a white hat, drab breeches, and boots with tops to match, leaning against a pump by the stable-door, picking his teeth with a silver toothpick.

This gentleman walked with much deliberation into the bar to make out the bill: which took a long time making out: and after it was ready, and paid, a horse had to be saddled, and a man to be dressed, which took up ten good minutes more. Meanwhile Oliver was in such a desperate state of impatience and anxiety, that he felt as if he could have jumped upon the horse himself, and galloped away, full tear, to the next stage. At length, all was ready; and the little parcel having been handed up, with many injunctions and entreaties for its speedy delivery, the man set spurs to his horse, and rattling over the uneven paving of the market-place, was out of the town, and galloping along the turnpike-road, in a couple of minutes.

As it was something to feel certain that assistance was sent for, and that no time had been lost, Oliver hurried up the inn-yard, with a somewhat lighter heart. He was turning out of the gateway when he accidently stumbled against a tall man wrapped in a cloak, who was at that moment coming out of the inn door.

“Hah!” cried the man, fixing his eyes on Oliver, and suddenly recoiling. “What the devil’s this?”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Oliver; “I was in a great hurry to get home, and didn’t see you were coming.”

“Death!” muttered the man to himself, glaring at the boy with his large dark eyes. “Who would have thought it! Grind him to ashes! He’d start up from a stone coffin, to come in my way!”

“I am sorry,” stammered Oliver, confused by the strange man’s wild look. “I hope I have not hurt you!”

“Rot you!” murmured the man, in a horrible passion; between his clenched teeth; “if I had only had the courage to say the word, I might have been free of you in a night. Curses on your head, and black death on your heart, you imp! What are you doing here?”

The man shook his fist, as he uttered these words incoherently. He advanced towards Oliver, as if with the intention of aiming a blow at him, but fell violently on the ground: writhing and foaming, in a fit.

Oliver gazed, for a moment, at the struggles of the madman (for such he supposed him to be); and then darted into the house for help. Having seen him safely carried into the hotel, he turned his face homewards, running as fast as he could, to make up for lost time: and recalling with a great deal of astonishment and some fear, the extraordinary behaviour of the person from whom he had just parted.

The circumstance did not dwell in his recollection long, however: for when he reached the cottage, there was enough to occupy his mind, and to drive all considerations of self completely from his memory.

Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse; before mid-night she was delirious. A medical practitioner, who resided on the spot, was in constant attendance upon her; and after first seeing the patient, he had taken Mrs. Maylie aside, and pronounced her disorder to be one of a most alarming nature. “In fact,” he said, “it would be little short of a miracle, if she recovered.”

How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and stealing out, with noiseless footstep, to the staircase, listen for the slightest sound from the sick chamber! How often did a tremble shake his frame, and cold drops of terror start upon his brow, when a sudden trampling of feet caused him to fear that something too dreadful to think of, had even then occurred! And what had been the fervency of all the prayers he had ever muttered, compared with those he poured forth, now, in the agony and passion of his supplication for the life and health of the gentle creature, who was tottering on the deep grave’s verge!

Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance! Oh! the racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat violently, and the breath come thick, by the force of the images they conjure up before it; the desperate anxiety to be doing something to relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to alleviate; the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what reflections or endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of the time, allay them!

Morning came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke in whispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to time; women and children went away in tears. All the livelong day, and for hours after it had grown dark, Oliver paced softly up and down the garden, raising his eyes every instant to the sick chamber, and shuddering to see the darkened window, looking as if death lay stretched inside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived. “It is hard,” said the good doctor, turning away as he spoke; “so young; so much beloved; but there is very little hope.”

Another morning. The sun shone brightly; as brightly as if it looked upon no misery or care; and, with every leaf and flower in full bloom about her; with life, and health, and sounds and sights of joy, surrounding her on every side: the fair young creature lay, wasting fast. Oliver crept away to the old churchyard, and sitting down on one of the green mounds, wept and prayed for her, in silence.

There was such peace and beauty in the scene; so much of brightness and mirth in the sunny landscape; such blithesome music in the songs of the summer birds; such freedom in the rapid flight of the rook, careering overhead; so much of life and joyousness in all; that, when the boy raised his aching eyes, and looked about, the thought instinctively occurred to him, that this was not a time for death; that Rose could surely never die when humbler things were all so glad and gay; that graves were for cold and cheerless winter: not for sunlight and fragrance. He almost thought that shrouds were for the old and shrunken; and that they never wrapped the young and graceful form in their ghastly folds.

A knell from the church bell broke harshly on these youthful thoughts. Another! Again! It was tolling for the funeral service. A group of humble mourners entered the gate: wearing white favours; for the corpse was young. They stood uncovered by a grave; and there was a mother—a mother once—among the weeping train. But the sun shone brightly, and the birds sang on.

Oliver turned homeward, thinking on the many kindnesses he had received from the young lady, and wishing that the time could come again, that he might never cease showing her how grateful and attached he was. He had no cause for self-reproach on the score of neglect, or want of thought, for he had been devoted to her service; and yet a hundred little occasions rose up before him, on which he fancied he might have been more zealous, and more earnest, and wished he had been. We need be careful how we deal with those about us, when every death carries to some small circle of survivors, thoughts of so much omitted, and so little done—of so many things forgotten, and so many more which might have been repaired! There is no remorse so deep as that which is unavailing; if we would be spared its tortures, let us remember this, in time.

When he reached home Mrs. Maylie was sitting in the little parlour. Oliver’s heart sank at sight of her; for she had never left the bedside of her niece; and he trembled to think what change could have driven her away. He learnt that she had fallen into a deep sleep, from which she would waken, either to recovery and life, or to bid them farewell, and die.

They sat, listening, and afraid to speak, for hours. The untasted meal was removed, with looks which showed that their thoughts were elsewhere, they watched the sun as he sank lower and lower, and, at length, cast over sky and earth those brilliant hues which herald his departure. Their quick ears caught the sound of an approaching footstep. They both involuntarily darted to the door, as Mr. Losberne entered.

“What of Rose?” cried the old lady. “Tell me at once! I can bear it; anything but suspense! Oh, tell me! in the name of Heaven!”

“You must compose yourself,” said the doctor supporting her. “Be calm, my dear ma’am, pray.”

“Let me go, in God’s name! My dear child! She is dead! She is dying!”

“No!” cried the doctor, passionately. “As He is good and merciful, she will live to bless us all, for years to come.”

The lady fell upon her knees, and tried to fold her hands together; but the energy which had supported her so long, fled up to Heaven with her first thanksgiving; and she sank into the friendly arms which were extended to receive her.

CHAPTER XXXIV. CONTAINS SOME INTRODUCTORY PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO NOW ARRIVES UPON THE SCENE; AND A NEW ADVENTURE WHICH HAPPENED TO OLIVER

It was almost too much happiness to bear. Oliver felt stunned and stupefied by the unexpected intelligence; he could not weep, or speak, or rest. He had scarcely the power of understanding anything that had passed, until, after a long ramble in the quiet evening air, a burst of tears came to his relief, and he seemed to awaken, all at once, to a full sense of the joyful change that had occurred, and the almost insupportable load of anguish which had been taken from his breast.

The night was fast closing in, when he returned homeward: laden with flowers which he had culled, with peculiar care, for the adornment of the sick chamber. As he walked briskly along the road, he heard behind him, the noise of some vehicle, approaching at a furious pace. Looking round, he saw that it was a post-chaise, driven at great speed; and as the horses were galloping, and the road was narrow, he stood leaning against a gate until it should have passed him.

As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white nightcap, whose face seemed familiar to him, although his view was so brief that he could not identify the person. In another second or two, the nightcap was thrust out of the chaise-window, and a stentorian voice bellowed to the driver to stop: which he did, as soon as he could pull up his horses. Then, the nightcap once again appeared: and the same voice called Oliver by his name.

“Here!” cried the voice. “Oliver, what’s the news? Miss Rose! Master O-li-ver!”

“Is it you, Giles?” cried Oliver, running up to the chaise-door.

Giles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some reply, when he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the other corner of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the news.

“In a word!” cried the gentleman, “Better or worse?”

“Better—much better!” replied Oliver, hastily.

“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed the gentleman. “You are sure?”

“Quite, sir,” replied Oliver. “The change took place only a few hours ago; and Mr. Losberne says, that all danger is at an end.”

The gentleman said not another word, but, opening the chaise-door, leaped out, and taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside.

“You are quite certain? There is no possibility of any mistake on your part, my boy, is there?” demanded the gentleman in a tremulous voice. “Do not deceive me, by awakening hopes that are not to be fulfilled.”

“I would not for the world, sir,” replied Oliver. “Indeed you may believe me. Mr. Losberne’s words were, that she would live to bless us all for many years to come. I heard him say so.”

The tears stood in Oliver’s eyes as he recalled the scene which was the beginning of so much happiness; and the gentleman turned his face away, and remained silent, for some minutes. Oliver thought he heard him sob, more than once; but he feared to interrupt him by any fresh remark—for he could well guess what his feelings were—and so stood apart, feigning to be occupied with his nosegay.

All this time, Mr. Giles, with the white nightcap on, had been sitting on the steps of the chaise, supporting an elbow on each knee, and wiping his eyes with a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief dotted with white spots. That the honest fellow had not been feigning emotion, was abundantly demonstrated by the very red eyes with which he regarded the young gentleman, when he turned round and addressed him.

“I think you had better go on to my mother’s in the chaise, Giles,” said he. “I would rather walk slowly on, so as to gain a little time before I see her. You can say I am coming.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Harry,” said Giles: giving a final polish to his ruffled countenance with the handkerchief; “but if you would leave the postboy to say that, I should be very much obliged to you. It wouldn’t be proper for the maids to see me in this state, sir; I should never have any more authority with them if they did.”

“Well,” rejoined Harry Maylie, smiling, “you can do as you like. Let him go on with the luggage, if you wish it, and do you follow with us. Only first exchange that nightcap for some more appropriate covering, or we shall be taken for madmen.”

Mr. Giles, reminded of his unbecoming costume, snatched off and pocketed his nightcap; and substituted a hat, of grave and sober shape, which he took out of the chaise. This done, the postboy drove off; Giles, Mr. Maylie, and Oliver, followed at their leisure.

As they walked along, Oliver glanced from time to time with much interest and curiosity at the new comer. He seemed about five-and-twenty years of age, and was of the middle height; his countenance was frank and handsome; and his demeanor easy and prepossessing. Notwithstanding the difference between youth and age, he bore so strong a likeness to the old lady, that Oliver would have had no great difficulty in imagining their relationship, if he had not already spoken of her as his mother.

Mrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to receive her son when he reached the cottage. The meeting did not take place without great emotion on both sides.

“Mother!” whispered the young man; “why did you not write before?”

“I did,” replied Mrs. Maylie; “but, on reflection, I determined to keep back the letter until I had heard Mr. Losberne’s opinion.”

“But why,” said the young man, “why run the chance of that occurring which so nearly happened? If Rose had—I cannot utter that word now—if this illness had terminated differently, how could you ever have forgiven yourself! How could I ever have know happiness again!”

“If that had been the case, Harry,” said Mrs. Maylie, “I fear your happiness would have been effectually blighted, and that your arrival here, a day sooner or a day later, would have been of very, very little import.”

“And who can wonder if it be so, mother?” rejoined the young man; “or why should I say, if?—It is—it is—you know it, mother—you must know it!”

“I know that she deserves the best and purest love the heart of man can offer,” said Mrs. Maylie; “I know that the devotion and affection of her nature require no ordinary return, but one that shall be deep and lasting. If I did not feel this, and know, besides, that a changed behaviour in one she loved would break her heart, I should not feel my task so difficult of performance, or have to encounter so many struggles in my own bosom, when I take what seems to me to be the strict line of duty.”

“This is unkind, mother,” said Harry. “Do you still suppose that I am a boy ignorant of my own mind, and mistaking the impulses of my own soul?”

“I think, my dear son,” returned Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand upon his shoulder, “that youth has many generous impulses which do not last; and that among them are some, which, being gratified, become only the more fleeting. Above all, I think” said the lady, fixing her eyes on her son’s face, “that if an enthusiastic, ardent, and ambitious man marry a wife on whose name there is a stain, which, though it originate in no fault of hers, may be visited by cold and sordid people upon her, and upon his children also: and, in exact proportion to his success in the world, be cast in his teeth, and made the subject of sneers against him: he may, no matter how generous and good his nature, one day repent of the connection he formed in early life. And she may have the pain of knowing that he does so.”

“Mother,” said the young man, impatiently, “he would be a selfish brute, unworthy alike of the name of man and of the woman you describe, who acted thus.”

“You think so now, Harry,” replied his mother.

“And ever will!” said the young man. “The mental agony I have suffered, during the last two days, wrings from me the avowal to you of a passion which, as you well know, is not one of yesterday, nor one I have lightly formed. On Rose, sweet, gentle girl! my heart is set, as firmly as ever heart of man was set on woman. I have no thought, no view, no hope in life, beyond her; and if you oppose me in this great stake, you take my peace and happiness in your hands, and cast them to the wind. Mother, think better of this, and of me, and do not disregard the happiness of which you seem to think so little.”

“Harry,” said Mrs. Maylie, “it is because I think so much of warm and sensitive hearts, that I would spare them from being wounded. But we have said enough, and more than enough, on this matter, just now.”

“Let it rest with Rose, then,” interposed Harry. “You will not press these overstrained opinions of yours, so far, as to throw any obstacle in my way?”

“I will not,” rejoined Mrs. Maylie; “but I would have you consider—”

“I have considered!” was the impatient reply; “Mother, I have considered, years and years. I have considered, ever since I have been capable of serious reflection. My feelings remain unchanged, as they ever will; and why should I suffer the pain of a delay in giving them vent, which can be productive of no earthly good? No! Before I leave this place, Rose shall hear me.”

“She shall,” said Mrs. Maylie.

“There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she will hear me coldly, mother,” said the young man.

“Not coldly,” rejoined the old lady; “far from it.”

“How then?” urged the young man. “She has formed no other attachment?”

“No, indeed,” replied his mother; “you have, or I mistake, too strong a hold on her affections already. What I would say,” resumed the old lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, “is this. Before you stake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried to the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my dear child, on Rose’s history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision: devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic.”

“What do you mean?”

“That I leave you to discover,” replied Mrs. Maylie. “I must go back to her. God bless you!”

“I shall see you again tonight?” said the young man, eagerly.

“By and by,” replied the lady; “when I leave Rose.”

“You will tell her I am here?” said Harry.

“Of course,” replied Mrs. Maylie.

“And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?”

“No,” said the old lady; “I will tell her all.” And pressing her son’s hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room.

Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient’s situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver’s statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears.

“Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?” inquired the doctor, when he had concluded.

“Nothing particular, sir,” replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.

“Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?” said the doctor.

“None at all, sir,” replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity.

“Well,” said the doctor, “I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?”

“The boy is very well, sir,” said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; “and sends his respectful duty, sir.”

“That’s well,” said the doctor. “Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will you?”

Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attempted robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, “No, no”; and that if they observed that he was at all haughty to his inferiors, he would thank them to tell him so. And then he made a great many other remarks, no less illustrative of his humility, which were received with equal favour and applause, and were, withal, as original and as much to the purpose, as the remarks of great men commonly are.

Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away; for the doctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or thoughtful Harry Maylie might have been at first, he was not proof against the worthy gentleman’s good humour, which displayed itself in a great variety of sallies and professional recollections, and an abundance of small jokes, which struck Oliver as being the drollest things he had ever heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately; to the evident satisfaction of the doctor, who laughed immoderately at himself, and made Harry laugh almost as heartily, by the very force of sympathy. So, they were as pleasant a party as, under the circumstances, they could well have been; and it was late before they retired, with light and thankful hearts, to take that rest of which, after the doubt and suspense they had recently undergone, they stood much in need.

Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his usual occupations, with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many days. The birds were once more hung out, to sing, in their old places; and the sweetest wild flowers that could be found, were once more gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. The melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for days past, over every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic. The dew seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves; the air to rustle among them with a sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue and bright. Such is the influence which the condition of our own thoughts, exercise, even over the appearance of external objects. Men who look on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and gloomy, are in the right; but the sombre colours are reflections from their own jaundiced eyes and hearts. The real hues are delicate, and need a clearer vision.

It is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it at the time, that his morning expeditions were no longer made alone. Harry Maylie, after the very first morning when he met Oliver coming laden home, was seized with such a passion for flowers, and displayed such a taste in their arrangement, as left his young companion far behind. If Oliver were behindhand in these respects, he knew where the best were to be found; and morning after morning they scoured the country together, and brought home the fairest that blossomed. The window of the young lady’s chamber was opened now; for she loved to feel the rich summer air stream in, and revive her with its freshness; but there always stood in water, just inside the lattice, one particular little bunch, which was made up with great care, every morning. Oliver could not help noticing that the withered flowers were never thrown away, although the little vase was regularly replenished; nor, could he help observing, that whenever the doctor came into the garden, he invariably cast his eyes up to that particular corner, and nodded his head most expressively, as he set forth on his morning’s walk. Pending these observations, the days were flying by; and Rose was rapidly recovering.

Nor did Oliver’s time hang heavy on his hands, although the young lady had not yet left her chamber, and there were no evening walks, save now and then, for a short distance, with Mrs. Maylie. He applied himself, with redoubled assiduity, to the instructions of the white-headed old gentleman, and laboured so hard that his quick progress surprised even himself. It was while he was engaged in this pursuit, that he was greatly startled and distressed by a most unexpected occurrence.

The little room in which he was accustomed to sit, when busy at his books, was on the ground-floor, at the back of the house. It was quite a cottage-room, with a lattice-window: around which were clusters of jessamine and honeysuckle, that crept over the casement, and filled the place with their delicious perfume. It looked into a garden, whence a wicket-gate opened into a small paddock; all beyond, was fine meadow-land and wood. There was no other dwelling near, in that direction; and the prospect it commanded was very extensive.

One beautiful evening, when the first shades of twilight were beginning to settle upon the earth, Oliver sat at this window, intent upon his books. He had been poring over them for some time; and, as the day had been uncommonly sultry, and he had exerted himself a great deal, it is no disparagement to the authors, whoever they may have been, to say, that gradually and by slow degrees, he fell asleep.

There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it holds the body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of things about it, and enable it to ramble at its pleasure. So far as an overpowering heaviness, a prostration of strength, and an utter inability to control our thoughts or power of motion, can be called sleep, this is it; and yet, we have a consciousness of all that is going on about us, and, if we dream at such a time, words which are really spoken, or sounds which really exist at the moment, accommodate themselves with surprising readiness to our visions, until reality and imagination become so strangely blended that it is afterwards almost matter of impossibility to separate the two. Nor is this, the most striking phenomenon incidental to such a state. It is an undoubted fact, that although our senses of touch and sight be for the time dead, yet our sleeping thoughts, and the visionary scenes that pass before us, will be influenced and materially influenced, by the mere silent presence of some external object; which may not have been near us when we closed our eyes: and of whose vicinity we have had no waking consciousness.

Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that his books were lying on the table before him; that the sweet air was stirring among the creeping plants outside. And yet he was asleep. Suddenly, the scene changed; the air became close and confined; and he thought, with a glow of terror, that he was in the Jew’s house again. There sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed corner, pointing at him, and whispering to another man, with his face averted, who sat beside him.

“Hush, my dear!” he thought he heard the Jew say; “it is he, sure enough. Come away.”

“He!” the other man seemed to answer; “could I mistake him, think you? If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and he stood amongst them, there is something that would tell me how to point him out. If you buried him fifty feet deep, and took me across his grave, I fancy I should know, if there wasn’t a mark above it, that he lay buried there?”

The man seemed to say this, with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver awoke with the fear, and started up.

Good Heaven! what was that, which sent the blood tingling to his heart, and deprived him of his voice, and of power to move! There—there—at the window—close before him—so close, that he could have almost touched him before he started back: with his eyes peering into the room, and meeting his: there stood the Jew! And beside him, white with rage or fear, or both, were the scowling features of the man who had accosted him in the inn-yard.

It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and they were gone. But they had recognised him, and he them; and their look was as firmly impressed upon his memory, as if it had been deeply carved in stone, and set before him from his birth. He stood transfixed for a moment; then, leaping from the window into the garden, called loudly for help.

CHAPTER XXXV. CONTAINING THE UNSATISFACTORY RESULT OF OLIVER’S ADVENTURE; AND A CONVERSATION OF SOME IMPORTANCE BETWEEN HARRY MAYLIE AND ROSE

When the inmates of the house, attracted by Oliver’s cries, hurried to the spot from which they proceeded, they found him, pale and agitated, pointing in the direction of the meadows behind the house, and scarcely able to articulate the words, “The Jew! the Jew!”

Mr. Giles was at a loss to comprehend what this outcry meant; but Harry Maylie, whose perceptions were something quicker, and who had heard Oliver’s history from his mother, understood it at once.

“What direction did he take?” he asked, catching up a heavy stick which was standing in a corner.

“That,” replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man had taken; “I missed them in an instant.”

“Then, they are in the ditch!” said Harry. “Follow! And keep as near me, as you can.” So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and darted off with a speed which rendered it matter of exceeding difficulty for the others to keep near him.

Giles followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed too; and in the course of a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had been out walking, and just then returned, tumbled over the hedge after them, and picking himself up with more agility than he could have been supposed to possess, struck into the same course at no contemptible speed, shouting all the while, most prodigiously, to know what was the matter.

On they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the leader, striking off into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver, began to search, narrowly, the ditch and hedge adjoining; which afforded time for the remainder of the party to come up; and for Oliver to communicate to Mr. Losberne the circumstances that had led to so vigorous a pursuit.

The search was all in vain. There were not even the traces of recent footsteps, to be seen. They stood now, on the summit of a little hill, commanding the open fields in every direction for three or four miles. There was the village in the hollow on the left; but, in order to gain that, after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed out, the men must have made a circuit of open ground, which it was impossible they could have accomplished in so short a time. A thick wood skirted the meadow-land in another direction; but they could not have gained that covert for the same reason.

“It must have been a dream, Oliver,” said Harry Maylie.

“Oh no, indeed, sir,” replied Oliver, shuddering at the very recollection of the old wretch’s countenance; “I saw him too plainly for that. I saw them both, as plainly as I see you now.”

“Who was the other?” inquired Harry and Mr. Losberne, together.

“The very same man I told you of, who came so suddenly upon me at the inn,” said Oliver. “We had our eyes fixed full upon each other; and I could swear to him.”

“They took this way?” demanded Harry: “are you sure?”

“As I am that the men were at the window,” replied Oliver, pointing down, as he spoke, to the hedge which divided the cottage-garden from the meadow. “The tall man leaped over, just there; and the Jew, running a few paces to the right, crept through that gap.”

The two gentlemen watched Oliver’s earnest face, as he spoke, and looking from him to each other, seemed to feel satisfied of the accuracy of what he said. Still, in no direction were there any appearances of the trampling of men in hurried flight. The grass was long; but it was trodden down nowhere, save where their own feet had crushed it. The sides and brinks of the ditches were of damp clay; but in no one place could they discern the print of men’s shoes, or the slightest mark which would indicate that any feet had pressed the ground for hours before.

“This is strange!” said Harry.

“Strange?” echoed the doctor. “Blathers and Duff, themselves, could make nothing of it.”

Notwithstanding the evidently useless nature of their search, they did not desist until the coming on of night rendered its further prosecution hopeless; and even then, they gave it up with reluctance. Giles was dispatched to the different ale-houses in the village, furnished with the best description Oliver could give of the appearance and dress of the strangers. Of these, the Jew was, at all events, sufficiently remarkable to be remembered, supposing he had been seen drinking, or loitering about; but Giles returned without any intelligence, calculated to dispel or lessen the mystery.

On the next day, fresh search was made, and the inquiries renewed; but with no better success. On the day following, Oliver and Mr. Maylie repaired to the market-town, in the hope of seeing or hearing something of the men there; but this effort was equally fruitless. After a few days, the affair began to be forgotten, as most affairs are, when wonder, having no fresh food to support it, dies away of itself.

Meanwhile, Rose was rapidly recovering. She had left her room: was able to go out; and mixing once more with the family, carried joy into the hearts of all.

But, although this happy change had a visible effect on the little circle; and although cheerful voices and merry laughter were once more heard in the cottage; there was at times, an unwonted restraint upon some there: even upon Rose herself: which Oliver could not fail to remark. Mrs. Maylie and her son were often closeted together for a long time; and more than once Rose appeared with traces of tears upon her face. After Mr. Losberne had fixed a day for his departure to Chertsey, these symptoms increased; and it became evident that something was in progress which affected the peace of the young lady, and of somebody else besides.

At length, one morning, when Rose was alone in the breakfast-parlour, Harry Maylie entered; and, with some hesitation, begged permission to speak with her for a few moments.

“A few—a very few—will suffice, Rose,” said the young man, drawing his chair towards her. “What I shall have to say, has already presented itself to your mind; the most cherished hopes of my heart are not unknown to you, though from my lips you have not heard them stated.”

Rose had been very pale from the moment of his entrance; but that might have been the effect of her recent illness. She merely bowed; and bending over some plants that stood near, waited in silence for him to proceed.

“I—I—ought to have left here, before,” said Harry.

“You should, indeed,” replied Rose. “Forgive me for saying so, but I wish you had.”

“I was brought here, by the most dreadful and agonising of all apprehensions,” said the young man; “the fear of losing the one dear being on whom my every wish and hope are fixed. You had been dying; trembling between earth and heaven. We know that when the young, the beautiful, and good, are visited with sickness, their pure spirits insensibly turn towards their bright home of lasting rest; we know, Heaven help us! that the best and fairest of our kind, too often fade in blooming.”

There were tears in the eyes of the gentle girl, as these words were spoken; and when one fell upon the flower over which she bent, and glistened brightly in its cup, making it more beautiful, it seemed as though the outpouring of her fresh young heart, claimed kindred naturally, with the loveliest things in nature.

“A creature,” continued the young man, passionately, “a creature as fair and innocent of guile as one of God’s own angels, fluttered between life and death. Oh! who could hope, when the distant world to which she was akin, half opened to her view, that she would return to the sorrow and calamity of this! Rose, Rose, to know that you were passing away like some soft shadow, which a light from above, casts upon the earth; to have no hope that you would be spared to those who linger here; hardly to know a reason why you should be; to feel that you belonged to that bright sphere whither so many of the fairest and the best have winged their early flight; and yet to pray, amid all these consolations, that you might be restored to those who loved you—these were distractions almost too great to bear. They were mine, by day and night; and with them, came such a rushing torrent of fears, and apprehensions, and selfish regrets, lest you should die, and never know how devotedly I loved you, as almost bore down sense and reason in its course. You recovered. Day by day, and almost hour by hour, some drop of health came back, and mingling with the spent and feeble stream of life which circulated languidly within you, swelled it again to a high and rushing tide. I have watched you change almost from death, to life, with eyes that turned blind with their eagerness and deep affection. Do not tell me that you wish I had lost this; for it has softened my heart to all mankind.”

“I did not mean that,” said Rose, weeping; “I only wish you had left here, that you might have turned to high and noble pursuits again; to pursuits well worthy of you.”

“There is no pursuit more worthy of me: more worthy of the highest nature that exists: than the struggle to win such a heart as yours,” said the young man, taking her hand. “Rose, my own dear Rose! For years—for years—I have loved you; hoping to win my way to fame, and then come proudly home and tell you it had been pursued only for you to share; thinking, in my daydreams, how I would remind you, in that happy moment, of the many silent tokens I had given of a boy’s attachment, and claim your hand, as in redemption of some old mute contract that had been sealed between us! That time has not arrived; but here, with not fame won, and no young vision realised, I offer you the heart so long your own, and stake my all upon the words with which you greet the offer.”

“Your behaviour has ever been kind and noble.” said Rose, mastering the emotions by which she was agitated. “As you believe that I am not insensible or ungrateful, so hear my answer.”

“It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, dear Rose?”

“It is,” replied Rose, “that you must endeavour to forget me; not as your old and dearly-attached companion, for that would wound me deeply; but, as the object of your love. Look into the world; think how many hearts you would be proud to gain, are there. Confide some other passion to me, if you will; I will be the truest, warmest, and most faithful friend you have.”

There was a pause, during which, Rose, who had covered her face with one hand, gave free vent to her tears. Harry still retained the other.

“And your reasons, Rose,” he said, at length, in a low voice; “your reasons for this decision?”

“You have a right to know them,” rejoined Rose. “You can say nothing to alter my resolution. It is a duty that I must perform. I owe it, alike to others, and to myself.”

“To yourself?”

“Yes, Harry. I owe it to myself, that I, a friendless, portionless, girl, with a blight upon my name, should not give your friends reason to suspect that I had sordidly yielded to your first passion, and fastened myself, a clog, on all your hopes and projects. I owe it to you and yours, to prevent you from opposing, in the warmth of your generous nature, this great obstacle to your progress in the world.”

“If your inclinations chime with your sense of duty—” Harry began.

“They do not,” replied Rose, colouring deeply.

“Then you return my love?” said Harry. “Say but that, dear Rose; say but that; and soften the bitterness of this hard disappointment!”

“If I could have done so, without doing heavy wrong to him I loved,” rejoined Rose, “I could have—”

“Have received this declaration very differently?” said Harry. “Do not conceal that from me, at least, Rose.”

“I could,” said Rose. “Stay!” she added, disengaging her hand, “why should we prolong this painful interview? Most painful to me, and yet productive of lasting happiness, notwithstanding; for it will be happiness to know that I once held the high place in your regard which I now occupy, and every triumph you achieve in life will animate me with new fortitude and firmness. Farewell, Harry! As we have met today, we meet no more; but in other relations than those in which this conversation have placed us, we may be long and happily entwined; and may every blessing that the prayers of a true and earnest heart can call down from the source of all truth and sincerity, cheer and prosper you!”

“Another word, Rose,” said Harry. “Your reason in your own words. From your own lips, let me hear it!”

“The prospect before you,” answered Rose, firmly, “is a brilliant one. All the honours to which great talents and powerful connections can help men in public life, are in store for you. But those connections are proud; and I will neither mingle with such as may hold in scorn the mother who gave me life; nor bring disgrace or failure on the son of her who has so well supplied that mother’s place. In a word,” said the young lady, turning away, as her temporary firmness forsook her, “there is a stain upon my name, which the world visits on innocent heads. I will carry it into no blood but my own; and the reproach shall rest alone on me.”

“One word more, Rose. Dearest Rose! one more!” cried Harry, throwing himself before her. “If I had been less—less fortunate, the world would call it—if some obscure and peaceful life had been my destiny—if I had been poor, sick, helpless—would you have turned from me then? Or has my probable advancement to riches and honour, given this scruple birth?”

“Do not press me to reply,” answered Rose. “The question does not arise, and never will. It is unfair, almost unkind, to urge it.”

“If your answer be what I almost dare to hope it is,” retorted Harry, “it will shed a gleam of happiness upon my lonely way, and light the path before me. It is not an idle thing to do so much, by the utterance of a few brief words, for one who loves you beyond all else. Oh, Rose: in the name of my ardent and enduring attachment; in the name of all I have suffered for you, and all you doom me to undergo; answer me this one question!”

“Then, if your lot had been differently cast,” rejoined Rose; “if you had been even a little, but not so far, above me; if I could have been a help and comfort to you in any humble scene of peace and retirement, and not a blot and drawback in ambitious and distinguished crowds; I should have been spared this trial. I have every reason to be happy, very happy, now; but then, Harry, I own I should have been happier.”

Busy recollections of old hopes, cherished as a girl, long ago, crowded into the mind of Rose, while making this avowal; but they brought tears with them, as old hopes will when they come back withered; and they relieved her.

“I cannot help this weakness, and it makes my purpose stronger,” said Rose, extending her hand. “I must leave you now, indeed.”

“I ask one promise,” said Harry. “Once, and only once more,—say within a year, but it may be much sooner,—I may speak to you again on this subject, for the last time.”

“Not to press me to alter my right determination,” replied Rose, with a melancholy smile; “it will be useless.”

“No,” said Harry; “to hear you repeat it, if you will—finally repeat it! I will lay at your feet, whatever of station of fortune I may possess; and if you still adhere to your present resolution, will not seek, by word or act, to change it.”

“Then let it be so,” rejoined Rose; “it is but one pang the more, and by that time I may be enabled to bear it better.”

She extended her hand again. But the young man caught her to his bosom; and imprinting one kiss on her beautiful forehead, hurried from the room.

CHAPTER XXXVI. IS A VERY SHORT ONE, AND MAY APPEAR OF NO GREAT IMPORTANCE IN ITS PLACE, BUT IT SHOULD BE READ NOTWITHSTANDING, AS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST, AND A KEY TO ONE THAT WILL FOLLOW WHEN ITS TIME ARRIVES

“And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning; eh?” said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the breakfast-table. “Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two half-hours together!”

“You will tell me a different tale one of these days,” said Harry, colouring without any perceptible reason.

“I hope I may have good cause to do so,” replied Mr. Losberne; “though I confess I don’t think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up your mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your mother, like a dutiful son, to the sea-side. Before noon, you announce that you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I go, on your road to London. And at night, you urge me, with great mystery, to start before the ladies are stirring; the consequence of which is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn’t it, Oliver?”

“I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr. Maylie went away, sir,” rejoined Oliver.

“That’s a fine fellow,” said the doctor; “you shall come and see me when you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?”

“The great nobs,” replied Harry, “under which designation, I presume, you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all, since I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it likely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate attendance among them.”

“Well,” said the doctor, “you are a queer fellow. But of course they will get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political life. There’s something in that. Good training is always desirable, whether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes.”

Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but he contented himself with saying, “We shall see,” and pursued the subject no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it packed.

“Oliver,” said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, “let me speak a word with you.”

Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him; much surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed.

“You can write well now?” said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm.

“I hope so, sir,” replied Oliver.

“I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write to me—say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?”

“Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it,” exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission.

“I should like to know how—how my mother and Miss Maylie are,” said the young man; “and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she—they, I mean—seem happy and quite well. You understand me?”

“Oh! quite, sir, quite,” replied Oliver.

“I would rather you did not mention it to them,” said Harry, hurrying over his words; “because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me; and mind you tell me everything! I depend upon you.”

Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie took leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and protection.

The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should be left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants were in the garden, looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the latticed window, and jumped into the carriage.

“Drive on!” he cried, “hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing short of flying will keep pace with me, today.”

“Halloa!” cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great hurry, and shouting to the postillion; “something very short of flying will keep pace with me. Do you hear?”

Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible, and its rapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound its way along the road, almost hidden in a cloud of dust: now wholly disappearing, and now becoming visible again, as intervening objects, or the intricacies of the way, permitted. It was not until even the dusty cloud was no longer to be seen, that the gazers dispersed.

And there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes fixed upon the spot where the carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away; for, behind the white curtain which had shrouded her from view when Harry raised his eyes towards the window, sat Rose herself.

“He seems in high spirits and happy,” she said, at length. “I feared for a time he might be otherwise. I was mistaken. I am very, very glad.”

Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which coursed down Rose’s face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in the same direction, seemed to tell more of sorrow than of joy.

CHAPTER XXXVII. IN WHICH THE READER MAY PERCEIVE A CONTRAST, NOT UNCOMMON IN MATRIMONIAL CASES

Mr. Bumble sat in the workhouse parlour, with his eyes moodily fixed on the cheerless grate, whence, as it was summer time, no brighter gleam proceeded, than the reflection of certain sickly rays of the sun, which were sent back from its cold and shining surface. A paper fly-cage dangled from the ceiling, to which he occasionally raised his eyes in gloomy thought; and, as the heedless insects hovered round the gaudy net-work, Mr. Bumble would heave a deep sigh, while a more gloomy shadow overspread his countenance. Mr. Bumble was meditating; it might be that the insects brought to mind, some painful passage in his own past life.

Nor was Mr. Bumble’s gloom the only thing calculated to awaken a pleasing melancholy in the bosom of a spectator. There were not wanting other appearances, and those closely connected with his own person, which announced that a great change had taken place in the position of his affairs. The laced coat, and the cocked hat; where were they? He still wore knee-breeches, and dark cotton stockings on his nether limbs; but they were not the breeches. The coat was wide-skirted; and in that respect like the coat, but, oh how different! The mighty cocked hat was replaced by a modest round one. Mr. Bumble was no longer a beadle.

There are some promotions in life, which, independent of the more substantial rewards they offer, require peculiar value and dignity from the coats and waistcoats connected with them. A field-marshal has his uniform; a bishop his silk apron; a counsellor his silk gown; a beadle his cocked hat. Strip the bishop of his apron, or the beadle of his hat and lace; what are they? Men. Mere men. Dignity, and even holiness too, sometimes, are more questions of coat and waistcoat than some people imagine.

Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney, and was master of the workhouse. Another beadle had come into power. On him the cocked hat, gold-laced coat, and staff, had all three descended.

“And tomorrow two months it was done!” said Mr. Bumble, with a sigh. “It seems a age.”

Mr. Bumble might have meant that he had concentrated a whole existence of happiness into the short space of eight weeks; but the sigh—there was a vast deal of meaning in the sigh.

“I sold myself,” said Mr. Bumble, pursuing the same train of reflection, “for six teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a milk-pot; with a small quantity of second-hand furniture, and twenty pound in money. I went very reasonable. Cheap, dirt cheap!”

“Cheap!” cried a shrill voice in Mr. Bumble’s ear: “you would have been dear at any price; and dear enough I paid for you, Lord above knows that!”

Mr. Bumble turned, and encountered the face of his interesting consort, who, imperfectly comprehending the few words she had overheard of his complaint, had hazarded the foregoing remark at a venture.

“Mrs. Bumble, ma’am!” said Mr. Bumble, with a sentimental sternness.

“Well!” cried the lady.

“Have the goodness to look at me,” said Mr. Bumble, fixing his eyes upon her.

“If she stands such a eye as that,” said Mr. Bumble to himself, “she can stand anything. It is a eye I never knew to fail with paupers. If it fails with her, my power is gone.”

Whether an exceedingly small expansion of eye be sufficient to quell paupers, who, being lightly fed, are in no very high condition; or whether the late Mrs. Corney was particularly proof against eagle glances; are matters of opinion. The matter of fact, is, that the matron was in no way overpowered by Mr. Bumble’s scowl, but, on the contrary, treated it with great disdain, and even raised a laugh thereat, which sounded as though it were genuine.

On hearing this most unexpected sound, Mr. Bumble looked, first incredulous, and afterwards amazed. He then relapsed into his former state; nor did he rouse himself until his attention was again awakened by the voice of his partner.

“Are you going to sit snoring there, all day?” inquired Mrs. Bumble.

“I am going to sit here, as long as I think proper, ma’am,” rejoined Mr. Bumble; “and although I was not snoring, I shall snore, gape, sneeze, laugh, or cry, as the humour strikes me; such being my prerogative.”

“Your prerogative!” sneered Mrs. Bumble, with ineffable contempt.

“I said the word, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble. “The prerogative of a man is to command.”

“And what’s the prerogative of a woman, in the name of Goodness?” cried the relict of Mr. Corney deceased.

“To obey, ma’am,” thundered Mr. Bumble. “Your late unfortunate husband should have taught it you; and then, perhaps, he might have been alive now. I wish he was, poor man!”

Mrs. Bumble, seeing at a glance, that the decisive moment had now arrived, and that a blow struck for the mastership on one side or other, must necessarily be final and conclusive, no sooner heard this allusion to the dead and gone, than she dropped into a chair, and with a loud scream that Mr. Bumble was a hard-hearted brute, fell into a paroxysm of tears.

But, tears were not the things to find their way to Mr. Bumble’s soul; his heart was waterproof. Like washable beaver hats that improve with rain, his nerves were rendered stouter and more vigorous, by showers of tears, which, being tokens of weakness, and so far tacit admissions of his own power, pleased and exalted him. He eyed his good lady with looks of great satisfaction, and begged, in an encouraging manner, that she should cry her hardest: the exercise being looked upon, by the faculty, as strongly conducive to health.

“It opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises the eyes, and softens down the temper,” said Mr. Bumble. “So cry away.”

As he discharged himself of this pleasantry, Mr. Bumble took his hat from a peg, and putting it on, rather rakishly, on one side, as a man might, who felt he had asserted his superiority in a becoming manner, thrust his hands into his pockets, and sauntered towards the door, with much ease and waggishness depicted in his whole appearance.

Now, Mrs. Corney that was, had tried the tears, because they were less troublesome than a manual assault; but, she was quite prepared to make trial of the latter mode of proceeding, as Mr. Bumble was not long in discovering.

The first proof he experienced of the fact, was conveyed in a hollow sound, immediately succeeded by the sudden flying off of his hat to the opposite end of the room. This preliminary proceeding laying bare his head, the expert lady, clasping him tightly round the throat with one hand, inflicted a shower of blows (dealt with singular vigour and dexterity) upon it with the other. This done, she created a little variety by scratching his face, and tearing his hair; and, having, by this time, inflicted as much punishment as she deemed necessary for the offence, she pushed him over a chair, which was luckily well situated for the purpose: and defied him to talk about his prerogative again, if he dared.

“Get up!” said Mrs. Bumble, in a voice of command. “And take yourself away from here, unless you want me to do something desperate.”

Mr. Bumble rose with a very rueful countenance: wondering much what something desperate might be. Picking up his hat, he looked towards the door.

“Are you going?” demanded Mrs. Bumble.

“Certainly, my dear, certainly,” rejoined Mr. Bumble, making a quicker motion towards the door. “I didn’t intend to—I’m going, my dear! You are so very violent, that really I—”

At this instant, Mrs. Bumble stepped hastily forward to replace the carpet, which had been kicked up in the scuffle. Mr. Bumble immediately darted out of the room, without bestowing another thought on his unfinished sentence: leaving the late Mrs. Corney in full possession of the field.

Mr. Bumble was fairly taken by surprise, and fairly beaten. He had a decided propensity for bullying: derived no inconsiderable pleasure from the exercise of petty cruelty; and, consequently, was (it is needless to say) a coward. This is by no means a disparagement to his character; for many official personages, who are held in high respect and admiration, are the victims of similar infirmities. The remark is made, indeed, rather in his favour than otherwise, and with a view of impressing the reader with a just sense of his qualifications for office.

But, the measure of his degradation was not yet full. After making a tour of the house, and thinking, for the first time, that the poor-laws really were too hard on people; and that men who ran away from their wives, leaving them chargeable to the parish, ought, in justice to be visited with no punishment at all, but rather rewarded as meritorious individuals who had suffered much; Mr. Bumble came to a room where some of the female paupers were usually employed in washing the parish linen: when the sound of voices in conversation, now proceeded.

“Hem!” said Mr. Bumble, summoning up all his native dignity. “These women at least shall continue to respect the prerogative. Hallo! hallo there! What do you mean by this noise, you hussies?”

With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door, and walked in with a very fierce and angry manner: which was at once exchanged for a most humiliated and cowering air, as his eyes unexpectedly rested on the form of his lady wife.

“My dear,” said Mr. Bumble, “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Didn’t know I was here!” repeated Mrs. Bumble. “What do you do here?”

“I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their work properly, my dear,” replied Mr. Bumble: glancing distractedly at a couple of old women at the wash-tub, who were comparing notes of admiration at the workhouse-master’s humility.

“You thought they were talking too much?” said Mrs. Bumble. “What business is it of yours?”

“Why, my dear—” urged Mr. Bumble submissively.

“What business is it of yours?” demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.

“It’s very true, you’re matron here, my dear,” submitted Mr. Bumble; “but I thought you mightn’t be in the way just then.”

“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Bumble,” returned his lady. “We don’t want any of your interference. You’re a great deal too fond of poking your nose into things that don’t concern you, making everybody in the house laugh, the moment your back is turned, and making yourself look like a fool every hour in the day. Be off; come!”

Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings, the delight of the two old paupers, who were tittering together most rapturously, hesitated for an instant. Mrs. Bumble, whose patience brooked no delay, caught up a bowl of soap-suds, and motioning him towards the door, ordered him instantly to depart, on pain of receiving the contents upon his portly person.

What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked dejectedly round, and slunk away; and, as he reached the door, the titterings of the paupers broke into a shrill chuckle of irrepressible delight. It wanted but this. He was degraded in their eyes; he had lost caste and station before the very paupers; he had fallen from all the height and pomp of beadleship, to the lowest depth of the most snubbed hen-peckery.

“All in two months!” said Mr. Bumble, filled with dismal thoughts. “Two months! No more than two months ago, I was not only my own master, but everybody else’s, so far as the porochial workhouse was concerned, and now!—”

It was too much. Mr. Bumble boxed the ears of the boy who opened the gate for him (for he had reached the portal in his reverie); and walked, distractedly, into the street.

He walked up one street, and down another, until exercise had abated the first passion of his grief; and then the revulsion of feeling made him thirsty. He passed a great many public-houses; but, at length paused before one in a by-way, whose parlour, as he gathered from a hasty peep over the blinds, was deserted, save by one solitary customer. It began to rain, heavily, at the moment. This determined him. Mr. Bumble stepped in; and ordering something to drink, as he passed the bar, entered the apartment into which he had looked from the street.

The man who was seated there, was tall and dark, and wore a large cloak. He had the air of a stranger; and seemed, by a certain haggardness in his look, as well as by the dusty soils on his dress, to have travelled some distance. He eyed Bumble askance, as he entered, but scarcely deigned to nod his head in acknowledgment of his salutation.

Mr. Bumble had quite dignity enough for two; supposing even that the stranger had been more familiar: so he drank his gin-and-water in silence, and read the paper with great show of pomp and circumstance.

It so happened, however: as it will happen very often, when men fall into company under such circumstances: that Mr. Bumble felt, every now and then, a powerful inducement, which he could not resist, to steal a look at the stranger: and that whenever he did so, he withdrew his eyes, in some confusion, to find that the stranger was at that moment stealing a look at him. Mr. Bumble’s awkwardness was enhanced by the very remarkable expression of the stranger’s eye, which was keen and bright, but shadowed by a scowl of distrust and suspicion, unlike anything he had ever observed before, and repulsive to behold.

When they had encountered each other’s glance several times in this way, the stranger, in a harsh, deep voice, broke silence.

“Were you looking for me,” he said, “when you peered in at the window?”

“Not that I am aware of, unless you’re Mr.—” Here Mr. Bumble stopped short; for he was curious to know the stranger’s name, and thought in his impatience, he might supply the blank.

“I see you were not,” said the stranger; an expression of quiet sarcasm playing about his mouth; “or you have known my name. You don’t know it. I would recommend you not to ask for it.”

“I meant no harm, young man,” observed Mr. Bumble, majestically.

“And have done none,” said the stranger.

Another silence succeeded this short dialogue: which was again broken by the stranger.

“I have seen you before, I think?” said he. “You were differently dressed at that time, and I only passed you in the street, but I should know you again. You were beadle here, once; were you not?”

“I was,” said Mr. Bumble, in some surprise; “porochial beadle.”

“Just so,” rejoined the other, nodding his head. “It was in that character I saw you. What are you now?”

“Master of the workhouse,” rejoined Mr. Bumble, slowly and impressively, to check any undue familiarity the stranger might otherwise assume. “Master of the workhouse, young man!”

“You have the same eye to your own interest, that you always had, I doubt not?” resumed the stranger, looking keenly into Mr. Bumble’s eyes, as he raised them in astonishment at the question.

“Don’t scruple to answer freely, man. I know you pretty well, you see.”

“I suppose, a married man,” replied Mr. Bumble, shading his eyes with his hand, and surveying the stranger, from head to foot, in evident perplexity, “is not more averse to turning an honest penny when he can, than a single one. Porochial officers are not so well paid that they can afford to refuse any little extra fee, when it comes to them in a civil and proper manner.”

The stranger smiled, and nodded his head again: as much to say, he had not mistaken his man; then rang the bell.

“Fill this glass again,” he said, handing Mr. Bumble’s empty tumbler to the landlord. “Let it be strong and hot. You like it so, I suppose?”

“Not too strong,” replied Mr. Bumble, with a delicate cough.

“You understand what that means, landlord!” said the stranger, drily.

The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a steaming jorum: of which, the first gulp brought the water into Mr. Bumble’s eyes.

“Now listen to me,” said the stranger, after closing the door and window. “I came down to this place, today, to find you out; and, by one of those chances which the devil throws in the way of his friends sometimes, you walked into the very room I was sitting in, while you were uppermost in my mind. I want some information from you. I don’t ask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is. Put up that, to begin with.”

As he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to his companion, carefully, as though unwilling that the chinking of money should be heard without. When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins, to see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with much satisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on:

“Carry your memory back—let me see—twelve years, last winter.”

“It’s a long time,” said Mr. Bumble. “Very good. I’ve done it.”

“The scene, the workhouse.”

“Good!”

“And the time, night.”

“Yes.”

“And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves—gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and hid their shame, rot ’em in the grave!”

“The lying-in room, I suppose?” said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the stranger’s excited description.

“Yes,” said the stranger. “A boy was born there.”

“A many boys,” observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head, despondingly.

“A murrain on the young devils!” cried the stranger; “I speak of one; a meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down here, to a coffin-maker—I wish he had made his coffin, and screwed his body in it—and who afterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed.”

“Why, you mean Oliver! Young Twist!” said Mr. Bumble; “I remember him, of course. There wasn’t a obstinater young rascal—”

“It’s not of him I want to hear; I’ve heard enough of him,” said the stranger, stopping Mr. Bumble in the outset of a tirade on the subject of poor Oliver’s vices. “It’s of a woman; the hag that nursed his mother. Where is she?”

“Where is she?” said Mr. Bumble, whom the gin-and-water had rendered facetious. “It would be hard to tell. There’s no midwifery there, whichever place she’s gone to; so I suppose she’s out of employment, anyway.”

“What do you mean?” demanded the stranger, sternly.

“That she died last winter,” rejoined Mr. Bumble.

The man looked fixedly at him when he had given this information, and although he did not withdraw his eyes for some time afterwards, his gaze gradually became vacant and abstracted, and he seemed lost in thought. For some time, he appeared doubtful whether he ought to be relieved or disappointed by the intelligence; but at length he breathed more freely; and withdrawing his eyes, observed that it was no great matter. With that he rose, as if to depart.

But Mr. Bumble was cunning enough; and he at once saw that an opportunity was opened, for the lucrative disposal of some secret in the possession of his better half. He well remembered the night of old Sally’s death, which the occurrences of that day had given him good reason to recollect, as the occasion on which he had proposed to Mrs. Corney; and although that lady had never confided to him the disclosure of which she had been the solitary witness, he had heard enough to know that it related to something that had occurred in the old woman’s attendance, as workhouse nurse, upon the young mother of Oliver Twist. Hastily calling this circumstance to mind, he informed the stranger, with an air of mystery, that one woman had been closeted with the old harridan shortly before she died; and that she could, as he had reason to believe, throw some light on the subject of his inquiry.

“How can I find her?” said the stranger, thrown off his guard; and plainly showing that all his fears (whatever they were) were aroused afresh by the intelligence.

“Only through me,” rejoined Mr. Bumble.

“When?” cried the stranger, hastily.

“Tomorrow,” rejoined Bumble.

“At nine in the evening,” said the stranger, producing a scrap of paper, and writing down upon it, an obscure address by the water-side, in characters that betrayed his agitation; “at nine in the evening, bring her to me there. I needn’t tell you to be secret. It’s your interest.”

With these words, he led the way to the door, after stopping to pay for the liquor that had been drunk. Shortly remarking that their roads were different, he departed, without more ceremony than an emphatic repetition of the hour of appointment for the following night.

On glancing at the address, the parochial functionary observed that it contained no name. The stranger had not gone far, so he made after him to ask it.

“What do you want?” cried the man, turning quickly round, as Bumble touched him on the arm. “Following me?”

“Only to ask a question,” said the other, pointing to the scrap of paper. “What name am I to ask for?”

“Monks!” rejoined the man; and strode hastily away.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN MR. AND MRS. BUMBLE, AND MR. MONKS, AT THEIR NOCTURNAL INTERVIEW

It was a dull, close, overcast summer evening. The clouds, which had been threatening all day, spread out in a dense and sluggish mass of vapour, already yielded large drops of rain, and seemed to presage a violent thunder-storm, when Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, turning out of the main street of the town, directed their course towards a scattered little colony of ruinous houses, distant from it some mile and a-half, or thereabouts, and erected on a low unwholesome swamp, bordering upon the river.

They were both wrapped in old and shabby outer garments, which might, perhaps, serve the double purpose of protecting their persons from the rain, and sheltering them from observation. The husband carried a lantern, from which, however, no light yet shone; and trudged on, a few paces in front, as though—the way being dirty—to give his wife the benefit of treading in his heavy footprints. They went on, in profound silence; every now and then, Mr. Bumble relaxed his pace, and turned his head as if to make sure that his helpmate was following; then, discovering that she was close at his heels, he mended his rate of walking, and proceeded, at a considerable increase of speed, towards their place of destination.

This was far from being a place of doubtful character; for it had long been known as the residence of none but low ruffians, who, under various pretences of living by their labour, subsisted chiefly on plunder and crime. It was a collection of mere hovels: some, hastily built with loose bricks: others, of old worm-eaten ship-timber: jumbled together without any attempt at order or arrangement, and planted, for the most part, within a few feet of the river’s bank. A few leaky boats drawn up on the mud, and made fast to the dwarf wall which skirted it: and here and there an oar or coil of rope: appeared, at first, to indicate that the inhabitants of these miserable cottages pursued some avocation on the river; but a glance at the shattered and useless condition of the articles thus displayed, would have led a passer-by, without much difficulty, to the conjecture that they were disposed there, rather for the preservation of appearances, than with any view to their being actually employed.

In the heart of this cluster of huts; and skirting the river, which its upper stories overhung; stood a large building, formerly used as a manufactory of some kind. It had, in its day, probably furnished employment to the inhabitants of the surrounding tenements. But it had long since gone to ruin. The rat, the worm, and the action of the damp, had weakened and rotted the piles on which it stood; and a considerable portion of the building had already sunk down into the water; while the remainder, tottering and bending over the dark stream, seemed to wait a favourable opportunity of following its old companion, and involving itself in the same fate.

It was before this ruinous building that the worthy couple paused, as the first peal of distant thunder reverberated in the air, and the rain commenced pouring violently down.

“The place should be somewhere here,” said Bumble, consulting a scrap of paper he held in his hand.

“Halloa there!” cried a voice from above.

Following the sound, Mr. Bumble raised his head and descried a man looking out of a door, breast-high, on the second story.

“Stand still, a minute,” cried the voice; “I’ll be with you directly.” With which the head disappeared, and the door closed.

“Is that the man?” asked Mr. Bumble’s good lady.

Mr. Bumble nodded in the affirmative.

“Then, mind what I told you,” said the matron: “and be careful to say as little as you can, or you’ll betray us at once.”

Mr. Bumble, who had eyed the building with very rueful looks, was apparently about to express some doubts relative to the advisability of proceeding any further with the enterprise just then, when he was prevented by the appearance of Monks: who opened a small door, near which they stood, and beckoned them inwards.

“Come in!” he cried impatiently, stamping his foot upon the ground. “Don’t keep me here!”

The woman, who had hesitated at first, walked boldly in, without any other invitation. Mr. Bumble, who was ashamed or afraid to lag behind, followed: obviously very ill at ease and with scarcely any of that remarkable dignity which was usually his chief characteristic.

“What the devil made you stand lingering there, in the wet?” said Monks, turning round, and addressing Bumble, after he had bolted the door behind them.

“We—we were only cooling ourselves,” stammered Bumble, looking apprehensively about him.

“Cooling yourselves!” retorted Monks. “Not all the rain that ever fell, or ever will fall, will put as much of hell’s fire out, as a man can carry about with him. You won’t cool yourself so easily; don’t think it!”

With this agreeable speech, Monks turned short upon the matron, and bent his gaze upon her, till even she, who was not easily cowed, was fain to withdraw her eyes, and turn them towards the ground.

“This is the woman, is it?” demanded Monks.

“Hem! That is the woman,” replied Mr. Bumble, mindful of his wife’s caution.

“You think women never can keep secrets, I suppose?” said the matron, interposing, and returning, as she spoke, the searching look of Monks.

“I know they will always keep one till it’s found out,” said Monks.

“And what may that be?” asked the matron.

“The loss of their own good name,” replied Monks. “So, by the same rule, if a woman’s a party to a secret that might hang or transport her, I’m not afraid of her telling it to anybody; not I! Do you understand, mistress?”

“No,” rejoined the matron, slightly colouring as she spoke.

“Of course you don’t!” said Monks. “How should you?”

Bestowing something half-way between a smile and a frown upon his two companions, and again beckoning them to follow him, the man hastened across the apartment, which was of considerable extent, but low in the roof. He was preparing to ascend a steep staircase, or rather ladder, leading to another floor of warehouses above: when a bright flash of lightning streamed down the aperture, and a peal of thunder followed, which shook the crazy building to its centre.

“Hear it!” he cried, shrinking back. “Hear it! Rolling and crashing on as if it echoed through a thousand caverns where the devils were hiding from it. I hate the sound!”

He remained silent for a few moments; and then, removing his hands suddenly from his face, showed, to the unspeakable discomposure of Mr. Bumble, that it was much distorted and discoloured.

“These fits come over me, now and then,” said Monks, observing his alarm; “and thunder sometimes brings them on. Don’t mind me now; it’s all over for this once.”

Thus speaking, he led the way up the ladder; and hastily closing the window-shutter of the room into which it led, lowered a lantern which hung at the end of a rope and pulley passed through one of the heavy beams in the ceiling: and which cast a dim light upon an old table and three chairs that were placed beneath it.

“Now,” said Monks, when they had all three seated themselves, “the sooner we come to our business, the better for all. The woman know what it is, does she?”

The question was addressed to Bumble; but his wife anticipated the reply, by intimating that she was perfectly acquainted with it.

“He is right in saying that you were with this hag the night she died; and that she told you something—”

“About the mother of the boy you named,” replied the matron interrupting him. “Yes.”

“The first question is, of what nature was her communication?” said Monks.

“That’s the second,” observed the woman with much deliberation. “The first is, what may the communication be worth?”

“Who the devil can tell that, without knowing of what kind it is?” asked Monks.

“Nobody better than you, I am persuaded,” answered Mrs. Bumble: who did not want for spirit, as her yoke-fellow could abundantly testify.

“Humph!” said Monks significantly, and with a look of eager inquiry; “there may be money’s worth to get, eh?”

“Perhaps there may,” was the composed reply.

“Something that was taken from her,” said Monks. “Something that she wore. Something that—”

“You had better bid,” interrupted Mrs. Bumble. “I have heard enough, already, to assure me that you are the man I ought to talk to.”

Mr. Bumble, who had not yet been admitted by his better half into any greater share of the secret than he had originally possessed, listened to this dialogue with outstretched neck and distended eyes: which he directed towards his wife and Monks, by turns, in undisguised astonishment; increased, if possible, when the latter sternly demanded, what sum was required for the disclosure.

“What’s it worth to you?” asked the woman, as collectedly as before.

“It may be nothing; it may be twenty pounds,” replied Monks. “Speak out, and let me know which.”

“Add five pounds to the sum you have named; give me five-and-twenty pounds in gold,” said the woman; “and I’ll tell you all I know. Not before.”

“Five-and-twenty pounds!” exclaimed Monks, drawing back.

“I spoke as plainly as I could,” replied Mrs. Bumble. “It’s not a large sum, either.”

“Not a large sum for a paltry secret, that may be nothing when it’s told!” cried Monks impatiently; “and which has been lying dead for twelve years past or more!”

“Such matters keep well, and, like good wine, often double their value in course of time,” answered the matron, still preserving the resolute indifference she had assumed. “As to lying dead, there are those who will lie dead for twelve thousand years to come, or twelve million, for anything you or I know, who will tell strange tales at last!”

“What if I pay it for nothing?” asked Monks, hesitating.

“You can easily take it away again,” replied the matron. “I am but a woman; alone here; and unprotected.”

“Not alone, my dear, nor unprotected, neither,” submitted Mr. Bumble, in a voice tremulous with fear: “I am here, my dear. And besides,” said Mr. Bumble, his teeth chattering as he spoke, “Mr. Monks is too much of a gentleman to attempt any violence on porochial persons. Mr. Monks is aware that I am not a young man, my dear, and also that I am a little run to seed, as I may say; but he has heerd: I say I have no doubt Mr. Monks has heerd, my dear: that I am a very determined officer, with very uncommon strength, if I’m once roused. I only want a little rousing; that’s all.”

As Mr. Bumble spoke, he made a melancholy feint of grasping his lantern with fierce determination; and plainly showed, by the alarmed expression of every feature, that he did want a little rousing, and not a little, prior to making any very warlike demonstration: unless, indeed, against paupers, or other person or persons trained down for the purpose.

“You are a fool,” said Mrs. Bumble, in reply; “and had better hold your tongue.”

“He had better have cut it out, before he came, if he can’t speak in a lower tone,” said Monks, grimly. “So! He’s your husband, eh?”

“He my husband!” tittered the matron, parrying the question.

“I thought as much, when you came in,” rejoined Monks, marking the angry glance which the lady darted at her spouse as she spoke. “So much the better; I have less hesitation in dealing with two people, when I find that there’s only one will between them. I’m in earnest. See here!”

He thrust his hand into a side-pocket; and producing a canvas bag, told out twenty-five sovereigns on the table, and pushed them over to the woman.

“Now,” he said, “gather them up; and when this cursed peal of thunder, which I feel is coming up to break over the house-top, is gone, let’s hear your story.”

The thunder, which seemed in fact much nearer, and to shiver and break almost over their heads, having subsided, Monks, raising his face from the table, bent forward to listen to what the woman should say. The faces of the three nearly touched, as the two men leant over the small table in their eagerness to hear, and the woman also leant forward to render her whisper audible. The sickly rays of the suspended lantern falling directly upon them, aggravated the paleness and anxiety of their countenances: which, encircled by the deepest gloom and darkness, looked ghastly in the extreme.

“When this woman, that we called old Sally, died,” the matron began, “she and I were alone.”

“Was there no one by?” asked Monks, in the same hollow whisper; “No sick wretch or idiot in some other bed? No one who could hear, and might, by possibility, understand?”

“Not a soul,” replied the woman; “we were alone. I stood alone beside the body when death came over it.”

“Good,” said Monks, regarding her attentively. “Go on.”

“She spoke of a young creature,” resumed the matron, “who had brought a child into the world some years before; not merely in the same room, but in the same bed, in which she then lay dying.”

“Ay?” said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing over his shoulder, “Blood! How things come about!”

“The child was the one you named to him last night,” said the matron, nodding carelessly towards her husband; “the mother this nurse had robbed.”

“In life?” asked Monks.

“In death,” replied the woman, with something like a shudder. “She stole from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant’s sake.”

“She sold it,” cried Monks, with desperate eagerness; “did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?”

“As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this,” said the matron, “she fell back and died.”

“Without saying more?” cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very suppression, seemed only the more furious. “It’s a lie! I’ll not be played with. She said more. I’ll tear the life out of you both, but I’ll know what it was.”

“She didn’t utter another word,” said the woman, to all appearance unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man’s violence; “but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper.”

“Which contained—” interposed Monks, stretching forward.

“Nothing,” replied the woman; “it was a pawnbroker’s duplicate.”

“For what?” demanded Monks.

“In good time I’ll tell you.” said the woman. “I judge that she had kept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account; and then had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker’s interest year by year, and prevent its running out; so that if anything came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she died with the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in her hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too; and so redeemed the pledge.”

“Where is it now?” asked Monks quickly.

“There,” replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it, she hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands. It contained a little gold locket: in which were two locks of hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring.

“It has the word ‘Agnes’ engraved on the inside,” said the woman.

“There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which is within a year before the child was born. I found out that.”

“And this is all?” said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the contents of the little packet.

“All,” replied the woman.

Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back again; and now he took courage to wipe the perspiration which had been trickling over his nose, unchecked, during the whole of the previous dialogue.

“I know nothing of the story, beyond what I can guess at,” said his wife addressing Monks, after a short silence; “and I want to know nothing; for it’s safer not. But I may ask you two questions, may I?”

“You may ask,” said Monks, with some show of surprise; “but whether I answer or not is another question.”

“—Which makes three,” observed Mr. Bumble, essaying a stroke of facetiousness.

“Is that what you expected to get from me?” demanded the matron.

“It is,” replied Monks. “The other question?”

“What do you propose to do with it? Can it be used against me?”

“Never,” rejoined Monks; “nor against me either. See here! But don’t move a step forward, or your life is not worth a bulrush.”

With these words, he suddenly wheeled the table aside, and pulling an iron ring in the boarding, threw back a large trap-door which opened close at Mr. Bumble’s feet, and caused that gentleman to retire several paces backward, with great precipitation.

“Look down,” said Monks, lowering the lantern into the gulf. “Don’t fear me. I could have let you down, quietly enough, when you were seated over it, if that had been my game.”

Thus encouraged, the matron drew near to the brink; and even Mr. Bumble himself, impelled by curiousity, ventured to do the same. The turbid water, swollen by the heavy rain, was rushing rapidly on below; and all other sounds were lost in the noise of its plashing and eddying against the green and slimy piles. There had once been a water-mill beneath; the tide foaming and chafing round the few rotten stakes, and fragments of machinery that yet remained, seemed to dart onward, with a new impulse, when freed from the obstacles which had unavailingly attempted to stem its headlong course.

“If you flung a man’s body down there, where would it be tomorrow morning?” said Monks, swinging the lantern to and fro in the dark well.

“Twelve miles down the river, and cut to pieces besides,” replied Bumble, recoiling at the thought.

Monks drew the little packet from his breast, where he had hurriedly thrust it; and tying it to a leaden weight, which had formed a part of some pulley, and was lying on the floor, dropped it into the stream. It fell straight, and true as a die; clove the water with a scarcely audible splash; and was gone.

The three looking into each other’s faces, seemed to breathe more freely.

“There!” said Monks, closing the trap-door, which fell heavily back into its former position. “If the sea ever gives up its dead, as books say it will, it will keep its gold and silver to itself, and that trash among it. We have nothing more to say, and may break up our pleasant party.”

“By all means,” observed Mr. Bumble, with great alacrity.

“You’ll keep a quiet tongue in your head, will you?” said Monks, with a threatening look. “I am not afraid of your wife.”

“You may depend upon me, young man,” answered Mr. Bumble, bowing himself gradually towards the ladder, with excessive politeness. “On everybody’s account, young man; on my own, you know, Mr. Monks.”

“I am glad, for your sake, to hear it,” remarked Monks. “Light your lantern! And get away from here as fast as you can.”

It was fortunate that the conversation terminated at this point, or Mr. Bumble, who had bowed himself to within six inches of the ladder, would infallibly have pitched headlong into the room below. He lighted his lantern from that which Monks had detached from the rope, and now carried in his hand; and making no effort to prolong the discourse, descended in silence, followed by his wife. Monks brought up the rear, after pausing on the steps to satisfy himself that there were no other sounds to be heard than the beating of the rain without, and the rushing of the water.

They traversed the lower room, slowly, and with caution; for Monks started at every shadow; and Mr. Bumble, holding his lantern a foot above the ground, walked not only with remarkable care, but with a marvellously light step for a gentleman of his figure: looking nervously about him for hidden trap-doors. The gate at which they had entered, was softly unfastened and opened by Monks; merely exchanging a nod with their mysterious acquaintance, the married couple emerged into the wet and darkness outside.

They were no sooner gone, than Monks, who appeared to entertain an invincible repugnance to being left alone, called to a boy who had been hidden somewhere below. Bidding him go first, and bear the light, he returned to the chamber he had just quitted.

CHAPTER XXXIX. INTRODUCES SOME RESPECTABLE CHARACTERS WITH WHOM THE READER IS ALREADY ACQUAINTED, AND SHOWS HOW MONKS AND THE JEW LAID THEIR WORTHY HEADS TOGETHER

On the evening following that upon which the three worthies mentioned in the last chapter, disposed of their little matter of business as therein narrated, Mr. William Sikes, awakening from a nap, drowsily growled forth an inquiry what time of night it was.

The room in which Mr. Sikes propounded this question, was not one of those he had tenanted, previous to the Chertsey expedition, although it was in the same quarter of the town, and was situated at no great distance from his former lodgings. It was not, in appearance, so desirable a habitation as his old quarters: being a mean and badly-furnished apartment, of very limited size; lighted only by one small window in the shelving roof, and abutting on a close and dirty lane. Nor were there wanting other indications of the good gentleman’s having gone down in the world of late: for a great scarcity of furniture, and total absence of comfort, together with the disappearance of all such small moveables as spare clothes and linen, bespoke a state of extreme poverty; while the meagre and attenuated condition of Mr. Sikes himself would have fully confirmed these symptoms, if they had stood in any need of corroboration.

The housebreaker was lying on the bed, wrapped in his white great-coat, by way of dressing-gown, and displaying a set of features in no degree improved by the cadaverous hue of illness, and the addition of a soiled nightcap, and a stiff, black beard of a week’s growth. The dog sat at the bedside: now eyeing his master with a wistful look, and now pricking his ears, and uttering a low growl as some noise in the street, or in the lower part of the house, attracted his attention. Seated by the window, busily engaged in patching an old waistcoat which formed a portion of the robber’s ordinary dress, was a female: so pale and reduced with watching and privation, that there would have been considerable difficulty in recognising her as the same Nancy who has already figured in this tale, but for the voice in which she replied to Mr. Sikes’s question.

“Not long gone seven,” said the girl. “How do you feel tonight, Bill?”

“As weak as water,” replied Mr. Sikes, with an imprecation on his eyes and limbs. “Here; lend us a hand, and let me get off this thundering bed anyhow.”

Illness had not improved Mr. Sikes’s temper; for, as the girl raised him up and led him to a chair, he muttered various curses on her awkwardness, and struck her.

“Whining are you?” said Sikes. “Come! Don’t stand snivelling there. If you can’t do anything better than that, cut off altogether. D’ye hear me?”

“I hear you,” replied the girl, turning her face aside, and forcing a laugh. “What fancy have you got in your head now?”

“Oh! you’ve thought better of it, have you?” growled Sikes, marking the tear which trembled in her eye. “All the better for you, you have.”

“Why, you don’t mean to say, you’d be hard upon me tonight, Bill,” said the girl, laying her hand upon his shoulder.

“No!” cried Mr. Sikes. “Why not?”

“Such a number of nights,” said the girl, with a touch of woman’s tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to her voice: “such a number of nights as I’ve been patient with you, nursing and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the first that I’ve seen you like yourself; you wouldn’t have served me as you did just now, if you’d thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn’t.”

“Well, then,” rejoined Mr. Sikes, “I wouldn’t. Why, damme, now, the girls’s whining again!”

“It’s nothing,” said the girl, throwing herself into a chair. “Don’t you seem to mind me. It’ll soon be over.”

“What’ll be over?” demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. “What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don’t come over me with your woman’s nonsense.”

At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very well, what to do, in this uncommon emergency; for Miss Nancy’s hysterics were usually of that violent kind which the patient fights and struggles out of, without much assistance; Mr. Sikes tried a little blasphemy: and finding that mode of treatment wholly ineffectual, called for assistance.

“What’s the matter here, my dear?” said Fagin, looking in.

“Lend a hand to the girl, can’t you?” replied Sikes impatiently. “Don’t stand chattering and grinning at me!”

With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl’s assistance, while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who had followed his venerable friend into the room, hastily deposited on the floor a bundle with which he was laden; and snatching a bottle from the grasp of Master Charles Bates who came close at his heels, uncorked it in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured a portion of its contents down the patient’s throat: previously taking a taste, himself, to prevent mistakes.

“Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley,” said Mr. Dawkins; “and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts.”

These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially that department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in producing the desired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses; and, staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow: leaving Mr. Sikes to confront the new comers, in some astonishment at their unlooked-for appearance.

“Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?” he asked Fagin.

“No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and I’ve brought something good with me, that you’ll be glad to see. Dodger, my dear, open the bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that we spent all our money on, this morning.”

In compliance with Mr. Fagin’s request, the Artful untied this bundle, which was of large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed the articles it contained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed them on the table, with various encomiums on their rarity and excellence.

“Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill,” exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to view a huge pasty; “sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs, Bill, that the wery bones melt in your mouth, and there’s no occasion to pick ’em; half a pound of seven and six-penny green, so precious strong that if you mix it with biling water, it’ll go nigh to blow the lid of the tea-pot off; a pound and a half of moist sugar that the niggers didn’t work at all at, afore they got it up to sitch a pitch of goodness,—oh no! Two half-quartern brans; pound of best fresh; piece of double Glo’ster; and, to wind up all, some of the richest sort you ever lushed!”

Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his extensive pockets, a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while Mr. Dawkins, at the same instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw spirits from the bottle he carried: which the invalid tossed down his throat without a moment’s hesitation.

“Ah!” said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. “You’ll do, Bill; you’ll do now.”

“Do!” exclaimed Mr. Sikes; “I might have been done for, twenty times over, afore you’d have done anything to help me. What do you mean by leaving a man in this state, three weeks and more, you false-hearted wagabond?”

“Only hear him, boys!” said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. “And us come to bring him all these beau-ti-ful things.”

“The things is well enough in their way,” observed Mr. Sikes: a little soothed as he glanced over the table; “but what have you got to say for yourself, why you should leave me here, down in the mouth, health, blunt, and everything else; and take no more notice of me, all this mortal time, than if I was that ’ere dog.—Drive him down, Charley!”

“I never see such a jolly dog as that,” cried Master Bates, doing as he was desired. “Smelling the grub like a old lady a going to market! He’d make his fortun’ on the stage that dog would, and rewive the drayma besides.”

“Hold your din,” cried Sikes, as the dog retreated under the bed: still growling angrily. “What have you got to say for yourself, you withered old fence, eh?”

“I was away from London, a week and more, my dear, on a plant,” replied the Jew.

“And what about the other fortnight?” demanded Sikes. “What about the other fortnight that you’ve left me lying here, like a sick rat in his hole?”

“I couldn’t help it, Bill. I can’t go into a long explanation before company; but I couldn’t help it, upon my honour.”

“Upon your what?” growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. “Here! Cut me off a piece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my mouth, or it’ll choke me dead.”

“Don’t be out of temper, my dear,” urged Fagin, submissively. “I have never forgot you, Bill; never once.”

“No! I’ll pound it that you han’t,” replied Sikes, with a bitter grin. “You’ve been scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid shivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do that; and Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn’t been for the girl, I might have died.”

“There now, Bill,” remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. “If it hadn’t been for the girl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the means of your having such a handy girl about you?”

“He says true enough there!” said Nancy, coming hastily forward. “Let him be; let him be.”

Nancy’s appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys, receiving a sly wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor: of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better temper, by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, by laughing very heartily at one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make.

“It’s all very well,” said Mr. Sikes; “but I must have some blunt from you tonight.”

“I haven’t a piece of coin about me,” replied the Jew.

“Then you’ve got lots at home,” retorted Sikes; “and I must have some from there.”

“Lots!” cried Fagin, holding up his hands. “I haven’t so much as would—”

“I don’t know how much you’ve got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it,” said Sikes; “but I must have some tonight; and that’s flat.”

“Well, well,” said Fagin, with a sigh, “I’ll send the Artful round presently.”

“You won’t do nothing of the kind,” rejoined Mr. Sikes. “The Artful’s a deal too artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get dodged by traps and so be perwented, or anything for an excuse, if you put him up to it. Nancy shall go to the ken and fetch it, to make all sure; and I’ll lie down and have a snooze while she’s gone.”

After a great deal of haggling and squabbling, Fagin beat down the amount of the required advance from five pounds to three pounds four and sixpence: protesting with many solemn asseverations that that would only leave him eighteen-pence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes sullenly remarking that if he couldn’t get any more he must accompany him home; with the Dodger and Master Bates put the eatables in the cupboard. The Jew then, taking leave of his affectionate friend, returned homeward, attended by Nancy and the boys: Mr. Sikes, meanwhile, flinging himself on the bed, and composing himself to sleep away the time until the young lady’s return.

In due course, they arrived at Fagin’s abode, where they found Toby Crackit and Mr. Chitling intent upon their fifteenth game at cribbage, which it is scarcely necessary to say the latter gentleman lost, and with it, his fifteenth and last sixpence: much to the amusement of his young friends. Mr. Crackit, apparently somewhat ashamed at being found relaxing himself with a gentleman so much his inferior in station and mental endowments, yawned, and inquiring after Sikes, took up his hat to go.

“Has nobody been, Toby?” asked Fagin.

“Not a living leg,” answered Mr. Crackit, pulling up his collar; “it’s been as dull as swipes. You ought to stand something handsome, Fagin, to recompense me for keeping house so long. Damme, I’m as flat as a juryman; and should have gone to sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I hadn’t had the good natur’ to amuse this youngster. Horrid dull, I’m blessed if I an’t!”

With these and other ejaculations of the same kind, Mr. Toby Crackit swept up his winnings, and crammed them into his waistcoat pocket with a haughty air, as though such small pieces of silver were wholly beneath the consideration of a man of his figure; this done, he swaggered out of the room, with so much elegance and gentility, that Mr. Chitling, bestowing numerous admiring glances on his legs and boots till they were out of sight, assured the company that he considered his acquaintance cheap at fifteen sixpences an interview, and that he didn’t value his losses the snap of his little finger.

“Wot a rum chap you are, Tom!” said Master Bates, highly amused by this declaration.

“Not a bit of it,” replied Mr. Chitling. “Am I, Fagin?”

“A very clever fellow, my dear,” said Fagin, patting him on the shoulder, and winking to his other pupils.

“And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell; an’t he, Fagin?” asked Tom.

“No doubt at all of that, my dear.”

“And it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance; an’t it, Fagin?” pursued Tom.

“Very much so, indeed, my dear. They’re only jealous, Tom, because he won’t give it to them.”

“Ah!” cried Tom, triumphantly, “that’s where it is! He has cleaned me out. But I can go and earn some more, when I like; can’t I, Fagin?”

“To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up your loss at once, and don’t lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It’s time you were on the lay. Come! It’s near ten, and nothing done yet.”

In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their hats, and left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging, as they went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct, it is but justice to say, there was nothing very conspicuous or peculiar: inasmuch as there are a great number of spirited young bloods upon town, who pay a much higher price than Mr. Chitling for being seen in good society: and a great number of fine gentlemen (composing the good society aforesaid) who established their reputation upon very much the same footing as flash Toby Crackit.

“Now,” said Fagin, when they had left the room, “I’ll go and get you that cash, Nancy. This is only the key of a little cupboard where I keep a few odd things the boys get, my dear. I never lock up my money, for I’ve got none to lock up, my dear—ha! ha! ha!—none to lock up. It’s a poor trade, Nancy, and no thanks; but I’m fond of seeing the young people about me; and I bear it all, I bear it all. Hush!” he said, hastily concealing the key in his breast; “who’s that? Listen!”

The girl, who was sitting at the table with her arms folded, appeared in no way interested in the arrival: or to care whether the person, whoever he was, came or went: until the murmur of a man’s voice reached her ears. The instant she caught the sound, she tore off her bonnet and shawl, with the rapidity of lightning, and thrust them under the table. The Jew, turning round immediately afterwards, she muttered a complaint of the heat: in a tone of languor that contrasted, very remarkably, with the extreme haste and violence of this action: which, however, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towards her at the time.

“Bah!” he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption; “it’s the man I expected before; he’s coming downstairs. Not a word about the money while he’s here, Nance. He won’t stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear.”

Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the door, as a man’s step was heard upon the stairs without. He reached it, at the same moment as the visitor, who, coming hastily into the room, was close upon the girl before he observed her.

It was Monks.

“Only one of my young people,” said Fagin, observing that Monks drew back, on beholding a stranger. “Don’t move, Nancy.”

The girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks with an air of careless levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin, she stole another look; so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if there had been any bystander to observe the change, he could hardly have believed the two looks to have proceeded from the same person.

“Any news?” inquired Fagin.

“Great.”

“And—and—good?” asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to vex the other man by being too sanguine.

“Not bad, any way,” replied Monks with a smile. “I have been prompt enough this time. Let me have a word with you.”

The girl drew closer to the table, and made no offer to leave the room, although she could see that Monks was pointing to her. The Jew: perhaps fearing she might say something aloud about the money, if he endeavoured to get rid of her: pointed upward, and took Monks out of the room.

“Not that infernal hole we were in before,” she could hear the man say as they went upstairs. Fagin laughed; and making some reply which did not reach her, seemed, by the creaking of the boards, to lead his companion to the second story.

Before the sound of their footsteps had ceased to echo through the house, the girl had slipped off her shoes; and drawing her gown loosely over her head, and muffling her arms in it, stood at the door, listening with breathless interest. The moment the noise ceased, she glided from the room; ascended the stairs with incredible softness and silence; and was lost in the gloom above.

The room remained deserted for a quarter of an hour or more; the girl glided back with the same unearthly tread; and, immediately afterwards, the two men were heard descending. Monks went at once into the street; and the Jew crawled upstairs again for the money. When he returned, the girl was adjusting her shawl and bonnet, as if preparing to be gone.

“Why, Nance!” exclaimed the Jew, starting back as he put down the candle, “how pale you are!”

“Pale!” echoed the girl, shading her eyes with her hands, as if to look steadily at him.

“Quite horrible. What have you been doing to yourself?”

“Nothing that I know of, except sitting in this close place for I don’t know how long and all,” replied the girl carelessly. “Come! Let me get back; that’s a dear.”

With a sigh for every piece of money, Fagin told the amount into her hand. They parted without more conversation, merely interchanging a “good-night.”

When the girl got into the open street, she sat down upon a doorstep; and seemed, for a few moments, wholly bewildered and unable to pursue her way. Suddenly she arose; and hurrying on, in a direction quite opposite to that in which Sikes was awaiting her return, quickened her pace, until it gradually resolved into a violent run. After completely exhausting herself, she stopped to take breath: and, as if suddenly recollecting herself, and deploring her inability to do something she was bent upon, wrung her hands, and burst into tears.

It might be that her tears relieved her, or that she felt the full hopelessness of her condition; but she turned back; and hurrying with nearly as great rapidity in the contrary direction; partly to recover lost time, and partly to keep pace with the violent current of her own thoughts: soon reached the dwelling where she had left the housebreaker.

If she betrayed any agitation, when she presented herself to Mr. Sikes, he did not observe it; for merely inquiring if she had brought the money, and receiving a reply in the affirmative, he uttered a growl of satisfaction, and replacing his head upon the pillow, resumed the slumbers which her arrival had interrupted.

It was fortunate for her that the possession of money occasioned him so much employment next day in the way of eating and drinking; and withal had so beneficial an effect in smoothing down the asperities of his temper; that he had neither time nor inclination to be very critical upon her behaviour and deportment. That she had all the abstracted and nervous manner of one who is on the eve of some bold and hazardous step, which it has required no common struggle to resolve upon, would have been obvious to the lynx-eyed Fagin, who would most probably have taken the alarm at once; but Mr. Sikes lacking the niceties of discrimination, and being troubled with no more subtle misgivings than those which resolve themselves into a dogged roughness of behaviour towards everybody; and being, furthermore, in an unusually amiable condition, as has been already observed; saw nothing unusual in her demeanor, and indeed, troubled himself so little about her, that, had her agitation been far more perceptible than it was, it would have been very unlikely to have awakened his suspicions.

As that day closed in, the girl’s excitement increased; and, when night came on, and she sat by, watching until the housebreaker should drink himself asleep, there was an unusual paleness in her cheek, and a fire in her eye, that even Sikes observed with astonishment.

Mr. Sikes being weak from the fever, was lying in bed, taking hot water with his gin to render it less inflammatory; and had pushed his glass towards Nancy to be replenished for the third or fourth time, when these symptoms first struck him.

“Why, burn my body!” said the man, raising himself on his hands as he stared the girl in the face. “You look like a corpse come to life again. What’s the matter?”

“Matter!” replied the girl. “Nothing. What do you look at me so hard for?”

“What foolery is this?” demanded Sikes, grasping her by the arm, and shaking her roughly. “What is it? What do you mean? What are you thinking of?”

“Of many things, Bill,” replied the girl, shivering, and as she did so, pressing her hands upon her eyes. “But, Lord! What odds in that?”

The tone of forced gaiety in which the last words were spoken, seemed to produce a deeper impression on Sikes than the wild and rigid look which had preceded them.

“I tell you wot it is,” said Sikes; “if you haven’t caught the fever, and got it comin’ on, now, there’s something more than usual in the wind, and something dangerous too. You’re not a-going to—. No, damme! you wouldn’t do that!”

“Do what?” asked the girl.

“There ain’t,” said Sikes, fixing his eyes upon her, and muttering the words to himself; “there ain’t a stauncher-hearted gal going, or I’d have cut her throat three months ago. She’s got the fever coming on; that’s it.”

Fortifying himself with this assurance, Sikes drained the glass to the bottom, and then, with many grumbling oaths, called for his physic. The girl jumped up, with great alacrity; poured it quickly out, but with her back towards him; and held the vessel to his lips, while he drank off the contents.

“Now,” said the robber, “come and sit aside of me, and put on your own face; or I’ll alter it so, that you won’t know it agin when you do want it.”

The girl obeyed. Sikes, locking her hand in his, fell back upon the pillow: turning his eyes upon her face. They closed; opened again; closed once more; again opened. He shifted his position restlessly; and, after dozing again, and again, for two or three minutes, and as often springing up with a look of terror, and gazing vacantly about him, was suddenly stricken, as it were, while in the very attitude of rising, into a deep and heavy sleep. The grasp of his hand relaxed; the upraised arm fell languidly by his side; and he lay like one in a profound trance.

“The laudanum has taken effect at last,” murmured the girl, as she rose from the bedside. “I may be too late, even now.”

She hastily dressed herself in her bonnet and shawl: looking fearfully round, from time to time, as if, despite the sleeping draught, she expected every moment to feel the pressure of Sikes’s heavy hand upon her shoulder; then, stooping softly over the bed, she kissed the robber’s lips; and then opening and closing the room-door with noiseless touch, hurried from the house.

A watchman was crying half-past nine, down a dark passage through which she had to pass, in gaining the main thoroughfare.

“Has it long gone the half-hour?” asked the girl.

“It’ll strike the hour in another quarter,” said the man: raising his lantern to her face.

“And I cannot get there in less than an hour or more,” muttered Nancy: brushing swiftly past him, and gliding rapidly down the street.

Many of the shops were already closing in the back lanes and avenues through which she tracked her way, in making from Spitalfields towards the West-End of London. The clock struck ten, increasing her impatience. She tore along the narrow pavement: elbowing the passengers from side to side; and darting almost under the horses’ heads, crossed crowded streets, where clusters of persons were eagerly watching their opportunity to do the like.

“The woman is mad!” said the people, turning to look after her as she rushed away.

When she reached the more wealthy quarter of the town, the streets were comparatively deserted; and here her headlong progress excited a still greater curiosity in the stragglers whom she hurried past. Some quickened their pace behind, as though to see whither she was hastening at such an unusual rate; and a few made head upon her, and looked back, surprised at her undiminished speed; but they fell off one by one; and when she neared her place of destination, she was alone.

It was a family hotel in a quiet but handsome street near Hyde Park. As the brilliant light of the lamp which burnt before its door, guided her to the spot, the clock struck eleven. She had loitered for a few paces as though irresolute, and making up her mind to advance; but the sound determined her, and she stepped into the hall. The porter’s seat was vacant. She looked round with an air of incertitude, and advanced towards the stairs.

“Now, young woman!” said a smartly-dressed female, looking out from a door behind her, “who do you want here?”

“A lady who is stopping in this house,” answered the girl.

“A lady!” was the reply, accompanied with a scornful look. “What lady?”

“Miss Maylie,” said Nancy.

The young woman, who had by this time, noted her appearance, replied only by a look of virtuous disdain; and summoned a man to answer her. To him, Nancy repeated her request.

“What name am I to say?” asked the waiter.

“It’s of no use saying any,” replied Nancy.

“Nor business?” said the man.

“No, nor that neither,” rejoined the girl. “I must see the lady.”

“Come!” said the man, pushing her towards the door. “None of this. Take yourself off.”

“I shall be carried out if I go!” said the girl violently; “and I can make that a job that two of you won’t like to do. Isn’t there anybody here,” she said, looking round, “that will see a simple message carried for a poor wretch like me?”

This appeal produced an effect on a good-tempered-faced man-cook, who with some of the other servants was looking on, and who stepped forward to interfere.

“Take it up for her, Joe; can’t you?” said this person.

“What’s the good?” replied the man. “You don’t suppose the young lady will see such as her; do you?”

This allusion to Nancy’s doubtful character, raised a vast quantity of chaste wrath in the bosoms of four housemaids, who remarked, with great fervour, that the creature was a disgrace to her sex; and strongly advocated her being thrown, ruthlessly, into the kennel.

“Do what you like with me,” said the girl, turning to the men again; “but do what I ask you first, and I ask you to give this message for God Almighty’s sake.”

The soft-hearted cook added his intercession, and the result was that the man who had first appeared undertook its delivery.

“What’s it to be?” said the man, with one foot on the stairs.

“That a young woman earnestly asks to speak to Miss Maylie alone,” said Nancy; “and that if the lady will only hear the first word she has to say, she will know whether to hear her business, or to have her turned out of doors as an impostor.”

“I say,” said the man, “you’re coming it strong!”

“You give the message,” said the girl firmly; “and let me hear the answer.”

The man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless, listening with quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn, of which the chaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they became still more so, when the man returned, and said the young woman was to walk upstairs.

“It’s no good being proper in this world,” said the first housemaid.

“Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire,” said the second.

The third contented herself with wondering “what ladies was made of”; and the fourth took the first in a quartette of “Shameful!” with which the Dianas concluded.

Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired.

CHAPTER XL. A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER

The girl’s life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman’s original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview.

But struggling with these better feelings was pride,—the vice of the lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself,—even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child.

She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said:

“It’s a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you’d have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason either.”

“I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you,” replied Rose. “Do not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you inquired for.”

The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl completely by surprise, and she burst into tears.

“Oh, lady, lady!” she said, clasping her hands passionately before her face, “if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me,—there would—there would!”

“Sit down,” said Rose, earnestly. “If you are in poverty or affliction I shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can,—I shall indeed. Sit down.”

“Let me stand, lady,” said the girl, still weeping, “and do not speak to me so kindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is—is—that door shut?”

“Yes,” said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance in case she should require it. “Why?”

“Because,” said the girl, “I am about to put my life and the lives of others in your hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old Fagin’s on the night he went out from the house in Pentonville.”

“You!” said Rose Maylie.

“I, lady!” replied the girl. “I am the infamous creature you have heard of, that lives among the thieves, and that never from the first moment I can recollect my eyes and senses opening on London streets have known any better life, or kinder words than they have given me, so help me God! Do not mind shrinking openly from me, lady. I am younger than you would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement.”

“What dreadful things are these!” said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion.

“Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady,” cried the girl, “that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and—and—something worse than all—as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed.”

“I pity you!” said Rose, in a broken voice. “It wrings my heart to hear you!”

“Heaven bless you for your goodness!” rejoined the girl. “If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?”

“No,” said Rose.

“He knows you,” replied the girl; “and knew you were here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out.”

“I never heard the name,” said Rose.

“Then he goes by some other amongst us,” rejoined the girl, “which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I—suspecting this man—listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks—the man I asked you about, you know—”

“Yes,” said Rose, “I understand.”

“—That Monks,” pursued the girl, “had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn’t make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own.”

“For what purpose?” asked Rose.

“He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out,” said the girl; “and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night.”

“And what occurred then?”

“I’ll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these: ‘So the only proofs of the boy’s identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.’ They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had got the young devil’s money safely now, he’d rather have had it the other way; for, what a game it would have been to have brought down the boast of the father’s will, by driving him through every jail in town, and then hauling him up for some capital felony which Fagin could easily manage, after having made a good profit of him besides.”

“What is all this!” said Rose.

“The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips,” replied the girl. “Then, he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that if he could gratify his hatred by taking the boy’s life without bringing his own neck in danger, he would; but, as he couldn’t, he’d be upon the watch to meet him at every turn in life; and if he took advantage of his birth and history, he might harm him yet. ‘In short, Fagin,’ he says, ‘Jew as you are, you never laid such snares as I’ll contrive for my young brother, Oliver.’”

“His brother!” exclaimed Rose.

“Those were his words,” said Nancy, glancing uneasily round, as she had scarcely ceased to do, since she began to speak, for a vision of Sikes haunted her perpetually. “And more. When he spoke of you and the other lady, and said it seemed contrived by Heaven, or the devil, against him, that Oliver should come into your hands, he laughed, and said there was some comfort in that too, for how many thousands and hundreds of thousands of pounds would you not give, if you had them, to know who your two-legged spaniel was.”

“You do not mean,” said Rose, turning very pale, “to tell me that this was said in earnest?”

“He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man ever did,” replied the girl, shaking her head. “He is an earnest man when his hatred is up. I know many who do worse things; but I’d rather listen to them all a dozen times, than to that Monks once. It is growing late, and I have to reach home without suspicion of having been on such an errand as this. I must get back quickly.”

“But what can I do?” said Rose. “To what use can I turn this communication without you? Back! Why do you wish to return to companions you paint in such terrible colors? If you repeat this information to a gentleman whom I can summon in an instant from the next room, you can be consigned to some place of safety without half an hour’s delay.”

“I wish to go back,” said the girl. “I must go back, because—how can I tell such things to an innocent lady like you?—because among the men I have told you of, there is one: the most desperate among them all; that I can’t leave: no, not even to be saved from the life I am leading now.”

“Your having interfered in this dear boy’s behalf before,” said Rose; “your coming here, at so great a risk, to tell me what you have heard; your manner, which convinces me of the truth of what you say; your evident contrition, and sense of shame; all lead me to believe that you might yet be reclaimed. Oh!” said the earnest girl, folding her hands as the tears coursed down her face, “do not turn a deaf ear to the entreaties of one of your own sex; the first—the first, I do believe, who ever appealed to you in the voice of pity and compassion. Do hear my words, and let me save you yet, for better things.”

“Lady,” cried the girl, sinking on her knees, “dear, sweet, angel lady, you are the first that ever blessed me with such words as these, and if I had heard them years ago, they might have turned me from a life of sin and sorrow; but it is too late, it is too late!”

“It is never too late,” said Rose, “for penitence and atonement.”

“It is,” cried the girl, writhing in agony of her mind; “I cannot leave him now! I could not be his death.”

“Why should you be?” asked Rose.

“Nothing could save him,” cried the girl. “If I told others what I have told you, and led to their being taken, he would be sure to die. He is the boldest, and has been so cruel!”

“Is it possible,” cried Rose, “that for such a man as this, you can resign every future hope, and the certainty of immediate rescue? It is madness.”

“I don’t know what it is,” answered the girl; “I only know that it is so, and not with me alone, but with hundreds of others as bad and wretched as myself. I must go back. Whether it is God’s wrath for the wrong I have done, I do not know; but I am drawn back to him through every suffering and ill usage; and I should be, I believe, if I knew that I was to die by his hand at last.”

“What am I to do?” said Rose. “I should not let you depart from me thus.”

“You should, lady, and I know you will,” rejoined the girl, rising. “You will not stop my going because I have trusted in your goodness, and forced no promise from you, as I might have done.”

“Of what use, then, is the communication you have made?” said Rose. “This mystery must be investigated, or how will its disclosure to me, benefit Oliver, whom you are anxious to serve?”

“You must have some kind gentleman about you that will hear it as a secret, and advise you what to do,” rejoined the girl.

“But where can I find you again when it is necessary?” asked Rose. “I do not seek to know where these dreadful people live, but where will you be walking or passing at any settled period from this time?”

“Will you promise me that you will have my secret strictly kept, and come alone, or with the only other person that knows it; and that I shall not be watched or followed?” asked the girl.

“I promise you solemnly,” answered Rose.

“Every Sunday night, from eleven until the clock strikes twelve,” said the girl without hesitation, “I will walk on London Bridge if I am alive.”

“Stay another moment,” interposed Rose, as the girl moved hurriedly towards the door. “Think once again on your own condition, and the opportunity you have of escaping from it. You have a claim on me: not only as the voluntary bearer of this intelligence, but as a woman lost almost beyond redemption. Will you return to this gang of robbers, and to this man, when a word can save you? What fascination is it that can take you back, and make you cling to wickedness and misery? Oh! is there no chord in your heart that I can touch! Is there nothing left, to which I can appeal against this terrible infatuation!”

“When ladies as young, and good, and beautiful as you are,” replied the girl steadily, “give away your hearts, love will carry you all lengths—even such as you, who have home, friends, other admirers, everything, to fill them. When such as I, who have no certain roof but the coffinlid, and no friend in sickness or death but the hospital nurse, set our rotten hearts on any man, and let him fill the place that has been a blank through all our wretched lives, who can hope to cure us? Pity us, lady—pity us for having only one feeling of the woman left, and for having that turned, by a heavy judgment, from a comfort and a pride, into a new means of violence and suffering.”

“You will,” said Rose, after a pause, “take some money from me, which may enable you to live without dishonesty—at all events until we meet again?”

“Not a penny,” replied the girl, waving her hand.

“Do not close your heart against all my efforts to help you,” said Rose, stepping gently forward. “I wish to serve you indeed.”

“You would serve me best, lady,” replied the girl, wringing her hands, “if you could take my life at once; for I have felt more grief to think of what I am, tonight, than I ever did before, and it would be something not to die in the hell in which I have lived. God bless you, sweet lady, and send as much happiness on your head as I have brought shame on mine!”

Thus speaking, and sobbing aloud, the unhappy creature turned away; while Rose Maylie, overpowered by this extraordinary interview, which had more the semblance of a rapid dream than an actual occurrence, sank into a chair, and endeavoured to collect her wandering thoughts.

CHAPTER XLI. CONTAINING FRESH DISCOVERIES, AND SHOWING THAT SUPRISES, LIKE MISFORTUNES, SELDOM COME ALONE

Her situation was, indeed, one of no common trial and difficulty. While she felt the most eager and burning desire to penetrate the mystery in which Oliver’s history was enveloped, she could not but hold sacred the confidence which the miserable woman with whom she had just conversed, had reposed in her, as a young and guileless girl. Her words and manner had touched Rose Maylie’s heart; and, mingled with her love for her young charge, and scarcely less intense in its truth and fervour, was her fond wish to win the outcast back to repentance and hope.

They purposed remaining in London only three days, prior to departing for some weeks to a distant part of the coast. It was now midnight of the first day. What course of action could she determine upon, which could be adopted in eight-and-forty hours? Or how could she postpone the journey without exciting suspicion?

Mr. Losberne was with them, and would be for the next two days; but Rose was too well acquainted with the excellent gentleman’s impetuosity, and foresaw too clearly the wrath with which, in the first explosion of his indignation, he would regard the instrument of Oliver’s recapture, to trust him with the secret, when her representations in the girl’s behalf could be seconded by no experienced person. These were all reasons for the greatest caution and most circumspect behaviour in communicating it to Mrs. Maylie, whose first impulse would infallibly be to hold a conference with the worthy doctor on the subject. As to resorting to any legal adviser, even if she had known how to do so, it was scarcely to be thought of, for the same reason. Once the thought occurred to her of seeking assistance from Harry; but this awakened the recollection of their last parting, and it seemed unworthy of her to call him back, when—the tears rose to her eyes as she pursued this train of reflection—he might have by this time learnt to forget her, and to be happier away.

Disturbed by these different reflections; inclining now to one course and then to another, and again recoiling from all, as each successive consideration presented itself to her mind; Rose passed a sleepless and anxious night. After more communing with herself next day, she arrived at the desperate conclusion of consulting Harry.

“If it be painful to him,” she thought, “to come back here, how painful it will be to me! But perhaps he will not come; he may write, or he may come himself, and studiously abstain from meeting me—he did when he went away. I hardly thought he would; but it was better for us both.” And here Rose dropped the pen, and turned away, as though the very paper which was to be her messenger should not see her weep.

She had taken up the same pen, and laid it down again fifty times, and had considered and reconsidered the first line of her letter without writing the first word, when Oliver, who had been walking in the streets, with Mr. Giles for a body-guard, entered the room in such breathless haste and violent agitation, as seemed to betoken some new cause of alarm.

“What makes you look so flurried?” asked Rose, advancing to meet him.

“I hardly know how; I feel as if I should be choked,” replied the boy. “Oh dear! To think that I should see him at last, and you should be able to know that I have told you the truth!”

“I never thought you had told us anything but the truth,” said Rose, soothing him. “But what is this?—of whom do you speak?”

“I have seen the gentleman,” replied Oliver, scarcely able to articulate, “the gentleman who was so good to me—Mr. Brownlow, that we have so often talked about.”

“Where?” asked Rose.

“Getting out of a coach,” replied Oliver, shedding tears of delight, “and going into a house. I didn’t speak to him—I couldn’t speak to him, for he didn’t see me, and I trembled so, that I was not able to go up to him. But Giles asked, for me, whether he lived there, and they said he did. Look here,” said Oliver, opening a scrap of paper, “here it is; here’s where he lives—I’m going there directly! Oh, dear me, dear me! What shall I do when I come to see him and hear him speak again!”

With her attention not a little distracted by these and a great many other incoherent exclamations of joy, Rose read the address, which was Craven Street, in the Strand. She very soon determined upon turning the discovery to account.

“Quick!” she said. “Tell them to fetch a hackney-coach, and be ready to go with me. I will take you there directly, without a minute’s loss of time. I will only tell my aunt that we are going out for an hour, and be ready as soon as you are.”

Oliver needed no prompting to despatch, and in little more than five minutes they were on their way to Craven Street. When they arrived there, Rose left Oliver in the coach, under pretence of preparing the old gentleman to receive him; and sending up her card by the servant, requested to see Mr. Brownlow on very pressing business. The servant soon returned, to beg that she would walk upstairs; and following him into an upper room, Miss Maylie was presented to an elderly gentleman of benevolent appearance, in a bottle-green coat. At no great distance from whom, was seated another old gentleman, in nankeen breeches and gaiters; who did not look particularly benevolent, and who was sitting with his hands clasped on the top of a thick stick, and his chin propped thereupon.

“Dear me,” said the gentleman, in the bottle-green coat, hastily rising with great politeness, “I beg your pardon, young lady—I imagined it was some importunate person who—I beg you will excuse me. Be seated, pray.”

“Mr. Brownlow, I believe, sir?” said Rose, glancing from the other gentleman to the one who had spoken.

“That is my name,” said the old gentleman. “This is my friend, Mr. Grimwig. Grimwig, will you leave us for a few minutes?”

“I believe,” interposed Miss Maylie, “that at this period of our interview, I need not give that gentleman the trouble of going away. If I am correctly informed, he is cognizant of the business on which I wish to speak to you.”

Mr. Brownlow inclined his head. Mr. Grimwig, who had made one very stiff bow, and risen from his chair, made another very stiff bow, and dropped into it again.

“I shall surprise you very much, I have no doubt,” said Rose, naturally embarrassed; “but you once showed great benevolence and goodness to a very dear young friend of mine, and I am sure you will take an interest in hearing of him again.”

“Indeed!” said Mr. Brownlow.

“Oliver Twist you knew him as,” replied Rose.

The words no sooner escaped her lips, than Mr. Grimwig, who had been affecting to dip into a large book that lay on the table, upset it with a great crash, and falling back in his chair, discharged from his features every expression but one of unmitigated wonder, and indulged in a prolonged and vacant stare; then, as if ashamed of having betrayed so much emotion, he jerked himself, as it were, by a convulsion into his former attitude, and looking out straight before him emitted a long deep whistle, which seemed, at last, not to be discharged on empty air, but to die away in the innermost recesses of his stomach.

Mr. Browlow was no less surprised, although his astonishment was not expressed in the same eccentric manner. He drew his chair nearer to Miss Maylie’s, and said,

“Do me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the question that goodness and benevolence of which you speak, and of which nobody else knows anything; and if you have it in your power to produce any evidence which will alter the unfavourable opinion I was once induced to entertain of that poor child, in Heaven’s name put me in possession of it.”

“A bad one! I’ll eat my head if he is not a bad one,” growled Mr. Grimwig, speaking by some ventriloquial power, without moving a muscle of his face.

“He is a child of a noble nature and a warm heart,” said Rose, colouring; “and that Power which has thought fit to try him beyond his years, has planted in his breast affections and feelings which would do honour to many who have numbered his days six times over.”

“I’m only sixty-one,” said Mr. Grimwig, with the same rigid face. “And, as the devil’s in it if this Oliver is not twelve years old at least, I don’t see the application of that remark.”

“Do not heed my friend, Miss Maylie,” said Mr. Brownlow; “he does not mean what he says.”

“Yes, he does,” growled Mr. Grimwig.

“No, he does not,” said Mr. Brownlow, obviously rising in wrath as he spoke.

“He’ll eat his head, if he doesn’t,” growled Mr. Grimwig.

“He would deserve to have it knocked off, if he does,” said Mr. Brownlow.

“And he’d uncommonly like to see any man offer to do it,” responded Mr. Grimwig, knocking his stick upon the floor.

Having gone thus far, the two old gentlemen severally took snuff, and afterwards shook hands, according to their invariable custom.

“Now, Miss Maylie,” said Mr. Brownlow, “to return to the subject in which your humanity is so much interested. Will you let me know what intelligence you have of this poor child: allowing me to promise that I exhausted every means in my power of discovering him, and that since I have been absent from this country, my first impression that he had imposed upon me, and had been persuaded by his former associates to rob me, has been considerably shaken.”

Rose, who had had time to collect her thoughts, at once related, in a few natural words, all that had befallen Oliver since he left Mr. Brownlow’s house; reserving Nancy’s information for that gentleman’s private ear, and concluding with the assurance that his only sorrow, for some months past, had been not being able to meet with his former benefactor and friend.

“Thank God!” said the old gentleman. “This is great happiness to me, great happiness. But you have not told me where he is now, Miss Maylie. You must pardon my finding fault with you,—but why not have brought him?”

“He is waiting in a coach at the door,” replied Rose.

“At this door!” cried the old gentleman. With which he hurried out of the room, down the stairs, up the coachsteps, and into the coach, without another word.

When the room-door closed behind him, Mr. Grimwig lifted up his head, and converting one of the hind legs of his chair into a pivot, described three distinct circles with the assistance of his stick and the table; sitting in it all the time. After performing this evolution, he rose and limped as fast as he could up and down the room at least a dozen times, and then stopping suddenly before Rose, kissed her without the slightest preface.

“Hush!” he said, as the young lady rose in some alarm at this unusual proceeding. “Don’t be afraid. I’m old enough to be your grandfather. You’re a sweet girl. I like you. Here they are!”

In fact, as he threw himself at one dexterous dive into his former seat, Mr. Brownlow returned, accompanied by Oliver, whom Mr. Grimwig received very graciously; and if the gratification of that moment had been the only reward for all her anxiety and care in Oliver’s behalf, Rose Maylie would have been well repaid.

“There is somebody else who should not be forgotten, by the bye,” said Mr. Brownlow, ringing the bell. “Send Mrs. Bedwin here, if you please.”

The old housekeeper answered the summons with all dispatch; and dropping a curtsey at the door, waited for orders.

“Why, you get blinder every day, Bedwin,” said Mr. Brownlow, rather testily.

“Well, that I do, sir,” replied the old lady. “People’s eyes, at my time of life, don’t improve with age, sir.”

“I could have told you that,” rejoined Mr. Brownlow; “but put on your glasses, and see if you can’t find out what you were wanted for, will you?”

The old lady began to rummage in her pocket for her spectacles. But Oliver’s patience was not proof against this new trial; and yielding to his first impulse, he sprang into her arms.

“God be good to me!” cried the old lady, embracing him; “it is my innocent boy!”

“My dear old nurse!” cried Oliver.

“He would come back—I knew he would,” said the old lady, holding him in her arms. “How well he looks, and how like a gentleman’s son he is dressed again! Where have you been, this long, long while? Ah! the same sweet face, but not so pale; the same soft eye, but not so sad. I have never forgotten them or his quiet smile, but have seen them every day, side by side with those of my own dear children, dead and gone since I was a lightsome young creature.” Running on thus, and now holding Oliver from her to mark how he had grown, now clasping him to her and passing her fingers fondly through his hair, the good soul laughed and wept upon his neck by turns.

Leaving her and Oliver to compare notes at leisure, Mr. Brownlow led the way into another room; and there, heard from Rose a full narration of her interview with Nancy, which occasioned him no little surprise and perplexity. Rose also explained her reasons for not confiding in her friend Mr. Losberne in the first instance. The old gentleman considered that she had acted prudently, and readily undertook to hold solemn conference with the worthy doctor himself. To afford him an early opportunity for the execution of this design, it was arranged that he should call at the hotel at eight o’clock that evening, and that in the meantime Mrs. Maylie should be cautiously informed of all that had occurred. These preliminaries adjusted, Rose and Oliver returned home.

Rose had by no means overrated the measure of the good doctor’s wrath. Nancy’s history was no sooner unfolded to him, than he poured forth a shower of mingled threats and execrations; threatened to make her the first victim of the combined ingenuity of Messrs. Blathers and Duff; and actually put on his hat preparatory to sallying forth to obtain the assistance of those worthies. And, doubtless, he would, in this first outbreak, have carried the intention into effect without a moment’s consideration of the consequences, if he had not been restrained, in part, by corresponding violence on the side of Mr. Brownlow, who was himself of an irascible temperament, and partly by such arguments and representations as seemed best calculated to dissuade him from his hotbrained purpose.

“Then what the devil is to be done?” said the impetuous doctor, when they had rejoined the two ladies. “Are we to pass a vote of thanks to all these vagabonds, male and female, and beg them to accept a hundred pounds, or so, apiece, as a trifling mark of our esteem, and some slight acknowledgment of their kindness to Oliver?”

“Not exactly that,” rejoined Mr. Brownlow, laughing; “but we must proceed gently and with great care.”

“Gentleness and care,” exclaimed the doctor. “I’d send them one and all to—”

“Never mind where,” interposed Mr. Brownlow. “But reflect whether sending them anywhere is likely to attain the object we have in view.”

“What object?” asked the doctor.

“Simply, the discovery of Oliver’s parentage, and regaining for him the inheritance of which, if this story be true, he has been fraudulently deprived.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Losberne, cooling himself with his pocket-handkerchief; “I almost forgot that.”

“You see,” pursued Mr. Brownlow; “placing this poor girl entirely out of the question, and supposing it were possible to bring these scoundrels to justice without compromising her safety, what good should we bring about?”

“Hanging a few of them at least, in all probability,” suggested the doctor, “and transporting the rest.”

“Very good,” replied Mr. Brownlow, smiling; “but no doubt they will bring that about for themselves in the fulness of time, and if we step in to forestall them, it seems to me that we shall be performing a very Quixotic act, in direct opposition to our own interest—or at least to Oliver’s, which is the same thing.”

“How?” inquired the doctor.

“Thus. It is quite clear that we shall have extreme difficulty in getting to the bottom of this mystery, unless we can bring this man, Monks, upon his knees. That can only be done by stratagem, and by catching him when he is not surrounded by these people. For, suppose he were apprehended, we have no proof against him. He is not even (so far as we know, or as the facts appear to us) concerned with the gang in any of their robberies. If he were not discharged, it is very unlikely that he could receive any further punishment than being committed to prison as a rogue and vagabond; and of course ever afterwards his mouth would be so obstinately closed that he might as well, for our purposes, be deaf, dumb, blind, and an idiot.”

“Then,” said the doctor impetuously, “I put it to you again, whether you think it reasonable that this promise to the girl should be considered binding; a promise made with the best and kindest intentions, but really—”

“Do not discuss the point, my dear young lady, pray,” said Mr. Brownlow, interrupting Rose as she was about to speak. “The promise shall be kept. I don’t think it will, in the slightest degree, interfere with our proceedings. But, before we can resolve upon any precise course of action, it will be necessary to see the girl; to ascertain from her whether she will point out this Monks, on the understanding that he is to be dealt with by us, and not by the law; or, if she will not, or cannot do that, to procure from her such an account of his haunts and description of his person, as will enable us to identify him. She cannot be seen until next Sunday night; this is Tuesday. I would suggest that in the meantime, we remain perfectly quiet, and keep these matters secret even from Oliver himself.”

Although Mr. Losberne received with many wry faces a proposal involving a delay of five whole days, he was fain to admit that no better course occurred to him just then; and as both Rose and Mrs. Maylie sided very strongly with Mr. Brownlow, that gentleman’s proposition was carried unanimously.

“I should like,” he said, “to call in the aid of my friend Grimwig. He is a strange creature, but a shrewd one, and might prove of material assistance to us; I should say that he was bred a lawyer, and quitted the Bar in disgust because he had only one brief and a motion of course, in twenty years, though whether that is recommendation or not, you must determine for yourselves.”

“I have no objection to your calling in your friend if I may call in mine,” said the doctor.

“We must put it to the vote,” replied Mr. Brownlow, “who may he be?”

“That lady’s son, and this young lady’s—very old friend,” said the doctor, motioning towards Mrs. Maylie, and concluding with an expressive glance at her niece.

Rose blushed deeply, but she did not make any audible objection to this motion (possibly she felt in a hopeless minority); and Harry Maylie and Mr. Grimwig were accordingly added to the committee.

“We stay in town, of course,” said Mrs. Maylie, “while there remains the slightest prospect of prosecuting this inquiry with a chance of success. I will spare neither trouble nor expense in behalf of the object in which we are all so deeply interested, and I am content to remain here, if it be for twelve months, so long as you assure me that any hope remains.”

“Good!” rejoined Mr. Brownlow. “And as I see on the faces about me, a disposition to inquire how it happened that I was not in the way to corroborate Oliver’s tale, and had so suddenly left the kingdom, let me stipulate that I shall be asked no questions until such time as I may deem it expedient to forestall them by telling my own story. Believe me, I make this request with good reason, for I might otherwise excite hopes destined never to be realised, and only increase difficulties and disappointments already quite numerous enough. Come! Supper has been announced, and young Oliver, who is all alone in the next room, will have begun to think, by this time, that we have wearied of his company, and entered into some dark conspiracy to thrust him forth upon the world.”

With these words, the old gentleman gave his hand to Mrs. Maylie, and escorted her into the supper-room. Mr. Losberne followed, leading Rose; and the council was, for the present, effectually broken up.

CHAPTER XLII. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE OF OLIVER’S, EXHIBITING DECIDED MARKS OF GENIUS, BECOMES A PUBLIC CHARACTER IN THE METROPOLIS

Upon the night when Nancy, having lulled Mr. Sikes to sleep, hurried on her self-imposed mission to Rose Maylie, there advanced towards London, by the Great North Road, two persons, upon whom it is expedient that this history should bestow some attention.

They were a man and woman; or perhaps they would be better described as a male and female: for the former was one of those long-limbed, knock-kneed, shambling, bony people, to whom it is difficult to assign any precise age,—looking as they do, when they are yet boys, like undergrown men, and when they are almost men, like overgrown boys. The woman was young, but of a robust and hardy make, as she need have been to bear the weight of the heavy bundle which was strapped to her back. Her companion was not encumbered with much luggage, as there merely dangled from a stick which he carried over his shoulder, a small parcel wrapped in a common handkerchief, and apparently light enough. This circumstance, added to the length of his legs, which were of unusual extent, enabled him with much ease to keep some half-dozen paces in advance of his companion, to whom he occasionally turned with an impatient jerk of the head: as if reproaching her tardiness, and urging her to greater exertion.

Thus, they had toiled along the dusty road, taking little heed of any object within sight, save when they stepped aside to allow a wider passage for the mail-coaches which were whirling out of town, until they passed through Highgate archway; when the foremost traveller stopped and called impatiently to his companion,

“Come on, can’t yer? What a lazybones yer are, Charlotte.”

“It’s a heavy load, I can tell you,” said the female, coming up, almost breathless with fatigue.

“Heavy! What are yer talking about? What are yer made for?” rejoined the male traveller, changing his own little bundle as he spoke, to the other shoulder. “Oh, there yer are, resting again! Well, if yer ain’t enough to tire anybody’s patience out, I don’t know what is!”

“Is it much farther?” asked the woman, resting herself against a bank, and looking up with the perspiration streaming from her face.

“Much farther! Yer as good as there,” said the long-legged tramper, pointing out before him. “Look there! Those are the lights of London.”

“They’re a good two mile off, at least,” said the woman despondingly.

“Never mind whether they’re two mile off, or twenty,” said Noah Claypole; for he it was; “but get up and come on, or I’ll kick yer, and so I give yer notice.”

As Noah’s red nose grew redder with anger, and as he crossed the road while speaking, as if fully prepared to put his threat into execution, the woman rose without any further remark, and trudged onward by his side.

“Where do you mean to stop for the night, Noah?” she asked, after they had walked a few hundred yards.

“How should I know?” replied Noah, whose temper had been considerably impaired by walking.

“Near, I hope,” said Charlotte.

“No, not near,” replied Mr. Claypole. “There! Not near; so don’t think it.”

“Why not?”

“When I tell yer that I don’t mean to do a thing, that’s enough, without any why or because either,” replied Mr. Claypole with dignity.

“Well, you needn’t be so cross,” said his companion.

“A pretty thing it would be, wouldn’t it to go and stop at the very first public-house outside the town, so that Sowerberry, if he come up after us, might poke in his old nose, and have us taken back in a cart with handcuffs on,” said Mr. Claypole in a jeering tone. “No! I shall go and lose myself among the narrowest streets I can find, and not stop till we come to the very out-of-the-wayest house I can set eyes on. Cod, yer may thanks yer stars I’ve got a head; for if we hadn’t gone, at first, the wrong road a purpose, and come back across country, yer’d have been locked up hard and fast a week ago, my lady. And serve yer right for being a fool.”

“I know I ain’t as cunning as you are,” replied Charlotte; “but don’t put all the blame on me, and say I should have been locked up. You would have been if I had been, any way.”

“Yer took the money from the till, yer know yer did,” said Mr. Claypole.

“I took it for you, Noah, dear,” rejoined Charlotte.

“Did I keep it?” asked Mr. Claypole.

“No; you trusted in me, and let me carry it like a dear, and so you are,” said the lady, chucking him under the chin, and drawing her arm through his.

This was indeed the case; but as it was not Mr. Claypole’s habit to repose a blind and foolish confidence in anybody, it should be observed, in justice to that gentleman, that he had trusted Charlotte to this extent, in order that, if they were pursued, the money might be found on her: which would leave him an opportunity of asserting his innocence of any theft, and would greatly facilitate his chances of escape. Of course, he entered at this juncture, into no explanation of his motives, and they walked on very lovingly together.

In pursuance of this cautious plan, Mr. Claypole went on, without halting, until he arrived at the Angel at Islington, where he wisely judged, from the crowd of passengers and numbers of vehicles, that London began in earnest. Just pausing to observe which appeared the most crowded streets, and consequently the most to be avoided, he crossed into Saint John’s Road, and was soon deep in the obscurity of the intricate and dirty ways, which, lying between Gray’s Inn Lane and Smithfield, render that part of the town one of the lowest and worst that improvement has left in the midst of London.

Through these streets, Noah Claypole walked, dragging Charlotte after him; now stepping into the kennel to embrace at a glance the whole external character of some small public-house; now jogging on again, as some fancied appearance induced him to believe it too public for his purpose. At length, he stopped in front of one, more humble in appearance and more dirty than any he had yet seen; and, having crossed over and surveyed it from the opposite pavement, graciously announced his intention of putting up there, for the night.

“So give us the bundle,” said Noah, unstrapping it from the woman’s shoulders, and slinging it over his own; “and don’t yer speak, except when yer spoke to. What’s the name of the house—t-h-r—three what?”

“Cripples,” said Charlotte.

“Three Cripples,” repeated Noah, “and a very good sign too. Now, then! Keep close at my heels, and come along.” With these injunctions, he pushed the rattling door with his shoulder, and entered the house, followed by his companion.

There was nobody in the bar but a young Jew, who, with his two elbows on the counter, was reading a dirty newspaper. He stared very hard at Noah, and Noah stared very hard at him.

If Noah had been attired in his charity-boy’s dress, there might have been some reason for the Jew opening his eyes so wide; but as he had discarded the coat and badge, and wore a short smock-frock over his leathers, there seemed no particular reason for his appearance exciting so much attention in a public-house.

“Is this the Three Cripples?” asked Noah.

“That is the dabe of this ’ouse,” replied the Jew.

“A gentleman we met on the road, coming up from the country, recommended us here,” said Noah, nudging Charlotte, perhaps to call her attention to this most ingenious device for attracting respect, and perhaps to warn her to betray no surprise. “We want to sleep here tonight.”

“I’b dot certaid you cad,” said Barney, who was the attendant sprite; “but I’ll idquire.”

“Show us the tap, and give us a bit of cold meat and a drop of beer while yer inquiring, will yer?” said Noah.

Barney complied by ushering them into a small back-room, and setting the required viands before them; having done which, he informed the travellers that they could be lodged that night, and left the amiable couple to their refreshment.

Now, this back-room was immediately behind the bar, and some steps lower, so that any person connected with the house, undrawing a small curtain which concealed a single pane of glass fixed in the wall of the last-named apartment, about five feet from its flooring, could not only look down upon any guests in the back-room without any great hazard of being observed (the glass being in a dark angle of the wall, between which and a large upright beam the observer had to thrust himself), but could, by applying his ear to the partition, ascertain with tolerable distinctness, their subject of conversation. The landlord of the house had not withdrawn his eye from this place of espial for five minutes, and Barney had only just returned from making the communication above related, when Fagin, in the course of his evening’s business, came into the bar to inquire after some of his young pupils.

“Hush!” said Barney: “stradegers id the next roob.”

“Strangers!” repeated the old man in a whisper.

“Ah! Ad rub uds too,” added Barney. “Frob the cuttry, but subthig in your way, or I’b bistaked.”

Fagin appeared to receive this communication with great interest.

Mounting a stool, he cautiously applied his eye to the pane of glass, from which secret post he could see Mr. Claypole taking cold beef from the dish, and porter from the pot, and administering homeopathic doses of both to Charlotte, who sat patiently by, eating and drinking at his pleasure.

“Aha!” he whispered, looking round to Barney, “I like that fellow’s looks. He’d be of use to us; he knows how to train the girl already. Don’t make as much noise as a mouse, my dear, and let me hear ’em talk—let me hear ’em.”

He again applied his eye to the glass, and turning his ear to the partition, listened attentively: with a subtle and eager look upon his face, that might have appertained to some old goblin.

“So I mean to be a gentleman,” said Mr. Claypole, kicking out his legs, and continuing a conversation, the commencement of which Fagin had arrived too late to hear. “No more jolly old coffins, Charlotte, but a gentleman’s life for me: and, if yer like, yer shall be a lady.”

“I should like that well enough, dear,” replied Charlotte; “but tills ain’t to be emptied every day, and people to get clear off after it.”

“Tills be blowed!” said Mr. Claypole; “there’s more things besides tills to be emptied.”

“What do you mean?” asked his companion.

“Pockets, women’s ridicules, houses, mail-coaches, banks!” said Mr. Claypole, rising with the porter.

“But you can’t do all that, dear,” said Charlotte.

“I shall look out to get into company with them as can,” replied Noah. “They’ll be able to make us useful some way or another. Why, you yourself are worth fifty women; I never see such a precious sly and deceitful creetur as yer can be when I let yer.”

“Lor, how nice it is to hear yer say so!” exclaimed Charlotte, imprinting a kiss upon his ugly face.

“There, that’ll do: don’t yer be too affectionate, in case I’m cross with yer,” said Noah, disengaging himself with great gravity. “I should like to be the captain of some band, and have the whopping of ’em, and follering ’em about, unbeknown to themselves. That would suit me, if there was good profit; and if we could only get in with some gentleman of this sort, I say it would be cheap at that twenty-pound note you’ve got,—especially as we don’t very well know how to get rid of it ourselves.”

After expressing this opinion, Mr. Claypole looked into the porter-pot with an aspect of deep wisdom; and having well shaken its contents, nodded condescendingly to Charlotte, and took a draught, wherewith he appeared greatly refreshed. He was meditating another, when the sudden opening of the door, and the appearance of a stranger, interrupted him.

The stranger was Mr. Fagin. And very amiable he looked, and a very low bow he made, as he advanced, and setting himself down at the nearest table, ordered something to drink of the grinning Barney.

“A pleasant night, sir, but cool for the time of year,” said Fagin, rubbing his hands. “From the country, I see, sir?”

“How do yer see that?” asked Noah Claypole.

“We have not so much dust as that in London,” replied Fagin, pointing from Noah’s shoes to those of his companion, and from them to the two bundles.

“Yer a sharp feller,” said Noah. “Ha! ha! only hear that, Charlotte!”

“Why, one need be sharp in this town, my dear,” replied the Jew, sinking his voice to a confidential whisper; “and that’s the truth.”

Fagin followed up this remark by striking the side of his nose with his right forefinger,—a gesture which Noah attempted to imitate, though not with complete success, in consequence of his own nose not being large enough for the purpose. However, Mr. Fagin seemed to interpret the endeavour as expressing a perfect coincidence with his opinion, and put about the liquor which Barney reappeared with, in a very friendly manner.

“Good stuff that,” observed Mr. Claypole, smacking his lips.

“Dear!” said Fagin. “A man need be always emptying a till, or a pocket, or a woman’s reticule, or a house, or a mail-coach, or a bank, if he drinks it regularly.”

Mr. Claypole no sooner heard this extract from his own remarks than he fell back in his chair, and looked from the Jew to Charlotte with a countenance of ashy paleness and excessive terror.

“Don’t mind me, my dear,” said Fagin, drawing his chair closer. “Ha! ha! it was lucky it was only me that heard you by chance. It was very lucky it was only me.”

“I didn’t take it,” stammered Noah, no longer stretching out his legs like an independent gentleman, but coiling them up as well as he could under his chair; “it was all her doing; yer’ve got it now, Charlotte, yer know yer have.”

“No matter who’s got it, or who did it, my dear,” replied Fagin, glancing, nevertheless, with a hawk’s eye at the girl and the two bundles. “I’m in that way myself, and I like you for it.”

“In what way?” asked Mr. Claypole, a little recovering.

“In that way of business,” rejoined Fagin; “and so are the people of the house. You’ve hit the right nail upon the head, and are as safe here as you could be. There is not a safer place in all this town than is the Cripples; that is, when I like to make it so. And I have taken a fancy to you and the young woman; so I’ve said the word, and you may make your minds easy.”

Noah Claypole’s mind might have been at ease after this assurance, but his body certainly was not; for he shuffled and writhed about, into various uncouth positions: eyeing his new friend meanwhile with mingled fear and suspicion.

“I’ll tell you more,” said Fagin, after he had reassured the girl, by dint of friendly nods and muttered encouragements. “I have got a friend that I think can gratify your darling wish, and put you in the right way, where you can take whatever department of the business you think will suit you best at first, and be taught all the others.”

“Yer speak as if yer were in earnest,” replied Noah.

“What advantage would it be to me to be anything else?” inquired Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. “Here! Let me have a word with you outside.”

“There’s no occasion to trouble ourselves to move,” said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again. “She’ll take the luggage upstairs the while. Charlotte, see to them bundles.”

This mandate, which had been delivered with great majesty, was obeyed without the slightest demur; and Charlotte made the best of her way off with the packages while Noah held the door open and watched her out.

“She’s kept tolerably well under, ain’t she?” he asked as he resumed his seat: in the tone of a keeper who had tamed some wild animal.

“Quite perfect,” rejoined Fagin, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re a genius, my dear.”

“Why, I suppose if I wasn’t, I shouldn’t be here,” replied Noah. “But, I say, she’ll be back if yer lose time.”

“Now, what do you think?” said Fagin. “If you was to like my friend, could you do better than join him?”

“Is he in a good way of business; that’s where it is!” responded Noah, winking one of his little eyes.

“The top of the tree; employs a power of hands; has the very best society in the profession.”

“Regular town-maders?” asked Mr. Claypole.

“Not a countryman among ’em; and I don’t think he’d take you, even on my recommendation, if he didn’t run rather short of assistants just now,” replied Fagin.

“Should I have to hand over?” said Noah, slapping his breeches-pocket.

“It couldn’t possibly be done without,” replied Fagin, in a most decided manner.

“Twenty pound, though—it’s a lot of money!”

“Not when it’s in a note you can’t get rid of,” retorted Fagin. “Number and date taken, I suppose? Payment stopped at the Bank? Ah! It’s not worth much to him. It’ll have to go abroad, and he couldn’t sell it for a great deal in the market.”

“When could I see him?” asked Noah doubtfully.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“Um!” said Noah. “What’s the wages?”

“Live like a gentleman—board and lodging, pipes and spirits free—half of all you earn, and half of all the young woman earns,” replied Mr. Fagin.

Whether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of the least comprehensive, would have acceded even to these glowing terms, had he been a perfectly free agent, is very doubtful; but as he recollected that, in the event of his refusal, it was in the power of his new acquaintance to give him up to justice immediately (and more unlikely things had come to pass), he gradually relented, and said he thought that would suit him.

“But, yer see,” observed Noah, “as she will be able to do a good deal, I should like to take something very light.”

“A little fancy work?” suggested Fagin.

“Ah! something of that sort,” replied Noah. “What do you think would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, you know. That’s the sort of thing!”

“I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear,” said Fagin. “My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much.”

“Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn’t mind turning my hand to it sometimes,” rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; “but it wouldn’t pay by itself, you know.”

“That’s true!” observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate. “No, it might not.”

“What do you think, then?” asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. “Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being at home.”

“What do you think of the old ladies?” asked Fagin. “There’s a good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner.”

“Don’t they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?” asked Noah, shaking his head. “I don’t think that would answer my purpose. Ain’t there any other line open?”

“Stop!” said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah’s knee. “The kinchin lay.”

“What’s that?” demanded Mr. Claypole.

“The kinchins, my dear,” said Fagin, “is the young children that’s sent on errands by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the lay is just to take their money away—they’ve always got it ready in their hands,—then knock ’em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there were nothing else the matter but a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!”

“Ha! ha!” roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy. “Lord, that’s the very thing!”

“To be sure it is,” replied Fagin; “and you can have a few good beats chalked out in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and neighborhoods like that, where they’re always going errands; and you can upset as many kinchins as you want, any hour in the day. Ha! ha! ha!”

With this, Fagin poked Mr. Claypole in the side, and they joined in a burst of laughter both long and loud.

“Well, that’s all right!” said Noah, when he had recovered himself, and Charlotte had returned. “What time tomorrow shall we say?”

“Will ten do?” asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded assent, “What name shall I tell my good friend.”

“Mr. Bolter,” replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such emergency. “Mr. Morris Bolter. This is Mrs. Bolter.”

“Mrs. Bolter’s humble servant,” said Fagin, bowing with grotesque politeness. “I hope I shall know her better very shortly.”

“Do you hear the gentleman, Charlotte?” thundered Mr. Claypole.

“Yes, Noah, dear!” replied Mrs. Bolter, extending her hand.

“She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking,” said Mr. Morris Bolter, late Claypole, turning to Fagin. “You understand?”

“Oh yes, I understand—perfectly,” replied Fagin, telling the truth for once. “Good-night! Good-night!”

With many adieus and good wishes, Mr. Fagin went his way. Noah Claypole, bespeaking his good lady’s attention, proceeded to enlighten her relative to the arrangement he had made, with all that haughtiness and air of superiority, becoming, not only a member of the sterner sex, but a gentleman who appreciated the dignity of a special appointment on the kinchin lay, in London and its vicinity.

CHAPTER XLIII. WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE ARTFUL DODGER GOT INTO TROUBLE

“And so it was you that was your own friend, was it?” asked Mr. Claypole, otherwise Bolter, when, by virtue of the compact entered into between them, he had removed next day to Fagin’s house. “Cod, I thought as much last night!”

“Every man’s his own friend, my dear,” replied Fagin, with his most insinuating grin. “He hasn’t as good a one as himself anywhere.”

“Except sometimes,” replied Morris Bolter, assuming the air of a man of the world. “Some people are nobody’s enemies but their own, yer know.”

“Don’t believe that,” said Fagin. “When a man’s his own enemy, it’s only because he’s too much his own friend; not because he’s careful for everybody but himself. Pooh! pooh! There ain’t such a thing in nature.”

“There oughn’t to be, if there is,” replied Mr. Bolter.

“That stands to reason. Some conjurers say that number three is the magic number, and some say number seven. It’s neither, my friend, neither. It’s number one.”

“Ha! ha!” cried Mr. Bolter. “Number one for ever.”

“In a little community like ours, my dear,” said Fagin, who felt it necessary to qualify this position, “we have a general number one, without considering me too as the same, and all the other young people.”

“Oh, the devil!” exclaimed Mr. Bolter.

“You see,” pursued Fagin, affecting to disregard this interruption, “we are so mixed up together, and identified in our interests, that it must be so. For instance, it’s your object to take care of number one—meaning yourself.”

“Certainly,” replied Mr. Bolter. “Yer about right there.”

“Well! You can’t take care of yourself, number one, without taking care of me, number one.”

“Number two, you mean,” said Mr. Bolter, who was largely endowed with the quality of selfishness.

“No, I don’t!” retorted Fagin. “I’m of the same importance to you, as you are to yourself.”

“I say,” interrupted Mr. Bolter, “yer a very nice man, and I’m very fond of yer; but we ain’t quite so thick together, as all that comes to.”

“Only think,” said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders, and stretching out his hands; “only consider. You’ve done what’s a very pretty thing, and what I love you for doing; but what at the same time would put the cravat round your throat, that’s so very easily tied and so very difficult to unloose—in plain English, the halter!”

Mr. Bolter put his hand to his neckerchief, as if he felt it inconveniently tight; and murmured an assent, qualified in tone but not in substance.

“The gallows,” continued Fagin, “the gallows, my dear, is an ugly finger-post, which points out a very short and sharp turning that has stopped many a bold fellow’s career on the broad highway. To keep in the easy road, and keep it at a distance, is object number one with you.”

“Of course it is,” replied Mr. Bolter. “What do yer talk about such things for?”

“Only to show you my meaning clearly,” said the Jew, raising his eyebrows. “To be able to do that, you depend upon me. To keep my little business all snug, I depend upon you. The first is your number one, the second my number one. The more you value your number one, the more careful you must be of mine; so we come at last to what I told you at first—that a regard for number one holds us all together, and must do so, unless we would all go to pieces in company.”

“That’s true,” rejoined Mr. Bolter, thoughtfully. “Oh! yer a cunning old codger!”

Mr. Fagin saw, with delight, that this tribute to his powers was no mere compliment, but that he had really impressed his recruit with a sense of his wily genius, which it was most important that he should entertain in the outset of their acquaintance. To strengthen an impression so desirable and useful, he followed up the blow by acquainting him, in some detail, with the magnitude and extent of his operations; blending truth and fiction together, as best served his purpose; and bringing both to bear, with so much art, that Mr. Bolter’s respect visibly increased, and became tempered, at the same time, with a degree of wholesome fear, which it was highly desirable to awaken.

“It’s this mutual trust we have in each other that consoles me under heavy losses,” said Fagin. “My best hand was taken from me, yesterday morning.”

“You don’t mean to say he died?” cried Mr. Bolter.

“No, no,” replied Fagin, “not so bad as that. Not quite so bad.”

“What, I suppose he was—”

“Wanted,” interposed Fagin. “Yes, he was wanted.”

“Very particular?” inquired Mr. Bolter.

“No,” replied Fagin, “not very. He was charged with attempting to pick a pocket, and they found a silver snuff-box on him,—his own, my dear, his own, for he took snuff himself, and was very fond of it. They remanded him till today, for they thought they knew the owner. Ah! he was worth fifty boxes, and I’d give the price of as many to have him back. You should have known the Dodger, my dear; you should have known the Dodger.”

“Well, but I shall know him, I hope; don’t yer think so?” said Mr. Bolter.

“I’m doubtful about it,” replied Fagin, with a sigh. “If they don’t get any fresh evidence, it’ll only be a summary conviction, and we shall have him back again after six weeks or so; but, if they do, it’s a case of lagging. They know what a clever lad he is; he’ll be a lifer. They’ll make the Artful nothing less than a lifer.”

“What do you mean by lagging and a lifer?” demanded Mr. Bolter. “What’s the good of talking in that way to me; why don’t yer speak so as I can understand yer?”

Fagin was about to translate these mysterious expressions into the vulgar tongue; and, being interpreted, Mr. Bolter would have been informed that they represented that combination of words, “transportation for life,” when the dialogue was cut short by the entry of Master Bates, with his hands in his breeches-pockets, and his face twisted into a look of semi-comical woe.

“It’s all up, Fagin,” said Charley, when he and his new companion had been made known to each other.

“What do you mean?”

“They’ve found the gentleman as owns the box; two or three more’s a coming to ’dentify him; and the Artful’s booked for a passage out,” replied Master Bates. “I must have a full suit of mourning, Fagin, and a hatband, to wisit him in, afore he sets out upon his travels. To think of Jack Dawkins—lummy Jack—the Dodger—the Artful Dodger—going abroad for a common twopenny-halfpenny sneeze-box! I never thought he’d a done it under a gold watch, chain, and seals, at the lowest. Oh, why didn’t he rob some rich old gentleman of all his walables, and go out as a gentleman, and not like a common prig, without no honour nor glory!”

With this expression of feeling for his unfortunate friend, Master Bates sat himself on the nearest chair with an aspect of chagrin and despondency.

“What do you talk about his having neither honour nor glory for!” exclaimed Fagin, darting an angry look at his pupil. “Wasn’t he always the top-sawyer among you all! Is there one of you that could touch him or come near him on any scent! Eh?”

“Not one,” replied Master Bates, in a voice rendered husky by regret; “not one.”

“Then what do you talk of?” replied Fagin angrily; “what are you blubbering for?”

“’Cause it isn’t on the rec-ord, is it?” said Charley, chafed into perfect defiance of his venerable friend by the current of his regrets; “’cause it can’t come out in the ’dictment; ’cause nobody will never know half of what he was. How will he stand in the Newgate Calendar? P’raps not be there at all. Oh, my eye, my eye, wot a blow it is!”

“Ha! ha!” cried Fagin, extending his right hand, and turning to Mr. Bolter in a fit of chuckling which shook him as though he had the palsy; “see what a pride they take in their profession, my dear. Ain’t it beautiful?”

Mr. Bolter nodded assent, and Fagin, after contemplating the grief of Charley Bates for some seconds with evident satisfaction, stepped up to that young gentleman and patted him on the shoulder.

“Never mind, Charley,” said Fagin soothingly; “it’ll come out, it’ll be sure to come out. They’ll all know what a clever fellow he was; he’ll show it himself, and not disgrace his old pals and teachers. Think how young he is too! What a distinction, Charley, to be lagged at his time of life!”

“Well, it is a honour that is!” said Charley, a little consoled.

“He shall have all he wants,” continued the Jew. “He shall be kept in the Stone Jug, Charley, like a gentleman. Like a gentleman! With his beer every day, and money in his pocket to pitch and toss with, if he can’t spend it.”

“No, shall he though?” cried Charley Bates.

“Ay, that he shall,” replied Fagin, “and we’ll have a big-wig, Charley: one that’s got the greatest gift of the gab: to carry on his defence; and he shall make a speech for himself too, if he likes; and we’ll read it all in the papers—‘Artful Dodger—shrieks of laughter—here the court was convulsed’—eh, Charley, eh?”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Master Bates, “what a lark that would be, wouldn’t it, Fagin? I say, how the Artful would bother ’em wouldn’t he?”

“Would!” cried Fagin. “He shall—he will!”

“Ah, to be sure, so he will,” repeated Charley, rubbing his hands.

“I think I see him now,” cried the Jew, bending his eyes upon his pupil.

“So do I,” cried Charley Bates. “Ha! ha! ha! so do I. I see it all afore me, upon my soul I do, Fagin. What a game! What a regular game! All the big-wigs trying to look solemn, and Jack Dawkins addressing of ’em as intimate and comfortable as if he was the judge’s own son making a speech arter dinner—ha! ha! ha!”

In fact, Mr. Fagin had so well humoured his young friend’s eccentric disposition, that Master Bates, who had at first been disposed to consider the imprisoned Dodger rather in the light of a victim, now looked upon him as the chief actor in a scene of most uncommon and exquisite humour, and felt quite impatient for the arrival of the time when his old companion should have so favourable an opportunity of displaying his abilities.

“We must know how he gets on today, by some handy means or other,” said Fagin. “Let me think.”

“Shall I go?” asked Charley.

“Not for the world,” replied Fagin. “Are you mad, my dear, stark mad, that you’d walk into the very place where—No, Charley, no. One is enough to lose at a time.”

“You don’t mean to go yourself, I suppose?” said Charley with a humorous leer.

“That wouldn’t quite fit,” replied Fagin shaking his head.

“Then why don’t you send this new cove?” asked Master Bates, laying his hand on Noah’s arm. “Nobody knows him.”

“Why, if he didn’t mind—” observed Fagin.

“Mind!” interposed Charley. “What should he have to mind?”

“Really nothing, my dear,” said Fagin, turning to Mr. Bolter, “really nothing.”

“Oh, I dare say about that, yer know,” observed Noah, backing towards the door, and shaking his head with a kind of sober alarm. “No, no—none of that. It’s not in my department, that ain’t.”

“Wot department has he got, Fagin?” inquired Master Bates, surveying Noah’s lank form with much disgust. “The cutting away when there’s anything wrong, and the eating all the wittles when there’s everything right; is that his branch?”

“Never mind,” retorted Mr. Bolter; “and don’t yer take liberties with yer superiors, little boy, or yer’ll find yerself in the wrong shop.”

Master Bates laughed so vehemently at this magnificent threat, that it was some time before Fagin could interpose, and represent to Mr. Bolter that he incurred no possible danger in visiting the police-office; that, inasmuch as no account of the little affair in which he had engaged, nor any description of his person, had yet been forwarded to the metropolis, it was very probable that he was not even suspected of having resorted to it for shelter; and that, if he were properly disguised, it would be as safe a spot for him to visit as any in London, inasmuch as it would be, of all places, the very last, to which he could be supposed likely to resort of his own free will.

Persuaded, in part, by these representations, but overborne in a much greater degree by his fear of Fagin, Mr. Bolter at length consented, with a very bad grace, to undertake the expedition. By Fagin’s directions, he immediately substituted for his own attire, a waggoner’s frock, velveteen breeches, and leather leggings: all of which articles the Jew had at hand. He was likewise furnished with a felt hat well garnished with turnpike tickets; and a carter’s whip. Thus equipped, he was to saunter into the office, as some country fellow from Covent Garden market might be supposed to do for the gratification of his curiousity; and as he was as awkward, ungainly, and raw-boned a fellow as need be, Mr. Fagin had no fear but that he would look the part to perfection.

These arrangements completed, he was informed of the necessary signs and tokens by which to recognise the Artful Dodger, and was conveyed by Master Bates through dark and winding ways to within a very short distance of Bow Street. Having described the precise situation of the office, and accompanied it with copious directions how he was to walk straight up the passage, and when he got into the side, and pull off his hat as he went into the room, Charley Bates bade him hurry on alone, and promised to bide his return on the spot of their parting.

Noah Claypole, or Morris Bolter as the reader pleases, punctually followed the directions he had received, which—Master Bates being pretty well acquainted with the locality—were so exact that he was enabled to gain the magisterial presence without asking any question, or meeting with any interruption by the way.

He found himself jostled among a crowd of people, chiefly women, who were huddled together in a dirty frowsy room, at the upper end of which was a raised platform railed off from the rest, with a dock for the prisoners on the left hand against the wall, a box for the witnesses in the middle, and a desk for the magistrates on the right; the awful locality last named, being screened off by a partition which concealed the bench from the common gaze, and left the vulgar to imagine (if they could) the full majesty of justice.

There were only a couple of women in the dock, who were nodding to their admiring friends, while the clerk read some depositions to a couple of policemen and a man in plain clothes who leant over the table. A jailer stood reclining against the dock-rail, tapping his nose listlessly with a large key, except when he repressed an undue tendency to conversation among the idlers, by proclaiming silence; or looked sternly up to bid some woman “Take that baby out,” when the gravity of justice was disturbed by feeble cries, half-smothered in the mother’s shawl, from some meagre infant. The room smelt close and unwholesome; the walls were dirt-discoloured; and the ceiling blackened. There was an old smoky bust over the mantel-shelf, and a dusty clock above the dock—the only thing present, that seemed to go on as it ought; for depravity, or poverty, or an habitual acquaintance with both, had left a taint on all the animate matter, hardly less unpleasant than the thick greasy scum on every inanimate object that frowned upon it.

Noah looked eagerly about him for the Dodger; but although there were several women who would have done very well for that distinguished character’s mother or sister, and more than one man who might be supposed to bear a strong resemblance to his father, nobody at all answering the description given him of Mr. Dawkins was to be seen. He waited in a state of much suspense and uncertainty until the women, being committed for trial, went flaunting out; and then was quickly relieved by the appearance of another prisoner who he felt at once could be no other than the object of his visit.

It was indeed Mr. Dawkins, who, shuffling into the office with the big coat sleeves tucked up as usual, his left hand in his pocket, and his hat in his right hand, preceded the jailer, with a rolling gait altogether indescribable, and, taking his place in the dock, requested in an audible voice to know what he was placed in that ’ere disgraceful sitivation for.

“Hold your tongue, will you?” said the jailer.

“I’m an Englishman, ain’t I?” rejoined the Dodger. “Where are my priwileges?”

“You’ll get your privileges soon enough,” retorted the jailer, “and pepper with ’em.”

“We’ll see wot the Secretary of State for the Home Affairs has got to say to the beaks, if I don’t,” replied Mr. Dawkins. “Now then! Wot is this here business? I shall thank the madg’strates to dispose of this here little affair, and not to keep me while they read the paper, for I’ve got an appointment with a genelman in the City, and as I am a man of my word and wery punctual in business matters, he’ll go away if I ain’t there to my time, and then pr’aps ther won’t be an action for damage against them as kep me away. Oh no, certainly not!”

At this point, the Dodger, with a show of being very particular with a view to proceedings to be had thereafter, desired the jailer to communicate “the names of them two files as was on the bench.” Which so tickled the spectators, that they laughed almost as heartily as Master Bates could have done if he had heard the request.

“Silence there!” cried the jailer.

“What is this?” inquired one of the magistrates.

“A pick-pocketing case, your worship.”

“Has the boy ever been here before?”

“He ought to have been, a many times,” replied the jailer. “He has been pretty well everywhere else. I know him well, your worship.”

“Oh! you know me, do you?” cried the Artful, making a note of the statement. “Wery good. That’s a case of deformation of character, any way.”

Here there was another laugh, and another cry of silence.

“Now then, where are the witnesses?” said the clerk.

“Ah! that’s right,” added the Dodger. “Where are they? I should like to see ’em.”

This wish was immediately gratified, for a policeman stepped forward who had seen the prisoner attempt the pocket of an unknown gentleman in a crowd, and indeed take a handkerchief therefrom, which, being a very old one, he deliberately put back again, after trying it on his own countenance. For this reason, he took the Dodger into custody as soon as he could get near him, and the said Dodger, being searched, had upon his person a silver snuff-box, with the owner’s name engraved upon the lid. This gentleman had been discovered on reference to the Court Guide, and being then and there present, swore that the snuff-box was his, and that he had missed it on the previous day, the moment he had disengaged himself from the crowd before referred to. He had also remarked a young gentleman in the throng, particularly active in making his way about, and that young gentleman was the prisoner before him.

“Have you anything to ask this witness, boy?” said the magistrate.

“I wouldn’t abase myself by descending to hold no conversation with him,” replied the Dodger.

“Have you anything to say at all?”

“Do you hear his worship ask if you’ve anything to say?” inquired the jailer, nudging the silent Dodger with his elbow.

“I beg your pardon,” said the Dodger, looking up with an air of abstraction. “Did you redress yourself to me, my man?”

“I never see such an out-and-out young wagabond, your worship,” observed the officer with a grin. “Do you mean to say anything, you young shaver?”

“No,” replied the Dodger, “not here, for this ain’t the shop for justice: besides which, my attorney is a-breakfasting this morning with the Wice President of the House of Commons; but I shall have something to say elsewhere, and so will he, and so will a wery numerous and ’spectable circle of acquaintance as’ll make them beaks wish they’d never been born, or that they’d got their footmen to hang ’em up to their own hat-pegs, afore they let ’em come out this morning to try it on upon me. I’ll—”

“There! He’s fully committed!” interposed the clerk. “Take him away.”

“Come on,” said the jailer.

“Oh ah! I’ll come on,” replied the Dodger, brushing his hat with the palm of his hand. “Ah! (to the Bench) it’s no use your looking frightened; I won’t show you no mercy, not a ha’porth of it. You’ll pay for this, my fine fellers. I wouldn’t be you for something! I wouldn’t go free, now, if you was to fall down on your knees and ask me. Here, carry me off to prison! Take me away!”

With these last words, the Dodger suffered himself to be led off by the collar; threatening, till he got into the yard, to make a parliamentary business of it; and then grinning in the officer’s face, with great glee and self-approval.

Having seen him locked up by himself in a little cell, Noah made the best of his way back to where he had left Master Bates. After waiting here some time, he was joined by that young gentleman, who had prudently abstained from showing himself until he had looked carefully abroad from a snug retreat, and ascertained that his new friend had not been followed by any impertinent person.

The two hastened back together, to bear to Mr. Fagin the animating news that the Dodger was doing full justice to his bringing-up, and establishing for himself a glorious reputation.

CHAPTER XLIV. THE TIME ARRIVES FOR NANCY TO REDEEM HER PLEDGE TO ROSE MAYLIE. SHE FAILS.

Adept as she was, in all the arts of cunning and dissimulation, the girl Nancy could not wholly conceal the effect which the knowledge of the step she had taken, wrought upon her mind. She remembered that both the crafty Jew and the brutal Sikes had confided to her schemes, which had been hidden from all others: in the full confidence that she was trustworthy and beyond the reach of their suspicion. Vile as those schemes were, desperate as were their originators, and bitter as were her feelings towards Fagin, who had led her, step by step, deeper and deeper down into an abyss of crime and misery, whence was no escape; still, there were times when, even towards him, she felt some relenting, lest her disclosure should bring him within the iron grasp he had so long eluded, and he should fall at last—richly as he merited such a fate—by her hand.

But, these were the mere wanderings of a mind unable wholly to detach itself from old companions and associations, though enabled to fix itself steadily on one object, and resolved not to be turned aside by any consideration. Her fears for Sikes would have been more powerful inducements to recoil while there was yet time; but she had stipulated that her secret should be rigidly kept, she had dropped no clue which could lead to his discovery, she had refused, even for his sake, a refuge from all the guilt and wretchedness that encompasses her—and what more could she do! She was resolved.

Though all her mental struggles terminated in this conclusion, they forced themselves upon her, again and again, and left their traces too. She grew pale and thin, even within a few days. At times, she took no heed of what was passing before her, or no part in conversations where once, she would have been the loudest. At other times, she laughed without merriment, and was noisy without a moment afterwards—she sat silent and dejected, brooding with her head upon her hands, while the very effort by which she roused herself, told, more forcibly than even these indications, that she was ill at ease, and that her thoughts were occupied with matters very different and distant from those in the course of discussion by her companions.

It was Sunday night, and the bell of the nearest church struck the hour. Sikes and the Jew were talking, but they paused to listen. The girl looked up from the low seat on which she crouched, and listened too. Eleven.

“An hour this side of midnight,” said Sikes, raising the blind to look out and returning to his seat. “Dark and heavy it is too. A good night for business this.”

“Ah!” replied Fagin. “What a pity, Bill, my dear, that there’s none quite ready to be done.”

“You’re right for once,” replied Sikes gruffly. “It is a pity, for I’m in the humour too.”

Fagin sighed, and shook his head despondingly.

“We must make up for lost time when we’ve got things into a good train. That’s all I know,” said Sikes.

“That’s the way to talk, my dear,” replied Fagin, venturing to pat him on the shoulder. “It does me good to hear you.”

“Does you good, does it!” cried Sikes. “Well, so be it.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Fagin, as if he were relieved by even this concession. “You’re like yourself tonight, Bill. Quite like yourself.”

“I don’t feel like myself when you lay that withered old claw on my shoulder, so take it away,” said Sikes, casting off the Jew’s hand.

“It make you nervous, Bill,—reminds you of being nabbed, does it?” said Fagin, determined not to be offended.

“Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil,” returned Sikes. “There never was another man with such a face as yours, unless it was your father, and I suppose he is singeing his grizzled red beard by this time, unless you came straight from the old ’un without any father at all betwixt you; which I shouldn’t wonder at, a bit.”

Fagin offered no reply to this compliment: but, pulling Sikes by the sleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room.

“Hallo!” cried Sikes. “Nance. Where’s the gal going to at this time of night?”

“Not far.”

“What answer’s that?” retorted Sikes. “Do you hear me?”

“I don’t know where,” replied the girl.

“Then I do,” said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. “Nowhere. Sit down.”

“I’m not well. I told you that before,” rejoined the girl. “I want a breath of air.”

“Put your head out of the winder,” replied Sikes.

“There’s not enough there,” said the girl. “I want it in the street.”

“Then you won’t have it,” replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press. “There,” said the robber. “Now stop quietly where you are, will you?”

“It’s not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me,” said the girl turning very pale. “What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Know what I’m—Oh!” cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, “she’s out of her senses, you know, or she daren’t talk to me in that way.”

“You’ll drive me on the something desperate,” muttered the girl placing both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. “Let me go, will you,—this minute—this instant.”

“No!” said Sikes.

“Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It’ll be better for him. Do you hear me?” cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground.

“Hear you!” repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her. “Aye! And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a grip on your throat as’ll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has come over you, you jade! Wot is it?”

“Let me go,” said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself down on the floor, before the door, she said, “Bill, let me go; you don’t know what you are doing. You don’t, indeed. For only one hour—do—do!”

“Cut my limbs off one by one!” cried Sikes, seizing her roughly by the arm, “If I don’t think the gal’s stark raving mad. Get up.”

“Not till you let me go—not till you let me go—Never—never!” screamed the girl. Sikes looked on, for a minute, watching his opportunity, and suddenly pinioning her hands dragged her, struggling and wrestling with him by the way, into a small room adjoining, where he sat himself on a bench, and thrusting her into a chair, held her down by force. She struggled and implored by turns until twelve o’clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest the point any further. With a caution, backed by many oaths, to make no more efforts to go out that night, Sikes left her to recover at leisure and rejoined Fagin.

“Whew!” said the housebreaker wiping the perspiration from his face. “Wot a precious strange gal that is!”

“You may say that, Bill,” replied Fagin thoughtfully. “You may say that.”

“Wot did she take it into her head to go out tonight for, do you think?” asked Sikes. “Come; you should know her better than me. Wot does it mean?”

“Obstinacy; woman’s obstinacy, I suppose, my dear.”

“Well, I suppose it is,” growled Sikes. “I thought I had tamed her, but she’s as bad as ever.”

“Worse,” said Fagin thoughtfully. “I never knew her like this, for such a little cause.”

“Nor I,” said Sikes. “I think she’s got a touch of that fever in her blood yet, and it won’t come out—eh?”

“Like enough.”

“I’ll let her a little blood, without troubling the doctor, if she’s took that way again,” said Sikes.

Fagin nodded an expressive approval of this mode of treatment.

“She was hanging about me all day, and night too, when I was stretched on my back; and you, like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept yourself aloof,” said Sikes. “We was poor too, all the time, and I think, one way or other, it’s worried and fretted her; and that being shut up here so long has made her restless—eh?”

“That’s it, my dear,” replied the Jew in a whisper. “Hush!”

As he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared and resumed her former seat. Her eyes were swollen and red; she rocked herself to and fro; tossed her head; and, after a little time, burst out laughing.

“Why, now she’s on the other tack!” exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of excessive surprise on his companion.

Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.

“Light him down,” said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. “It’s a pity he should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light.”

Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the girl, said, in a whisper.

“What is it, Nancy, dear?”

“What do you mean?” replied the girl, in the same tone.

“The reason of all this,” replied Fagin. “If he”—he pointed with his skinny fore-finger up the stairs—“is so hard with you (he’s a brute, Nance, a brute-beast), why don’t you—”

“Well?” said the girl, as Fagin paused, with his mouth almost touching her ear, and his eyes looking into hers.

“No matter just now. We’ll talk of this again. You have a friend in me, Nance; a staunch friend. I have the means at hand, quiet and close. If you want revenge on those that treat you like a dog—like a dog! worse than his dog, for he humours him sometimes—come to me. I say, come to me. He is the mere hound of a day, but you know me of old, Nance.”

“I know you well,” replied the girl, without manifesting the least emotion. “Good-night.”

She shrank back, as Fagin offered to lay his hand on hers, but said good-night again, in a steady voice, and, answering his parting look with a nod of intelligence, closed the door between them.

Fagin walked towards his home, intent upon the thoughts that were working within his brain. He had conceived the idea—not from what had just passed though that had tended to confirm him, but slowly and by degrees—that Nancy, wearied of the housebreaker’s brutality, had conceived an attachment for some new friend. Her altered manner, her repeated absences from home alone, her comparative indifference to the interests of the gang for which she had once been so zealous, and, added to these, her desperate impatience to leave home that night at a particular hour, all favoured the supposition, and rendered it, to him at least, almost matter of certainty. The object of this new liking was not among his myrmidons. He would be a valuable acquisition with such an assistant as Nancy, and must (thus Fagin argued) be secured without delay.

There was another, and a darker object, to be gained. Sikes knew too much, and his ruffian taunts had not galled Fagin the less, because the wounds were hidden. The girl must know, well, that if she shook him off, she could never be safe from his fury, and that it would be surely wreaked—to the maiming of limbs, or perhaps the loss of life—on the object of her more recent fancy.

“With a little persuasion,” thought Fagin, “what more likely than that she would consent to poison him? Women have done such things, and worse, to secure the same object before now. There would be the dangerous villain: the man I hate: gone; another secured in his place; and my influence over the girl, with a knowledge of this crime to back it, unlimited.”

These things passed through the mind of Fagin, during the short time he sat alone, in the housebreaker’s room; and with them uppermost in his thoughts, he had taken the opportunity afterwards afforded him, of sounding the girl in the broken hints he threw out at parting. There was no expression of surprise, no assumption of an inability to understand his meaning. The girl clearly comprehended it. Her glance at parting showed that.

But perhaps she would recoil from a plot to take the life of Sikes, and that was one of the chief ends to be attained. “How,” thought Fagin, as he crept homeward, “can I increase my influence with her? What new power can I acquire?”

Such brains are fertile in expedients. If, without extracting a confession from herself, he laid a watch, discovered the object of her altered regard, and threatened to reveal the whole history to Sikes (of whom she stood in no common fear) unless she entered into his designs, could he not secure her compliance?

“I can,” said Fagin, almost aloud. “She durst not refuse me then. Not for her life, not for her life! I have it all. The means are ready, and shall be set to work. I shall have you yet!”

He cast back a dark look, and a threatening motion of the hand, towards the spot where he had left the bolder villain; and went on his way: busying his bony hands in the folds of his tattered garment, which he wrenched tightly in his grasp, as though there were a hated enemy crushed with every motion of his fingers.

CHAPTER XLV. NOAH CLAYPOLE IS EMPLOYED BY FAGIN ON A SECRET MISSION

The old man was up, betimes, next morning, and waited impatiently for the appearance of his new associate, who after a delay that seemed interminable, at length presented himself, and commenced a voracious assault on the breakfast.

“Bolter,” said Fagin, drawing up a chair and seating himself opposite Morris Bolter.

“Well, here I am,” returned Noah. “What’s the matter? Don’t yer ask me to do anything till I have done eating. That’s a great fault in this place. Yer never get time enough over yer meals.”

“You can talk as you eat, can’t you?” said Fagin, cursing his dear young friend’s greediness from the very bottom of his heart.

“Oh yes, I can talk. I get on better when I talk,” said Noah, cutting a monstrous slice of bread. “Where’s Charlotte?”

“Out,” said Fagin. “I sent her out this morning with the other young woman, because I wanted us to be alone.”

“Oh!” said Noah. “I wish yer’d ordered her to make some buttered toast first. Well. Talk away. Yer won’t interrupt me.”

There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he had evidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of business.

“You did well yesterday, my dear,” said Fagin. “Beautiful! Six shillings and ninepence halfpenny on the very first day! The kinchin lay will be a fortune to you.”

“Don’t you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can,” said Mr. Bolter.

“No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the milk-can was a perfect masterpiece.”

“Pretty well, I think, for a beginner,” remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. “The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!”

Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his laugh out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second.

“I want you, Bolter,” said Fagin, leaning over the table, “to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution.”

“I say,” rejoined Bolter, “don’t yer go shoving me into danger, or sending me any more o’ yer police-offices. That don’t suit me, that don’t; and so I tell yer.”

“That’s not the smallest danger in it—not the very smallest,” said the Jew; “it’s only to dodge a woman.”

“An old woman?” demanded Mr. Bolter.

“A young one,” replied Fagin.

“I can do that pretty well, I know,” said Bolter. “I was a regular cunning sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to—”

“Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, if possible, what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street, or the house, if it is a house; and to bring me back all the information you can.”

“What’ll yer give me?” asked Noah, setting down his cup, and looking his employer, eagerly, in the face.

“If you do it well, a pound, my dear. One pound,” said Fagin, wishing to interest him in the scent as much as possible. “And that’s what I never gave yet, for any job of work where there wasn’t valuable consideration to be gained.”

“Who is she?” inquired Noah.

“One of us.”

“Oh Lor!” cried Noah, curling up his nose. “Yer doubtful of her, are yer?”

“She has found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they are,” replied Fagin.

“I see,” said Noah. “Just to have the pleasure of knowing them, if they’re respectable people, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I’m your man.”

“I knew you would be,” cried Fagin, elated by the success of his proposal.

“Of course, of course,” replied Noah. “Where is she? Where am I to wait for her? Where am I to go?”

“All that, my dear, you shall hear from me. I’ll point her out at the proper time,” said Fagin. “You keep ready, and leave the rest to me.”

That night, and the next, and the next again, the spy sat booted and equipped in his carter’s dress: ready to turn out at a word from Fagin. Six nights passed—six long weary nights—and on each, Fagin came home with a disappointed face, and briefly intimated that it was not yet time. On the seventh, he returned earlier, and with an exultation he could not conceal. It was Sunday.

“She goes abroad tonight,” said Fagin, “and on the right errand, I’m sure; for she has been alone all day, and the man she is afraid of will not be back much before daybreak. Come with me. Quick!”

Noah started up without saying a word; for the Jew was in a state of such intense excitement that it infected him. They left the house stealthily, and hurrying through a labyrinth of streets, arrived at length before a public-house, which Noah recognised as the same in which he had slept, on the night of his arrival in London.

It was past eleven o’clock, and the door was closed. It opened softly on its hinges as Fagin gave a low whistle. They entered, without noise; and the door was closed behind them.

Scarcely venturing to whisper, but substituting dumb show for words, Fagin, and the young Jew who had admitted them, pointed out the pane of glass to Noah, and signed to him to climb up and observe the person in the adjoining room.

“Is that the woman?” he asked, scarcely above his breath.

Fagin nodded yes.

“I can’t see her face well,” whispered Noah. “She is looking down, and the candle is behind her.”

“Stay there,” whispered Fagin. He signed to Barney, who withdrew. In an instant, the lad entered the room adjoining, and, under pretence of snuffing the candle, moved it in the required position, and, speaking to the girl, caused her to raise her face.

“I see her now,” cried the spy.

“Plainly?”

“I should know her among a thousand.”

He hastily descended, as the room-door opened, and the girl came out. Fagin drew him behind a small partition which was curtained off, and they held their breaths as she passed within a few feet of their place of concealment, and emerged by the door at which they had entered.

“Hist!” cried the lad who held the door. “Dow.”

Noah exchanged a look with Fagin, and darted out.

“To the left,” whispered the lad; “take the left had, and keep od the other side.”

He did so; and, by the light of the lamps, saw the girl’s retreating figure, already at some distance before him. He advanced as near as he considered prudent, and kept on the opposite side of the street, the better to observe her motions. She looked nervously round, twice or thrice, and once stopped to let two men who were following close behind her, pass on. She seemed to gather courage as she advanced, and to walk with a steadier and firmer step. The spy preserved the same relative distance between them, and followed: with his eye upon her.

CHAPTER XLVI. THE APPOINTMENT KEPT

The church clocks chimed three quarters past eleven, as two figures emerged on London Bridge. One, which advanced with a swift and rapid step, was that of a woman who looked eagerly about her as though in quest of some expected object; the other figure was that of a man, who slunk along in the deepest shadow he could find, and, at some distance, accommodated his pace to hers: stopping when she stopped: and as she moved again, creeping stealthily on: but never allowing himself, in the ardour of his pursuit, to gain upon her footsteps. Thus, they crossed the bridge, from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore, when the woman, apparently disappointed in her anxious scrutiny of the foot-passengers, turned back. The movement was sudden; but he who watched her, was not thrown off his guard by it; for, shrinking into one of the recesses which surmount the piers of the bridge, and leaning over the parapet the better to conceal his figure, he suffered her to pass on the opposite pavement. When she was about the same distance in advance as she had been before, he slipped quietly down, and followed her again. At nearly the centre of the bridge, she stopped. The man stopped too.

It was a very dark night. The day had been unfavourable, and at that hour and place there were few people stirring. Such as there were, hurried quickly past: very possibly without seeing, but certainly without noticing, either the woman, or the man who kept her in view. Their appearance was not calculated to attract the importunate regards of such of London’s destitute population, as chanced to take their way over the bridge that night in search of some cold arch or doorless hovel wherein to lay their heads; they stood there in silence: neither speaking nor spoken to, by any one who passed.

A mist hung over the river, deepening the red glare of the fires that burnt upon the small craft moored off the different wharfs, and rendering darker and more indistinct the murky buildings on the banks. The old smoke-stained storehouses on either side, rose heavy and dull from the dense mass of roofs and gables, and frowned sternly upon water too black to reflect even their lumbering shapes. The tower of old Saint Saviour’s Church, and the spire of Saint Magnus, so long the giant-warders of the ancient bridge, were visible in the gloom; but the forest of shipping below bridge, and the thickly scattered spires of churches above, were nearly all hidden from sight.

The girl had taken a few restless turns to and fro—closely watched meanwhile by her hidden observer—when the heavy bell of St. Paul’s tolled for the death of another day. Midnight had come upon the crowded city. The palace, the night-cellar, the jail, the madhouse: the chambers of birth and death, of health and sickness, the rigid face of the corpse and the calm sleep of the child: midnight was upon them all.

The hour had not struck two minutes, when a young lady, accompanied by a grey-haired gentleman, alighted from a hackney-carriage within a short distance of the bridge, and, having dismissed the vehicle, walked straight towards it. They had scarcely set foot upon its pavement, when the girl started, and immediately made towards them.

They walked onward, looking about them with the air of persons who entertained some very slight expectation which had little chance of being realised, when they were suddenly joined by this new associate. They halted with an exclamation of surprise, but suppressed it immediately; for a man in the garments of a countryman came close up—brushed against them, indeed—at that precise moment.

“Not here,” said Nancy hurriedly, “I am afraid to speak to you here. Come away—out of the public road—down the steps yonder!”

As she uttered these words, and indicated, with her hand, the direction in which she wished them to proceed, the countryman looked round, and roughly asking what they took up the whole pavement for, passed on.

The steps to which the girl had pointed, were those which, on the Surrey bank, and on the same side of the bridge as Saint Saviour’s Church, form a landing-stairs from the river. To this spot, the man bearing the appearance of a countryman, hastened unobserved; and after a moment’s survey of the place, he began to descend.

These stairs are a part of the bridge; they consist of three flights. Just below the end of the second, going down, the stone wall on the left terminates in an ornamental pilaster facing towards the Thames. At this point the lower steps widen: so that a person turning that angle of the wall, is necessarily unseen by any others on the stairs who chance to be above him, if only a step. The countryman looked hastily round, when he reached this point; and as there seemed no better place of concealment, and, the tide being out, there was plenty of room, he slipped aside, with his back to the pilaster, and there waited: pretty certain that they would come no lower, and that even if he could not hear what was said, he could follow them again, with safety.

So tardily stole the time in this lonely place, and so eager was the spy to penetrate the motives of an interview so different from what he had been led to expect, that he more than once gave the matter up for lost, and persuaded himself, either that they had stopped far above, or had resorted to some entirely different spot to hold their mysterious conversation. He was on the point of emerging from his hiding-place, and regaining the road above, when he heard the sound of footsteps, and directly afterwards of voices almost close at his ear.

He drew himself straight upright against the wall, and, scarcely breathing, listened attentively.

“This is far enough,” said a voice, which was evidently that of the gentleman. “I will not suffer the young lady to go any farther. Many people would have distrusted you too much to have come even so far, but you see I am willing to humour you.”

“To humour me!” cried the voice of the girl whom he had followed. “You’re considerate, indeed, sir. To humour me! Well, well, it’s no matter.”

“Why, for what,” said the gentleman in a kinder tone, “for what purpose can you have brought us to this strange place? Why not have let me speak to you, above there, where it is light, and there is something stirring, instead of bringing us to this dark and dismal hole?”

“I told you before,” replied Nancy, “that I was afraid to speak to you there. I don’t know why it is,” said the girl, shuddering, “but I have such a fear and dread upon me tonight that I can hardly stand.”

“A fear of what?” asked the gentleman, who seemed to pity her.

“I scarcely know of what,” replied the girl. “I wish I did. Horrible thoughts of death, and shrouds with blood upon them, and a fear that has made me burn as if I was on fire, have been upon me all day. I was reading a book tonight, to wile the time away, and the same things came into the print.”

“Imagination,” said the gentleman, soothing her.

“No imagination,” replied the girl in a hoarse voice. “I’ll swear I saw ‘coffin’ written in every page of the book in large black letters,—aye, and they carried one close to me, in the streets tonight.”

“There is nothing unusual in that,” said the gentleman. “They have passed me often.”

“Real ones,” rejoined the girl. “This was not.”

There was something so uncommon in her manner, that the flesh of the concealed listener crept as he heard the girl utter these words, and the blood chilled within him. He had never experienced a greater relief than in hearing the sweet voice of the young lady as she begged her to be calm, and not allow herself to become the prey of such fearful fancies.

“Speak to her kindly,” said the young lady to her companion. “Poor creature! She seems to need it.”

“Your haughty religious people would have held their heads up to see me as I am tonight, and preached of flames and vengeance,” cried the girl. “Oh, dear lady, why ar’n’t those who claim to be God’s own folks as gentle and as kind to us poor wretches as you, who, having youth, and beauty, and all that they have lost, might be a little proud instead of so much humbler?”

“Ah!” said the gentleman. “A Turk turns his face, after washing it well, to the East, when he says his prayers; these good people, after giving their faces such a rub against the World as to take the smiles off, turn with no less regularity, to the darkest side of Heaven. Between the Mussulman and the Pharisee, commend me to the first!”

These words appeared to be addressed to the young lady, and were perhaps uttered with the view of affording Nancy time to recover herself. The gentleman, shortly afterwards, addressed himself to her.

“You were not here last Sunday night,” he said.

“I couldn’t come,” replied Nancy; “I was kept by force.”

“By whom?”

“Him that I told the young lady of before.”

“You were not suspected of holding any communication with anybody on the subject which has brought us here tonight, I hope?” asked the old gentleman.

“No,” replied the girl, shaking her head. “It’s not very easy for me to leave him unless he knows why; I couldn’t give him a drink of laudanum before I came away.”

“Did he awake before you returned?” inquired the gentleman.

“No; and neither he nor any of them suspect me.”

“Good,” said the gentleman. “Now listen to me.”

“I am ready,” replied the girl, as he paused for a moment.

“This young lady,” the gentleman began, “has communicated to me, and to some other friends who can be safely trusted, what you told her nearly a fortnight since. I confess to you that I had doubts, at first, whether you were to be implicitly relied upon, but now I firmly believe you are.”

“I am,” said the girl earnestly.

“I repeat that I firmly believe it. To prove to you that I am disposed to trust you, I tell you without reserve, that we propose to extort the secret, whatever it may be, from the fear of this man Monks. But if—if—” said the gentleman, “he cannot be secured, or, if secured, cannot be acted upon as we wish, you must deliver up the Jew.”

“Fagin,” cried the girl, recoiling.

“That man must be delivered up by you,” said the gentleman.

“I will not do it! I will never do it!” replied the girl. “Devil that he is, and worse than devil as he has been to me, I will never do that.”

“You will not?” said the gentleman, who seemed fully prepared for this answer.

“Never!” returned the girl.

“Tell me why?”

“For one reason,” rejoined the girl firmly, “for one reason, that the lady knows and will stand by me in, I know she will, for I have her promise: and for this other reason, besides, that, bad life as he has led, I have led a bad life too; there are many of us who have kept the same courses together, and I’ll not turn upon them, who might—any of them—have turned upon me, but didn’t, bad as they are.”

“Then,” said the gentleman, quickly, as if this had been the point he had been aiming to attain; “put Monks into my hands, and leave him to me to deal with.”

“What if he turns against the others?”

“I promise you that in that case, if the truth is forced from him, there the matter will rest; there must be circumstances in Oliver’s little history which it would be painful to drag before the public eye, and if the truth is once elicited, they shall go scot free.”

“And if it is not?” suggested the girl.

“Then,” pursued the gentleman, “this Fagin shall not be brought to justice without your consent. In such a case I could show you reasons, I think, which would induce you to yield it.”

“Have I the lady’s promise for that?” asked the girl.

“You have,” replied Rose. “My true and faithful pledge.”

“Monks would never learn how you knew what you do?” said the girl, after a short pause.

“Never,” replied the gentleman. “The intelligence should be brought to bear upon him, that he could never even guess.”

“I have been a liar, and among liars from a little child,” said the girl after another interval of silence, “but I will take your words.”

After receiving an assurance from both, that she might safely do so, she proceeded in a voice so low that it was often difficult for the listener to discover even the purport of what she said, to describe, by name and situation, the public-house whence she had been followed that night. From the manner in which she occasionally paused, it appeared as if the gentleman were making some hasty notes of the information she communicated. When she had thoroughly explained the localities of the place, the best position from which to watch it without exciting observation, and the night and hour on which Monks was most in the habit of frequenting it, she seemed to consider for a few moments, for the purpose of recalling his features and appearances more forcibly to her recollection.

“He is tall,” said the girl, “and a strongly made man, but not stout; he has a lurking walk; and as he walks, constantly looks over his shoulder, first on one side, and then on the other. Don’t forget that, for his eyes are sunk in his head so much deeper than any other man’s, that you might almost tell him by that alone. His face is dark, like his hair and eyes; and, although he can’t be more than six or eight and twenty, withered and haggard. His lips are often discoloured and disfigured with the marks of teeth; for he has desperate fits, and sometimes even bites his hands and covers them with wounds—why did you start?” said the girl, stopping suddenly.

The gentleman replied, in a hurried manner, that he was not conscious of having done so, and begged her to proceed.

“Part of this,” said the girl, “I have drawn out from other people at the house I tell you of, for I have only seen him twice, and both times he was covered up in a large cloak. I think that’s all I can give you to know him by. Stay though,” she added. “Upon his throat: so high that you can see a part of it below his neckerchief when he turns his face: there is—”

“A broad red mark, like a burn or scald?” cried the gentleman.

“How’s this?” said the girl. “You know him!”

The young lady uttered a cry of surprise, and for a few moments they were so still that the listener could distinctly hear them breathe.

“I think I do,” said the gentleman, breaking silence. “I should by your description. We shall see. Many people are singularly like each other. It may not be the same.”

As he expressed himself to this effect, with assumed carelessness, he took a step or two nearer the concealed spy, as the latter could tell from the distinctness with which he heard him mutter, “It must be he!”

“Now,” he said, returning: so it seemed by the sound: to the spot where he had stood before, “you have given us most valuable assistance, young woman, and I wish you to be the better for it. What can I do to serve you?”

“Nothing,” replied Nancy.

“You will not persist in saying that,” rejoined the gentleman, with a voice and emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder and more obdurate heart. “Think now. Tell me.”

“Nothing, sir,” rejoined the girl, weeping. “You can do nothing to help me. I am past all hope, indeed.”

“You put yourself beyond its pale,” said the gentleman. “The past has been a dreary waste with you, of youthful energies mis-spent, and such priceless treasures lavished, as the Creator bestows but once and never grants again, but, for the future, you may hope. I do not say that it is in our power to offer you peace of heart and mind, for that must come as you seek it; but a quiet asylum, either in England, or, if you fear to remain here, in some foreign country, it is not only within the compass of our ability but our most anxious wish to secure you. Before the dawn of morning, before this river wakes to the first glimpse of day-light, you shall be placed as entirely beyond the reach of your former associates, and leave as utter an absence of all trace behind you, as if you were to disappear from the earth this moment. Come! I would not have you go back to exchange one word with any old companion, or take one look at any old haunt, or breathe the very air which is pestilence and death to you. Quit them all, while there is time and opportunity!”

“She will be persuaded now,” cried the young lady. “She hesitates, I am sure.”

“I fear not, my dear,” said the gentleman.

“No sir, I do not,” replied the girl, after a short struggle. “I am chained to my old life. I loathe and hate it now, but I cannot leave it. I must have gone too far to turn back,—and yet I don’t know, for if you had spoken to me so, some time ago, I should have laughed it off. But,” she said, looking hastily round, “this fear comes over me again. I must go home.”

“Home!” repeated the young lady, with great stress upon the word.

“Home, lady,” rejoined the girl. “To such a home as I have raised for myself with the work of my whole life. Let us part. I shall be watched or seen. Go! Go! If I have done you any service all I ask is, that you leave me, and let me go my way alone.”

“It is useless,” said the gentleman, with a sigh. “We compromise her safety, perhaps, by staying here. We may have detained her longer than she expected already.”

“Yes, yes,” urged the girl. “You have.”

“What,” cried the young lady, “can be the end of this poor creature’s life!”

“What!” repeated the girl. “Look before you, lady. Look at that dark water. How many times do you read of such as I who spring into the tide, and leave no living thing, to care for, or bewail them. It may be years hence, or it may be only months, but I shall come to that at last.”

“Do not speak thus, pray,” returned the young lady, sobbing.

“It will never reach your ears, dear lady, and God forbid such horrors should!” replied the girl. “Good-night, good-night!”

The gentleman turned away.

“This purse,” cried the young lady. “Take it for my sake, that you may have some resource in an hour of need and trouble.”

“No!” replied the girl. “I have not done this for money. Let me have that to think of. And yet—give me something that you have worn: I should like to have something—no, no, not a ring—your gloves or handkerchief—anything that I can keep, as having belonged to you, sweet lady. There. Bless you! God bless you. Good-night, good-night!”

The violent agitation of the girl, and the apprehension of some discovery which would subject her to ill-usage and violence, seemed to determine the gentleman to leave her, as she requested.

The sound of retreating footsteps were audible and the voices ceased.

The two figures of the young lady and her companion soon afterwards appeared upon the bridge. They stopped at the summit of the stairs.

“Hark!” cried the young lady, listening. “Did she call! I thought I heard her voice.”

“No, my love,” replied Mr. Brownlow, looking sadly back. “She has not moved, and will not till we are gone.”

Rose Maylie lingered, but the old gentleman drew her arm through his, and led her, with gentle force, away. As they disappeared, the girl sunk down nearly at her full length upon one of the stone stairs, and vented the anguish of her heart in bitter tears.

After a time she arose, and with feeble and tottering steps ascended the street. The astonished listener remained motionless on his post for some minutes afterwards, and having ascertained, with many cautious glances round him, that he was again alone, crept slowly from his hiding-place, and returned, stealthily and in the shade of the wall, in the same manner as he had descended.

Peeping out, more than once, when he reached the top, to make sure that he was unobserved, Noah Claypole darted away at his utmost speed, and made for the Jew’s house as fast as his legs would carry him.

CHAPTER XLVII. FATAL CONSEQUENCES

It was nearly two hours before day-break; that time which in the autumn of the year, may be truly called the dead of night; when the streets are silent and deserted; when even sounds appear to slumber, and profligacy and riot have staggered home to dream; it was at this still and silent hour, that Fagin sat watching in his old lair, with face so distorted and pale, and eyes so red and blood-shot, that he looked less like a man, than like some hideous phantom, moist from the grave, and worried by an evil spirit.

He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an old torn coverlet, with his face turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table by his side. His right hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed in thought, he bit his long black nails, he disclosed among his toothless gums a few such fangs as should have been a dog’s or rat’s.

Stretched upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah Claypole, fast asleep. Towards him the old man sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, and then brought them back again to the candle; which with a long-burnt wick drooping almost double, and hot grease falling down in clots upon the table, plainly showed that his thoughts were busy elsewhere.

Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow of his notable scheme; hatred of the girl who had dared to palter with strangers; and utter distrust of the sincerity of her refusal to yield him up; bitter disappointment at the loss of his revenge on Sikes; the fear of detection, and ruin, and death; and a fierce and deadly rage kindled by all; these were the passionate considerations which, following close upon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot through the brain of Fagin, as every evil thought and blackest purpose lay working at his heart.

He sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to take the smallest heed of time, until his quick ear seemed to be attracted by a footstep in the street.

“At last,” he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. “At last!”

The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, and presently returned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a bundle under one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the man displayed the burly frame of Sikes.

“There!” he said, laying the bundle on the table. “Take care of that, and do the most you can with it. It’s been trouble enough to get; I thought I should have been here, three hours ago.”

Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.

“Wot now?” cried Sikes. “Wot do you look at a man so for?”

Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone.

“Damme!” said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. “He’s gone mad. I must look to myself here.”

“No, no,” rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. “It’s not—you’re not the person, Bill. I’ve no—no fault to find with you.”

“Oh, you haven’t, haven’t you?” said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket. “That’s lucky—for one of us. Which one that is, don’t matter.”

“I’ve got that to tell you, Bill,” said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer, “will make you worse than me.”

“Aye?” returned the robber with an incredulous air. “Tell away! Look sharp, or Nance will think I’m lost.”

“Lost!” cried Fagin. “She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind, already.”

Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew’s face, and reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat collar in his huge hand and shook him soundly.

“Speak, will you!” he said; “or if you don’t, it shall be for want of breath. Open your mouth and say wot you’ve got to say in plain words. Out with it, you thundering old cur, out with it!”

“Suppose that lad that’s laying there—” Fagin began.

Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not previously observed him. “Well!” he said, resuming his former position.

“Suppose that lad,” pursued Fagin, “was to peach—to blow upon us all—first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with ’em in the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they might know us by, and the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow upon a plan we’ve all been in, more or less—of his own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and brought to it on bread and water,—but of his own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?” cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. “Suppose he did all this, what then?”

“What then!” replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. “If he was left alive till I came, I’d grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs upon his head.”

“What if I did it!” cried Fagin almost in a yell. “I, that knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!”

“I don’t know,” replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. “I’d do something in the jail that ’ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I’d fall upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength,” muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, “that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it.”

“You would?”

“Would I!” said the housebreaker. “Try me.”

“If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or—”

“I don’t care who,” replied Sikes impatiently. “Whoever it was, I’d serve them the same.”

Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in.

“Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!” said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. “He’s tired—tired with watching for her so long,—watching for her, Bill.”

“Wot d’ye mean?” asked Sikes, drawing back.

Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him.

“Tell me that again—once again, just for him to hear,” said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke.

“Tell yer what?” asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly.

“That about— Nancy,” said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. “You followed her?”

“Yes.”

“To London Bridge?”

“Yes.”

“Where she met two people.”

“So she did.”

“A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did—and to describe him, which she did—and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did—and where it could be best watched from, which she did—and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur—she did—did she not?” cried Fagin, half mad with fury.

“All right,” replied Noah, scratching his head. “That’s just what it was!”

“What did they say, about last Sunday?”

“About last Sunday!” replied Noah, considering. “Why I told yer that before.”

“Again. Tell it again!” cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips.

“They asked her,” said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, “they asked her why she didn’t come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn’t.”

“Why—why? Tell him that.”

“Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before,” replied Noah.

“What more of him?” cried Fagin. “What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that.”

“Why, that she couldn’t very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to,” said Noah; “and so the first time she went to see the lady, she—ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did—she gave him a drink of laudanum.”

“Hell’s fire!” cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. “Let me go!”

Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs.

“Bill, Bill!” cried Fagin, following him hastily. “A word. Only a word.”

The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to open the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when the Jew came panting up.

“Let me out,” said Sikes. “Don’t speak to me; it’s not safe. Let me out, I say!”

“Hear me speak a word,” rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. “You won’t be—”

“Well,” replied the other.

“You won’t be—too—violent, Bill?”

The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see each other’s faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a fire in the eyes of both, which could not be mistaken.

“I mean,” said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguise was now useless, “not too violent for safety. Be crafty, Bill, and not too bold.”

Sikes made no reply; but, pulling open the door, of which Fagin had turned the lock, dashed into the silent streets.

Without one pause, or moment’s consideration; without once turning his head to the right or left, or raising his eyes to the sky, or lowering them to the ground, but looking straight before him with savage resolution: his teeth so tightly compressed that the strained jaw seemed starting through his skin; the robber held on his headlong course, nor muttered a word, nor relaxed a muscle, until he reached his own door. He opened it, softly, with a key; strode lightly up the stairs; and entering his own room, double-locked the door, and lifting a heavy table against it, drew back the curtain of the bed.

The girl was lying, half-dressed, upon it. He had roused her from her sleep, for she raised herself with a hurried and startled look.

“Get up!” said the man.

“It is you, Bill!” said the girl, with an expression of pleasure at his return.

“It is,” was the reply. “Get up.”

There was a candle burning, but the man hastily drew it from the candlestick, and hurled it under the grate. Seeing the faint light of early day without, the girl rose to undraw the curtain.

“Let it be,” said Sikes, thrusting his hand before her. “There’s enough light for wot I’ve got to do.”

“Bill,” said the girl, in the low voice of alarm, “why do you look like that at me!”

The robber sat regarding her, for a few seconds, with dilated nostrils and heaving breast; and then, grasping her by the head and throat, dragged her into the middle of the room, and looking once towards the door, placed his heavy hand upon her mouth.

“Bill, Bill!” gasped the girl, wrestling with the strength of mortal fear,—“I—I won’t scream or cry—not once—hear me—speak to me—tell me what I have done!”

“You know, you she devil!” returned the robber, suppressing his breath. “You were watched tonight; every word you said was heard.”

“Then spare my life for the love of Heaven, as I spared yours,” rejoined the girl, clinging to him. “Bill, dear Bill, you cannot have the heart to kill me. Oh! think of all I have given up, only this one night, for you. You shall have time to think, and save yourself this crime; I will not loose my hold, you cannot throw me off. Bill, Bill, for dear God’s sake, for your own, for mine, stop before you spill my blood! I have been true to you, upon my guilty soul I have!”

The man struggled violently, to release his arms; but those of the girl were clasped round his, and tear her as he would, he could not tear them away.

“Bill,” cried the girl, striving to lay her head upon his breast, “the gentleman and that dear lady, told me tonight of a home in some foreign country where I could end my days in solitude and peace. Let me see them again, and beg them, on my knees, to show the same mercy and goodness to you; and let us both leave this dreadful place, and far apart lead better lives, and forget how we have lived, except in prayers, and never see each other more. It is never too late to repent. They told me so—I feel it now—but we must have time—a little, little time!”

The housebreaker freed one arm, and grasped his pistol. The certainty of immediate detection if he fired, flashed across his mind even in the midst of his fury; and he beat it twice with all the force he could summon, upon the upturned face that almost touched his own.

She staggered and fell: nearly blinded with the blood that rained down from a deep gash in her forehead; but raising herself, with difficulty, on her knees, drew from her bosom a white handkerchief—Rose Maylie’s own—and holding it up, in her folded hands, as high towards Heaven as her feeble strength would allow, breathed one prayer for mercy to her Maker.

It was a ghastly figure to look upon. The murderer staggering backward to the wall, and shutting out the sight with his hand, seized a heavy club and struck her down.

CHAPTER XLVIII. THE FLIGHT OF SIKES

Of all bad deeds that, under cover of the darkness, had been committed within wide London’s bounds since night hung over it, that was the worst. Of all the horrors that rose with an ill scent upon the morning air, that was the foulest and most cruel.

The sun—the bright sun, that brings back, not light alone, but new life, and hope, and freshness to man—burst upon the crowded city in clear and radiant glory. Through costly-coloured glass and paper-mended window, through cathedral dome and rotten crevice, it shed its equal ray. It lighted up the room where the murdered woman lay. It did. He tried to shut it out, but it would stream in. If the sight had been a ghastly one in the dull morning, what was it, now, in all that brilliant light!

He had not moved; he had been afraid to stir. There had been a moan and motion of the hand; and, with terror added to rage, he had struck and struck again. Once he threw a rug over it; but it was worse to fancy the eyes, and imagine them moving towards him, than to see them glaring upward, as if watching the reflection of the pool of gore that quivered and danced in the sunlight on the ceiling. He had plucked it off again. And there was the body—mere flesh and blood, no more—but such flesh, and so much blood!

He struck a light, kindled a fire, and thrust the club into it. There was hair upon the end, which blazed and shrunk into a light cinder, and, caught by the air, whirled up the chimney. Even that frightened him, sturdy as he was; but he held the weapon till it broke, and then piled it on the coals to burn away, and smoulder into ashes. He washed himself, and rubbed his clothes; there were spots that would not be removed, but he cut the pieces out, and burnt them. How those stains were dispersed about the room! The very feet of the dog were bloody.

All this time he had, never once, turned his back upon the corpse; no, not for a moment. Such preparations completed, he moved, backward, towards the door: dragging the dog with him, lest he should soil his feet anew and carry out new evidence of the crime into the streets. He shut the door softly, locked it, took the key, and left the house.

He crossed over, and glanced up at the window, to be sure that nothing was visible from the outside. There was the curtain still drawn, which she would have opened to admit the light she never saw again. It lay nearly under there. He knew that. God, how the sun poured down upon the very spot!

The glance was instantaneous. It was a relief to have got free of the room. He whistled on the dog, and walked rapidly away.

He went through Islington; strode up the hill at Highgate on which stands the stone in honour of Whittington; turned down to Highgate Hill, unsteady of purpose, and uncertain where to go; struck off to the right again, almost as soon as he began to descend it; and taking the foot-path across the fields, skirted Caen Wood, and so came on Hampstead Heath. Traversing the hollow by the Vale of Heath, he mounted the opposite bank, and crossing the road which joins the villages of Hampstead and Highgate, made along the remaining portion of the heath to the fields at North End, in one of which he laid himself down under a hedge, and slept.

Soon he was up again, and away,—not far into the country, but back towards London by the high-road—then back again—then over another part of the same ground as he already traversed—then wandering up and down in fields, and lying on ditches’ brinks to rest, and starting up to make for some other spot, and do the same, and ramble on again.

Where could he go, that was near and not too public, to get some meat and drink? Hendon. That was a good place, not far off, and out of most people’s way. Thither he directed his steps,—running sometimes, and sometimes, with a strange perversity, loitering at a snail’s pace, or stopping altogether and idly breaking the hedges with a stick. But when he got there, all the people he met—the very children at the doors—seemed to view him with suspicion. Back he turned again, without the courage to purchase bit or drop, though he had tasted no food for many hours; and once more he lingered on the Heath, uncertain where to go.

He wandered over miles and miles of ground, and still came back to the old place. Morning and noon had passed, and the day was on the wane, and still he rambled to and fro, and up and down, and round and round, and still lingered about the same spot. At last he got away, and shaped his course for Hatfield.

It was nine o’clock at night, when the man, quite tired out, and the dog, limping and lame from the unaccustomed exercise, turned down the hill by the church of the quiet village, and plodding along the little street, crept into a small public-house, whose scanty light had guided them to the spot. There was a fire in the tap-room, and some country-labourers were drinking before it.

They made room for the stranger, but he sat down in the furthest corner, and ate and drank alone, or rather with his dog: to whom he cast a morsel of food from time to time.

The conversation of the men assembled here, turned upon the neighbouring land, and farmers; and when those topics were exhausted, upon the age of some old man who had been buried on the previous Sunday; the young men present considering him very old, and the old men present declaring him to have been quite young—not older, one white-haired grandfather said, than he was—with ten or fifteen year of life in him at least—if he had taken care; if he had taken care.

There was nothing to attract attention, or excite alarm in this. The robber, after paying his reckoning, sat silent and unnoticed in his corner, and had almost dropped asleep, when he was half wakened by the noisy entrance of a new comer.

This was an antic fellow, half pedlar and half mountebank, who travelled about the country on foot to vend hones, strops, razors, washballs, harness-paste, medicine for dogs and horses, cheap perfumery, cosmetics, and such-like wares, which he carried in a case slung to his back. His entrance was the signal for various homely jokes with the countrymen, which slackened not until he had made his supper, and opened his box of treasures, when he ingeniously contrived to unite business with amusement.

“And what be that stoof? Good to eat, Harry?” asked a grinning countryman, pointing to some composition-cakes in one corner.

“This,” said the fellow, producing one, “this is the infallible and invaluable composition for removing all sorts of stain, rust, dirt, mildew, spick, speck, spot, or spatter, from silk, satin, linen, cambric, cloth, crape, stuff, carpet, merino, muslin, bombazeen, or woollen stuff. Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains, any stains, all come out at one rub with the infallible and invaluable composition. If a lady stains her honour, she has only need to swallow one cake and she’s cured at once—for it’s poison. If a gentleman wants to prove this, he has only need to bolt one little square, and he has put it beyond question—for it’s quite as satisfactory as a pistol-bullet, and a great deal nastier in the flavour, consequently the more credit in taking it. One penny a square. With all these virtues, one penny a square!”

There were two buyers directly, and more of the listeners plainly hesitated. The vendor observing this, increased in loquacity.

“It’s all bought up as fast as it can be made,” said the fellow. “There are fourteen water-mills, six steam-engines, and a galvanic battery, always a-working upon it, and they can’t make it fast enough, though the men work so hard that they die off, and the widows is pensioned directly, with twenty pound a-year for each of the children, and a premium of fifty for twins. One penny a square! Two half-pence is all the same, and four farthings is received with joy. One penny a square! Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains, mud-stains, blood-stains! Here is a stain upon the hat of a gentleman in company, that I’ll take clean out, before he can order me a pint of ale.”

“Hah!” cried Sikes starting up. “Give that back.”

“I’ll take it clean out, sir,” replied the man, winking to the company, “before you can come across the room to get it. Gentlemen all, observe the dark stain upon this gentleman’s hat, no wider than a shilling, but thicker than a half-crown. Whether it is a wine-stain, fruit-stain, beer-stain, water-stain, paint-stain, pitch-stain, mud-stain, or blood-stain—”

The man got no further, for Sikes with a hideous imprecation overthrew the table, and tearing the hat from him, burst out of the house.

With the same perversity of feeling and irresolution that had fastened upon him, despite himself, all day, the murderer, finding that he was not followed, and that they most probably considered him some drunken sullen fellow, turned back up the town, and getting out of the glare of the lamps of a stage-coach that was standing in the street, was walking past, when he recognised the mail from London, and saw that it was standing at the little post-office. He almost knew what was to come; but he crossed over, and listened.

The guard was standing at the door, waiting for the letter-bag. A man, dressed like a game-keeper, came up at the moment, and he handed him a basket which lay ready on the pavement.

“That’s for your people,” said the guard. “Now, look alive in there, will you. Damn that ’ere bag, it warn’t ready night afore last; this won’t do, you know!”

“Anything new up in town, Ben?” asked the game-keeper, drawing back to the window-shutters, the better to admire the horses.

“No, nothing that I knows on,” replied the man, pulling on his gloves. “Corn’s up a little. I heerd talk of a murder, too, down Spitalfields way, but I don’t reckon much upon it.”

“Oh, that’s quite true,” said a gentleman inside, who was looking out of the window. “And a dreadful murder it was.”

“Was it, sir?” rejoined the guard, touching his hat. “Man or woman, pray, sir?”

“A woman,” replied the gentleman. “It is supposed—”

“Now, Ben,” replied the coachman impatiently.

“Damn that ’ere bag,” said the guard; “are you gone to sleep in there?”

“Coming!” cried the office keeper, running out.

“Coming,” growled the guard. “Ah, and so’s the young ’ooman of property that’s going to take a fancy to me, but I don’t know when. Here, give hold. All ri—ight!”

The horn sounded a few cheerful notes, and the coach was gone.

Sikes remained standing in the street, apparently unmoved by what he had just heard, and agitated by no stronger feeling than a doubt where to go. At length he went back again, and took the road which leads from Hatfield to St. Albans.

He went on doggedly; but as he left the town behind him, and plunged into the solitude and darkness of the road, he felt a dread and awe creeping upon him which shook him to the core. Every object before him, substance or shadow, still or moving, took the semblance of some fearful thing; but these fears were nothing compared to the sense that haunted him of that morning’s ghastly figure following at his heels. He could trace its shadow in the gloom, supply the smallest item of the outline, and note how stiff and solemn it seemed to stalk along. He could hear its garments rustling in the leaves, and every breath of wind came laden with that last low cry. If he stopped it did the same. If he ran, it followed—not running too: that would have been a relief: but like a corpse endowed with the mere machinery of life, and borne on one slow melancholy wind that never rose or fell.

At times, he turned, with desperate determination, resolved to beat this phantom off, though it should look him dead; but the hair rose on his head, and his blood stood still, for it had turned with him and was behind him then. He had kept it before him that morning, but it was behind now—always. He leaned his back against a bank, and felt that it stood above him, visibly out against the cold night-sky. He threw himself upon the road—on his back upon the road. At his head it stood, silent, erect, and still—a living grave-stone, with its epitaph in blood.

Let no man talk of murderers escaping justice, and hint that Providence must sleep. There were twenty score of violent deaths in one long minute of that agony of fear.

There was a shed in a field he passed, that offered shelter for the night. Before the door, were three tall poplar trees, which made it very dark within; and the wind moaned through them with a dismal wail. He could not walk on, till daylight came again; and here he stretched himself close to the wall—to undergo new torture.

For now, a vision came before him, as constant and more terrible than that from which he had escaped. Those widely staring eyes, so lustreless and so glassy, that he had better borne to see them than think upon them, appeared in the midst of the darkness: light in themselves, but giving light to nothing. There were but two, but they were everywhere. If he shut out the sight, there came the room with every well-known object—some, indeed, that he would have forgotten, if he had gone over its contents from memory—each in its accustomed place. The body was in its place, and its eyes were as he saw them when he stole away. He got up, and rushed into the field without. The figure was behind him. He re-entered the shed, and shrunk down once more. The eyes were there, before he had laid himself along.

And here he remained in such terror as none but he can know, trembling in every limb, and the cold sweat starting from every pore, when suddenly there arose upon the night-wind the noise of distant shouting, and the roar of voices mingled in alarm and wonder. Any sound of men in that lonely place, even though it conveyed a real cause of alarm, was something to him. He regained his strength and energy at the prospect of personal danger; and springing to his feet, rushed into the open air.

The broad sky seemed on fire. Rising into the air with showers of sparks, and rolling one above the other, were sheets of flame, lighting the atmosphere for miles round, and driving clouds of smoke in the direction where he stood. The shouts grew louder as new voices swelled the roar, and he could hear the cry of Fire! mingled with the ringing of an alarm-bell, the fall of heavy bodies, and the crackling of flames as they twined round some new obstacle, and shot aloft as though refreshed by food. The noise increased as he looked. There were people there—men and women—light, bustle. It was like new life to him. He darted onward—straight, headlong—dashing through brier and brake, and leaping gate and fence as madly as his dog, who careered with loud and sounding bark before him.

He came upon the spot. There were half-dressed figures tearing to and fro, some endeavouring to drag the frightened horses from the stables, others driving the cattle from the yard and out-houses, and others coming laden from the burning pile, amidst a shower of falling sparks, and the tumbling down of red-hot beams. The apertures, where doors and windows stood an hour ago, disclosed a mass of raging fire; walls rocked and crumbled into the burning well; the molten lead and iron poured down, white hot, upon the ground. Women and children shrieked, and men encouraged each other with noisy shouts and cheers. The clanking of the engine-pumps, and the spirting and hissing of the water as it fell upon the blazing wood, added to the tremendous roar. He shouted, too, till he was hoarse; and flying from memory and himself, plunged into the thickest of the throng. Hither and thither he dived that night: now working at the pumps, and now hurrying through the smoke and flame, but never ceasing to engage himself wherever noise and men were thickest. Up and down the ladders, upon the roofs of buildings, over floors that quaked and trembled with his weight, under the lee of falling bricks and stones, in every part of that great fire was he; but he bore a charmed life, and had neither scratch nor bruise, nor weariness nor thought, till morning dawned again, and only smoke and blackened ruins remained.

This mad excitement over, there returned, with ten-fold force, the dreadful consciousness of his crime. He looked suspiciously about him, for the men were conversing in groups, and he feared to be the subject of their talk. The dog obeyed the significant beck of his finger, and they drew off, stealthily, together. He passed near an engine where some men were seated, and they called to him to share in their refreshment. He took some bread and meat; and as he drank a draught of beer, heard the firemen, who were from London, talking about the murder. “He has gone to Birmingham, they say,” said one: “but they’ll have him yet, for the scouts are out, and by tomorrow night there’ll be a cry all through the country.”

He hurried off, and walked till he almost dropped upon the ground; then lay down in a lane, and had a long, but broken and uneasy sleep. He wandered on again, irresolute and undecided, and oppressed with the fear of another solitary night.

Suddenly, he took the desperate resolution to going back to London.

“There’s somebody to speak to there, at all event,” he thought. “A good hiding-place, too. They’ll never expect to nab me there, after this country scent. Why can’t I lie by for a week or so, and, forcing blunt from Fagin, get abroad to France? Damme, I’ll risk it.”

He acted upon this impulse without delay, and choosing the least frequented roads began his journey back, resolved to lie concealed within a short distance of the metropolis, and, entering it at dusk by a circuitous route, to proceed straight to that part of it which he had fixed on for his destination.

The dog, though. If any description of him were out, it would not be forgotten that the dog was missing, and had probably gone with him. This might lead to his apprehension as he passed along the streets. He resolved to drown him, and walked on, looking about for a pond: picking up a heavy stone and tying it to his handkerchief as he went.

The animal looked up into his master’s face while these preparations were making; whether his instinct apprehended something of their purpose, or the robber’s sidelong look at him was sterner than ordinary, he skulked a little farther in the rear than usual, and cowered as he came more slowly along. When his master halted at the brink of a pool, and looked round to call him, he stopped outright.

“Do you hear me call? Come here!” cried Sikes.

The animal came up from the very force of habit; but as Sikes stooped to attach the handkerchief to his throat, he uttered a low growl and started back.

“Come back!” said the robber.

The dog wagged his tail, but moved not. Sikes made a running noose and called him again.

The dog advanced, retreated, paused an instant, and scoured away at his hardest speed.

The man whistled again and again, and sat down and waited in the expectation that he would return. But no dog appeared, and at length he resumed his journey.

CHAPTER XLIX. MONKS AND MR. BROWNLOW AT LENGTH MEET. THEIR CONVERSATION, AND THE INTELLIGENCE THAT INTERRUPTS IT

The twilight was beginning to close in, when Mr. Brownlow alighted from a hackney-coach at his own door, and knocked softly. The door being opened, a sturdy man got out of the coach and stationed himself on one side of the steps, while another man, who had been seated on the box, dismounted too, and stood upon the other side. At a sign from Mr. Brownlow, they helped out a third man, and taking him between them, hurried him into the house. This man was Monks.

They walked in the same manner up the stairs without speaking, and Mr. Brownlow, preceding them, led the way into a back-room. At the door of this apartment, Monks, who had ascended with evident reluctance, stopped. The two men looked at the old gentleman as if for instructions.

“He knows the alternative,” said Mr. Browlow. “If he hesitates or moves a finger but as you bid him, drag him into the street, call for the aid of the police, and impeach him as a felon in my name.”

“How dare you say this of me?” asked Monks.

“How dare you urge me to it, young man?” replied Mr. Brownlow, confronting him with a steady look. “Are you mad enough to leave this house? Unhand him. There, sir. You are free to go, and we to follow. But I warn you, by all I hold most solemn and most sacred, that instant will have you apprehended on a charge of fraud and robbery. I am resolute and immoveable. If you are determined to be the same, your blood be upon your own head!”

“By what authority am I kidnapped in the street, and brought here by these dogs?” asked Monks, looking from one to the other of the men who stood beside him.

“By mine,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “Those persons are indemnified by me. If you complain of being deprived of your liberty—you had power and opportunity to retrieve it as you came along, but you deemed it advisable to remain quiet—I say again, throw yourself for protection on the law. I will appeal to the law too; but when you have gone too far to recede, do not sue to me for leniency, when the power will have passed into other hands; and do not say I plunged you down the gulf into which you rushed, yourself.”

Monks was plainly disconcerted, and alarmed besides. He hesitated.

“You will decide quickly,” said Mr. Brownlow, with perfect firmness and composure. “If you wish me to prefer my charges publicly, and consign you to a punishment the extent of which, although I can, with a shudder, foresee, I cannot control, once more, I say, for you know the way. If not, and you appeal to my forbearance, and the mercy of those you have deeply injured, seat yourself, without a word, in that chair. It has waited for you two whole days.”

Monks muttered some unintelligible words, but wavered still.

“You will be prompt,” said Mr. Brownlow. “A word from me, and the alternative has gone for ever.”

Still the man hesitated.

“I have not the inclination to parley,” said Mr. Brownlow, “and, as I advocate the dearest interests of others, I have not the right.”

“Is there—” demanded Monks with a faltering tongue,—“is there—no middle course?”

“None.”

Monks looked at the old gentleman, with an anxious eye; but, reading in his countenance nothing but severity and determination, walked into the room, and, shrugging his shoulders, sat down.

“Lock the door on the outside,” said Mr. Brownlow to the attendants, “and come when I ring.”

The men obeyed, and the two were left alone together.

“This is pretty treatment, sir,” said Monks, throwing down his hat and cloak, “from my father’s oldest friend.”

“It is because I was your father’s oldest friend, young man,” returned Mr. Brownlow; “it is because the hopes and wishes of young and happy years were bound up with him, and that fair creature of his blood and kindred who rejoined her God in youth, and left me here a solitary, lonely man: it is because he knelt with me beside his only sisters’s death-bed when he was yet a boy, on the morning that would—but Heaven willed otherwise—have made her my young wife; it is because my seared heart clung to him, from that time forth, through all his trials and errors, till he died; it is because old recollections and associations filled my heart, and even the sight of you brings with it old thoughts of him; it is because of all these things that I am moved to treat you gently now—yes, Edward Leeford, even now—and blush for your unworthiness who bear the name.”

“What has the name to do with it?” asked the other, after contemplating, half in silence, and half in dogged wonder, the agitation of his companion. “What is the name to me?”

“Nothing,” replied Mr. Brownlow, “nothing to you. But it was hers, and even at this distance of time brings back to me, an old man, the glow and thrill which I once felt, only to hear it repeated by a stranger. I am very glad you have changed it—very—very.”

“This is all mighty fine,” said Monks (to retain his assumed designation) after a long silence, during which he had jerked himself in sullen defiance to and fro, and Mr. Brownlow had sat, shading his face with his hand. “But what do you want with me?”

“You have a brother,” said Mr. Brownlow, rousing himself: “a brother, the whisper of whose name in your ear when I came behind you in the street, was, in itself, almost enough to make you accompany me hither, in wonder and alarm.”

“I have no brother,” replied Monks. “You know I was an only child. Why do you talk to me of brothers? You know that, as well as I.”

“Attend to what I do know, and you may not,” said Mr. Brownlow. “I shall interest you by and by. I know that of the wretched marriage, into which family pride, and the most sordid and narrowest of all ambition, forced your unhappy father when a mere boy, you were the sole and most unnatural issue.”

“I don’t care for hard names,” interrupted Monks with a jeering laugh. “You know the fact, and that’s enough for me.”

“But I also know,” pursued the old gentleman, “the misery, the slow torture, the protracted anguish of that ill-assorted union. I know how listlessly and wearily each of that wretched pair dragged on their heavy chain through a world that was poisoned to them both. I know how cold formalities were succeeded by open taunts; how indifference gave place to dislike, dislike to hate, and hate to loathing, until at last they wrenched the clanking bond asunder, and retiring a wide space apart, carried each a galling fragment, of which nothing but death could break the rivets, to hide it in new society beneath the gayest looks they could assume. Your mother succeeded; she forgot it soon. But it rusted and cankered at your father’s heart for years.”

“Well, they were separated,” said Monks, “and what of that?”

“When they had been separated for some time,” returned Mr. Brownlow, “and your mother, wholly given up to continental frivolities, had utterly forgotten the young husband ten good years her junior, who, with prospects blighted, lingered on at home, he fell among new friends. This circumstance, at least, you know already.”

“Not I,” said Monks, turning away his eyes and beating his foot upon the ground, as a man who is determined to deny everything. “Not I.”

“Your manner, no less than your actions, assures me that you have never forgotten it, or ceased to think of it with bitterness,” returned Mr. Brownlow. “I speak of fifteen years ago, when you were not more than eleven years old, and your father but one-and-thirty—for he was, I repeat, a boy, when his father ordered him to marry. Must I go back to events which cast a shade upon the memory of your parent, or will you spare it, and disclose to me the truth?”

“I have nothing to disclose,” rejoined Monks. “You must talk on if you will.”

“These new friends, then,” said Mr. Brownlow, “were a naval officer retired from active service, whose wife had died some half-a-year before, and left him with two children—there had been more, but, of all their family, happily but two survived. They were both daughters; one a beautiful creature of nineteen, and the other a mere child of two or three years old.”

“What’s this to me?” asked Monks.

“They resided,” said Mr. Brownlow, without seeming to hear the interruption, “in a part of the country to which your father in his wandering had repaired, and where he had taken up his abode. Acquaintance, intimacy, friendship, fast followed on each other. Your father was gifted as few men are. He had his sister’s soul and person. As the old officer knew him more and more, he grew to love him. I would that it had ended there. His daughter did the same.”

The old gentleman paused; Monks was biting his lips, with his eyes fixed upon the floor; seeing this, he immediately resumed:

“The end of a year found him contracted, solemnly contracted, to that daughter; the object of the first, true, ardent, only passion of a guileless girl.”

“Your tale is of the longest,” observed Monks, moving restlessly in his chair.

“It is a true tale of grief and trial, and sorrow, young man,” returned Mr. Brownlow, “and such tales usually are; if it were one of unmixed joy and happiness, it would be very brief. At length one of those rich relations to strengthen whose interest and importance your father had been sacrificed, as others are often—it is no uncommon case—died, and to repair the misery he had been instrumental in occasioning, left him his panacea for all griefs—Money. It was necessary that he should immediately repair to Rome, whither this man had sped for health, and where he had died, leaving his affairs in great confusion. He went; was seized with mortal illness there; was followed, the moment the intelligence reached Paris, by your mother who carried you with her; he died the day after her arrival, leaving no will—no will—so that the whole property fell to her and you.”

At this part of the recital Monks held his breath, and listened with a face of intense eagerness, though his eyes were not directed towards the speaker. As Mr. Brownlow paused, he changed his position with the air of one who has experienced a sudden relief, and wiped his hot face and hands.

“Before he went abroad, and as he passed through London on his way,” said Mr. Brownlow, slowly, and fixing his eyes upon the other’s face, “he came to me.”

“I never heard of that,” interrupted Monks in a tone intended to appear incredulous, but savouring more of disagreeable surprise.

“He came to me, and left with me, among some other things, a picture—a portrait painted by himself—a likeness of this poor girl—which he did not wish to leave behind, and could not carry forward on his hasty journey. He was worn by anxiety and remorse almost to a shadow; talked in a wild, distracted way, of ruin and dishonour worked by himself; confided to me his intention to convert his whole property, at any loss, into money, and, having settled on his wife and you a portion of his recent acquisition, to fly the country—I guessed too well he would not fly alone—and never see it more. Even from me, his old and early friend, whose strong attachment had taken root in the earth that covered one most dear to both—even from me he withheld any more particular confession, promising to write and tell me all, and after that to see me once again, for the last time on earth. Alas! That was the last time. I had no letter, and I never saw him more.”

“I went,” said Mr. Brownlow, after a short pause, “I went, when all was over, to the scene of his—I will use the term the world would freely use, for worldly harshness or favour are now alike to him—of his guilty love, resolved that if my fears were realised that erring child should find one heart and home to shelter and compassionate her. The family had left that part a week before; they had called in such trifling debts as were outstanding, discharged them, and left the place by night. Why, or whither, none can tell.”

Monks drew his breath yet more freely, and looked round with a smile of triumph.

“When your brother,” said Mr. Brownlow, drawing nearer to the other’s chair, “When your brother: a feeble, ragged, neglected child: was cast in my way by a stronger hand than chance, and rescued by me from a life of vice and infamy—”

“What?” cried Monks.

“By me,” said Mr. Brownlow. “I told you I should interest you before long. I say by me—I see that your cunning associate suppressed my name, although for aught he knew, it would be quite strange to your ears. When he was rescued by me, then, and lay recovering from sickness in my house, his strong resemblance to this picture I have spoken of, struck me with astonishment. Even when I first saw him in all his dirt and misery, there was a lingering expression in his face that came upon me like a glimpse of some old friend flashing on one in a vivid dream. I need not tell you he was snared away before I knew his history—”

“Why not?” asked Monks hastily.

“Because you know it well.”

“I!”

“Denial to me is vain,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “I shall show you that I know more than that.”

“You—you—can’t prove anything against me,” stammered Monks. “I defy you to do it!”

“We shall see,” returned the old gentleman with a searching glance. “I lost the boy, and no efforts of mine could recover him. Your mother being dead, I knew that you alone could solve the mystery if anybody could, and as when I had last heard of you you were on your own estate in the West Indies—whither, as you well know, you retired upon your mother’s death to escape the consequences of vicious courses here—I made the voyage. You had left it, months before, and were supposed to be in London, but no one could tell where. I returned. Your agents had no clue to your residence. You came and went, they said, as strangely as you had ever done: sometimes for days together and sometimes not for months: keeping to all appearance the same low haunts and mingling with the same infamous herd who had been your associates when a fierce ungovernable boy. I wearied them with new applications. I paced the streets by night and day, but until two hours ago, all my efforts were fruitless, and I never saw you for an instant.”

“And now you do see me,” said Monks, rising boldly, “what then? Fraud and robbery are high-sounding words—justified, you think, by a fancied resemblance in some young imp to an idle daub of a dead man’s Brother! You don’t even know that a child was born of this maudlin pair; you don’t even know that.”

“I did not,” replied Mr. Brownlow, rising too; “but within the last fortnight I have learnt it all. You have a brother; you know it, and him. There was a will, which your mother destroyed, leaving the secret and the gain to you at her own death. It contained a reference to some child likely to be the result of this sad connection, which child was born, and accidentally encountered by you, when your suspicions were first awakened by his resemblance to your father. You repaired to the place of his birth. There existed proofs—proofs long suppressed—of his birth and parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your own words to your accomplice the Jew, ‘the only proofs of the boy’s identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.’ Unworthy son, coward, liar,—you, who hold your councils with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night,—you, whose plots and wiles have brought a violent death upon the head of one worth millions such as you,—you, who from your cradle were gall and bitterness to your own father’s heart, and in whom all evil passions, vice, and profligacy, festered, till they found a vent in a hideous disease which had made your face an index even to your mind—you, Edward Leeford, do you still brave me!”

“No, no, no!” returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges.

“Every word!” cried the gentleman, “every word that has passed between you and this detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the courage and almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not really a party.”

“No, no,” interposed Monks. “I—I knew nothing of that; I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn’t know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel.”

“It was the partial disclosure of your secrets,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “Will you disclose the whole?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before witnesses?”

“That I promise too.”

“Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?”

“If you insist upon that, I’ll do that also,” replied Monks.

“You must do more than that,” said Mr. Brownlow. “Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please. In this world you need meet no more.”

While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on this proposal and the possibilities of evading it: torn by his fears on the one hand and his hatred on the other: the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman (Mr. Losberne) entered the room in violent agitation.

“The man will be taken,” he cried. “He will be taken tonight!”

“The murderer?” asked Mr. Brownlow.

“Yes, yes,” replied the other. “His dog has been seen lurking about some old haunt, and there seems little doubt that his master either is, or will be, there, under cover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in every direction. I have spoken to the men who are charged with his capture, and they tell me he cannot escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by Government tonight.”

“I will give fifty more,” said Mr. Brownlow, “and proclaim it with my own lips upon the spot, if I can reach it. Where is Mr. Maylie?”

“Harry? As soon as he had seen your friend here, safe in a coach with you, he hurried off to where he heard this,” replied the doctor, “and mounting his horse sallied forth to join the first party at some place in the outskirts agreed upon between them.”

“Fagin,” said Mr. Brownlow; “what of him?”

“When I last heard, he had not been taken, but he will be, or is, by this time. They’re sure of him.”

“Have you made up your mind?” asked Mr. Brownlow, in a low voice, of Monks.

“Yes,” he replied. “You—you—will be secret with me?”

“I will. Remain here till I return. It is your only hope of safety.”

They left the room, and the door was again locked.

“What have you done?” asked the doctor in a whisper.

“All that I could hope to do, and even more. Coupling the poor girl’s intelligence with my previous knowledge, and the result of our good friend’s inquiries on the spot, I left him no loophole of escape, and laid bare the whole villainy which by these lights became plain as day. Write and appoint the evening after tomorrow, at seven, for the meeting. We shall be down there, a few hours before, but shall require rest: especially the young lady, who may have greater need of firmness than either you or I can quite foresee just now. But my blood boils to avenge this poor murdered creature. Which way have they taken?”

“Drive straight to the office and you will be in time,” replied Mr. Losberne. “I will remain here.”

The two gentlemen hastily separated; each in a fever of excitement wholly uncontrollable.

CHAPTER L. THE PURSUIT AND ESCAPE

Near to that part of the Thames on which the church at Rotherhithe abuts, where the buildings on the banks are dirtiest and the vessels on the river blackest with the dust of colliers and the smoke of close-built low-roofed houses, there exists the filthiest, the strangest, the most extraordinary of the many localities that are hidden in London, wholly unknown, even by name, to the great mass of its inhabitants.

To reach this place, the visitor has to penetrate through a maze of close, narrow, and muddy streets, thronged by the roughest and poorest of waterside people, and devoted to the traffic they may be supposed to occasion. The cheapest and least delicate provisions are heaped in the shops; the coarsest and commonest articles of wearing apparel dangle at the salesman’s door, and stream from the house-parapet and windows. Jostling with unemployed labourers of the lowest class, ballast-heavers, coal-whippers, brazen women, ragged children, and the raff and refuse of the river, he makes his way with difficulty along, assailed by offensive sights and smells from the narrow alleys which branch off on the right and left, and deafened by the clash of ponderous waggons that bear great piles of merchandise from the stacks of warehouses that rise from every corner. Arriving, at length, in streets remoter and less-frequented than those through which he has passed, he walks beneath tottering house-fronts projecting over the pavement, dismantled walls that seem to totter as he passes, chimneys half crushed half hesitating to fall, windows guarded by rusty iron bars that time and dirt have almost eaten away, every imaginable sign of desolation and neglect.

In such a neighborhood, beyond Dockhead in the Borough of Southwark, stands Jacob’s Island, surrounded by a muddy ditch, six or eight feet deep and fifteen or twenty wide when the tide is in, once called Mill Pond, but known in the days of this story as Folly Ditch. It is a creek or inlet from the Thames, and can always be filled at high water by opening the sluices at the Lead Mills from which it took its old name. At such times, a stranger, looking from one of the wooden bridges thrown across it at Mill Lane, will see the inhabitants of the houses on either side lowering from their back doors and windows, buckets, pails, domestic utensils of all kinds, in which to haul the water up; and when his eye is turned from these operations to the houses themselves, his utmost astonishment will be excited by the scene before him. Crazy wooden galleries common to the backs of half a dozen houses, with holes from which to look upon the slime beneath; windows, broken and patched, with poles thrust out, on which to dry the linen that is never there; rooms so small, so filthy, so confined, that the air would seem too tainted even for the dirt and squalor which they shelter; wooden chambers thrusting themselves out above the mud, and threatening to fall into it—as some have done; dirt-besmeared walls and decaying foundations; every repulsive lineament of poverty, every loathsome indication of filth, rot, and garbage; all these ornament the banks of Folly Ditch.

In Jacob’s Island, the warehouses are roofless and empty; the walls are crumbling down; the windows are windows no more; the doors are falling into the streets; the chimneys are blackened, but they yield no smoke. Thirty or forty years ago, before losses and chancery suits came upon it, it was a thriving place; but now it is a desolate island indeed. The houses have no owners; they are broken open, and entered upon by those who have the courage; and there they live, and there they die. They must have powerful motives for a secret residence, or be reduced to a destitute condition indeed, who seek a refuge in Jacob’s Island.

In an upper room of one of these houses—a detached house of fair size, ruinous in other respects, but strongly defended at door and window: of which house the back commanded the ditch in manner already described—there were assembled three men, who, regarding each other every now and then with looks expressive of perplexity and expectation, sat for some time in profound and gloomy silence. One of these was Toby Crackit, another Mr. Chitling, and the third a robber of fifty years, whose nose had been almost beaten in, in some old scuffle, and whose face bore a frightful scar which might probably be traced to the same occasion. This man was a returned transport, and his name was Kags.

“I wish,” said Toby turning to Mr. Chitling, “that you had picked out some other crib when the two old ones got too warm, and had not come here, my fine feller.”

“Why didn’t you, blunder-head!” said Kags.

“Well, I thought you’d have been a little more glad to see me than this,” replied Mr. Chitling, with a melancholy air.

“Why, look’e, young gentleman,” said Toby, “when a man keeps himself so very ex-clusive as I have done, and by that means has a snug house over his head with nobody a prying and smelling about it, it’s rather a startling thing to have the honour of a wisit from a young gentleman (however respectable and pleasant a person he may be to play cards with at conweniency) circumstanced as you are.”

“Especially, when the exclusive young man has got a friend stopping with him, that’s arrived sooner than was expected from foreign parts, and is too modest to want to be presented to the Judges on his return,” added Mr. Kags.

There was a short silence, after which Toby Crackit, seeming to abandon as hopeless any further effort to maintain his usual devil-may-care swagger, turned to Chitling and said,

“When was Fagin took then?”

“Just at dinner-time—two o’clock this afternoon. Charley and I made our lucky up the wash-us chimney, and Bolter got into the empty water-butt, head downwards; but his legs were so precious long that they stuck out at the top, and so they took him too.”

“And Bet?”

“Poor Bet! She went to see the Body, to speak to who it was,” replied Chitling, his countenance falling more and more, “and went off mad, screaming and raving, and beating her head against the boards; so they put a strait-weskut on her and took her to the hospital—and there she is.”

“Wot’s come of young Bates?” demanded Kags.

“He hung about, not to come over here afore dark, but he’ll be here soon,” replied Chitling. “There’s nowhere else to go to now, for the people at the Cripples are all in custody, and the bar of the ken—I went up there and see it with my own eyes—is filled with traps.”

“This is a smash,” observed Toby, biting his lips. “There’s more than one will go with this.”

“The sessions are on,” said Kags: “if they get the inquest over, and Bolter turns King’s evidence: as of course he will, from what he’s said already: they can prove Fagin an accessory before the fact, and get the trial on on Friday, and he’ll swing in six days from this, by G—!”

“You should have heard the people groan,” said Chitling; “the officers fought like devils, or they’d have torn him away. He was down once, but they made a ring round him, and fought their way along. You should have seen how he looked about him, all muddy and bleeding, and clung to them as if they were his dearest friends. I can see ’em now, not able to stand upright with the pressing of the mob, and draggin him along amongst ’em; I can see the people jumping up, one behind another, and snarling with their teeth and making at him; I can see the blood upon his hair and beard, and hear the cries with which the women worked themselves into the centre of the crowd at the street corner, and swore they’d tear his heart out!”

The horror-stricken witness of this scene pressed his hands upon his ears, and with his eyes closed got up and paced violently to and fro, like one distracted.

While he was thus engaged, and the two men sat by in silence with their eyes fixed upon the floor, a pattering noise was heard upon the stairs, and Sikes’s dog bounded into the room. They ran to the window, downstairs, and into the street. The dog had jumped in at an open window; he made no attempt to follow them, nor was his master to be seen.

“What’s the meaning of this?” said Toby when they had returned. “He can’t be coming here. I—I—hope not.”

“If he was coming here, he’d have come with the dog,” said Kags, stooping down to examine the animal, who lay panting on the floor. “Here! Give us some water for him; he has run himself faint.”

“He’s drunk it all up, every drop,” said Chitling after watching the dog some time in silence. “Covered with mud—lame—half blind—he must have come a long way.”

“Where can he have come from!” exclaimed Toby. “He’s been to the other kens of course, and finding them filled with strangers come on here, where he’s been many a time and often. But where can he have come from first, and how comes he here alone without the other!”

“He”—(none of them called the murderer by his old name)—“He can’t have made away with himself. What do you think?” said Chitling.

Toby shook his head.

“If he had,” said Kags, “the dog ’ud want to lead us away to where he did it. No. I think he’s got out of the country, and left the dog behind. He must have given him the slip somehow, or he wouldn’t be so easy.”

This solution, appearing the most probable one, was adopted as the right; the dog, creeping under a chair, coiled himself up to sleep, without more notice from anybody.

It being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a candle lighted and placed upon the table. The terrible events of the last two days had made a deep impression on all three, increased by the danger and uncertainty of their own position. They drew their chairs closer together, starting at every sound. They spoke little, and that in whispers, and were as silent and awe-stricken as if the remains of the murdered woman lay in the next room.

They had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was heard a hurried knocking at the door below.

“Young Bates,” said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself.

The knocking came again. No, it wasn’t he. He never knocked like that.

Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.

“We must let him in,” he said, taking up the candle.

“Isn’t there any help for it?” asked the other man in a hoarse voice.

“None. He must come in.”

“Don’t leave us in the dark,” said Kags, taking down a candle from the chimney-piece, and lighting it, with such a trembling hand that the knocking was twice repeated before he had finished.

Crackit went down to the door, and returned followed by a man with the lower part of his face buried in a handkerchief, and another tied over his head under his hat. He drew them slowly off. Blanched face, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, beard of three days’ growth, wasted flesh, short thick breath; it was the very ghost of Sikes.

He laid his hand upon a chair which stood in the middle of the room, but shuddering as he was about to drop into it, and seeming to glance over his shoulder, dragged it back close to the wall—as close as it would go—and ground it against it—and sat down.

Not a word had been exchanged. He looked from one to another in silence. If an eye were furtively raised and met his, it was instantly averted. When his hollow voice broke silence, they all three started. They seemed never to have heard its tones before.

“How came that dog here?” he asked.

“Alone. Three hours ago.”

“Tonight’s paper says that Fagin’s took. Is it true, or a lie?”

“True.”

They were silent again.

“Damn you all!” said Sikes, passing his hand across his forehead. “Have you nothing to say to me?”

There was an uneasy movement among them, but nobody spoke.

“You that keep this house,” said Sikes, turning his face to Crackit, “do you mean to sell me, or to let me lie here till this hunt is over?”

“You may stop here, if you think it safe,” returned the person addressed, after some hesitation.

Sikes carried his eyes slowly up the wall behind him: rather trying to turn his head than actually doing it: and said, “Is—it—the body—is it buried?”

They shook their heads.

“Why isn’t it!” he retorted with the same glance behind him. “Wot do they keep such ugly things above the ground for?—Who’s that knocking?”

Crackit intimated, by a motion of his hand as he left the room, that there was nothing to fear; and directly came back with Charley Bates behind him. Sikes sat opposite the door, so that the moment the boy entered the room he encountered his figure.

“Toby,” said the boy falling back, as Sikes turned his eyes towards him, “why didn’t you tell me this, downstairs?”

There had been something so tremendous in the shrinking off of the three, that the wretched man was willing to propitiate even this lad. Accordingly he nodded, and made as though he would shake hands with him.

“Let me go into some other room,” said the boy, retreating still farther.

“Charley!” said Sikes, stepping forward. “Don’t you—don’t you know me?”

“Don’t come nearer me,” answered the boy, still retreating, and looking, with horror in his eyes, upon the murderer’s face. “You monster!”

The man stopped half-way, and they looked at each other; but Sikes’s eyes sunk gradually to the ground.

“Witness you three,” cried the boy shaking his clenched fist, and becoming more and more excited as he spoke. “Witness you three—I’m not afraid of him—if they come here after him, I’ll give him up; I will. I tell you out at once. He may kill me for it if he likes, or if he dares, but if I am here I’ll give him up. I’d give him up if he was to be boiled alive. Murder! Help! If there’s the pluck of a man among you three, you’ll help me. Murder! Help! Down with him!”

Pouring out these cries, and accompanying them with violent gesticulation, the boy actually threw himself, single-handed, upon the strong man, and in the intensity of his energy and the suddenness of his surprise, brought him heavily to the ground.

The three spectators seemed quite stupefied. They offered no interference, and the boy and man rolled on the ground together; the former, heedless of the blows that showered upon him, wrenching his hands tighter and tighter in the garments about the murderer’s breast, and never ceasing to call for help with all his might.

The contest, however, was too unequal to last long. Sikes had him down, and his knee was on his throat, when Crackit pulled him back with a look of alarm, and pointed to the window. There were lights gleaming below, voices in loud and earnest conversation, the tramp of hurried footsteps—endless they seemed in number—crossing the nearest wooden bridge. One man on horseback seemed to be among the crowd; for there was the noise of hoofs rattling on the uneven pavement. The gleam of lights increased; the footsteps came more thickly and noisily on. Then, came a loud knocking at the door, and then a hoarse murmur from such a multitude of angry voices as would have made the boldest quail.

“Help!” shrieked the boy in a voice that rent the air. “He’s here! Break down the door!”

“In the King’s name,” cried the voices without; and the hoarse cry arose again, but louder.

“Break down the door!” screamed the boy. “I tell you they’ll never open it. Run straight to the room where the light is. Break down the door!”

Strokes, thick and heavy, rattled upon the door and lower window-shutters as he ceased to speak, and a loud huzzah burst from the crowd; giving the listener, for the first time, some adequate idea of its immense extent.

“Open the door of some place where I can lock this screeching Hell-babe,” cried Sikes fiercely; running to and fro, and dragging the boy, now, as easily as if he were an empty sack. “That door. Quick!” He flung him in, bolted it, and turned the key. “Is the downstairs door fast?”

“Double-locked and chained,” replied Crackit, who, with the other two men, still remained quite helpless and bewildered.

“The panels—are they strong?”

“Lined with sheet-iron.”

“And the windows too?”

“Yes, and the windows.”

“Damn you!” cried the desperate ruffian, throwing up the sash and menacing the crowd. “Do your worst! I’ll cheat you yet!”

Of all the terrific yells that ever fell on mortal ears, none could exceed the cry of the infuriated throng. Some shouted to those who were nearest to set the house on fire; others roared to the officers to shoot him dead. Among them all, none showed such fury as the man on horseback, who, throwing himself out of the saddle, and bursting through the crowd as if he were parting water, cried, beneath the window, in a voice that rose above all others, “Twenty guineas to the man who brings a ladder!”

The nearest voices took up the cry, and hundreds echoed it. Some called for ladders, some for sledge-hammers; some ran with torches to and fro as if to seek them, and still came back and roared again; some spent their breath in impotent curses and execrations; some pressed forward with the ecstasy of madmen, and thus impeded the progress of those below; some among the boldest attempted to climb up by the water-spout and crevices in the wall; and all waved to and fro, in the darkness beneath, like a field of corn moved by an angry wind: and joined from time to time in one loud furious roar.

“The tide,” cried the murderer, as he staggered back into the room, and shut the faces out, “the tide was in as I came up. Give me a rope, a long rope. They’re all in front. I may drop into the Folly Ditch, and clear off that way. Give me a rope, or I shall do three more murders and kill myself.”

The panic-stricken men pointed to where such articles were kept; the murderer, hastily selecting the longest and strongest cord, hurried up to the house-top.

All the windows in the rear of the house had been long ago bricked up, except one small trap in the room where the boy was locked, and that was too small even for the passage of his body. But, from this aperture, he had never ceased to call on those without, to guard the back; and thus, when the murderer emerged at last on the house-top by the door in the roof, a loud shout proclaimed the fact to those in front, who immediately began to pour round, pressing upon each other in an unbroken stream.

He planted a board, which he had carried up with him for the purpose, so firmly against the door that it must be matter of great difficulty to open it from the inside; and creeping over the tiles, looked over the low parapet.

The water was out, and the ditch a bed of mud.

The crowd had been hushed during these few moments, watching his motions and doubtful of his purpose, but the instant they perceived it and knew it was defeated, they raised a cry of triumphant execration to which all their previous shouting had been whispers. Again and again it rose. Those who were at too great a distance to know its meaning, took up the sound; it echoed and re-echoed; it seemed as though the whole city had poured its population out to curse him.

On pressed the people from the front—on, on, on, in a strong struggling current of angry faces, with here and there a glaring torch to lighten them up, and show them out in all their wrath and passion. The houses on the opposite side of the ditch had been entered by the mob; sashes were thrown up, or torn bodily out; there were tiers and tiers of faces in every window; cluster upon cluster of people clinging to every house-top. Each little bridge (and there were three in sight) bent beneath the weight of the crowd upon it. Still the current poured on to find some nook or hole from which to vent their shouts, and only for an instant see the wretch.

“They have him now,” cried a man on the nearest bridge. “Hurrah!”

The crowd grew light with uncovered heads; and again the shout uprose.

“I will give fifty pounds,” cried an old gentleman from the same quarter, “to the man who takes him alive. I will remain here, till he come to ask me for it.”

There was another roar. At this moment the word was passed among the crowd that the door was forced at last, and that he who had first called for the ladder had mounted into the room. The stream abruptly turned, as this intelligence ran from mouth to mouth; and the people at the windows, seeing those upon the bridges pouring back, quitted their stations, and running into the street, joined the concourse that now thronged pell-mell to the spot they had left: each man crushing and striving with his neighbor, and all panting with impatience to get near the door, and look upon the criminal as the officers brought him out. The cries and shrieks of those who were pressed almost to suffocation, or trampled down and trodden under foot in the confusion, were dreadful; the narrow ways were completely blocked up; and at this time, between the rush of some to regain the space in front of the house, and the unavailing struggles of others to extricate themselves from the mass, the immediate attention was distracted from the murderer, although the universal eagerness for his capture was, if possible, increased.

The man had shrunk down, thoroughly quelled by the ferocity of the crowd, and the impossibility of escape; but seeing this sudden change with no less rapidity than it had occurred, he sprang upon his feet, determined to make one last effort for his life by dropping into the ditch, and, at the risk of being stifled, endeavouring to creep away in the darkness and confusion.

Roused into new strength and energy, and stimulated by the noise within the house which announced that an entrance had really been effected, he set his foot against the stack of chimneys, fastened one end of the rope tightly and firmly round it, and with the other made a strong running noose by the aid of his hands and teeth almost in a second. He could let himself down by the cord to within a less distance of the ground than his own height, and had his knife ready in his hand to cut it then and drop.

At the very instant when he brought the loop over his head previous to slipping it beneath his arm-pits, and when the old gentleman before-mentioned (who had clung so tight to the railing of the bridge as to resist the force of the crowd, and retain his position) earnestly warned those about him that the man was about to lower himself down—at that very instant the murderer, looking behind him on the roof, threw his arms above his head, and uttered a yell of terror.

“The eyes again!” he cried in an unearthly screech.

Staggering as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbled over the parapet. The noose was on his neck. It ran up with his weight, tight as a bow-string, and swift as the arrow it speeds. He fell for five-and-thirty feet. There was a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion of the limbs; and there he hung, with the open knife clenched in his stiffening hand.

The old chimney quivered with the shock, but stood it bravely. The murderer swung lifeless against the wall; and the boy, thrusting aside the dangling body which obscured his view, called to the people to come and take him out, for God’s sake.

A dog, which had lain concealed till now, ran backwards and forwards on the parapet with a dismal howl, and collecting himself for a spring, jumped for the dead man’s shoulders. Missing his aim, he fell into the ditch, turning completely over as he went; and striking his head against a stone, dashed out his brains.

CHAPTER LI. AFFORDING AN EXPLANATION OF MORE MYSTERIES THAN ONE, AND COMPREHENDING A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE WITH NO WORD OF SETTLEMENT OR PIN-MONEY

The events narrated in the last chapter were yet but two days old, when Oliver found himself, at three o’clock in the afternoon, in a travelling-carriage rolling fast towards his native town. Mrs. Maylie, and Rose, and Mrs. Bedwin, and the good doctor were with him: and Mr. Brownlow followed in a post-chaise, accompanied by one other person whose name had not been mentioned.

They had not talked much upon the way; for Oliver was in a flutter of agitation and uncertainty which deprived him of the power of collecting his thoughts, and almost of speech, and appeared to have scarcely less effect on his companions, who shared it, in at least an equal degree. He and the two ladies had been very carefully made acquainted by Mr. Brownlow with the nature of the admissions which had been forced from Monks; and although they knew that the object of their present journey was to complete the work which had been so well begun, still the whole matter was enveloped in enough of doubt and mystery to leave them in endurance of the most intense suspense.

The same kind friend had, with Mr. Losberne’s assistance, cautiously stopped all channels of communication through which they could receive intelligence of the dreadful occurrences that had so recently taken place. “It was quite true,” he said, “that they must know them before long, but it might be at a better time than the present, and it could not be at a worse.” So, they travelled on in silence: each busied with reflections on the object which had brought them together: and no one disposed to give utterance to the thoughts which crowded upon all.

But if Oliver, under these influences, had remained silent while they journeyed towards his birth-place by a road he had never seen, how the whole current of his recollections ran back to old times, and what a crowd of emotions were wakened up in his breast, when they turned into that which he had traversed on foot: a poor houseless, wandering boy, without a friend to help him, or a roof to shelter his head.

“See there, there!” cried Oliver, eagerly clasping the hand of Rose, and pointing out at the carriage window; “that’s the stile I came over; there are the hedges I crept behind, for fear any one should overtake me and force me back! Yonder is the path across the fields, leading to the old house where I was a little child! Oh Dick, Dick, my dear old friend, if I could only see you now!”

“You will see him soon,” replied Rose, gently taking his folded hands between her own. “You shall tell him how happy you are, and how rich you have grown, and that in all your happiness you have none so great as the coming back to make him happy too.”

“Yes, yes,” said Oliver, “and we’ll—we’ll take him away from here, and have him clothed and taught, and send him to some quiet country place where he may grow strong and well,—shall we?”

Rose nodded “yes,” for the boy was smiling through such happy tears that she could not speak.

“You will be kind and good to him, for you are to every one,” said Oliver. “It will make you cry, I know, to hear what he can tell; but never mind, never mind, it will be all over, and you will smile again—I know that too—to think how changed he is; you did the same with me. He said ‘God bless you’ to me when I ran away,” cried the boy with a burst of affectionate emotion; “and I will say ‘God bless you’ now, and show him how I love him for it!”

As they approached the town, and at length drove through its narrow streets, it became matter of no small difficulty to restrain the boy within reasonable bounds. There was Sowerberry’s the undertaker’s just as it used to be, only smaller and less imposing in appearance than he remembered it—there were all the well-known shops and houses, with almost every one of which he had some slight incident connected—there was Gamfield’s cart, the very cart he used to have, standing at the old public-house door—there was the workhouse, the dreary prison of his youthful days, with its dismal windows frowning on the street—there was the same lean porter standing at the gate, at sight of whom Oliver involuntarily shrunk back, and then laughed at himself for being so foolish, then cried, then laughed again—there were scores of faces at the doors and windows that he knew quite well—there was nearly everything as if he had left it but yesterday, and all his recent life had been but a happy dream.

But it was pure, earnest, joyful reality. They drove straight to the door of the chief hotel (which Oliver used to stare up at, with awe, and think a mighty palace, but which had somehow fallen off in grandeur and size); and here was Mr. Grimwig all ready to receive them, kissing the young lady, and the old one too, when they got out of the coach, as if he were the grandfather of the whole party, all smiles and kindness, and not offering to eat his head—no, not once; not even when he contradicted a very old postboy about the nearest road to London, and maintained he knew it best, though he had only come that way once, and that time fast asleep. There was dinner prepared, and there were bedrooms ready, and everything was arranged as if by magic.

Notwithstanding all this, when the hurry of the first half-hour was over, the same silence and constraint prevailed that had marked their journey down. Mr. Brownlow did not join them at dinner, but remained in a separate room. The two other gentlemen hurried in and out with anxious faces, and, during the short intervals when they were present, conversed apart. Once, Mrs. Maylie was called away, and after being absent for nearly an hour, returned with eyes swollen with weeping. All these things made Rose and Oliver, who were not in any new secrets, nervous and uncomfortable. They sat wondering, in silence; or, if they exchanged a few words, spoke in whispers, as if they were afraid to hear the sound of their own voices.

At length, when nine o’clock had come, and they began to think they were to hear no more that night, Mr. Losberne and Mr. Grimwig entered the room, followed by Mr. Brownlow and a man whom Oliver almost shrieked with surprise to see; for they told him it was his brother, and it was the same man he had met at the market-town, and seen looking in with Fagin at the window of his little room. Monks cast a look of hate, which, even then, he could not dissemble, at the astonished boy, and sat down near the door. Mr. Brownlow, who had papers in his hand, walked to a table near which Rose and Oliver were seated.

“This is a painful task,” said he, “but these declarations, which have been signed in London before many gentlemen, must be in substance repeated here. I would have spared you the degradation, but we must hear them from your own lips before we part, and you know why.”

“Go on,” said the person addressed, turning away his face. “Quick. I have almost done enough, I think. Don’t keep me here.”

“This child,” said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his hand upon his head, “is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving him birth.”

“Yes,” said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy: the beating of whose heart he might have heard. “That is the bastard child.”

“The term you use,” said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, “is a reproach to those long since passed beyond the feeble censure of the world. It reflects disgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this town.”

“In the workhouse of this town,” was the sullen reply. “You have the story there.” He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke.

“I must have it here, too,” said Mr. Brownlow, looking round upon the listeners.

“Listen then! You!” returned Monks. “His father being taken ill at Rome, was joined by his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long separated, who went from Paris and took me with her—to look after his property, for what I know, for she had no great affection for him, nor he for her. He knew nothing of us, for his senses were gone, and he slumbered on till next day, when he died. Among the papers in his desk, were two, dated on the night his illness first came on, directed to yourself”; he addressed himself to Mr. Brownlow; “and enclosed in a few short lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of the package that it was not to be forwarded till after he was dead. One of these papers was a letter to this girl Agnes; the other a will.”

“What of the letter?” asked Mr. Brownlow.

“The letter?—A sheet of paper crossed and crossed again, with a penitent confession, and prayers to God to help her. He had palmed a tale on the girl that some secret mystery—to be explained one day—prevented his marrying her just then; and so she had gone on, trusting patiently to him, until she trusted too far, and lost what none could ever give her back. She was, at that time, within a few months of her confinement. He told her all he had meant to do, to hide her shame, if he had lived, and prayed her, if he died, not to curse his memory, or think the consequences of their sin would be visited on her or their young child; for all the guilt was his. He reminded her of the day he had given her the little locket and the ring with her christian name engraved upon it, and a blank left for that which he hoped one day to have bestowed upon her—prayed her yet to keep it, and wear it next her heart, as she had done before—and then ran on, wildly, in the same words, over and over again, as if he had gone distracted. I believe he had.”

“The will,” said Mr. Brownlow, as Oliver’s tears fell fast.

Monks was silent.

“The will,” said Mr. Brownlow, speaking for him, “was in the same spirit as the letter. He talked of miseries which his wife had brought upon him; of the rebellious disposition, vice, malice, and premature bad passions of you his only son, who had been trained to hate him; and left you, and your mother, each an annuity of eight hundred pounds. The bulk of his property he divided into two equal portions—one for Agnes Fleming, and the other for their child, if it should be born alive, and ever come of age. If it were a girl, it was to inherit the money unconditionally; but if a boy, only on the stipulation that in his minority he should never have stained his name with any public act of dishonour, meanness, cowardice, or wrong. He did this, he said, to mark his confidence in the mother, and his conviction—only strengthened by approaching death—that the child would share her gentle heart, and noble nature. If he were disappointed in this expectation, then the money was to come to you: for then, and not till then, when both children were equal, would he recognise your prior claim upon his purse, who had none upon his heart, but had, from an infant, repulsed him with coldness and aversion.”

“My mother,” said Monks, in a louder tone, “did what a woman should have done. She burnt this will. The letter never reached its destination; but that, and other proofs, she kept, in case they ever tried to lie away the blot. The girl’s father had the truth from her with every aggravation that her violent hate—I love her for it now—could add. Goaded by shame and dishonour he fled with his children into a remote corner of Wales, changing his very name that his friends might never know of his retreat; and here, no great while afterwards, he was found dead in his bed. The girl had left her home, in secret, some weeks before; he had searched for her, on foot, in every town and village near; it was on the night when he returned home, assured that she had destroyed herself, to hide her shame and his, that his old heart broke.”

There was a short silence here, until Mr. Brownlow took up the thread of the narrative.

“Years after this,” he said, “this man’s—Edward Leeford’s—mother came to me. He had left her, when only eighteen; robbed her of jewels and money; gambled, squandered, forged, and fled to London: where for two years he had associated with the lowest outcasts. She was sinking under a painful and incurable disease, and wished to recover him before she died. Inquiries were set on foot, and strict searches made. They were unavailing for a long time, but ultimately successful; and he went back with her to France.”

“There she died,” said Monks, “after a lingering illness; and, on her death-bed, she bequeathed these secrets to me, together with her unquenchable and deadly hatred of all whom they involved—though she need not have left me that, for I had inherited it long before. She would not believe that the girl had destroyed herself, and the child too, but was filled with the impression that a male child had been born, and was alive. I swore to her, if ever it crossed my path, to hunt it down; never to let it rest; to pursue it with the bitterest and most unrelenting animosity; to vent upon it the hatred that I deeply felt, and to spit upon the empty vaunt of that insulting will by dragging it, if I could, to the very gallows-foot. She was right. He came in my way at last. I began well; and, but for babbling drabs, I would have finished as I began!”

As the villain folded his arms tight together, and muttered curses on himself in the impotence of baffled malice, Mr. Brownlow turned to the terrified group beside him, and explained that the Jew, who had been his old accomplice and confidant, had a large reward for keeping Oliver ensnared: of which some part was to be given up, in the event of his being rescued: and that a dispute on this head had led to their visit to the country house for the purpose of identifying him.

“The locket and ring?” said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Monks.

“I bought them from the man and woman I told you of, who stole them from the nurse, who stole them from the corpse,” answered Monks without raising his eyes. “You know what became of them.”

Mr. Brownlow merely nodded to Mr. Grimwig, who disappearing with great alacrity, shortly returned, pushing in Mrs. Bumble, and dragging her unwilling consort after him.

“Do my hi’s deceive me!” cried Mr. Bumble, with ill-feigned enthusiasm, “or is that little Oliver? Oh O-li-ver, if you know’d how I’ve been a-grieving for you—”

“Hold your tongue, fool,” murmured Mrs. Bumble.

“Isn’t natur, natur, Mrs. Bumble?” remonstrated the workhouse master. “Can’t I be supposed to feel—I as brought him up porochially—when I see him a-setting here among ladies and gentlemen of the very affablest description! I always loved that boy as if he’d been my—my—my own grandfather,” said Mr. Bumble, halting for an appropriate comparison. “Master Oliver, my dear, you remember the blessed gentleman in the white waistcoat? Ah! he went to heaven last week, in a oak coffin with plated handles, Oliver.”

“Come, sir,” said Mr. Grimwig, tartly; “suppress your feelings.”

“I will do my endeavours, sir,” replied Mr. Bumble. “How do you do, sir? I hope you are very well.”

This salutation was addressed to Mr. Brownlow, who had stepped up to within a short distance of the respectable couple. He inquired, as he pointed to Monks,

“Do you know that person?”

“No,” replied Mrs. Bumble flatly.

“Perhaps you don’t?” said Mr. Brownlow, addressing her spouse.

“I never saw him in all my life,” said Mr. Bumble.

“Nor sold him anything, perhaps?”

“No,” replied Mrs. Bumble.

“You never had, perhaps, a certain gold locket and ring?” said Mr. Brownlow.

“Certainly not,” replied the matron. “Why are we brought here to answer to such nonsense as this?”

Again Mr. Brownlow nodded to Mr. Grimwig; and again that gentleman limped away with extraordinary readiness. But not again did he return with a stout man and wife; for this time, he led in two palsied women, who shook and tottered as they walked.

“You shut the door the night old Sally died,” said the foremost one, raising her shrivelled hand, “but you couldn’t shut out the sound, nor stop the chinks.”

“No, no,” said the other, looking round her and wagging her toothless jaws. “No, no, no.”

“We heard her try to tell you what she’d done, and saw you take a paper from her hand, and watched you too, next day, to the pawnbroker’s shop,” said the first.

“Yes,” added the second, “and it was a ‘locket and gold ring.’ We found out that, and saw it given you. We were by. Oh! we were by.”

“And we know more than that,” resumed the first, “for she told us often, long ago, that the young mother had told her that, feeling she should never get over it, she was on her way, at the time that she was taken ill, to die near the grave of the father of the child.”

“Would you like to see the pawnbroker himself?” asked Mr. Grimwig with a motion towards the door.

“No,” replied the woman; “if he”—she pointed to Monks—“has been coward enough to confess, as I see he has, and you have sounded all these hags till you have found the right ones, I have nothing more to say. I did sell them, and they’re where you’ll never get them. What then?”

“Nothing,” replied Mr. Brownlow, “except that it remains for us to take care that neither of you is employed in a situation of trust again. You may leave the room.”

“I hope,” said Mr. Bumble, looking about him with great ruefulness, as Mr. Grimwig disappeared with the two old women: “I hope that this unfortunate little circumstance will not deprive me of my porochial office?”

“Indeed it will,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “You may make up your mind to that, and think yourself well off besides.”

“It was all Mrs. Bumble. She would do it,” urged Mr. Bumble; first looking round to ascertain that his partner had left the room.

“That is no excuse,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “You were present on the occasion of the destruction of these trinkets, and indeed are the more guilty of the two, in the eye of the law; for the law supposes that your wife acts under your direction.”

“If the law supposes that,” said Mr. Bumble, squeezing his hat emphatically in both hands, “the law is a ass—a idiot. If that’s the eye of the law, the law is a bachelor; and the worst I wish the law is, that his eye may be opened by experience—by experience.”

Laying great stress on the repetition of these two words, Mr. Bumble fixed his hat on very tight, and putting his hands in his pockets, followed his helpmate downstairs.

“Young lady,” said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Rose, “give me your hand. Do not tremble. You need not fear to hear the few remaining words we have to say.”

“If they have—I do not know how they can, but if they have—any reference to me,” said Rose, “pray let me hear them at some other time. I have not strength or spirits now.”

“Nay,” returned the old gentleman, drawing her arm through his; “you have more fortitude than this, I am sure. Do you know this young lady, sir?”

“Yes,” replied Monks.

“I never saw you before,” said Rose faintly.

“I have seen you often,” returned Monks.

“The father of the unhappy Agnes had two daughters,” said Mr. Brownlow. “What was the fate of the other—the child?”

“The child,” replied Monks, “when her father died in a strange place, in a strange name, without a letter, book, or scrap of paper that yielded the faintest clue by which his friends or relatives could be traced—the child was taken by some wretched cottagers, who reared it as their own.”

“Go on,” said Mr. Brownlow, signing to Mrs. Maylie to approach. “Go on!”

“You couldn’t find the spot to which these people had repaired,” said Monks, “but where friendship fails, hatred will often force a way. My mother found it, after a year of cunning search—ay, and found the child.”

“She took it, did she?”

“No. The people were poor and began to sicken—at least the man did—of their fine humanity; so she left it with them, giving them a small present of money which would not last long, and promised more, which she never meant to send. She didn’t quite rely, however, on their discontent and poverty for the child’s unhappiness, but told the history of the sister’s shame, with such alterations as suited her; bade them take good heed of the child, for she came of bad blood; and told them she was illegitimate, and sure to go wrong at one time or other. The circumstances countenanced all this; the people believed it; and there the child dragged on an existence, miserable enough even to satisfy us, until a widow lady, residing, then, at Chester, saw the girl by chance, pitied her, and took her home. There was some cursed spell, I think, against us; for in spite of all our efforts she remained there and was happy. I lost sight of her, two or three years ago, and saw her no more until a few months back.”

“Do you see her now?”

“Yes. Leaning on your arm.”

“But not the less my niece,” cried Mrs. Maylie, folding the fainting girl in her arms; “not the less my dearest child. I would not lose her now, for all the treasures of the world. My sweet companion, my own dear girl!”

“The only friend I ever had,” cried Rose, clinging to her. “The kindest, best of friends. My heart will burst. I cannot bear all this.”

“You have borne more, and have been, through all, the best and gentlest creature that ever shed happiness on every one she knew,” said Mrs. Maylie, embracing her tenderly. “Come, come, my love, remember who this is who waits to clasp you in his arms, poor child! See here—look, look, my dear!”

“Not aunt,” cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck; “I’ll never call her aunt—sister, my own dear sister, that something taught my heart to love so dearly from the first! Rose, dear, darling Rose!”

Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother, were gained, and lost, in that one moment. Joy and grief were mingled in the cup; but there were no bitter tears: for even grief itself arose so softened, and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemn pleasure, and lost all character of pain.

They were a long, long time alone. A soft tap at the door, at length announced that some one was without. Oliver opened it, glided away, and gave place to Harry Maylie.

“I know it all,” he said, taking a seat beside the lovely girl. “Dear Rose, I know it all.”

“I am not here by accident,” he added after a lengthened silence; “nor have I heard all this tonight, for I knew it yesterday—only yesterday. Do you guess that I have come to remind you of a promise?”

“Stay,” said Rose. “You do know all.”

“All. You gave me leave, at any time within a year, to renew the subject of our last discourse.”

“I did.”

“Not to press you to alter your determination,” pursued the young man, “but to hear you repeat it, if you would. I was to lay whatever of station or fortune I might possess at your feet, and if you still adhered to your former determination, I pledged myself, by no word or act, to seek to change it.”

“The same reasons which influenced me then, will influence me now,” said Rose firmly. “If I ever owed a strict and rigid duty to her, whose goodness saved me from a life of indigence and suffering, when should I ever feel it, as I should tonight? It is a struggle,” said Rose, “but one I am proud to make; it is a pang, but one my heart shall bear.”

“The disclosure of tonight,”—Harry began.

“The disclosure of tonight,” replied Rose softly, “leaves me in the same position, with reference to you, as that in which I stood before.”

“You harden your heart against me, Rose,” urged her lover.

“Oh Harry, Harry,” said the young lady, bursting into tears; “I wish I could, and spare myself this pain.”

“Then why inflict it on yourself?” said Harry, taking her hand. “Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard tonight.”

“And what have I heard! What have I heard!” cried Rose. “That a sense of his deep disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned all—there, we have said enough, Harry, we have said enough.”

“Not yet, not yet,” said the young man, detaining her as she rose. “My hopes, my wishes, prospects, feeling: every thought in life except my love for you: have undergone a change. I offer you, now, no distinction among a bustling crowd; no mingling with a world of malice and detraction, where the blood is called into honest cheeks by aught but real disgrace and shame; but a home—a heart and home—yes, dearest Rose, and those, and those alone, are all I have to offer.”

“What do you mean!” she faltered.

“I mean but this—that when I left you last, I left you with a firm determination to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me; resolved that if my world could not be yours, I would make yours mine; that no pride of birth should curl the lip at you, for I would turn from it. This I have done. Those who have shrunk from me because of this, have shrunk from you, and proved you so far right. Such power and patronage: such relatives of influence and rank: as smiled upon me then, look coldly now; but there are smiling fields and waving trees in England’s richest county; and by one village church—mine, Rose, my own!—there stands a rustic dwelling which you can make me prouder of, than all the hopes I have renounced, measured a thousandfold. This is my rank and station now, and here I lay it down!”

“It’s a trying thing waiting supper for lovers,” said Mr. Grimwig, waking up, and pulling his pocket-handkerchief from over his head.

Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could offer a word in extenuation.

“I had serious thoughts of eating my head tonight,” said Mr. Grimwig, “for I began to think I should get nothing else. I’ll take the liberty, if you’ll allow me, of saluting the bride that is to be.”

Mr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into effect upon the blushing girl; and the example, being contagious, was followed both by the doctor and Mr. Brownlow: some people affirm that Harry Maylie had been observed to set it, originally, in a dark room adjoining; but the best authorities consider this downright scandal: he being young and a clergyman.

“Oliver, my child,” said Mrs. Maylie, “where have you been, and why do you look so sad? There are tears stealing down your face at this moment. What is the matter?”

It is a world of disappointment: often to the hopes we most cherish, and hopes that do our nature the greatest honour.

Poor Dick was dead!

CHAPTER LII. FAGIN’S LAST NIGHT ALIVE

The court was paved, from floor to roof, with human faces. Inquisitive and eager eyes peered from every inch of space. From the rail before the dock, away into the sharpest angle of the smallest corner in the galleries, all looks were fixed upon one man—Fagin. Before him and behind: above, below, on the right and on the left: he seemed to stand surrounded by a firmament, all bright with gleaming eyes.

He stood there, in all this glare of living light, with one hand resting on the wooden slab before him, the other held to his ear, and his head thrust forward to enable him to catch with greater distinctness every word that fell from the presiding judge, who was delivering his charge to the jury. At times, he turned his eyes sharply upon them to observe the effect of the slightest featherweight in his favour; and when the points against him were stated with terrible distinctness, looked towards his counsel, in mute appeal that he would, even then, urge something in his behalf. Beyond these manifestations of anxiety, he stirred not hand or foot. He had scarcely moved since the trial began; and now that the judge ceased to speak, he still remained in the same strained attitude of close attention, with his gaze bent on him, as though he listened still.

A slight bustle in the court, recalled him to himself. Looking round, he saw that the jurymen had turned together, to consider their verdict. As his eyes wandered to the gallery, he could see the people rising above each other to see his face: some hastily applying their glasses to their eyes: and others whispering their neighbours with looks expressive of abhorrence. A few there were, who seemed unmindful of him, and looked only to the jury, in impatient wonder how they could delay. But in no one face—not even among the women, of whom there were many there—could he read the faintest sympathy with himself, or any feeling but one of all-absorbing interest that he should be condemned.

As he saw all this in one bewildered glance, the deathlike stillness came again, and looking back he saw that the jurymen had turned towards the judge. Hush!

They only sought permission to retire.

He looked, wistfully, into their faces, one by one when they passed out, as though to see which way the greater number leant; but that was fruitless. The jailer touched him on the shoulder. He followed mechanically to the end of the dock, and sat down on a chair. The man pointed it out, or he would not have seen it.

He looked up into the gallery again. Some of the people were eating, and some fanning themselves with handkerchiefs; for the crowded place was very hot. There was one young man sketching his face in a little note-book. He wondered whether it was like, and looked on when the artist broke his pencil-point, and made another with his knife, as any idle spectator might have done.

In the same way, when he turned his eyes towards the judge, his mind began to busy itself with the fashion of his dress, and what it cost, and how he put it on. There was an old fat gentleman on the bench, too, who had gone out, some half an hour before, and now come back. He wondered within himself whether this man had been to get his dinner, what he had had, and where he had had it; and pursued this train of careless thought until some new object caught his eye and roused another.

Not that, all this time, his mind was, for an instant, free from one oppressive overwhelming sense of the grave that opened at his feet; it was ever present to him, but in a vague and general way, and he could not fix his thoughts upon it. Thus, even while he trembled, and turned burning hot at the idea of speedy death, he fell to counting the iron spikes before him, and wondering how the head of one had been broken off, and whether they would mend it, or leave it as it was. Then, he thought of all the horrors of the gallows and the scaffold—and stopped to watch a man sprinkling the floor to cool it—and then went on to think again.

At length there was a cry of silence, and a breathless look from all towards the door. The jury returned, and passed him close. He could glean nothing from their faces; they might as well have been of stone. Perfect stillness ensued—not a rustle—not a breath—Guilty.

The building rang with a tremendous shout, and another, and another, and then it echoed loud groans, that gathered strength as they swelled out, like angry thunder. It was a peal of joy from the populace outside, greeting the news that he would die on Monday.

The noise subsided, and he was asked if he had anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon him. He had resumed his listening attitude, and looked intently at his questioner while the demand was made; but it was twice repeated before he seemed to hear it, and then he only muttered that he was an old man—an old man—and so, dropping into a whisper, was silent again.

The judge assumed the black cap, and the prisoner still stood with the same air and gesture. A woman in the gallery, uttered some exclamation, called forth by this dread solemnity; he looked hastily up as if angry at the interruption, and bent forward yet more attentively. The address was solemn and impressive; the sentence fearful to hear. But he stood, like a marble figure, without the motion of a nerve. His haggard face was still thrust forward, his under-jaw hanging down, and his eyes staring out before him, when the jailer put his hand upon his arm, and beckoned him away. He gazed stupidly about him for an instant, and obeyed.

They led him through a paved room under the court, where some prisoners were waiting till their turns came, and others were talking to their friends, who crowded round a grate which looked into the open yard. There was nobody there to speak to him; but, as he passed, the prisoners fell back to render him more visible to the people who were clinging to the bars: and they assailed him with opprobrious names, and screeched and hissed. He shook his fist, and would have spat upon them; but his conductors hurried him on, through a gloomy passage lighted by a few dim lamps, into the interior of the prison.

Here, he was searched, that he might not have about him the means of anticipating the law; this ceremony performed, they led him to one of the condemned cells, and left him there—alone.

He sat down on a stone bench opposite the door, which served for seat and bedstead; and casting his blood-shot eyes upon the ground, tried to collect his thoughts. After awhile, he began to remember a few disjointed fragments of what the judge had said: though it had seemed to him, at the time, that he could not hear a word. These gradually fell into their proper places, and by degrees suggested more: so that in a little time he had the whole, almost as it was delivered. To be hanged by the neck, till he was dead—that was the end. To be hanged by the neck till he was dead.

As it came on very dark, he began to think of all the men he had known who had died upon the scaffold; some of them through his means. They rose up, in such quick succession, that he could hardly count them. He had seen some of them die,—and had joked too, because they died with prayers upon their lips. With what a rattling noise the drop went down; and how suddenly they changed, from strong and vigorous men to dangling heaps of clothes!

Some of them might have inhabited that very cell—sat upon that very spot. It was very dark; why didn’t they bring a light? The cell had been built for many years. Scores of men must have passed their last hours there. It was like sitting in a vault strewn with dead bodies—the cap, the noose, the pinioned arms, the faces that he knew, even beneath that hideous veil.—Light, light!

At length, when his hands were raw with beating against the heavy door and walls, two men appeared: one bearing a candle, which he thrust into an iron candlestick fixed against the wall: the other dragging in a mattress on which to pass the night; for the prisoner was to be left alone no more.

Then came the night—dark, dismal, silent night. Other watchers are glad to hear this church-clock strike, for they tell of life and coming day. To him they brought despair. The boom of every iron bell came laden with the one, deep, hollow sound—Death. What availed the noise and bustle of cheerful morning, which penetrated even there, to him? It was another form of knell, with mockery added to the warning.

The day passed off. Day? There was no day; it was gone as soon as come—and night came on again; night so long, and yet so short; long in its dreadful silence, and short in its fleeting hours. At one time he raved and blasphemed; and at another howled and tore his hair. Venerable men of his own persuasion had come to pray beside him, but he had driven them away with curses. They renewed their charitable efforts, and he beat them off.

Saturday night. He had only one night more to live. And as he thought of this, the day broke—Sunday.

It was not until the night of this last awful day, that a withering sense of his helpless, desperate state came in its full intensity upon his blighted soul; not that he had ever held any defined or positive hope of mercy, but that he had never been able to consider more than the dim probability of dying so soon. He had spoken little to either of the two men, who relieved each other in their attendance upon him; and they, for their parts, made no effort to rouse his attention. He had sat there, awake, but dreaming. Now, he started up, every minute, and with gasping mouth and burning skin, hurried to and fro, in such a paroxysm of fear and wrath that even they—used to such sights—recoiled from him with horror. He grew so terrible, at last, in all the tortures of his evil conscience, that one man could not bear to sit there, eyeing him alone; and so the two kept watch together.

He cowered down upon his stone bed, and thought of the past. He had been wounded with some missiles from the crowd on the day of his capture, and his head was bandaged with a linen cloth. His red hair hung down upon his bloodless face; his beard was torn, and twisted into knots; his eyes shone with a terrible light; his unwashed flesh crackled with the fever that burnt him up. Eight—nine—then. If it was not a trick to frighten him, and those were the real hours treading on each other’s heels, where would he be, when they came round again! Eleven! Another struck, before the voice of the previous hour had ceased to vibrate. At eight, he would be the only mourner in his own funeral train; at eleven—

Those dreadful walls of Newgate, which have hidden so much misery and such unspeakable anguish, not only from the eyes, but, too often, and too long, from the thoughts, of men, never held so dread a spectacle as that. The few who lingered as they passed, and wondered what the man was doing who was to be hanged tomorrow, would have slept but ill that night, if they could have seen him.

From early in the evening until nearly midnight, little groups of two and three presented themselves at the lodge-gate, and inquired, with anxious faces, whether any reprieve had been received. These being answered in the negative, communicated the welcome intelligence to clusters in the street, who pointed out to one another the door from which he must come out, and showed where the scaffold would be built, and, walking with unwilling steps away, turned back to conjure up the scene. By degrees they fell off, one by one; and, for an hour, in the dead of night, the street was left to solitude and darkness.

The space before the prison was cleared, and a few strong barriers, painted black, had been already thrown across the road to break the pressure of the expected crowd, when Mr. Brownlow and Oliver appeared at the wicket, and presented an order of admission to the prisoner, signed by one of the sheriffs. They were immediately admitted into the lodge.

“Is the young gentleman to come too, sir?” said the man whose duty it was to conduct them. “It’s not a sight for children, sir.”

“It is not indeed, my friend,” rejoined Mr. Brownlow; “but my business with this man is intimately connected with him; and as this child has seen him in the full career of his success and villainy, I think it as well—even at the cost of some pain and fear—that he should see him now.”

These few words had been said apart, so as to be inaudible to Oliver. The man touched his hat; and glancing at Oliver with some curiousity, opened another gate, opposite to that by which they had entered, and led them on, through dark and winding ways, towards the cells.

“This,” said the man, stopping in a gloomy passage where a couple of workmen were making some preparations in profound silence—“this is the place he passes through. If you step this way, you can see the door he goes out at.”

He led them into a stone kitchen, fitted with coppers for dressing the prison food, and pointed to a door. There was an open grating above it, through which came the sound of men’s voices, mingled with the noise of hammering, and the throwing down of boards. They were putting up the scaffold.

From this place, they passed through several strong gates, opened by other turnkeys from the inner side; and, having entered an open yard, ascended a flight of narrow steps, and came into a passage with a row of strong doors on the left hand. Motioning them to remain where they were, the turnkey knocked at one of these with his bunch of keys. The two attendants, after a little whispering, came out into the passage, stretching themselves as if glad of the temporary relief, and motioned the visitors to follow the jailer into the cell. They did so.

The condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himself from side to side, with a countenance more like that of a snared beast than the face of a man. His mind was evidently wandering to his old life, for he continued to mutter, without appearing conscious of their presence otherwise than as a part of his vision.

“Good boy, Charley—well done—” he mumbled. “Oliver, too, ha! ha! ha! Oliver too—quite the gentleman now—quite the—take that boy away to bed!”

The jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver; and, whispering him not to be alarmed, looked on without speaking.

“Take him away to bed!” cried Fagin. “Do you hear me, some of you? He has been the—the—somehow the cause of all this. It’s worth the money to bring him up to it—Bolter’s throat, Bill; never mind the girl—Bolter’s throat as deep as you can cut. Saw his head off!”

“Fagin,” said the jailer.

“That’s me!” cried the Jew, falling instantly, into the attitude of listening he had assumed upon his trial. “An old man, my Lord; a very old, old man!”

“Here,” said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his breast to keep him down. “Here’s somebody wants to see you, to ask you some questions, I suppose. Fagin, Fagin! Are you a man?”

“I shan’t be one long,” he replied, looking up with a face retaining no human expression but rage and terror. “Strike them all dead! What right have they to butcher me?”

As he spoke he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinking to the furthest corner of the seat, he demanded to know what they wanted there.

“Steady,” said the turnkey, still holding him down. “Now, sir, tell him what you want. Quick, if you please, for he grows worse as the time gets on.”

“You have some papers,” said Mr. Brownlow advancing, “which were placed in your hands, for better security, by a man called Monks.”

“It’s all a lie together,” replied Fagin. “I haven’t one—not one.”

“For the love of God,” said Mr. Brownlow solemnly, “do not say that now, upon the very verge of death; but tell me where they are. You know that Sikes is dead; that Monks has confessed; that there is no hope of any further gain. Where are those papers?”

“Oliver,” cried Fagin, beckoning to him. “Here, here! Let me whisper to you.”

“I am not afraid,” said Oliver in a low voice, as he relinquished Mr. Brownlow’s hand.

“The papers,” said Fagin, drawing Oliver towards him, “are in a canvas bag, in a hole a little way up the chimney in the top front-room. I want to talk to you, my dear. I want to talk to you.”

“Yes, yes,” returned Oliver. “Let me say a prayer. Do! Let me say one prayer. Say only one, upon your knees, with me, and we will talk till morning.”

“Outside, outside,” replied Fagin, pushing the boy before him towards the door, and looking vacantly over his head. “Say I’ve gone to sleep—they’ll believe you. You can get me out, if you take me so. Now then, now then!”

“Oh! God forgive this wretched man!” cried the boy with a burst of tears.

“That’s right, that’s right,” said Fagin. “That’ll help us on. This door first. If I shake and tremble, as we pass the gallows, don’t you mind, but hurry on. Now, now, now!”

“Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?” inquired the turnkey.

“No other question,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “If I hoped we could recall him to a sense of his position—”

“Nothing will do that, sir,” replied the man, shaking his head. “You had better leave him.”

The door of the cell opened, and the attendants returned.

“Press on, press on,” cried Fagin. “Softly, but not so slow. Faster, faster!”

The men laid hands upon him, and disengaging Oliver from his grasp, held him back. He struggled with the power of desperation, for an instant; and then sent up cry upon cry that penetrated even those massive walls, and rang in their ears until they reached the open yard.

It was some time before they left the prison. Oliver nearly swooned after this frightful scene, and was so weak that for an hour or more, he had not the strength to walk.

Day was dawning when they again emerged. A great multitude had already assembled; the windows were filled with people, smoking and playing cards to beguile the time; the crowd were pushing, quarrelling, joking. Everything told of life and animation, but one dark cluster of objects in the centre of all—the black stage, the cross-beam, the rope, and all the hideous apparatus of death.

CHAPTER LIII. 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.

CHAPTER I. TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN AND OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDING HIS BIRTH

Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter.

For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether the child would survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared; or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise and faithful specimen of biography, extant in the literature of any age or country.

Although I am not disposed to maintain that being born in a workhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office of respiration,—a troublesome practice, but one which custom has rendered necessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and the next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver and Nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter.

As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, “Let me see the child, and die.”

The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed’s head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him:

“Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.”

“Lor bless her dear heart, no!” interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction.

“Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on ’em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she’ll know better than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there’s a dear young lamb, do.”

Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother’s prospects failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child.

The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back—and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long.

“It’s all over, Mrs. Thingummy!” said the surgeon at last.

“Ah, poor dear, so it is!” said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the child. “Poor dear!”

“You needn’t mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse,” said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. “It’s very likely it will be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is.” He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door, added, “She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?”

“She was brought here last night,” replied the old woman, “by the overseer’s order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows.”

The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. “The old story,” he said, shaking his head: “no wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good-night!”

The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having once more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant.

What an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; it would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assigned him his proper station in society. But now that he was enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow in the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his place at once—a parish child—the orphan of a workhouse—the humble, half-starved drudge—to be cuffed and buffeted through the world—despised by all, and pitied by none.

Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to the tender mercies of churchwardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder.

CAPITOLO I. TRATTA DEL LUOGO IN CUI NASCE OLIVER TWIST E DELLE CIRCOSTANZE CHE ACCOMPAGNARONO LA SUA NASCITA

Tra gli altri edifici pubblici di una certa città, che per molte ragioni sarà prudente astenersi dal nominare e alla quale non assegnerò alcun nome fittizio, ce n’è uno anticamente comune a gran parte delle città, grandi o piccole: un ospizio; ed in questo ospizio è nato, in una data che non mi preoccuperò di ripetere, dato che non può avere la minima importanza per il lettore, almeno in questa fase della vicenda; l’elemento di mortalità il cui nome è premesso all’inizio di questo capitolo.

Per un lungo periodo dopo che fu introdotto in questo mondo di dolore e difficoltà, dal chirurgo parrocchiale, rimase una questione di notevole incertezza se il bambino sarebbe sopravvissuto per portare un nome; in tal caso è più che probabile che questi ricordi non sarebbero mai apparsi; o, se lo fossero stati, essendo contenuti in una manciata di pagine, avrebbero posseduto il merito inestimabile di essere l’esempio più conciso e fedele di biografia esistente nella letteratura di qualsiasi epoca o paese.

Anche se non sono propenso ad affermare che nascere in un ospizio sia di per sé la circostanza più fortunata e invidiabile che possa capitare a un essere umano, voglio dire che in questo caso particolare è stata la cosa migliore che potesse accadere a Oliver Twist. Il fatto è che ci fu notevole difficoltà nel convincere Oliver ad assumersi l’incarico della respirazione, una pratica noiosa ma resa necessaria dalla consuetudine per la nostra esistenza serena; e per un po’ di tempo rimase ansimante su un piccolo materasso di lana, in uno stato di equilibrio piuttosto precario tra questo mondo e quello successivo: con il bilancio decisamente a favore del secondo. Ora, se durante questo breve periodo Oliver fosse stato circondato da nonne premurose, zie ansiose, infermiere esperte e medici di profonda sapienza, sarebbe stato ucciso senza dubbio alcuno in brevissimo tempo. Non essendoci però nessuno a parte una vecchia povera donna, resa piuttosto annebbiata da un’insolita razione di birra; e un chirurgo parrocchiale che trattava tali questioni per contratto; Oliver e la Natura si scontrarono su questo punto. Il risultato fu che, dopo alcune lotte, Oliver respirò, starnutì e procedette ad annunciare agli abitanti dell’ospizio il fatto che un nuovo peso era stato imposto alla parrocchia, emettendo un grido così forte quanto ragionevolmente si poteva aspettare da un infante maschio che non fosse in possesso di quell’appendice molto utile, una voce, per uno spazio di tempo molto più lungo dei tre minuti e un quarto.

Mentre Oliver dava questa prima prova del libero e regolare funzionamento dei suoi polmoni, la coperta di stracci che era stata buttata con noncuranza sopra il letto di ferro frusciò; il pallido volto di una giovane donna si sollevò debolmente dal cuscino; e una voce flebile articolò imperfettamente le parole: «Lasciatemi vedere il bambino, e morirò».

Il chirurgo era seduto con il viso rivolto verso il fuoco, scaldandosi e strofinandosi a turno i palmi delle mani. Mentre la giovane donna parlava, egli si alzò e avvicinandosi alla testata del letto disse, con più gentilezza di quanta ci si sarebbe potuto aspettare da lui:

“Oh, non dovete parlare di morte ancora.”

«Dio la benedica, il suo caro cuore, no!» intervenne l’infermiera, deposto frettolosamente nella tasca una bottiglia di vetro verde, del cui contenuto aveva assaggiato in un angolo con evidente soddisfazione.

«Che Dio la benedica, quando avrà vissuto quanto me, signore, e avrà avuto tredici figli suoi, e tutti morti tranne due, e questi al lavoro con me, saprà meglio che lamentarsi in quel modo, che Dio la benedica! Pensi a cosa significa essere una madre, c’è un caro giovane agnello, lo faccia.»

Apparentemente questa prospettiva consolatoria delle possibilità di una madre non riuscì a produrre il suo effetto dovuto. La paziente scosse la testa e tese la mano verso il bambino.

Il chirurgo lo depose tra le sue braccia. Lei imprimette con passione sul suo fronte i suoi freddi bianchi labbri; si passò le mani sul viso; guardò disperatamente intorno; rabbrividì; cadde all’indietro—e morì. Le strofinarono il seno, le mani e le tempie; ma il sangue era fermo per sempre. Parlarono di speranza e conforto. Erano stati estranei troppo a lungo.

«È finita, signora Thingummy!» disse alla fine il chirurgo.

«Ah, povera cara, così è!» disse la balia, raccogliendo il tappo della bottiglia verde che era caduto sul cuscino mentre si chinava per prendere in braccio il bambino. «Povera cara!»

“Non deve preoccuparsi di mandarmi a chiamare se il bambino piange, balia,” disse il chirurgo, indossando i guanti con grande calma. “È molto probabile che sia un bambino difficile. Dategli un po’ di brodo se è così.” Si mise il cappello e, fermandosi al capezzale del letto mentre si dirigeva verso la porta, aggiunse: “Era anche una ragazza carina; da dove veniva?”

«È stata portata qui ieri sera», rispose la vecchia, «per ordine del sorvegliante. L’hanno trovata distesa per strada. Aveva camminato parecchio, perché le scarpe erano consumate; ma da dove venisse o dove stesse andando, nessuno lo sa».

Il chirurgo si chinò sul corpo e sollevò la mano sinistra. «La vecchia storia» disse scuotendo il capo: «non c’è l’anello di nozze, vedo. Ah! Buona notte!»

Il gentiluomo medico se ne andò per la cena; e l’infermiera, dopo aver di nuovo fatto ricorso alla bottiglia verde, si sedette su una sedia bassa davanti al fuoco e procedette ad abbigliare il bambino.

Che ottimo esempio del potere dell’abbigliamento fosse il giovane Oliver Twist! Avvolto nella coperta che fino ad allora era stata il suo unico indumento, avrebbe potuto essere il bambino di un nobile o di un mendicante; sarebbe stato difficile anche per lo straniero più arrogante assegnargli la sua giusta posizione nella società. Ma ora che era avvolto nelle vecchie vesti di cotone che si erano ingiallite in quel servizio, era contrassegnato e etichettato, e trovò subito il suo posto: un bambino della parrocchia, l’orfano di un ospizio, umile drudgo mezzo affamato, da percuotere e maltrattare in tutto il mondo, disprezzato da tutti e compatito da nessuno.

Oliver pianse a dirotto. Se avesse potuto sapere che era un orfano, abbandonato alla tenera pietà dei guardiani della chiesa e degli amministratori, forse avrebbe pianto ancora più forte.

CHAPTER II. TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST’S GROWTH, EDUCATION, AND BOARD

For the next eight or ten months, Oliver was the victim of a systematic course of treachery and deception. He was brought up by hand. The hungry and destitute situation of the infant orphan was duly reported by the workhouse authorities to the parish authorities. The parish authorities inquired with dignity of the workhouse authorities, whether there was no female then domiciled in “the house” who was in a situation to impart to Oliver Twist, the consolation and nourishment of which he stood in need. The workhouse authorities replied with humility, that there was not. Upon this, the parish authorities magnanimously and humanely resolved, that Oliver should be “farmed,” or, in other words, that he should be dispatched to a branch-workhouse some three miles off, where twenty or thirty other juvenile offenders against the poor-laws, rolled about the floor all day, without the inconvenience of too much food or too much clothing, under the parental superintendence of an elderly female, who received the culprits at and for the consideration of sevenpence-halfpenny per small head per week. Sevenpence-halfpenny’s worth per week is a good round diet for a child; a great deal may be got for sevenpence-halfpenny, quite enough to overload its stomach, and make it uncomfortable. The elderly female was a woman of wisdom and experience; she knew what was good for children; and she had a very accurate perception of what was good for herself. So, she appropriated the greater part of the weekly stipend to her own use, and consigned the rising parochial generation to even a shorter allowance than was originally provided for them. Thereby finding in the lowest depth a deeper still; and proving herself a very great experimental philosopher.

Everybody knows the story of another experimental philosopher who had a great theory about a horse being able to live without eating, and who demonstrated it so well, that he had got his own horse down to a straw a day, and would unquestionably have rendered him a very spirited and rampacious animal on nothing at all, if he had not died, four-and-twenty hours before he was to have had his first comfortable bait of air. Unfortunately for the experimental philosophy of the female to whose protecting care Oliver Twist was delivered over, a similar result usually attended the operation of her system; for at the very moment when the child had contrived to exist upon the smallest possible portion of the weakest possible food, it did perversely happen in eight and a half cases out of ten, either that it sickened from want and cold, or fell into the fire from neglect, or got half-smothered by accident; in any one of which cases, the miserable little being was usually summoned into another world, and there gathered to the fathers it had never known in this.

Occasionally, when there was some more than usually interesting inquest upon a parish child who had been overlooked in turning up a bedstead, or inadvertently scalded to death when there happened to be a washing—though the latter accident was very scarce, anything approaching to a washing being of rare occurrence in the farm—the jury would take it into their heads to ask troublesome questions, or the parishioners would rebelliously affix their signatures to a remonstrance. But these impertinences were speedily checked by the evidence of the surgeon, and the testimony of the beadle; the former of whom had always opened the body and found nothing inside (which was very probable indeed), and the latter of whom invariably swore whatever the parish wanted; which was very self-devotional. Besides, the board made periodical pilgrimages to the farm, and always sent the beadle the day before, to say they were going. The children were neat and clean to behold, when they went; and what more would the people have!

It cannot be expected that this system of farming would produce any very extraordinary or luxuriant crop. Oliver Twist’s ninth birthday found him a pale thin child, somewhat diminutive in stature, and decidedly small in circumference. But nature or inheritance had implanted a good sturdy spirit in Oliver’s breast. It had had plenty of room to expand, thanks to the spare diet of the establishment; and perhaps to this circumstance may be attributed his having any ninth birth-day at all. Be this as it may, however, it was his ninth birthday; and he was keeping it in the coal-cellar with a select party of two other young gentleman, who, after participating with him in a sound thrashing, had been locked up for atrociously presuming to be hungry, when Mrs. Mann, the good lady of the house, was unexpectedly startled by the apparition of Mr. Bumble, the beadle, striving to undo the wicket of the garden-gate.

“Goodness gracious! Is that you, Mr. Bumble, sir?” said Mrs. Mann, thrusting her head out of the window in well-affected ecstasies of joy. “(Susan, take Oliver and them two brats upstairs, and wash ’em directly.)—My heart alive! Mr. Bumble, how glad I am to see you, sure-ly!”

Now, Mr. Bumble was a fat man, and a choleric; so, instead of responding to this open-hearted salutation in a kindred spirit, he gave the little wicket a tremendous shake, and then bestowed upon it a kick which could have emanated from no leg but a beadle’s.

“Lor, only think,” said Mrs. Mann, running out,—for the three boys had been removed by this time,—“only think of that! That I should have forgotten that the gate was bolted on the inside, on account of them dear children! Walk in sir; walk in, pray, Mr. Bumble, do, sir.”

Although this invitation was accompanied with a curtsey that might have softened the heart of a churchwarden, it by no means mollified the beadle.

CAPITOLO II. TRATTA DELLA CRESITA, DELL’ISTRUZIONE E DEL MANTENIMENTO DI OLIVER TWIST

Per i successivi otto o dieci mesi, Oliver fu vittima di un sistema di tradimenti e inganni. Fu allevato a mano. La situazione di fame e indigenza del bambino orfano fu debitamente segnalata dalle autorità della casa di lavoro alle autorità parrocchiali. Le autorità parrocchiali chiesero con dignità alle autorità della casa di lavoro se non ci fosse nessuna donna domiciliata in “la casa” che potesse dare a Oliver Twist, il conforto e la nutrizione di cui aveva bisogno. Le autorità della casa di lavoro risposero con umiltà, che non c’era. Su questo, le autorità parrocchiali risolsero magnanimamente e umanamente che Oliver sarebbe stato “affidato”, o, in altre parole, che sarebbe stato mandato a una filiale della casa di lavoro a tre miglia di distanza, dove altri venti o trenta giovani trasgressori delle leggi sui poveri rotolavano per terra tutto il giorno, senza l’incomodo di troppo cibo o troppi vestiti, sotto la supervisione parentale di una donna anziana che riceveva i colpevoli in cambio e per considerazione di sette pence e mezzo per piccola testa a settimana. Sette pence e mezzo alla settimana sono un’ottima dieta completa per un bambino; si può ottenere molto con sette pence e mezzo, abbastanza da sovraccaricare lo stomaco e renderlo scomodo. La donna anziana era una persona saggia ed esperta; sapeva cosa fosse buono per i bambini; e aveva una percezione molto precisa di ciò che fosse buono per lei. Così, si appropriò della maggior parte dello stipendio settimanale per il suo uso personale, e affidò la crescente generazione parrocchiale a un’indennità ancora più bassa di quella originariamente prevista per loro. Trovando così in fondo una profondità ancora maggiore; e dimostrandosi una grande filosofa sperimentale.

Tutti conoscono la storia di un altro filosofo sperimentale che aveva una grande teoria secondo cui un cavallo poteva vivere senza mangiare e che dimostrò così bene, che riuscì a far arrivare il proprio cavallo a un filo d’erba al giorno, e lo avrebbe indubbiamente reso un animale molto vigoroso e irrequieto senza mangiare affatto, se non fosse morto ventiquattro ore prima di ricevere la sua prima comoda razione d’aria. Sfortunatamente per la filosofia sperimentale della donna a cui fu affidata la cura protettiva di Oliver Twist, un risultato simile era solito accompagnare l’applicazione del suo sistema; infatti, nel momento stesso in cui il bambino riusciva a sopravvivere con la porzione più piccola possibile del cibo più debole possibile, accadeva perversamente che, in otto casi e mezzo su dieci, o si ammalasse per fame e freddo, o cadeva nel fuoco per negligenza, o veniva soffocato a metà per un incidente; in ciascuno di questi casi, il povero piccolo essere era solitamente convocato in un altro mondo e lì riunito ai padri che non aveva mai conosciuto in questo.

Di tanto in tanto, quando c’era un’inchiesta più che solitamente interessante su un bambino del comune che era stato trascurato nel voltare una branda o scottato fino alla morte per sbaglio durante il bucato — sebbene quest’ultimo incidente fosse molto raro, dato che qualsiasi cosa somigliante a un bucato capitava di rado nella fattoria — la giuria si metteva in testa di fare domande fastidiose o i parrocchiani ribellamente apponevano le loro firme su una protesta. Ma queste impertinenze venivano rapidamente stroncate dalle dichiarazioni del chirurgo e dalla testimonianza dell’usciere; il primo dei quali aveva sempre aperto il corpo e non aveva trovato nulla all’interno (cosa che era molto probabile), e quest’ultimo giurava invariabilmente tutto ciò che voleva la parrocchia; cosa che era molto ego-dedicata. Inoltre, il consiglio faceva pellegrinaggi periodici alla fattoria e mandava sempre l’usciere il giorno prima per dire che sarebbero andati. I bambini erano puliti e ordinati da vedere quando loro andavano; e cosa volevano di più le persone!

Non si può certo aspettare che questo sistema di allevamento produca una coltura straordinaria o rigogliosa. Il nono compleanno di Oliver Twist lo trovò un bambino pallido e magro, piuttosto piccolo di statura e decisamente esile in circonferenza. Ma la natura o l’eredità avevano piantato uno spirito robusto nel petto di Oliver. Aveva avuto tutto lo spazio per espandersi, grazie alla dieta frugale dell’istituto; e forse a questa circostanza si deve attribuire il fatto che abbia avuto un nono compleanno. Comunque sia, era proprio il suo nono compleanno; e lo stava festeggiando nella cantina del carbone con una selezionata compagnia di altri due giovani gentiluomini, i quali, dopo aver partecipato insieme a lui a una sonora bastonatura, erano stati rinchiusi per l’atroce presunzione di essere affamati, quando la signora Mann, la buona padrona di casa, fu inaspettatamente sorpresa dall’apparizione del signor Bumble, il becchino, che si sforzava di aprire lo sportello del cancello del giardino.

«Dio mio buono! È lei, signor Bumble?» disse la signora Mann, sporgendo la testa dal finestrino in un’estasi di gioia ben simulata. «(Susan, porta Oliver e quei due marmocchi di sopra e lavali subito.)—Mio Dio! Signor Bumble, che piacere vederla, davvero!»

Ora, il signor Bumble era un uomo grasso e di carattere collerico; così invece di rispondere a questo saluto cordiale con altrettanto spirito affettuoso, diede al piccolo cancello una tremenda scossa e poi gli assestò un calcio che non poteva essere partorito da altro piede se non quello di un becchino.

«Oh, solo pensare», disse la signora Mann correndo fuori — poiché i tre ragazzi erano stati rimossi entro questo tempo — «solo pensare a questo! Che io avessi dimenticato che il cancello era chiuso con il chiavistello dall’interno, per colpa di quei cari bambini! Entri pure signore; entri prego, signor Bumble, faccia così, signore.»

Sebbene questo invito fosse accompagnato da un inchino che avrebbe potuto ammorbidire il cuore di un sagrestano, non addolcì affatto il becchino.

“Do you think this respectful or proper conduct, Mrs. Mann,” inquired Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane, “to keep the parish officers a waiting at your garden-gate, when they come here upon porochial business with the porochial orphans? Are you aweer, Mrs. Mann, that you are, as I may say, a porochial delegate, and a stipendiary?”

“I’m sure Mr. Bumble, that I was only a telling one or two of the dear children as is so fond of you, that it was you a coming,” replied Mrs. Mann with great humility.

Mr. Bumble had a great idea of his oratorical powers and his importance. He had displayed the one, and vindicated the other. He relaxed.

“Well, well, Mrs. Mann,” he replied in a calmer tone; “it may be as you say; it may be. Lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, for I come on business, and have something to say.”

Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor; placed a seat for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and cane on the table before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his walk had engendered, glanced complacently at the cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beadles are but men: and Mr. Bumble smiled.

“Now don’t you be offended at what I’m a going to say,” observed Mrs. Mann, with captivating sweetness. “You’ve had a long walk, you know, or I wouldn’t mention it. Now, will you take a little drop of somethink, Mr. Bumble?”

“Not a drop. Nor a drop,” said Mr. Bumble, waving his right hand in a dignified, but placid manner.

“I think you will,” said Mrs. Mann, who had noticed the tone of the refusal, and the gesture that had accompanied it. “Just a leetle drop, with a little cold water, and a lump of sugar.”

Mr. Bumble coughed.

“Now, just a leetle drop,” said Mrs. Mann persuasively.

“What is it?” inquired the beadle.

“Why, it’s what I’m obliged to keep a little of in the house, to put into the blessed infants’ Daffy, when they ain’t well, Mr. Bumble,” replied Mrs. Mann as she opened a corner cupboard, and took down a bottle and glass. “It’s gin. I’ll not deceive you, Mr. B. It’s gin.”

“Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?” inquired Bumble, following with his eyes the interesting process of mixing.

“Ah, bless ’em, that I do, dear as it is,” replied the nurse. “I couldn’t see ’em suffer before my very eyes, you know sir.”

“No”; said Mr. Bumble approvingly; “no, you could not. You are a humane woman, Mrs. Mann.” (Here she set down the glass.) “I shall take a early opportunity of mentioning it to the board, Mrs. Mann.” (He drew it towards him.) “You feel as a mother, Mrs. Mann.” (He stirred the gin-and-water.) “I—I drink your health with cheerfulness, Mrs. Mann”; and he swallowed half of it.

“And now about business,” said the beadle, taking out a leathern pocket-book. “The child that was half-baptized Oliver Twist, is nine year old today.”

“Bless him!” interposed Mrs. Mann, inflaming her left eye with the corner of her apron.

“And notwithstanding a offered reward of ten pound, which was afterwards increased to twenty pound. Notwithstanding the most superlative, and, I may say, supernat’ral exertions on the part of this parish,” said Bumble, “we have never been able to discover who is his father, or what was his mother’s settlement, name, or condition.”

Mrs. Mann raised her hands in astonishment; but added, after a moment’s reflection, “How comes he to have any name at all, then?”

The beadle drew himself up with great pride, and said, “I inwented it.”

“You, Mr. Bumble!”

“I, Mrs. Mann. We name our fondlings in alphabetical order. The last was a S,—Swubble, I named him. This was a T,—Twist, I named him. The next one comes will be Unwin, and the next Vilkins. I have got names ready made to the end of the alphabet, and all the way through it again, when we come to Z.”

“Why, you’re quite a literary character, sir!” said Mrs. Mann.

“Well, well,” said the beadle, evidently gratified with the compliment; “perhaps I may be. Perhaps I may be, Mrs. Mann.” He finished the gin-and-water, and added, “Oliver being now too old to remain here, the board have determined to have him back into the house. I have come out myself to take him there. So let me see him at once.”

“I’ll fetch him directly,” said Mrs. Mann, leaving the room for that purpose. Oliver, having had by this time as much of the outer coat of dirt which encrusted his face and hands, removed, as could be scrubbed off in one washing, was led into the room by his benevolent protectress.

“Make a bow to the gentleman, Oliver,” said Mrs. Mann.

Oliver made a bow, which was divided between the beadle on the chair, and the cocked hat on the table.

“Will you go along with me, Oliver?” said Mr. Bumble, in a majestic voice.

Oliver was about to say that he would go along with anybody with great readiness, when, glancing upward, he caught sight of Mrs. Mann, who had got behind the beadle’s chair, and was shaking her fist at him with a furious countenance. He took the hint at once, for the fist had been too often impressed upon his body not to be deeply impressed upon his recollection.

“Will she go with me?” inquired poor Oliver.

“No, she can’t,” replied Mr. Bumble. “But she’ll come and see you sometimes.”

This was no very great consolation to the child. Young as he was, however, he had sense enough to make a feint of feeling great regret at going away. It was no very difficult matter for the boy to call tears into his eyes. Hunger and recent ill-usage are great assistants if you want to cry; and Oliver cried very naturally indeed. Mrs. Mann gave him a thousand embraces, and what Oliver wanted a great deal more, a piece of bread and butter, lest he should seem too hungry when he got to the workhouse. With the slice of bread in his hand, and the little brown-cloth parish cap on his head, Oliver was then led away by Mr. Bumble from the wretched home where one kind word or look had never lighted the gloom of his infant years. And yet he burst into an agony of childish grief, as the cottage-gate closed after him. Wretched as were the little companions in misery he was leaving behind, they were the only friends he had ever known; and a sense of his loneliness in the great wide world, sank into the child’s heart for the first time.

«Pensa che questo sia un comportamento rispettoso o appropriato, signora Mann», chiese il signor Bumble, afferrando il suo bastone, «tenere gli agenti della parrocchia in attesa al cancello del giardino quando vengono qui per questioni di competenza parrocchiale con gli orfani della parrocchia? È consapevole, signora Mann, che è, come posso dire, un delegato parrocchiale e stipendiata?»

«Sono sicura che io stavo solo dicendo uno o due dei cari bambini che sono così affezionati a lei, che era lei ad arrivare», rispose la signora Mann con grande umiltà.

Il signor Bumble aveva un’alta opinione dei suoi poteri oratori e della sua importanza. Aveva messo in mostra l’uno e dimostrato l’altra. Si rilassò.

«Bene, bene, signora Mann», rispose con tono più calmo; «può darsi che sia come dice lei; può darsi. Vada avanti, signora Mann, perché sono qui per affari e ho qualcosa da dire».

La signora Mann fece accomodare il becchino in un piccolo salotto con pavimento di mattoni; gli mise una sedia; e gli depose ossequiosamente sulla tavola davanti a sé il tricorno e il bastone. Il signor Bumble si asciugò dalla fronte la sudatina che aveva accumulato durante la passeggiata, lanciò un’occhiata compiaciuta al tricorno e sorrise. Sì, sorrise. I becchini sono pur sempre uomini: e il signor Bumble sorrise.

«Ora non vi offendete per quello che sto per dire», osservò la signora Mann con un’affascinante dolcezza. «Avete fatto una lunga passeggiata, sapete, altrimenti non lo menzionerei. Ora, volete prendere un piccolo sorso di qualcosa, signor Bumble?»

«Neanche una goccia. Neanche una», disse il signor Bumble agitando la mano destra con dignità ma in modo pacato.

“Penso che lo farà”, disse la signora Mann, che aveva notato il tono del rifiuto e il gesto che l’aveva accompagnato. “Solo una piccolissima goccia, con un po’ d’acqua fredda e uno zolletta di zucchero.”

Il signor Bumble tossì.

«Ora, solo un piccolo goccetto», disse la signora Mann in tono persuasivo.

«Che cosa è?» chiese l’impiegato.

«Perché è quello che sono costretta a tenere un po’ in casa, da mettere nella Daffy dei poveri bambini quando non stanno bene, signor Bumble», rispose la signora Mann aprendo una credenza angolare e prendendo una bottiglia e un bicchiere. «È gin. Non vi ingannerò, signor B. È gin.»

«Date ai bambini la pozione Daffy, signora Mann?» chiese Bumble, seguendo con gli occhi l’interessante processo di miscelazione.

«Ah, li benedico davvero, cari come sono», rispose la balia. «Non potrei sopportare di vederli soffrire proprio sotto i miei occhi, sa, signore.»

“No”, disse il signor Bumble con approvazione; “no, non avreste potuto. Siete una donna umana, signora Mann.” (Qui posò il bicchiere.) “Ne parlerò al consiglio alla prima occasione, signora Mann.” (Lo tirò verso di sé.) “Provate i sentimenti di una madre, signora Mann.” (Mescolò la gin e acqua.) “Io, io brindo alla vostra salute con piacere, signora Mann”; e ne ingoiò metà.

“E ora parliamo di affari”, disse l’impiegato tirando fuori un portafoglio di pelle. “Il bambino che è stato mezzo battezzato Oliver Twist, compie nove anni oggi.”

«Dio lo benedica!» intervenne la signora Mann, strofinando l’angolo del grembiule sull’occhio sinistro.

«E nonostante una ricompensa offerta di dieci sterline, che fu poi aumentata a venti. Nonostante gli sforzi più superlativi e, posso dire, sovrannaturali da parte di questa parrocchia», disse Bumble, «non siamo mai riusciti a scoprire chi sia suo padre o quale fosse il luogo d’origine, il nome o la condizione della madre.»

La signora Mann alzò le mani per la sorpresa; ma aggiunse dopo un momento di riflessione: «Allora come mai ha un nome?»

Il becchino si raddrizzò con grande orgoglio e disse: «Io l’ho inventato».

“Lei, signor Bumble!”

«Io, signora Mann. Diamo ai nostri piccoli orfani dei nomi in ordine alfabetico. L’ultimo era una S — Swubble, l’ho chiamato io così. Questo è un T — Twist, l’ho chiamato io così. Il prossimo sarà Unwin e quello dopo Vilkins. Ho già pronti i nomi fino alla fine dell’alfabeto, e poi ricomincio da capo quando arriviamo alla Z».

«Ma voi siete un vero personaggio letterario, signore!» disse la signora Mann.

«Bene, bene», disse l’ufficiale, evidentemente compiaciuto del complimento; «forse lo sono. Forse lo sono, signora Mann». Finì il gin e acqua e aggiunse: «Oliver essendo ora troppo grande per rimanere qui, la giunta ha deciso di riportarlo nella casa. Sono venuto io stesso a portarlo lì. Quindi fatemelo vedere subito».

“Lo vado a prendere subito”, disse la signora Mann, lasciando la stanza per farlo. Oliver, che aveva ormai avuto modo di togliere dalla faccia e dalle mani tutta quella parte dello strato esterno di sporcizia che poteva essere lavata via in un solo bagno, fu condotto nella stanza dalla sua benevola protettrice.

«Fai un inchino al signore, Oliver», disse la signora Mann.

Oliver fece un inchino che fu rivolto in parte all’impiegato sulla sedia e in parte al cappello a tricorno sul tavolo.

«Vuoi venire con me, Oliver?» disse il signor Bumble con voce maestosa.

Oliver stava per dire che sarebbe andato con chiunque con grande prontezza, quando, alzando lo sguardo, vide la signora Mann, che si era messa dietro alla sedia dell’impiegato e gli stava mostrando il pugno con un’espressione furiosa. Capì subito l’allusione, perché quel pugno gli aveva lasciato troppe volte il segno sul corpo per non essere profondamente impresso nella sua memoria.

«Andrà con me lei?» chiese il povero Oliver.

“No, non può,” rispose il signor Bumble. “Ma verrà a trovarvi qualche volta.”

Questo non fu un grande conforto per il bambino. Per quanto fosse giovane, tuttavia, aveva abbastanza buon senso da fingere di provare un grande rammarico nel partire. Non era affatto difficile per il ragazzo far apparire delle lacrime nei suoi occhi. La fame e i recenti maltrattamenti sono grandi aiutanti se si vuole piangere; e Oliver pianse davvero in modo molto naturale. La signora Mann lo abbracciò mille volte, e gli diede quello che Oliver desiderava moltissimo, un pezzo di pane e burro, per timore che sembrasse troppo affamato quando fosse arrivato al lavoro. Con il pezzo di pane in mano, e il piccolo cappello marrone della parrocchia in testa, Oliver fu allora condotto via dal signor Bumble dalla misera casa dove una sola parola o sguardo gentile non avevano mai illuminato il buio dei suoi anni infantili. Eppure scoppiò in un’agonia di dolore infantile, quando il cancello della casetta si chiuse dietro di lui. Per quanto fossero miseri i piccoli compagni nella sventura che stava lasciando indietro, erano gli unici amici che avesse mai conosciuto; e una sensazione della sua solitudine nel grande mondo si insinuò nel cuore del bambino per la prima volta.

Mr. Bumble walked on with long strides; little Oliver, firmly grasping his gold-laced cuff, trotted beside him, inquiring at the end of every quarter of a mile whether they were “nearly there.” To these interrogations Mr. Bumble returned very brief and snappish replies; for the temporary blandness which gin-and-water awakens in some bosoms had by this time evaporated; and he was once again a beadle.

Oliver had not been within the walls of the workhouse a quarter of an hour, and had scarcely completed the demolition of a second slice of bread, when Mr. Bumble, who had handed him over to the care of an old woman, returned; and, telling him it was a board night, informed him that the board had said he was to appear before it forthwith.

Not having a very clearly defined notion of what a live board was, Oliver was rather astounded by this intelligence, and was not quite certain whether he ought to laugh or cry. He had no time to think about the matter, however; for Mr. Bumble gave him a tap on the head, with his cane, to wake him up: and another on the back to make him lively: and bidding him to follow, conducted him into a large whitewashed room, where eight or ten fat gentlemen were sitting round a table. At the top of the table, seated in an arm-chair rather higher than the rest, was a particularly fat gentleman with a very round, red face.

“Bow to the board,” said Bumble. Oliver brushed away two or three tears that were lingering in his eyes; and seeing no board but the table, fortunately bowed to that.

“What’s your name, boy?” said the gentleman in the high chair.

Oliver was frightened at the sight of so many gentlemen, which made him tremble: and the beadle gave him another tap behind, which made him cry. These two causes made him answer in a very low and hesitating voice; whereupon a gentleman in a white waistcoat said he was a fool. Which was a capital way of raising his spirits, and putting him quite at his ease.

“Boy,” said the gentleman in the high chair, “listen to me. You know you’re an orphan, I suppose?”

“What’s that, sir?” inquired poor Oliver.

“The boy is a fool—I thought he was,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

“Hush!” said the gentleman who had spoken first. “You know you’ve got no father or mother, and that you were brought up by the parish, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver, weeping bitterly.

“What are you crying for?” inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. And to be sure it was very extraordinary. What could the boy be crying for?

“I hope you say your prayers every night,” said another gentleman in a gruff voice; “and pray for the people who feed you, and take care of you—like a Christian.”

“Yes, sir,” stammered the boy. The gentleman who spoke last was unconsciously right. It would have been very like a Christian, and a marvellously good Christian too, if Oliver had prayed for the people who fed and took care of him. But he hadn’t, because nobody had taught him.

“Well! You have come here to be educated, and taught a useful trade,” said the red-faced gentleman in the high chair.

“So you’ll begin to pick oakum tomorrow morning at six o’clock,” added the surly one in the white waistcoat.

For the combination of both these blessings in the one simple process of picking oakum, Oliver bowed low by the direction of the beadle, and was then hurried away to a large ward; where, on a rough, hard bed, he sobbed himself to sleep. What a novel illustration of the tender laws of England! They let the paupers go to sleep!

Poor Oliver! He little thought, as he lay sleeping in happy unconsciousness of all around him, that the board had that very day arrived at a decision which would exercise the most material influence over all his future fortunes. But they had. And this was it:

The members of this board were very sage, deep, philosophical men; and when they came to turn their attention to the workhouse, they found out at once, what ordinary folks would never have discovered—the poor people liked it! It was a regular place of public entertainment for the poorer classes; a tavern where there was nothing to pay; a public breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper all the year round; a brick and mortar elysium, where it was all play and no work. “Oho!” said the board, looking very knowing; “we are the fellows to set this to rights; we’ll stop it all, in no time.” So, they established the rule, that all poor people should have the alternative (for they would compel nobody, not they), of being starved by a gradual process in the house, or by a quick one out of it. With this view, they contracted with the water-works to lay on an unlimited supply of water; and with a corn-factory to supply periodically small quantities of oatmeal; and issued three meals of thin gruel a day, with an onion twice a week, and half a roll of Sundays. They made a great many other wise and humane regulations, having reference to the ladies, which it is not necessary to repeat; kindly undertook to divorce poor married people, in consequence of the great expense of a suit in Doctors’ Commons; and, instead of compelling a man to support his family, as they had theretofore done, took his family away from him, and made him a bachelor! There is no saying how many applicants for relief, under these last two heads, might have started up in all classes of society, if it had not been coupled with the workhouse; but the board were long-headed men, and had provided for this difficulty. The relief was inseparable from the workhouse and the gruel; and that frightened people.

For the first six months after Oliver Twist was removed, the system was in full operation. It was rather expensive at first, in consequence of the increase in the undertaker’s bill, and the necessity of taking in the clothes of all the paupers, which fluttered loosely on their wasted, shrunken forms, after a week or two’s gruel. But the number of workhouse inmates got thin as well as the paupers; and the board were in ecstasies.

Il signor Bumble camminava con lunghi passi; il piccolo Oliver, stringendo saldamente la sua manica bordata d’oro, trotterellava al suo fianco chiedendogli ogni quarto di miglio se erano “quasi arrivati”. A queste domande il signor Bumble rispondeva con brevi e secchi monosillabi; perché la temporanea bonomia che il gin e acqua suscita in alcuni petti si era ormai dissipata, ed egli era di nuovo un sagrestano.

Oliver non era stato tra le mura del lavoro forzato da un quarto d’ora e aveva appena finito di demolire una seconda fetta di pane, quando il signor Bumble, che lo aveva affidato alle cure di una vecchia donna, tornò; e, dicendogli che era la serata del consiglio, gli comunicò che il consiglio aveva detto che doveva comparire davanti ad esso immediatamente.

Non avendo un’idea molto precisa di cosa fosse una commissione attiva, Oliver rimase piuttosto stupito da questa notizia e non era del tutto sicuro se dovesse ridere o piangere. Non ebbe tempo di pensarci, però; perché il signor Bumble gli diede una pacca in testa con il suo bastone per svegliarlo: e un’altra sulla schiena per fargli prendere vita: e ordinandogli di seguirlo, lo condusse in una grande stanza imbiancata a calce, dove otto o dieci signori grassi erano seduti attorno a un tavolo. Alla testa del tavolo, seduto su una poltrona più alta delle altre, c’era un signore particolarmente grasso con un viso molto rotondo e rosso.

«Inginocchiatevi davanti al consiglio», disse Bumble. Oliver si asciugò due o tre lacrime che gli velavano gli occhi; e non vedendo altro tavolo che quello, per fortuna si inginocchiò davanti a quello.

«Come ti chiami, ragazzo?» disse il signore sulla sedia alta.

Oliver rimase spaventato alla vista di così tanti signori, il che lo fece tremare; e l’ufficiale gli diede un altro colpetto dietro, il che lo fece piangere. Queste due cose lo fecero rispondere con voce molto bassa e esitante; allora un gentiluomo in giubba bianca disse che era uno sciocco. Il che fu un ottimo modo per rincuorarlo e metterlo completamente a suo agio.

«Ragazzo», disse il signore sulla sedia alta, «ascoltami. Sai di essere un orfano, immagino?»

“Che cos’è quello, signore?” chiese il povero Oliver.

“Il ragazzo è un imbecille — pensavo lo fosse”, disse il signore con la giacca bianca.

«Silenzio!» disse il signore che aveva parlato per primo. «Sai di non avere né padre né madre e che sei stato allevato dalla parrocchia, vero?»

«Sì, signore», rispose Oliver piangendo amaramente.

«Perché piangi?» chiese il signore con la giacca bianca. E infatti era davvero straordinario. Per quale motivo quel ragazzo poteva mai piangere?

“Spero che tu reciti le tue preghiere ogni sera,” disse un altro gentiluomo con voce burbera; “e pregare per la gente che ti dà da mangiare e si prende cura di te, come farebbe un cristiano.”

«Sì, signore», balbettò il ragazzo. Il gentiluomo che ha parlato per ultimo aveva ragione, anche se senza saperlo. Sarebbe stato davvero da cristiano, e addirittura da un cristiano straordinariamente buono, se Oliver avesse pregato per le persone che lo nutrivano e si prendevano cura di lui. Ma non l’aveva fatto, perché nessuno glielo aveva insegnato.

«Bene! Siete venuti qui per essere educati e imparare un mestiere utile», disse il gentiluomo dal viso rosso seduto sulla sedia alta.

“Quindi domani mattina alle sei e mezza comincerai a setacciare la pece”, aggiunse quello scontroso con il panciotto bianco.

Per la combinazione di entrambe queste benedizioni nel semplice processo del rimostrare la pece, Oliver si inchinò profondamente su indicazione dell’impiegato e fu poi affrettatamente condotto in un grande reparto; dove, su un letto ruvido e duro, pianse fino ad addormentarsi. Che illustrazione così originale delle tenere leggi d’Inghilterra! Lasciano che i poveri vadano a dormire!

Povero Oliver! Lui non immaginava, mentre dormiva ignaro di tutto ciò che lo circondava, che il consiglio aveva preso proprio quel giorno una decisione che avrebbe esercitato la più concreta influenza su tutte le sue future sorti. Ma l’avevano fatta. E questa era:

I membri di questo consiglio erano uomini molto saggi, profondi e filosofici; e quando si rivolsero all’orfanotrofio, scoprirono subito quello che la gente comune non avrebbe mai scoperto: i poveri lo apprezzavano! Era un luogo di intrattenimento pubblico per le classi più umili; una taverna dove non si pagava nulla; una colazione, pranzo, tè e cena pubblici tutto l’anno; un elisir fatto di mattoni e malta, dove era tutto gioco e niente lavoro. “Oho!” disse il consiglio, con aria da intenditori; “siamo noi quelli che sistemeranno le cose; lo fermeremo tutto in nessun tempo.” Così stabilirono la regola che tutti i poveri avrebbero dovuto avere l’alternativa (perché non avrebbero costretto nessuno, loro no), di essere affamati con un processo graduale nella casa, o con uno rapido fuori di essa. Con questo scopo, stipularono un contratto con le opere idriche per fornire una fornitura illimitata di acqua; e con una fabbrica di cereali per fornire periodicamente piccole quantità di farina d’avena; e distribuirono tre pasti al giorno di brodo rado, con un cipollotto due volte a settimana e mezzo panino la domenica. Stabilirono molte altre sagge e umane regole riguardanti le signore, che non è necessario ripetere; si offrirono gentilmente di divorziare i poveri sposati, a causa della grande spesa di una causa presso il Tribunale dei Dottori; e, invece di costringere un uomo a mantenere la sua famiglia, come avevano fatto fino ad allora, gli tolsero la famiglia e lo resero scapolo! Non si può dire quanti richiedenti assistenza, sotto questi ultimi due capi, potrebbero essersi presentati in tutte le classi della società, se non fosse stato accoppiato con l’orfanotrofio; ma i membri del consiglio erano uomini lungimiranti e avevano previsto questa difficoltà. L’assistenza era inseparabile dall’orfanotrofio e dal brodo; e questo spaventava la gente.

Per i primi sei mesi dopo che Oliver Twist fu portato via, il sistema funzionò a pieno regime. All’inizio era piuttosto costoso, in conseguenza dell’aumento della fattura del becchino e della necessità di raccogliere i vestiti di tutti i poveri, che svolazzavano larghi sulle loro forme esili ed emaciate dopo una settimana o due a base di brodaglia. Ma il numero degli ospiti dell’ospizio si assottigliò tanto quanto i poveri; e la giunta era in estasi.

The room in which the boys were fed, was a large stone hall, with a copper at one end: out of which the master, dressed in an apron for the purpose, and assisted by one or two women, ladled the gruel at mealtimes. Of this festive composition each boy had one porringer, and no more—except on occasions of great public rejoicing, when he had two ounces and a quarter of bread besides. The bowls never wanted washing. The boys polished them with their spoons till they shone again; and when they had performed this operation (which never took very long, the spoons being nearly as large as the bowls), they would sit staring at the copper, with such eager eyes, as if they could have devoured the very bricks of which it was composed; employing themselves, meanwhile, in sucking their fingers most assiduously, with the view of catching up any stray splashes of gruel that might have been cast thereon. Boys have generally excellent appetites. Oliver Twist and his companions suffered the tortures of slow starvation for three months: at last they got so voracious and wild with hunger, that one boy, who was tall for his age, and hadn’t been used to that sort of thing (for his father had kept a small cook-shop), hinted darkly to his companions, that unless he had another basin of gruel per diem, he was afraid he might some night happen to eat the boy who slept next him, who happened to be a weakly youth of tender age. He had a wild, hungry eye; and they implicitly believed him. A council was held; lots were cast who should walk up to the master after supper that evening, and ask for more; and it fell to Oliver Twist.

The evening arrived; the boys took their places. The master, in his cook’s uniform, stationed himself at the copper; his pauper assistants ranged themselves behind him; the gruel was served out; and a long grace was said over the short commons. The gruel disappeared; the boys whispered each other, and winked at Oliver; while his next neighbors nudged him. Child as he was, he was desperate with hunger, and reckless with misery. He rose from the table; and advancing to the master, basin and spoon in hand, said: somewhat alarmed at his own temerity:

“Please, sir, I want some more.”

The master was a fat, healthy man; but he turned very pale. He gazed in stupefied astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then clung for support to the copper. The assistants were paralysed with wonder; the boys with fear.

“What!” said the master at length, in a faint voice.

“Please, sir,” replied Oliver, “I want some more.”

The master aimed a blow at Oliver’s head with the ladle; pinioned him in his arm; and shrieked aloud for the beadle.

The board were sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr. Bumble rushed into the room in great excitement, and addressing the gentleman in the high chair, said,

“Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! Oliver Twist has asked for more!”

There was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance.

“For more!” said Mr. Limbkins. “Compose yourself, Bumble, and answer me distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for more, after he had eaten the supper allotted by the dietary?”

“He did, sir,” replied Bumble.

“That boy will be hung,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. “I know that boy will be hung.”

Nobody controverted the prophetic gentleman’s opinion. An animated discussion took place. Oliver was ordered into instant confinement; and a bill was next morning pasted on the outside of the gate, offering a reward of five pounds to anybody who would take Oliver Twist off the hands of the parish. In other words, five pounds and Oliver Twist were offered to any man or woman who wanted an apprentice to any trade, business, or calling.

“I never was more convinced of anything in my life,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, as he knocked at the gate and read the bill next morning: “I never was more convinced of anything in my life, than I am that that boy will come to be hung.”

As I purpose to show in the sequel whether the white waistcoated gentleman was right or not, I should perhaps mar the interest of this narrative (supposing it to possess any at all), if I ventured to hint just yet, whether the life of Oliver Twist had this violent termination or no.

La sala in cui venivano nutriti i ragazzi era un grande salone di pietra, con una caldaia all’estremità: da cui il maestro, vestito con un grembiule a tale scopo e assistito da una o due donne, versava la brodaglia ai pasti. Di questa festosa composizione ogni ragazzo ne aveva una scodella, e non di più — tranne in occasione di grandi feste pubbliche, quando gliene davano anche due once e un quarto di pane in più. Le ciotole non avevano bisogno di essere lavate. I ragazzi le lucidavano con i loro cucchiai finché brillavano; e dopo aver eseguito questa operazione (che non richiedeva molto tempo, dato che i cucchiai erano quasi grandi quanto le ciotole), si sedevano a fissare la caldaia con occhi così avidi, come se potessero divorare anche i mattoni di cui era composta; nel frattempo si dedicavano ad aspirare le dita con grande assiduità, nella speranza di raccogliere eventuali schizzi di brodaglia che vi fossero caduti. I ragazzi hanno generalmente un ottimo appetito. Oliver Twist e i suoi compagni soffrirono le torture della fame lenta per tre mesi: alla fine divennero così voraci e selvaggi dalla fame, che un ragazzo, che era alto per la sua età e non aveva mai fatto una cosa del genere (perché suo padre gestiva un piccolo negozio di cucina), accennò oscuramente ai suoi compagni che a meno che non avesse ricevuto un’altra scodella di brodaglia al giorno, temeva che potesse capitare che qualche notte mangiasse il ragazzo che dormiva accanto a lui, che era per caso un giovane debole e di tenera età. Aveva uno sguardo selvaggio e affamato; e loro gli credevano ciecamente. Si tenne un consiglio; si estrasse a sorte chi dovesse andare dal maestro dopo cena quella sera, e chiedere ancora da mangiare; e toccò a Oliver Twist.

La sera arrivò; i ragazzi presero posto. Il maestro, nel suo vestito da cuoco, si mise vicino al paiolo di rame; i suoi assistenti poveri si disposero alle sue spalle; la brodaglia fu distribuita e una lunga preghiera fu recitata sulle scarse razioni. La brodaglia scomparve; i ragazzi si bisbigliarono tra loro, strizzando l’occhio a Oliver; mentre quelli vicini gli diedero gomitate. Ragazzo com’era, era disperato dalla fame e spavaldo nella sua miseria. Si alzò dal tavolo; e avvicinandosi al maestro con il piatto e il cucchiaio in mano, disse: un po’ allarmato per la propria temerarietà:

“Per favore, signore, ne voglio ancora.”

Il maestro era un uomo grasso e robusto; ma divenne molto pallido. Fissò con stupore attonito il piccolo ribelle per alcuni secondi, e poi si aggrappò al calderone in cerca di sostegno. Gli assistenti erano paralizzati dallo stupore; i ragazzi dalla paura.

«Cosa!», disse il maestro alla fine con voce debole.

«Per favore, signore», rispose Oliver, «ne vorrei ancora».

Il maestro sferrò un colpo alla testa di Oliver con il mestolo, lo immobilizzò nel suo braccio e urlò disperato per chiamare l’impiegato comunale.

Il consiglio era riunito in solenne concistoro quando il signor Bumble irruppe nella stanza molto agitato e rivolgendosi all’uomo sulla sedia alta disse:

«Signor Limbkins, le chiedo scusa, signore! Oliver Twist ha chiesto ancora!»

Ci fu un sussulto generale. L’orrore era dipinto su ogni volto.

«Per “altro”!» disse il signor Limbkins. «Calmati, Bumble, e rispondimi chiaramente. Ho capito bene che ha chiesto dell’altro dopo aver mangiato la cena assegnata dal regime alimentare?»

«Lo fece, signore», rispose Bumble.

«Quel ragazzo sarà impiccato», disse il signore con la giacca bianca. «So che quel ragazzo sarà impiccato».

Nessuno contraddisse l’opinione del signore profetico. Si scatenò una vivace discussione. Oliver fu condannato a un immediato confino; e la mattina seguente venne incollata all’esterno del cancello una locandina che offriva una ricompensa di cinque sterline a chiunque avesse voluto liberare il comune dal peso di Oliver Twist. In altre parole, cinque sterline e Oliver Twist venivano offerti a qualsiasi uomo o donna che volesse un apprendista per qualunque mestiere, commercio o professione.

«Non sono mai stato più convinto di nulla in vita mia», disse il signore col panciotto bianco mentre bussava al cancello e leggeva l’avviso la mattina dopo: «non sono mai stato più convinto di nulla in vita mia, quanto lo sono che quel ragazzo finirà sulla forca».

Poiché intendo dimostrare in seguito se il gentiluomo dal panciotto bianco avesse ragione o meno, forse comprometterei l’interesse di questa narrazione (ammettendo che ne possieda), se mi azzardassi ad accennare già ora se la vita di Oliver Twist ebbe questo tragico epilogo o no.

CHAPTER III. RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE WHICH WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN A SINECURE

For a week after the commission of the impious and profane offence of asking for more, Oliver remained a close prisoner in the dark and solitary room to which he had been consigned by the wisdom and mercy of the board. It appears, at first sight not unreasonable to suppose, that, if he had entertained a becoming feeling of respect for the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat, he would have established that sage individual’s prophetic character, once and for ever, by tying one end of his pocket-handkerchief to a hook in the wall, and attaching himself to the other. To the performance of this feat, however, there was one obstacle: namely, that pocket-handkerchiefs being decided articles of luxury, had been, for all future times and ages, removed from the noses of paupers by the express order of the board, in council assembled: solemnly given and pronounced under their hands and seals. There was a still greater obstacle in Oliver’s youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly all day; and, when the long, dismal night came on, spread his little hands before his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in the corner, tried to sleep: ever and anon waking with a start and tremble, and drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even its cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom and loneliness which surrounded him.

Let it not be supposed by the enemies of “the system,” that, during the period of his solitary incarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of exercise, the pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious consolation. As for exercise, it was nice cold weather, and he was allowed to perform his ablutions every morning under the pump, in a stone yard, in the presence of Mr. Bumble, who prevented his catching cold, and caused a tingling sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated applications of the cane. As for society, he was carried every other day into the hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged as a public warning and example. And so far from being denied the advantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, a general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein inserted by authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist: whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the very Devil himself.

It chanced one morning, while Oliver’s affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield’s most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.

“Wo—o!” said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey.

The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward.

Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey’s. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill.

The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the document; for five pounds was just the sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves. So, he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

“This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to ’prentis,” said Mr. Gamfield.

“Ay, my man,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile. “What of him?”

“If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good ’spectable chimbley-sweepin’ bisness,” said Mr. Gamfield, “I wants a ’prentis, and I am ready to take him.”

“Walk in,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him.

“It’s a nasty trade,” said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish.

CAPITOLO III. RACCONTA COME OLIVER TWIST FOSSE MOLTO VICINO A OTTENERE UN POSTO CHE NON SAREBBE STATO UN INCARICO FACILE

Per una settimana dopo il commissione dell’offesa empia e profana di aver chiesto ancora da mangiare, Oliver rimase prigioniero in una stanza buia e solitaria a cui era stato relegato dalla saggezza e dalla misericordia del consiglio. A prima vista non sembra irragionevole supporre che, se avesse nutrito un sentimento di rispetto adeguato per la predizione del gentiluomo con il panciotto bianco, avrebbe stabilito il carattere profetico di quell’individuo saggio una volta per tutte, annodando un’estremità del suo fazzoletto da taschino a un gancio nella parete e attaccandosi all’altra. A questo gesto, tuttavia, c’era un ostacolo: i fazzoletti da taschino erano considerati articoli di lusso e per tutti i tempi futuri erano stati rimossi dalle narici dei poveri su esplicito ordine del consiglio riunitosi in assemblea, solennemente dato e pronunciato sotto la loro firma e il sigillo. C’era un ostacolo ancora maggiore nella giovane età e nell’infantilità di Oliver. Egli piangeva solo amaramente tutto il giorno; e quando calava la lunga, tetra notte, si copriva gli occhi con le piccole mani per non vedere l’oscurità, accucciandosi nell’angolo cercava di dormire: ogni tanto si svegliava sobbalzando e tremante, e si stringeva sempre più vicino al muro, come se anche il freddo duro contatto con esso fosse una protezione nel buio e nella solitudine che lo circondavano.

Non si creda che i nemici del “sistema” abbiano negato a Oliver durante il periodo della sua incarcerazione solitaria i benefici dell’esercizio fisico, il piacere della compagnia o le consolazioni religiose. Per quanto riguarda l’esercizio fisico, faceva un freddo piacevole e gli era consentito di lavarsi ogni mattina sotto la pompa in un cortile di pietra, alla presenza del signor Bumble, che evitava che prendesse freddo e provocava una sensazione di formicolio in tutto il corpo con ripetute applicazioni della canna. Per quanto riguarda la compagnia, veniva portato ogni due giorni nella sala dove i ragazzi pranzavano, e lì frustato amichevolmente come monito pubblico ed esempio per gli altri. E non solo non gli erano negate le consolazioni religiose: ogni sera all’ora delle preghiere veniva letteralmente calciato nello stesso locale e lì autorizzato ad ascoltare, e a confortare la sua mente con una preghiera generale dei ragazzi che conteneva un punto speciale inserito per disposizione del consiglio di amministrazione in cui chiedevano di essere resi buoni, virtuosi, contenti e obbedienti, e protetti dai peccati e dalle colpe di Oliver Twist: che la preghiera descriveva chiaramente come sotto l’esclusivo patrocinio e protezione delle forze del male, un prodotto diretto dalla fabbrica del Diavolo in persona.

Una mattina, mentre gli affari di Oliver erano in questa promettente e confortevole situazione, capitò che il signor Gamfield, spazzacamino, stesse camminando per la High Street, riflettendo profondamente sui modi e i mezzi per pagare alcuni arretrati di affitto per cui il suo padrone di casa era diventato piuttosto insistente. La più ottimistica delle valutazioni finanziarie del signor Gamfield non riusciva a raggiungere l’importo desiderato, mancando ancora di cinque sterline; e, in una specie di disperazione aritmetica, stava alternativamente pensando intensamente e picchiando il suo asino, quando passando davanti al lavoro forzato, i suoi occhi si posarono sull’annuncio sul cancello.

«Ua-à!» disse il signor Gamfield all’asino.

L’asino era in uno stato di profonda astrazione: si chiedeva probabilmente se gli sarebbe toccato un paio di gambi di cavolo dopo aver finito i due sacchi di fuliggine con cui il carretto era carico; così, senza badare all’ordine impartito, continuò a camminare.

Il signor Gamfield ringhiò una feroce imprecazione contro l’asino in generale, ma più particolarmente contro i suoi occhi; e, correndogli dietro, gli assestò un colpo sulla testa che avrebbe inevitabilmente fracassato qualsiasi cranio tranne quello di un asino. Poi, afferrando la briglia, gli torse con forza la mascella, come delicato promemoria del fatto che non era il suo padrone; e in questo modo lo fece girare. Gli diede poi un altro colpo sulla testa, solo per stordirlo fino al suo ritorno. Dopo aver completato questi accorgimenti, si avviò verso il cancello per leggere l’annuncio.

Il signore con il panciotto bianco era fermo al cancello con le mani dietro la schiena, dopo aver espresso alcuni profondi sentimenti nella sala riunioni. Dopo aver assistito alla piccola disputa tra il signor Gamfield e l’asino, sorrise gioiosamente quando quella persona si avvicinò per leggere la fattura, perché vide subito che il signor Gamfield era esattamente il tipo di padrone che Oliver Twist voleva. Anche il signor Gamfield sorrise mentre esaminava il documento; infatti cinque sterline erano proprio la somma che desiderava; e, per quanto riguarda il ragazzo con cui era gravato, il signor Gamfield, conoscendo la dieta del ricovero, bene sapeva che sarebbe stato un bel piccolo modello, proprio la cosa giusta per i fornelli a registro. Così, lesse di nuovo la fattura dall’inizio alla fine; e poi, toccandosi il cappello di pelliccia in segno di umiltà, si avvicinò al signore con il panciotto bianco.

«Questo ragazzo qui, signore, è quello che la parrocchia vuole apprendistare», disse il signor Gamfield.

«Ah, mio caro», disse il signore con la giubba bianca, con un sorriso condiscendente. «E allora?»

«Se la parrocchia volesse che impari un mestiere davvero piacevole in una rispettabile attività di spazzacamini», disse il signor Gamfield, «ho bisogno di un apprendista e sono pronto a prenderlo.»

«Entri pure», disse il signore con il panciotto bianco. Il signor Gamfield, avendo indugiato dietro per dare all’asino un altro colpo in testa e una nuova torsione alla mascella, come ammonimento a non scappare durante la sua assenza, seguì il signore con il panciotto bianco nella stanza dove Oliver lo aveva visto per la prima volta.

«È un mestiere sgradevole», disse il signor Limbkins quando Gamfield ebbe di nuovo espresso il suo desiderio.

“Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now,” said another gentleman.

“That’s acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make ’em come down again,” said Gamfield; “that’s all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke ain’t o’ no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only sinds him to sleep, and that’s wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen’l’men, and there’s nothink like a good hot blaze to make ’em come down vith a run. It’s humane too, gen’l’men, acause, even if they’ve stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes ’em struggle to hextricate theirselves.”

The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words “saving of expenditure,” “looked well in the accounts,” “have a printed report published,” were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, on account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis.

At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said:

“We have considered your proposition, and we don’t approve of it.”

“Not at all,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

“Decidedly not,” added the other members.

As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the board had, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table.

“So you won’t let me have him, gen’l’men?” said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near the door.

“No,” replied Mr. Limbkins; “at least, as it’s a nasty business, we think you ought to take something less than the premium we offered.”

Mr. Gamfield’s countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he returned to the table, and said,

“What’ll you give, gen’l’men? Come! Don’t be too hard on a poor man. What’ll you give?”

“I should say, three pound ten was plenty,” said Mr. Limbkins.

“Ten shillings too much,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

“Come!” said Gamfield; “say four pound, gen’l’men. Say four pound, and you’ve got rid of him for good and all. There!”

“Three pound ten,” repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly.

“Come! I’ll split the diff’erence, gen’l’men,” urged Gamfield. “Three pound fifteen.”

“Not a farthing more,” was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins.

“You’re desperate hard upon me, gen’l’men,” said Gamfield, wavering.

“Pooh! pooh! nonsense!” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. “He’d be cheap with nothing at all, as a premium. Take him, you silly fellow! He’s just the boy for you. He wants the stick, now and then: it’ll do him good; and his board needn’t come very expensive, for he hasn’t been overfed since he was born. Ha! ha! ha!”

Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table, and, observing a smile on all of them, gradually broke into a smile himself. The bargain was made. Mr. Bumble, was at once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to be conveyed before the magistrate, for signature and approval, that very afternoon.

In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his excessive astonishment, was released from bondage, and ordered to put himself into a clean shirt. He had hardly achieved this very unusual gymnastic performance, when Mr. Bumble brought him, with his own hands, a basin of gruel, and the holiday allowance of two ounces and a quarter of bread. At this tremendous sight, Oliver began to cry very piteously: thinking, not unnaturally, that the board must have determined to kill him for some useful purpose, or they never would have begun to fatten him up in that way.

“Don’t make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food and be thankful,” said Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity. “You’re a going to be made a ’prentice of, Oliver.”

“A prentice, sir!” said the child, trembling.

“Yes, Oliver,” said Mr. Bumble. “The kind and blessed gentleman which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own: are a going to “prentice” you: and to set you up in life, and make a man of you: although the expense to the parish is three pound ten!—three pound ten, Oliver!—seventy shillins—one hundred and forty sixpences!—and all for a naughty orphan which nobody can’t love.”

As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, after delivering this address in an awful voice, the tears rolled down the poor child’s face, and he sobbed bitterly.

“Come,” said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for it was gratifying to his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence had produced; “Come, Oliver! Wipe your eyes with the cuffs of your jacket, and don’t cry into your gruel; that’s a very foolish action, Oliver.” It certainly was, for there was quite enough water in it already.

On their way to the magistrate, Mr. Bumble instructed Oliver that all he would have to do, would be to look very happy, and say, when the gentleman asked him if he wanted to be apprenticed, that he should like it very much indeed; both of which injunctions Oliver promised to obey: the rather as Mr. Bumble threw in a gentle hint, that if he failed in either particular, there was no telling what would be done to him. When they arrived at the office, he was shut up in a little room by himself, and admonished by Mr. Bumble to stay there, until he came back to fetch him.

There the boy remained, with a palpitating heart, for half an hour. At the expiration of which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his head, unadorned with the cocked hat, and said aloud:

«I ragazzi sono già stati soffocati nei camini», disse un altro signore.

«Questo è perché hanno bagnato la paglia prima di accenderla nel camino per farli scendere di nuovo», disse Gamfield; «è tutto fumo e nessuna fiamma; mentre il fumo non serve a nulla per far scendere un ragazzo, perché lo fa solo andare in sonno, ed è quello che gli piace. I ragazzi sono molto ostinati e molto pigri, signori, e non c’è niente di meglio di una buona fiamma calda per farli scendere di corsa. È anche umano, signori, perché, anche se si sono incastrati nel camino, arrostire i piedi li fa lottare per liberarsi».

Il signore con il panciotto bianco sembrava molto divertito da questa spiegazione; ma la sua ilarità fu rapidamente repressa da uno sguardo del signor Limbkins. Il consiglio poi procedette a conversare tra loro per alcuni minuti, ma in un tono così basso che le parole “risparmio di spese”, “si presentano bene nei conti”, “pubblicare una relazione stampata” furono sole udibili. Queste ultime si sentirono, in effetti, solo perché venivano ripetute molto frequentemente con grande enfasi.

Finalmente i sussurri cessarono e i membri del consiglio, essendosi rimessi a sedere e ripreso la loro solennità, il signor Limbkins disse:

Abbiamo esaminato la tua proposta e non l’approviamo.

«Niente affatto», disse il signore con il panciotto bianco.

«Decisamente no», aggiunsero gli altri membri.

Poiché il signor Gamfield era appunto accusato di aver già pestato a morte tre o quattro ragazzi, gli venne in mente che forse la giunta, per qualche strano capriccio, avesse deciso che questa circostanza estranea dovesse influenzare le loro decisioni. Non era affatto nel loro stile di gestire gli affari, se lo avevano fatto; ma comunque, dato che non desiderava particolarmente ravvivare la voce, si torceva il cappello tra le mani e si allontanò lentamente dal tavolo.

«Quindi non mi lascerete averlo, signori?» disse il signor Gamfield, fermandosi vicino alla porta.

«No», rispose il signor Limbkins, «almeno, poiché si tratta di una faccenda spiacevole, pensiamo che dovreste accontentarvi di qualcosa in meno del premio che vi abbiamo offerto.»

Il volto di Mr. Gamfield si illuminò mentre con passo svelto tornava al tavolo e disse:

“Cosa date, signori? Dai! Non siate troppo duri con un povero uomo. Cosa date?”

«Direi che tre sterline e dieci scellini erano più che sufficienti», disse il signor Limbkins.

«Dieci scellini troppi», disse il signore con il panciotto bianco.

«Comunque!» disse Gamfield «dite quattro sterline, signori. Dite quattro sterline e ve lo toglierete di torno per sempre. Ecco fatto!»

«Tre sterline e dieci scellini», ripeté il signor Limbkins con fermezza.

“Su, divido la differenza, signori,” insistette Gamfield. “Tre sterline e quindici scellini.”

«Neanche un altro soldo», fu la risposta decisa del signor Limbkins.

«Siete davvero duri con me, signori», disse Gamfield, vacillando.

«Puff! puff! sciocchezze!» disse il signore con la giacca bianca. «Sarebbe un affarone anche senza premio. Prendetelo, stupido che siete! È proprio il ragazzo adatto a voi. Gli serve una sculacciata di tanto in tanto: gli farà bene; e non dovrà costare molto per la pensione, perché non è mai stato ben nutrito da quando è nato. Ah! ah! ah!»

Il signor Gamfield lanciò uno sguardo malizioso ai volti attorno al tavolo e, notando un sorriso su tutti loro, gradualmente si lasciò sfuggire un sorriso anche lui. L’accordo fu concluso. Il signor Bumble fu subito istruito che Oliver Twist e i suoi documenti di apprendistato dovevano essere portati davanti al magistrato, per la firma e l’approvazione, proprio quel pomeriggio stesso.

In conseguenza di questa decisione, il piccolo Oliver, con suo grande stupore, fu liberato dalla schiavitù e gli fu ordinato di mettersi una camicia pulita. Non aveva ancora finito questo insolito esercizio ginnico che già il signor Bumble gli portò, con le sue stesse mani, un piatto di brodaglia e la razione festiva di due once e un quarto di pane. A questa tremenda vista Oliver cominciò a piangere pietosamente: pensando, non senza ragione, che il consiglio avesse deciso di ucciderlo per qualche utile scopo, altrimenti mai si sarebbero messi a ingrassarlo in quel modo.

«Non ti arrossare gli occhi, Oliver, ma mangia il tuo cibo e sii grato», disse il signor Bumble con un tono di imponente pomposità. «Stai per essere fatto apprendista, Oliver.»

«Un apprendista, signore!» disse il bambino, tremando.

“Sì, Oliver,” disse il signor Bumble. “Quel gentiluomo così buono e benedetto che è come tanti genitori per te, Oliver, quando non ne hai di tuoi: sta per farti fare l’apprendista: e metterti in affari, e farti diventare un uomo: anche se la spesa per la parrocchia sono tre sterline e dieci scellini!—tre sterline e dieci, Oliver!—settanta scellini—centoquarantasei mezzecorone!—e tutto questo per un mascalzone di un orfano che nessuno può amare.”

Mentre il signor Bumble si fermava per riprendere fiato dopo aver pronunciato questo discorso con una voce terribile, le lacrime scesero lungo il volto del povero bambino, che singhiozzò amaramente.

“Ebbene,” disse il signor Bumble con un tono meno pomposo, perché era soddisfatto di osservare l’effetto che la sua eloquenza aveva prodotto; “Ebbene, Oliver! Asciugati gli occhi con le maniche della giacca e non piangere nella tua brodaglia; è un’azione molto sciocca, Oliver.” Era certamente così, perché c’era già abbastanza acqua in essa.

Mentre si recavano dal magistrato, il signor Bumble istruì Oliver che tutto ciò che avrebbe dovuto fare sarebbe stato mostrarsi molto felice e dire, quando il gentiluomo gli avesse chiesto se desiderava essere apprendista, che lo avrebbe gradito moltissimo; entrambe le istruzioni alle quali Oliver promise di obbedire: tanto più in quanto il signor Bumble aggiunse un delicato accenno al fatto che, se non fosse riuscito a fare una o l’altra cosa, non si sapeva cosa gli sarebbe successo. Quando arrivarono all’ufficio, lo rinchiusero da solo in una piccola stanza e il signor Bumble lo ammonì di rimanere lì fino al suo ritorno per prenderlo.

Il ragazzo rimase lì con il cuore che gli batteva forte per mezz’ora. Allo scadere di quel tempo, il signor Bumble infilò la testa, senza il cappello a tricorno, e disse ad alta voce:

“Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman.” As Mr. Bumble said this, he put on a grim and threatening look, and added, in a low voice, “Mind what I told you, you young rascal!”

Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble’s face at this somewhat contradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his offering any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an adjoining room: the door of which was open. It was a large room, with a great window. Behind a desk, sat two old gentleman with powdered heads: one of whom was reading the newspaper; while the other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr. Limbkins was standing in front of the desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about.

The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.

“This is the boy, your worship,” said Mr. Bumble.

The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up.

“Oh, is this the boy?” said the old gentleman.

“This is him, sir,” replied Mr. Bumble. “Bow to the magistrate, my dear.”

Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates’ powder, whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that account.

“Well,” said the old gentleman, “I suppose he’s fond of chimney-sweeping?”

“He doats on it, your worship,” replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn’t.

“And he will be a sweep, will he?” inquired the old gentleman.

“If we was to bind him to any other trade tomorrow, he’d run away simultaneous, your worship,” replied Bumble.

“And this man that’s to be his master—you, sir—you’ll treat him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing, will you?” said the old gentleman.

“When I says I will, I means I will,” replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly.

“You’re a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest, open-hearted man,” said the old gentleman: turning his spectacles in the direction of the candidate for Oliver’s premium, whose villainous countenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty. But the magistrate was half blind and half childish, so he couldn’t reasonably be expected to discern what other people did.

“I hope I am, sir,” said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer.

“I have no doubt you are, my friend,” replied the old gentleman: fixing his spectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about him for the inkstand.

It was the critical moment of Oliver’s fate. If the inkstand had been where the old gentleman thought it was, he would have dipped his pen into it, and signed the indentures, and Oliver would have been straightway hurried off. But, as it chanced to be immediately under his nose, it followed, as a matter of course, that he looked all over his desk for it, without finding it; and happening in the course of his search to look straight before him, his gaze encountered the pale and terrified face of Oliver Twist: who, despite all the admonitory looks and pinches of Bumble, was regarding the repulsive countenance of his future master, with a mingled expression of horror and fear, too palpable to be mistaken, even by a half-blind magistrate.

The old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and looked from Oliver to Mr. Limbkins; who attempted to take snuff with a cheerful and unconcerned aspect.

“My boy!” said the old gentleman, “you look pale and alarmed. What is the matter?”

“Stand a little away from him, Beadle,” said the other magistrate: laying aside the paper, and leaning forward with an expression of interest. “Now, boy, tell us what’s the matter: don’t be afraid.”

Oliver fell on his knees, and clasping his hands together, prayed that they would order him back to the dark room—that they would starve him—beat him—kill him if they pleased—rather than send him away with that dreadful man.

“Well!” said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most impressive solemnity. “Well! of all the artful and designing orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest.”

“Hold your tongue, Beadle,” said the second old gentleman, when Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective.

“I beg your worship’s pardon,” said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of having heard aright. “Did your worship speak to me?”

“Yes. Hold your tongue.”

Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold his tongue! A moral revolution!

The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his companion, he nodded significantly.

“We refuse to sanction these indentures,” said the old gentleman: tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke.

“I hope,” stammered Mr. Limbkins: “I hope the magistrates will not form the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any improper conduct, on the unsupported testimony of a child.”

“The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the matter,” said the second old gentleman sharply. “Take the boy back to the workhouse, and treat him kindly. He seems to want it.”

That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally opposite description.

The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was again to let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him.

«Ora, Oliver, mio caro, vieni dal signore». Mentre il signor Bumble diceva questo, assunse un’espressione cupa e minacciosa e aggiunse a bassa voce: «Ricordati quello che ti ho detto, mascalzone!»

Oliver guardò ingenuamente il viso del signor Bumble per quel modo di rivolgersi un po’ contraddittorio; ma quell’uomo gli impedì di fare osservazioni al riguardo, conducendolo subito in una stanza attigua: la cui porta era aperta. Era una grande stanza con una grande finestra. Dietro a una scrivania sedevano due vecchi signori con parrucche incipriate: uno dei quali stava leggendo il giornale, mentre l’altro esaminava, con l’aiuto di un paio di occhiali di tartaruga, un piccolo pezzo di pergamena che aveva davanti. Il signor Limbkins era in piedi davanti alla scrivania da una parte; e il signor Gamfield, con il viso parzialmente lavato, dall’altra; mentre due o tre uomini dall’aria rude, con stivali alti, se ne stavano in giro.

Il vecchio signore con gli occhiali si addormentò gradualmente sopra il pezzetto di pergamena e ci fu una breve pausa dopo che Oliver era stato messo davanti alla scrivania dal signor Bumble.

«Questo è il ragazzo, vostro onore», disse il signor Bumble.

Il vecchio signore che stava leggendo il giornale alzò la testa per un momento e tirò per la manica l’altro vecchio signore, al che quest’ultimo si svegliò.

«Oh, è questo il ragazzo?» disse il vecchio signore.

“Questo è lui, signore,” rispose il signor Bumble. “Fai un inchino al giudice, mio caro.”

Oliver si riscosse e fece il suo migliore inchino. Era stato a chiedersi, con gli occhi fissi sulla polvere dei magistrati, se tutte le giunte nascessero con quella roba bianca in testa e fossero per questo motivo giunte da allora in poi.

«Beh», disse il vecchio signore, «suppongo che sia appassionato di spazzacamini?»

“Ne è innamorato, vostro onore”, rispose Bumble, dando un pizzicotto furtivo a Oliver per intimerargli che sarebbe stato meglio non dire di no.

«E lui sarà un spazzacamino, vero?» chiese il vecchio signore.

«Se lo avessimo apprendistato a un altro mestiere domani, sarebbe scappato subito», rispose Bumble.

“E quest’uomo che deve essere il suo padrone - lei, signore - lo tratterà bene, e lo nutrirà, e farà tutte quelle cose del genere, vero?” disse il vecchio gentiluomo.

«Quando dico che lo farò, intendo dire che lo farò», rispose ostinatamente il signor Gamfield.

«Siete un uomo di poche parole, amico mio, ma sembrate onesto e dal cuore aperto», disse il vecchio signore: girando i suoi occhiali verso il candidato alla Oliver’s premium, la cui faccia da delinquente era una vera ricevuta timbrata per la crudeltà. Ma il magistrato era mezzo cieco e mezzo bambino, quindi non si poteva ragionevolmente aspettarsi che discernesse ciò che gli altri vedevano.

“Spero di esserlo, signore”, disse il signor Gamfield con un ghigno sgradevole.

«Non ho alcun dubbio che lo sia, mio caro amico», rispose il vecchio signore, aggiustandosi gli occhiali sul naso e guardandosi intorno in cerca del calamaio.

Era il momento cruciale del destino di Oliver. Se l’inchiostro fosse stato dove il vecchio signore pensava che fosse, avrebbe intinto la penna e firmato i documenti, e Oliver sarebbe stato immediatamente portato via. Ma poiché si trovava proprio sotto al suo naso, è ovvio che cercò dappertutto sulla scrivania senza trovarlo; e mentre lo cercava, gli capitò di guardare diritto davanti a sé, e il suo sguardo incontrò il volto pallido e spaventato di Oliver Twist: che, nonostante tutti i segnali ammonitivi e le gomitate di Bumble, stava fissando con orrore l’aspetto ripugnante del suo futuro padrone, con un’espressione mista di terrore e paura, troppo evidente per essere fraintesa anche da un magistrato mezzo cieco.

Il vecchio gentiluomo si fermò, depose la penna e guardò da Oliver al signor Limbkins, che cercò di prendere tabacco da fiuto con un aspetto allegro e disinvolto.

“Ragazzo mio!” disse il vecchio gentiluomo, “sembri pallido e spaventato. Cosa succede?”

«Allontanatevi un po’ da lui, guardiano», disse l’altro magistrato, mettendo da parte il foglio e sporgendosi in avanti con aria interessata. «Ora, ragazzo, dìci cosa succede: non aver paura.»

Oliver cadde in ginocchio e, giungendo le mani insieme, pregò che lo rimandassero nella stanza buia — che lo facessero morire di fame — lo picchiassero — lo uccidessero se volevano — piuttosto che mandarlo via con quell’uomo terribile.

«Bene!» disse il signor Bumble, alzando le mani e gli occhi con la massima solennità. «Bene! di tutti i pupilli astuti e calcolatori che io abbia mai visto, Oliver, tu sei uno dei più sfacciati».

«Tieni a freno la lingua, guardiano», disse il secondo vecchio signore, quando il signor Bumble ebbe dato sfogo a questo aggettivo composto.

«Chiedo scusa a Vostra Signoria», disse il signor Bumble, incredulo di aver udito bene. «Vostra Signoria mi ha parlato?»

“Sì. Tieni a freno la lingua.”

Il signor Bumble rimase sbalordito e attonito. Un esattore ordinato di tacere! Una rivoluzione morale!

Il vecchio signore con gli occhiali dalla montatura di tartaruga guardò il suo compagno e annuì significativamente.

«Rifiutiamo di sancire questi apprendistati», disse il vecchio signore, scartando il pezzo di pergamena mentre parlava.

“Spero,” balbettò il signor Limbkins: “spero che i magistrati non si formino l’opinione che le autorità siano colpevoli di un comportamento inappropriato, sulla base della testimonianza non supportata da un bambino.”

«I giudici non sono chiamati a pronunciarsi su questo argomento», disse il secondo vecchio signore in tono brusco. «Riportate il ragazzo al lavoro e trattatelo con gentilezza. Sembra averne bisogno».

Quella stessa sera il signore dal panciotto bianco asserì con la massima positività e decisione che non solo Oliver sarebbe stato impiccato ma anche squartato, per giunta. Il signor Bumble scosse la testa con mesto mistero e disse che avrebbe voluto vederlo arrivare a qualcosa di buono; al che il signor Gamfield rispose che avrebbe voluto vederlo arrivare da lui; il che, sebbene concordasse col becchino sulla maggior parte delle questioni, sembrerebbe essere un desiderio di natura totalmente opposta.

La mattina seguente il pubblico fu nuovamente informato che Oliver Twist era di nuovo in affitto e che cinque sterline sarebbero state pagate a chiunque lo avesse preso con sé.

CHAPTER IV. OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE

In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay.

Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker.

Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand.

“I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble,” said the undertaker.

“You’ll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,” said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. “I say you’ll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,” repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane.

“Think so?” said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. “The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble.”

“So are the coffins,” replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in.

Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. “Well, well, Mr. Bumble,” he said at length, “there’s no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Bumble, “every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable.”

“Of course, of course,” replied the undertaker; “and if I don’t get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see—he! he! he!”

“Just so,” said Mr. Bumble.

“Though I must say,” continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: “though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one’s calculation makes a great hole in one’s profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir.”

As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme.

“By the bye,” said Mr. Bumble, “you don’t know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial ’prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?” As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words “five pounds”: which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size.

“Gadso!” said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; “that’s just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know—dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before.”

“Yes, I think it rather pretty,” said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. “The die is the same as the porochial seal—the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on Newyear’s morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight.”

“I recollect,” said the undertaker. “The jury brought it in, ‘Died from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life,’ didn’t they?”

Mr. Bumble nodded.

“And they made it a special verdict, I think,” said the undertaker, “by adding some words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had—”

“Tush! Foolery!” interposed the beadle. “If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they’d have enough to do.”

“Very true,” said the undertaker; “they would indeed.”

“Juries,” said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into a passion: “juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches.”

CAPITOLO IV. OLIVER, A CUI VIENE OFFERTO UN ALTRO POSTO, FA IL SUO PRIMO INGRESSO NELLA VITA PUBBLICA

Nelle grandi famiglie, quando non si riesce a ottenere un posto vantaggioso, sia in possesso, reversibilità, residuo o aspettativa, per il giovane che sta crescendo, è una consuetudine molto diffusa mandarlo al mare. Il consiglio, in imitazione di un esempio così saggio e salutare, si riunì per discutere la convenienza di imbarcare Oliver Twist, su qualche piccola nave mercantile diretta a un buon porto insalubre. Questa idea si impose come la cosa migliore che si potesse fare con lui: era probabile, che il capitano lo avrebbe frustato fino alla morte, in un momento di gioco, qualche giorno dopo pranzo, o gli avrebbe spaccato il cranio con una sbarra di ferro; entrambi passatempi essendo, come è abbastanza noto, molto graditi e comuni tra i gentiluomini di quella classe. Più il caso si presentava al consiglio sotto questo punto di vista, più le molteplici vantaggi dell’iniziativa apparivano; così, giunsero alla conclusione che l’unico modo per provvedere efficacemente a Oliver era mandarlo immediatamente al mare.

Il signor Bumble era stato mandato per fare varie indagini preliminari, con l’intento di trovare qualche capitano o altro che volesse un mozzo senza amici; e stava tornando all’ospizio per comunicare il risultato della sua missione, quando incontrò al cancello nientemeno che il signor Sowerberry, l’imprenditore di pompe funebri parrocchiale.

Il signor Sowerberry era un uomo alto e magro, dalle grandi articolazioni, vestito con un abito logoro di colore nero, calzoni di cotone rammendati dello stesso colore e scarpe adatte a rispondere alle sue esigenze. Le sue fattezze non erano naturalmente destinate a mostrare un aspetto sorridente, ma in generale era piuttosto incline alla jocosenza professionale. Il suo passo era elastico e il suo volto rivelava una gioia interiore mentre si avvicinava al signor Bumble e lo stringeva calorosamente per mano.

«Ho preso le misure delle due donne che sono morte la scorsa notte, signor Bumble», disse l’impresario di pompe funebri.

«Farete fortuna, signor Sowerberry», disse il becchino mentre infilava pollice e indice nella scatola del tabacco offertagli dall’impresario di pompe funebri: che era un ingegnoso piccolo modello di bara brevettata. «Dico che farete fortuna, signor Sowerberry», ripeté il signor Bumble, dando amichevolmente una pacca sulla spalla all’impresario di pompe funebri con il suo bastone.

«Pensa così?» disse l’impresario di pompe funebri con un tono che ammetteva e contestava a metà la probabilità dell’evento. «Le somme consentite dal consiglio sono molto esigue, signor Bumble».

«E così sono le bare», rispose l’usciere, con un’espressione che si avvicinava il più possibile a una risata per quanto fosse consentito a un alto funzionario.

Il signor Sowerberry ne fu molto divertito: e naturalmente non poteva che esserlo; e rise a lungo tempo senza sosta. “Bene, bene, signor Bumble,” disse infine, “non si può negare che da quando è entrato in vigore il nuovo sistema di alimentazione le bare sono diventate un po’ più strette e più basse rispetto a prima; ma dobbiamo pur avere qualche profitto, signor Bumble. Il legno ben stagionato costa caro, sa; e tutte le maniglie in ferro arrivano da Birmingham tramite canale.”

«Bene, bene», disse il signor Bumble, «ogni mestiere ha i suoi inconvenienti. Un profitto equo è, naturalmente, lecito».

«Naturalmente, naturalmente», rispose l’impresario di pompe funebri; «e se non faccio un profitto su questo o quell’articolo particolare, beh, alla fine mi riprendo, capisce—ehi! ehi! ehi!»

«Proprio così», disse il signor Bumble.

«Anche se devo dire», continuò l’impresario di pompe funebri, riprendendo il filo delle osservazioni che l’usciere aveva interrotto: «anche se devo dire, signor Bumble, che ho a che fare con uno svantaggio molto grande: ovvero che tutte le persone robuste muoiono più in fretta. Le persone che sono state meglio e hanno pagato le tasse per molti anni sono le prime ad afflosciarsi quando entrano nella casa; e lasciatemi dire, signor Bumble, che tre o quattro pollici oltre i miei calcoli fanno un grande buco nei profitti: specialmente quando si ha una famiglia da mantenere, signore.»

Mentre il signor Sowerberry diceva questo, con la giusta indignazione di un uomo maltrattato; e mentre il signor Bumble sentiva che ciò tendeva piuttosto a trasmettere una riflessione sull’onore della parrocchia; quest’ultimo gentiluomo pensò fosse consigliabile cambiare argomento. Avendo Oliver Twist in mente, lo prese come tema.

«A proposito», disse il signor Bumble, «non conoscete nessuno che voglia un ragazzo, per caso? Un apprendista parrocchiale che attualmente è un peso morto; una macigna, come potrei dire, al collo della parrocchia? Condizioni vantaggiose, signor Sowerberry, condizioni davvantaggiose?» Mentre il signor Bumble parlava, sollevò il bastone verso l’insegna sopra di lui e diede tre colpi distinti sulle parole «cinque sterline», che vi erano stampate in caratteri romani di dimensioni gigantesche.

«Gadso!» disse l’impresario di pompe funebri: afferrando il signor Bumble per la fodera dorata del suo abito ufficiale; «è proprio questa la cosa di cui volevo parlarle. Sa, caro me, che bottone elegante è questo, signor Bumble! Non l’avevo mai notato prima».

«Sì, la trovo piuttosto graziosa», disse l’ufficiale comunale, guardando con orgoglio le grandi bottoniere di ottone che adornavano il suo cappotto. «Il disegno è lo stesso del sigillo parrocchiale: il Buon Samaritano che guarisce l’uomo malato e ferito. Il consiglio me l’ha regalata la mattina di Capodanno, signor Sowerberry. Me la sono messa per la prima volta, se ben ricordo, per partecipare all’autopsia del commerciante in rovina che morì su una porta a mezzanotte».

«Mi ricordo», disse l’impresario di pompe funebri. «La giuria ha stabilito che è morta “per esposizione al freddo e mancanza dei comuni bisogni della vita” non è così?»

Il signor Bumble annuì.

«E credo che abbiano emesso una sentenza speciale», disse l’impresario di pompe funebri, «aggiungendo alcune parole nel senso che se l’ufficiale addetto all’assistenza avesse, »

«Bah! Sciocchezze!» intervenne l’ufficiale giudiziario «Se il consiglio si occupasse di tutte le sciocchezze che dicono i giurati ignoranti, non avrebbe mai un momento di tregua.»

“Assolutamente vero,” disse l’impresario di pompe funebri; “lo farebbero davvero.”

«Le giurie», disse il signor Bumble stringendo forte il suo bastone, come era solito fare quando si infervorava, «sono individui ignoranti, volgari e meschini.»

“So they are,” said the undertaker.

“They haven’t no more philosophy nor political economy about ’em than that,” said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously.

“No more they have,” acquiesced the undertaker.

“I despise ’em,” said the beadle, growing very red in the face.

“So do I,” rejoined the undertaker.

“And I only wish we’d a jury of the independent sort, in the house for a week or two,” said the beadle; “the rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for ’em.”

“Let ’em alone for that,” replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer.

Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered; fixed the cocked hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice:

“Well; what about the boy?”

“Oh!” replied the undertaker; “why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a good deal towards the poor’s rates.”

“Hem!” said Mr. Bumble. “Well?”

“Well,” replied the undertaker, “I was thinking that if I pay so much towards ’em, I’ve a right to get as much out of ’em as I can, Mr. Bumble; and so—I think I’ll take the boy myself.”

Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him into the building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five minutes; and it was arranged that Oliver should go to him that evening “upon liking”—a phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon a short trial, that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too much food into him, he shall have him for a term of years, to do what he likes with.

When little Oliver was taken before “the gentlemen” that evening; and informed that he was to go, that night, as general house-lad to a coffin-maker’s; and that if he complained of his situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would be sent to sea, there to be drowned, or knocked on the head, as the case might be, he evinced so little emotion, that they by common consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr. Bumble to remove him forthwith.

Now, although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they were rather out, in this particular instance. The simple fact was, that Oliver, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather too much; and was in a fair way of being reduced, for life, to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness by the ill usage he had received. He heard the news of his destination, in perfect silence; and, having had his luggage put into his hand—which was not very difficult to carry, inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits of a brown paper parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep—he pulled his cap over his eyes; and once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble’s coat cuff, was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering.

For some time, Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice or remark; for the beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should: and, it being a windy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr. Bumble’s coat as they blew open, and disclosed to great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches. As they drew near to their destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it expedient to look down, and see that the boy was in good order for inspection by his new master: which he accordingly did, with a fit and becoming air of gracious patronage.

“Oliver!” said Mr. Bumble.

“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice.

“Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir.”

Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once; and passed the back of his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another. The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble’s he covered his face with both; and wept until the tears sprung out from between his chin and bony fingers.

“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity. “Well! Of all the ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the—”

“No, no, sir,” sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-known cane; “no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so—so—”

“So what?” inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement.

“So lonely, sir! So very lonely!” cried the child. “Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don’t, don’t pray be cross to me!” The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion’s face, with tears of real agony.

Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver’s piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about “that troublesome cough,” bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence.

The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.

“Aha!” said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; “is that you, Bumble?”

“No one else, Mr. Sowerberry,” replied the beadle. “Here! I’ve brought the boy.” Oliver made a bow.

“Oh! that’s the boy, is it?” said the undertaker: raising the candle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. “Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?”

«Sono proprio loro», disse l’impresario di pompe funebri.

“Non hanno più filosofia né economia politica di quella”, disse l’usciere, schioccando le dita con disprezzo.

«Non ne hanno più», convenne l’impresario di pompe funebri.

«Li disprezzo», disse l’ufficiale dandosi una gran fiammata sul viso.

«E io pure», rispose l’impresario di pompe funebri.

«E vorrei solo che avessimo una giuria di persone indipendenti, in casa, per una o due settimane», disse l’ufficiale; «le regole e i regolamenti del consiglio li metterebbero presto al loro posto.»

«Lasciateli in pace per questo», rispose l’impresario di pompe funebri. Così dicendo, sorrise in modo approvatorio, per placare la crescente ira del funzionario parrocchiale indignato.

Mr Bumble si tolse il cappello a tricorno; prese un fazzoletto dall’interno della corona; si asciugò la fronte dal sudore che la sua rabbia aveva generato; rimise il cappello a tricorno e, rivolgendosi all’impresario di pompe funebri, disse con voce più calma:

«Bene; e il ragazzo?»

«Oh!» rispose l’impresario di pompe funebri «perché sa, signor Bumble, pago una bella cifra per le tasse dei poveri».

«Ehm!» disse il signor Bumble. «Bene?»

«Beh,» rispose l’impresario di pompe funebri «stavo pensando che se ci metto tanto per loro, ho il diritto di tirarne fuori quanto più posso, signor Bumble; e quindi, credo che prenderò il ragazzo io stesso.»

Il signor Bumble afferrò il becchino per un braccio e lo condusse all’interno dell’edificio. Il signor Sowerberry rimase a colloquio con la giunta per cinque minuti; si decise che Oliver sarebbe andato da lui quella sera “per provare” - una frase che, nel caso di un apprendista parrocchiale, significa che se il padrone scopre, dopo una breve prova, che può ottenere abbastanza lavoro da un ragazzo senza dargli troppo cibo, lo terrà per diversi anni e potrà fare con lui quello che vuole.

Quando il piccolo Oliver fu portato davanti “ai signori” quella sera e informato che sarebbe partito quella stessa sera, come garzone generale in una casa di fabbricante di bare; e che se si fosse lamentato della sua situazione o fosse mai tornato nella parrocchia, sarebbe stato mandato al largo per essere annegato o colpito alla testa, a seconda dei casi, dimostrò così poca emozione che tutti insieme lo dichiararono un giovane farabutto incallito e ordinarono a Mr. Bumble di rimuoverlo immediatamente.

Ora, sebbene fosse del tutto naturale che il consiglio, di tutte le persone al mondo, si sentisse in uno stato di virtuoso stupore e orrore per i più piccoli segni di mancanza di sensibilità da parte di chiunque, stavolta erano piuttosto fuori bersaglio. Il semplice fatto era che Oliver, anziché possedere troppo poca sensibilità, ne aveva piuttosto troppa; e stava per essere ridotto, per tutta la vita, a uno stato di brutalità stupida e scontrosità a causa del maltrattamento che aveva subito. Ascoltò la notizia della sua destinazione in perfetto silenzio; e, avendo ricevuto il suo bagaglio nelle mani — che non era molto difficile da trasportare, dato che tutto era contenuto entro i limiti di un pacco di carta marrone, circa mezzo piede quadrato per tre pollici di profondità — si tirò il cappello sugli occhi; e attaccandosi nuovamente al polsino del cappotto del signor Bumble, fu condotto via da quel dignitario verso una nuova scena di sofferenza.

Per qualche tempo, il signor Bumble trascinò con sé Oliver senza far commenti né osservazioni; poiché l’impiegato comunale teneva la testa ben eretta, come un impiegato comunale deve fare: e dato che era una giornata ventosa, il piccolo Oliver rimase completamente avvolto dalle falde del cappotto del signor Bumble mentre si spalancavano al vento, mettendo in bella vista la sua giacca a code e i suoi pantaloni corti di velluto grigio. Mentre si avvicinavano alla loro destinazione, il signor Bumble pensò che fosse opportuno guardare verso il basso per assicurarsi che il ragazzo fosse in ordine per essere ispezionato dal suo nuovo padrone: e così fece, con un atteggiamento adeguato e appropriato di patrono benevolo.

«Oliver!» disse il signor Bumble.

«Sì, signore», rispose Oliver con voce bassa e tremante.

«Togli quel cappello dagli occhi e rialza la testa, signore».

Sebbene Oliver avesse fatto come gli era stato chiesto, subito, e si fosse passato velocemente il dorso della mano libera sugli occhi, quando alzò lo sguardo verso la sua guida vi aveva lasciato una lacrima. Mentre il signor Bumble lo fissava con severità, questa gli scese lungo la guancia. Fu seguita da un’altra e poi ancora da un’altra. Il bambino fece uno sforzo enorme, ma fu inutile. Ritirando l’altra mano dal signor Bumble si coprì il viso con entrambe; e pianse fino a quando le lacrime non gli sgorgarono tra il mento e le dita ossute.

“Bene!” esclamò il signor Bumble fermandosi di colpo e lanciando al suo piccolo protetto uno sguardo pieno d’intensa malignità. “Bene! Di tutti i ragazzi più ingrati e peggio intenzionati che io abbia mai visto, Oliver, tu sei il—”

“No, no, signore,” singhiozzò Oliver, aggrappandosi alla mano che stringeva il famoso bastone; “no, no, signore; sarò davvero buono; davvero, davvero lo sarò, signore! Sono un bambino molto piccolo, signore; e questo è così—così—”

«E allora?» chiese il signor Bumble stupito.

“Così solo, signore! Così terribilmente solo!” gridò il bambino. “Tutti mi odiano. Oh! Signore, no, non prego, per favore, non essere arrabbiato con me!” Il bambino si batté la mano sul cuore e guardò in faccia il suo compagno, con lacrime di vera agonia.

Il signor Bumble osservò per qualche istante con stupore l’aspetto pietoso e indifeso di Oliver; si schiarì la gola tre o quattro volte in modo rauco; e dopo aver borbottato qualcosa a proposito «di quella tosse fastidiosa», disse a Oliver di asciugarsi gli occhi e di essere un bravo bambino. Poi, prendendolo nuovamente per mano, riprese il cammino con lui in silenzio.

Il becchino, che aveva appena chiuso le imposte del suo negozio, stava annotando alcune voci sul suo libro mastro alla luce di una candela terribilmente adatta all’occasione, quando entrò il signor Bumble.

«Ah!» disse l’impresario di pompe funebri, alzando gli occhi dal libro e interrompendosi nel mezzo di una parola «è lei, signor Bumble?»

“Nessun altro, signor Sowerberry”, rispose l’agente. “Ecco! Ho portato il ragazzo”. Oliver fece un inchino.

“Ah! è questo il ragazzo, vero?” disse l’impresario di pompe funebri: sollevando la candela sopra la testa per avere una visione migliore di Oliver. “Signora Sowerberry, vuole avere la gentilezza di venire qui un momento, mia cara?”

Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance.

“My dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, “this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of.” Oliver bowed again.

“Dear me!” said the undertaker’s wife, “he’s very small.”

“Why, he is rather small,” replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he was no bigger; “he is small. There’s no denying it. But he’ll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry—he’ll grow.”

“Ah! I dare say he will,” replied the lady pettishly, “on our victuals and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more to keep, than they’re worth. However, men always think they know best. There! Get downstairs, little bag o’ bones.” With this, the undertaker’s wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark: forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated “kitchen”; wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair.

“Here, Charlotte,” said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, “give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip. He hasn’t come home since the morning, so he may go without ’em. I dare say the boy isn’t too dainty to eat ’em—are you, boy?”

Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him.

I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected. I wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine. There is only one thing I should like better; and that would be to see the Philosopher making the same sort of meal himself, with the same relish.

“Well,” said the undertaker’s wife, when Oliver had finished his supper: which she had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful auguries of his future appetite: “have you done?”

There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the affirmative.

“Then come with me,” said Mrs. Sowerberry: taking up a dim and dirty lamp, and leading the way upstairs; “your bed’s under the counter. You don’t mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose? But it doesn’t much matter whether you do or don’t, for you can’t sleep anywhere else. Come; don’t keep me here all night!”

Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress.

La signora Sowerberry emerse da una piccola stanza dietro il negozio e presentò la figura di una donna bassa, magra, compressa, con un volto da volpe.

“Mia cara”, disse il signor Sowerberry con deferenza, “questo è il ragazzo del lavoro che ti ho parlato”. Oliver si inchinò di nuovo.

“Caro mio!” disse la moglie dell’impresario di pompe funebri, “è molto piccolo.”

«Perché, lui è piuttosto piccolo», rispose il signor Bumble: guardando Oliver come se fosse colpa sua di non essere più grande; «è piccolo. Non si può negare. Ma crescerà, signora Sowerberry—crescerà».

«Ah! Scommetto che lo farà», rispose la signora con tono sgarbato, «con i nostri viveri e le nostre bevande. Non vedo alcun risparmio nei bambini del comune, no davvero; perché costano sempre più di quanto valgono per mantenerli. Comunque, gli uomini pensano sempre di sapere meglio. Ecco! Scendi di sotto, piccolo mucchio d’ossa». Con queste parole, la moglie dell’impresario di pompe funebri aprì una porta laterale e spinse Oliver giù per una ripida scala in una cella di pietra umida e buia: che costituiva l’anticamera della cantina del carbone, denominata “cucina”; dove sedeva una ragazza trasandata, con le scarpe consumate ai talloni e calze di lana blu molto malconce.

«Ecco, Charlotte», disse il signor Sowerberry che era sceso dietro a Oliver, «dai a questo ragazzo qualche pezzo freddo messo da parte per Trip. Non è tornato a casa dalla mattina, quindi può farne a meno. Immagino che il ragazzo non sia troppo schizzinoso per mangiarli, vero?»

Oliver, i cui occhi avevano brillato alla menzione della carne e che tremava dall’impazienza di divorarla, rispose negativamente; e gli venne messo davanti un piatto pieno di scadenti avanzi.

Vorrei che qualche filosofo ben pasciuto, la cui carne e bevanda si trasformano in aloe dentro di lui; il cui sangue è ghiaccio, il cui cuore è ferro; potesse aver visto Oliver Twist afferrare i raffinati cibi che il cane aveva disdegnato. Vorrei che potesse aver assistito all’orribile avidità con la quale Oliver strappava a pezzi i bocconi con tutta la ferocia della fame. C’è solo una cosa che mi piacerebbe di più; e sarebbe vedere il Filosofo fare lo stesso tipo di pasto lui stesso, con lo stesso gusto.

«Bene,» disse la moglie del becchino quando Oliver ebbe finito di cenare: cosa che lei aveva osservato con orrore silenzioso e con paurose previsioni sul suo futuro appetito, «hai finito?»

Non essendoci nulla di commestibile a portata di mano, Oliver rispose in modo affermativo.

«Allora vieni con me», disse la signora Sowerberry: prendendo una lampada fioca e sporca e conducendolo al piano di sopra; «il tuo letto è sotto il banco. Non ti dispiace dormire tra le bare, immagino? Ma non importa molto se ti piace o no, perché non puoi dormire da nessun’altra parte. Vieni; non farmi stare qui tutta la notte!»

Oliver non indugiò oltre e seguì mansueto la sua nuova padrona.

CHAPTER V. OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR THE FIRST TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTER’S BUSINESS

Oliver, being left to himself in the undertaker’s shop, set the lamp down on a workman’s bench, and gazed timidly about him with a feeling of awe and dread, which many people a good deal older than he will be at no loss to understand. An unfinished coffin on black tressels, which stood in the middle of the shop, looked so gloomy and death-like that a cold tremble came over him, every time his eyes wandered in the direction of the dismal object: from which he almost expected to see some frightful form slowly rear its head, to drive him mad with terror. Against the wall were ranged, in regular array, a long row of elm boards cut in the same shape: looking in the dim light, like high-shouldered ghosts with their hands in their breeches pockets. Coffin-plates, elm-chips, bright-headed nails, and shreds of black cloth, lay scattered on the floor; and the wall behind the counter was ornamented with a lively representation of two mutes in very stiff neckcloths, on duty at a large private door, with a hearse drawn by four black steeds, approaching in the distance. The shop was close and hot. The atmosphere seemed tainted with the smell of coffins. The recess beneath the counter in which his flock mattress was thrust, looked like a grave.

Nor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He was alone in a strange place; and we all know how chilled and desolate the best of us will sometimes feel in such a situation. The boy had no friends to care for, or to care for him. The regret of no recent separation was fresh in his mind; the absence of no loved and well-remembered face sank heavily into his heart.

But his heart was heavy, notwithstanding; and he wished, as he crept into his narrow bed, that that were his coffin, and that he could be lain in a calm and lasting sleep in the churchyard ground, with the tall grass waving gently above his head, and the sound of the old deep bell to soothe him in his sleep.

Oliver was awakened in the morning, by a loud kicking at the outside of the shop-door: which, before he could huddle on his clothes, was repeated, in an angry and impetuous manner, about twenty-five times. When he began to undo the chain, the legs desisted, and a voice began.

“Open the door, will yer?” cried the voice which belonged to the legs which had kicked at the door.

“I will, directly, sir,” replied Oliver: undoing the chain, and turning the key.

“I suppose yer the new boy, ain’t yer?” said the voice through the key-hole.

“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver.

“How old are yer?” inquired the voice.

“Ten, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Then I’ll whop yer when I get in,” said the voice; “you just see if I don’t, that’s all, my work’us brat!” and having made this obliging promise, the voice began to whistle.

Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the very expressive monosyllable just recorded bears reference, to entertain the smallest doubt that the owner of the voice, whoever he might be, would redeem his pledge, most honourably. He drew back the bolts with a trembling hand, and opened the door.

For a second or two, Oliver glanced up the street, and down the street, and over the way: impressed with the belief that the unknown, who had addressed him through the key-hole, had walked a few paces off, to warm himself; for nobody did he see but a big charity-boy, sitting on a post in front of the house, eating a slice of bread and butter: which he cut into wedges, the size of his mouth, with a clasp-knife, and then consumed with great dexterity.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Oliver at length: seeing that no other visitor made his appearance; “did you knock?”

“I kicked,” replied the charity-boy.

“Did you want a coffin, sir?” inquired Oliver, innocently.

At this, the charity-boy looked monstrous fierce; and said that Oliver would want one before long, if he cut jokes with his superiors in that way.

“Yer don’t know who I am, I suppose, Work’us?” said the charity-boy, in continuation: descending from the top of the post, meanwhile, with edifying gravity.

“No, sir,” rejoined Oliver.

“I’m Mister Noah Claypole,” said the charity-boy, “and you’re under me. Take down the shutters, yer idle young ruffian!” With this, Mr. Claypole administered a kick to Oliver, and entered the shop with a dignified air, which did him great credit. It is difficult for a large-headed, small-eyed youth, of lumbering make and heavy countenance, to look dignified under any circumstances; but it is more especially so, when superadded to these personal attractions are a red nose and yellow smalls.

Oliver, having taken down the shutters, and broken a pane of glass in his effort to stagger away beneath the weight of the first one to a small court at the side of the house in which they were kept during the day, was graciously assisted by Noah: who having consoled him with the assurance that “he’d catch it,” condescended to help him. Mr. Sowerberry came down soon after. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Sowerberry appeared. Oliver having “caught it,” in fulfilment of Noah’s prediction, followed that young gentleman down the stairs to breakfast.

“Come near the fire, Noah,” said Charlotte. “I saved a nice little bit of bacon for you from master’s breakfast. Oliver, shut that door at Mister Noah’s back, and take them bits that I’ve put out on the cover of the bread-pan. There’s your tea; take it away to that box, and drink it there, and make haste, for they’ll want you to mind the shop. D’ye hear?”

“D’ye hear, Work’us?” said Noah Claypole.

“Lor, Noah!” said Charlotte, “what a rum creature you are! Why don’t you let the boy alone?”

CAPITOLO V. Oliver si unisce a nuovi compagni. Andando per la prima volta a un funerale, forma una cattiva opinione del mestiere del suo padrone

Oliver, rimasto solo nel negozio del becchino, posò la lampada su un banco da lavoro e guardò timidamente intorno a sé con un senso di timore e paura che molte persone molto più grandi di lui non avrebbero faticato a comprendere. Un feretro incompiuto su cavalletti neri, che si trovava nel mezzo del negozio, appariva così cupo e simile alla morte da farlo rabbrividire ogni volta che i suoi occhi si posavano sulla tetra oggetto: dal quale quasi si aspettava di vedere emergere lentamente qualche forma spaventosa, per fargli perdere la ragione dalla paura. Lungo la parete erano allineati, in ordine regolare, una lunga fila di tavole di olmo tagliate nella stessa forma: che alla luce fioca sembravano fantasmi con le spalle larghe e le mani nelle tasche dei calzoni. Piastre per feretri, trucioli di olmo, chiodi a testa lucida e brandelli di stoffa nera erano sparsi sul pavimento; e la parete dietro il banco era ornata con una vivace rappresentazione di due muti in cravatte molto rigide, di servizio davanti a un grande portone privato, con un carro funebre trainato da quattro cavalli neri che si avvicinava in lontananza. Il negozio era chiuso e caldo. L’atmosfera sembrava contaminata dall’odore dei feretri. La nicchia sotto il banco in cui era stato infilato il suo materasso di lana sembrava una tomba.

Né questi erano gli unici sentimenti tetri che opprimevano Oliver. Era solo in un luogo sconosciuto; e tutti noi sappiamo quanto anche i migliori di noi si sentano a volte gelati e desolati in una situazione del genere. Il ragazzo non aveva amici che si prendessero cura di lui, né amici per cui preoccuparsi. Nessun rimpianto per una separazione recente era fresco nella sua mente; l’assenza di un volto amato e ben ricordato non gravava pesantemente sul suo cuore.

Ma il suo cuore era pesante nonostante tutto; e desiderava, mentre si infilava nel suo stretto letto, che quello fosse il suo feretro, e che potesse giacere in un calmo e duraturo sonno nella terra del cimitero, con l’erba alta che sventolava dolcemente sopra la sua testa, e il suono della vecchia campana profonda per consolarlo nel suo sonno.

Oliver fu svegliato al mattino da un forte calcio alla porta esterna del negozio: che prima che potesse indossare frettolosamente i suoi vestiti, venne ripetuto in modo arrabbiato e impetuoso circa venticinque volte. Quando cominciò a slacciare la catena, le gambe smisero di calciare e una voce prese il loro posto.

«Aprite la porta, eh?» gridò la voce che apparteneva alle gambe che avevano calciato alla porta.

“Lo farò subito, signore”, rispose Oliver, sciogliendo la catena e girando la chiave.

«Suppongo che tu sia il nuovo ragazzo, vero?» disse la voce attraverso la serratura.

«Sì, signore», rispose Oliver.

«Quanti anni hai?» chiese la voce.

«Dieci, signore», rispose Oliver.

«Allora ti prenderò a schiaffi quando torno», disse la voce; «e vedrai se non lo faccio, questo è tutto quello che posso dire, marmocchio del lavoro!» e dopo aver fatto questa promessa gentile, la voce cominciò a fischiare.

Oliver era stato sottoposto troppo spesso al processo cui si riferisce il molto espressivo monosillabo appena riportato per nutrire anche il più piccolo dubbio che il proprietario della voce, chiunque fosse, avrebbe mantenuto la sua promessa con grande onore. Ritirò i paletti con mano tremante e aprì la porta.

Per un secondo o due, Oliver guardò su e giù per la strada, e dall’altra parte: convinto che l’ignoto, che gli aveva parlato attraverso la toppa della serratura, si fosse allontanato di qualche passo per riscaldarsi; infatti non vide nessuno se non un grosso ragazzo della beneficenza, seduto su un palo davanti alla casa, che mangiava una fetta di pane e burro: la quale tagliava a spicchi, delle dimensioni della sua bocca, con un coltellino a scatto, per poi consumarla con grande destrezza.

“Mi scusi, signore”, disse alla fine Oliver, vedendo che nessun altro visitatore si faceva vedere; “ha bussato?”

«Ho calciato», rispose il ragazzo della carità.

«Voleva un feretro, signore?» chiese ingenuamente Oliver.

A questo punto il ragazzo dell’istituto di beneficenza assunse un’espressione terribilmente feroce e disse che Oliver ne avrebbe voluto una presto, se continuava a fare battute con i suoi superiori in quel modo.

«Suppongo che non sappiate chi sono, Work’us?» disse il ragazzo dell’assistenza, continuando e scendendo nel frattempo dall’alto del palo con edificante gravità.

“No, signore”, rispose Oliver.

«Sono il signor Noah Claypole», disse il ragazzo dell’istituto di beneficenza, «e tu sei sotto di me. Togli le persiane, giovane farabutto pigro!» Detto ciò, il signor Claypole diede un calcio a Oliver e entrò nel negozio con aria dignitosa, che gli faceva grande onore. È difficile per un ragazzo dalla testa grossa e dagli occhi piccoli, di corporatura goffa e dal volto pesante, apparire dignitoso in qualsiasi circostanza; ma è ancor più difficile quando a questi pregi personali si aggiungono un naso rosso e calzoni gialli.

Oliver, dopo aver chiuso le imposte e rotto un vetro nel tentativo di barcollare sotto il peso della prima per portarla a una piccola corte sul lato della casa dove venivano tenute durante il giorno, fu assistito con grazia da Noah: che lo aveva consolato assicurandogli che “l’avrebbe presa” e si era abbassato ad aiutarlo. Il signor Sowerberry scese poco dopo. Poco dopo apparve la signora Sowerberry. Oliver, avendo “preso” ciò che gli spettava, in adempimento della previsione di Noah, seguì quel giovane gentiluomo giù per le scale a colazione.

«Avvicinati al fuoco, Noah», disse Charlotte. «Ti ho messo da parte un bel pezzetto di pancetta dalla colazione del padrone. Oliver, chiudi quella porta alle spalle di Mister Noah, e prendi i pezzi che ho messo fuori sul coperchio della teglia per il pane. Ecco il tuo tè; portalo via in quel cassone e bevi là dentro, e sbrigati, perché avranno bisogno che tu faccia attenzione al negozio. Mi hai sentito?»

«Mi senti, Casalingo?» disse Noah Claypole.

«Oh, Noah!» disse Charlotte «che strana creatura sei! Perché non lasci il ragazzo in pace?»

“Let him alone!” said Noah. “Why everybody lets him alone enough, for the matter of that. Neither his father nor his mother will ever interfere with him. All his relations let him have his own way pretty well. Eh, Charlotte? He! he! he!”

“Oh, you queer soul!” said Charlotte, bursting into a hearty laugh, in which she was joined by Noah; after which they both looked scornfully at poor Oliver Twist, as he sat shivering on the box in the coldest corner of the room, and ate the stale pieces which had been specially reserved for him.

Noah was a charity-boy, but not a workhouse orphan. No chance-child was he, for he could trace his genealogy all the way back to his parents, who lived hard by; his mother being a washerwoman, and his father a drunken soldier, discharged with a wooden leg, and a diurnal pension of twopence-halfpenny and an unstateable fraction. The shop-boys in the neighbourhood had long been in the habit of branding Noah in the public streets, with the ignominious epithets of “leathers,” “charity,” and the like; and Noah had borne them without reply. But, now that fortune had cast in his way a nameless orphan, at whom even the meanest could point the finger of scorn, he retorted on him with interest. This affords charming food for contemplation. It shows us what a beautiful thing human nature may be made to be; and how impartially the same amiable qualities are developed in the finest lord and the dirtiest charity-boy.

Oliver had been sojourning at the undertaker’s some three weeks or a month. Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry—the shop being shut up—were taking their supper in the little back-parlour, when Mr. Sowerberry, after several deferential glances at his wife, said,

“My dear—” He was going to say more; but, Mrs. Sowerberry looking up, with a peculiarly unpropitious aspect, he stopped short.

“Well,” said Mrs. Sowerberry, sharply.

“Nothing, my dear, nothing,” said Mr. Sowerberry.

“Ugh, you brute!” said Mrs. Sowerberry.

“Not at all, my dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry humbly. “I thought you didn’t want to hear, my dear. I was only going to say—”

“Oh, don’t tell me what you were going to say,” interposed Mrs. Sowerberry. “I am nobody; don’t consult me, pray. I don’t want to intrude upon your secrets.” As Mrs. Sowerberry said this, she gave an hysterical laugh, which threatened violent consequences.

“But, my dear,” said Sowerberry, “I want to ask your advice.”

“No, no, don’t ask mine,” replied Mrs. Sowerberry, in an affecting manner: “ask somebody else’s.” Here, there was another hysterical laugh, which frightened Mr. Sowerberry very much. This is a very common and much-approved matrimonial course of treatment, which is often very effective. It at once reduced Mr. Sowerberry to begging, as a special favour, to be allowed to say what Mrs. Sowerberry was most curious to hear. After a short duration, the permission was most graciously conceded.

“It’s only about young Twist, my dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry. “A very good-looking boy, that, my dear.”

“He need be, for he eats enough,” observed the lady.

“There’s an expression of melancholy in his face, my dear,” resumed Mr. Sowerberry, “which is very interesting. He would make a delightful mute, my love.”

Mrs. Sowerberry looked up with an expression of considerable wonderment. Mr. Sowerberry remarked it and, without allowing time for any observation on the good lady’s part, proceeded.

“I don’t mean a regular mute to attend grown-up people, my dear, but only for children’s practice. It would be very new to have a mute in proportion, my dear. You may depend upon it, it would have a superb effect.”

Mrs. Sowerberry, who had a good deal of taste in the undertaking way, was much struck by the novelty of this idea; but, as it would have been compromising her dignity to have said so, under existing circumstances, she merely inquired, with much sharpness, why such an obvious suggestion had not presented itself to her husband’s mind before? Mr. Sowerberry rightly construed this, as an acquiescence in his proposition; it was speedily determined, therefore, that Oliver should be at once initiated into the mysteries of the trade; and, with this view, that he should accompany his master on the very next occasion of his services being required.

The occasion was not long in coming. Half an hour after breakfast next morning, Mr. Bumble entered the shop; and supporting his cane against the counter, drew forth his large leathern pocket-book: from which he selected a small scrap of paper, which he handed over to Sowerberry.

“Aha!” said the undertaker, glancing over it with a lively countenance; “an order for a coffin, eh?”

“For a coffin first, and a porochial funeral afterwards,” replied Mr. Bumble, fastening the strap of the leathern pocket-book: which, like himself, was very corpulent.

“Bayton,” said the undertaker, looking from the scrap of paper to Mr. Bumble. “I never heard the name before.”

Bumble shook his head, as he replied, “Obstinate people, Mr. Sowerberry; very obstinate. Proud, too, I’m afraid, sir.”

“Proud, eh?” exclaimed Mr. Sowerberry with a sneer. “Come, that’s too much.”

“Oh, it’s sickening,” replied the beadle. “Antimonial, Mr. Sowerberry!”

“So it is,” acquiesced the undertaker.

“We only heard of the family the night before last,” said the beadle; “and we shouldn’t have known anything about them, then, only a woman who lodges in the same house made an application to the porochial committee for them to send the porochial surgeon to see a woman as was very bad. He had gone out to dinner; but his ’prentice (which is a very clever lad) sent ’em some medicine in a blacking-bottle, offhand.”

“Ah, there’s promptness,” said the undertaker.

“Promptness, indeed!” replied the beadle. “But what’s the consequence; what’s the ungrateful behaviour of these rebels, sir? Why, the husband sends back word that the medicine won’t suit his wife’s complaint, and so she shan’t take it—says she shan’t take it, sir! Good, strong, wholesome medicine, as was given with great success to two Irish labourers and a coal-heaver, only a week before—sent ’em for nothing, with a blackin’-bottle in,—and he sends back word that she shan’t take it, sir!”

«Lasciatelo in pace!» disse Noah. «In verità tutti lo lasciano abbastanza in pace, del resto. Né suo padre né sua madre si sono mai intromessi con lui. Tutti i suoi parenti gli lasciano fare a modo suo piuttosto bene. Eh, Charlotte? He! he! he!»

“Oh, che strana anima!” disse Charlotte, scoppiando in una risata cordiale, alla quale si unì Noah; dopo di che guardarono entrambi con disprezzo il povero Oliver Twist, mentre sedeva rabbrividendo sulla cassapanca nell’angolo più freddo della stanza e mangiava i pezzi stalidi che gli erano stati appositamente riservati.

Noè era un ragazzo di beneficenza, ma non un orfano dell’ospizio. Non era un bambino abbandonato, poiché poteva risalire alla sua genealogia fino ai suoi genitori, che vivevano nelle vicinanze; la madre faceva la lavandaia e il padre era un soldato ubriacone, congedato con una gamba di legno e una pensione giornaliera di due penny e mezzo più una frazione inesprimibile. I garzoni del quartiere avevano da tempo preso l’abitudine di marchiare Noè nelle strade pubbliche con gli ignominiosi epiteti di “leathers”, “charity” e simili; e Noè li aveva sopportati senza rispondere. Ma ora che la fortuna gli aveva messo sul cammino un orfano senza nome, a cui anche il più umile poteva puntare il dito del disprezzo, egli glieli restituì con interesse. Questo offre un cibo affascinante per la contemplazione. Ci mostra quanto possa essere bella la natura umana e come le stesse amabili qualità si sviluppino in modo imparziale nel più raffinato signore e nel ragazzo di beneficenza più sporco.

Oliver era ospite da circa tre settimane o un mese presso il becchino. Il signor e la signora Sowerberry — essendo chiuso il negozio — stavano cenando nel piccolo salottino sul retro, quando il signor Sowerberry, dopo aver lanciato diversi sguardi deferenti alla moglie, disse:

«Mia cara, » Stava per dire di più; ma la signora Sowerberry alzò lo sguardo con un aspetto particolarmente infausto e lui si fermò subito.

«Bene», disse la signora Sowerberry in tono brusco.

«Nulla, mia cara, nulla», disse il signor Sowerberry.

«Oh, che bruto!» disse la signora Sowerberry.

«Niente affatto, mia cara», disse umilmente il signor Sowerberry. «Pensavo che non volessi sentire, mia cara. Stavo solo per dire, »

“Oh, non mi dica quello che stava per dire”, intervenne la signora Sowerberry. “Non sono nessuno; non si preoccupi di consultarmi, la prego. Io non voglio intromettermi nei suoi segreti.” Mentre la signora Sowerberry diceva questo, scoppiò in una risata isterica che minacciava conseguenze violente.

“Ma, mia cara,” disse Sowerberry, “voglio chiedere il tuo consiglio.”

«No, no, non chiedete la mia», rispose la signora Sowerberry in tono commovente: «chiederla pure a qualcun altro». Qui ci fu un’altra risata isterica che spaventò molto il signor Sowerberry. Questa è una pratica coniugale comune e molto apprezzata, che spesso si rivela efficace. Ridusse subito il signor Sowerberry a implorare come un favore speciale di poter dire ciò che la signora Sowerberry era più curiosa di sentire. Dopo una breve attesa, le fu concesso questo permesso in modo molto grazioso.

«Si tratta solo del giovane Twist, mia cara», disse il signor Sowerberry. «Un ragazzo davvero bello, mia cara».

«Dovrebbe esserlo, perché mangia abbastanza», osservò la signora.

«C’è un’espressione di malinconia sul suo viso, mia cara», riprese il signor Sowerberry, «che è davvero interessante. Farebbe un corista delizioso, mio amore.»

La signora Sowerberry alzò gli occhi con un’espressione di notevole stupore. Il signor Sowerberry lo notò e, senza concedere alla buona donna il tempo per fare alcuna osservazione, continuò.

«Non intendo un mutismo regolare per assistere gli adulti, mia cara, ma solo per l’educazione dei bambini. Sarebbe davvero una novità avere un mutismo proporzionato, mia cara. Puoi starne certa, avrebbe un effetto magnifico.»

La signora Sowerberry, che aveva un certo gusto nel suo lavoro di becchiera, fu molto colpita dalla novità dell’idea; ma poiché sarebbe stato compromettere la sua dignità dirlo nelle circostanze attuali, si limitò a chiedere con molta acrimonia perché una proposta così ovvia non si fosse presentata prima alla mente di suo marito? Il signor Sowerberry interpretò giustamente questo come un assenso alla sua proposta; fu quindi deciso rapidamente che Oliver sarebbe stato iniziato subito ai misteri del mestiere e, a tal fine, avrebbe accompagnato il suo padrone alla prima occasione in cui i suoi servigi fossero stati richiesti.

L’occasione non si fece attendere a lungo. Mezz’ora dopo la colazione del mattino seguente, il signor Bumble entrò nel negozio; e appoggiando il suo bastone sul banco, tirò fuori il suo grande portafoglio di pelle: da cui selezionò un piccolo pezzo di carta che consegnò a Sowerberry.

«Ah!» disse l’impresario di pompe funebri, gettando uno sguardo su di esso con un’espressione vivace; «un ordine per una bara, eh?»

«Per prima cosa una bara e poi un funerale parrocchiale», rispose il signor Bumble, chiudendo la fibbia dello spesso portadocumenti di pelle che, come lui stesso, era molto voluminoso.

«Bayton», disse l’impresario di pompe funebri, guardando dal pezzetto di carta al signor Bumble. «Non ho mai sentito questo nome prima».

Il signor Bumble scosse la testa mentre rispondeva: «Persone ostinate, signor Sowerberry; molto ostinate. E anche orgogliose, temo, signore».

“Orgoglioso, eh?” esclamò il signor Sowerberry con un ghigno. “Ecco, questo è troppo.”

“Oh, è disgustoso,” rispose l’usciere. “Antimoniale, signor Sowerberry!”

«Così è», acconsentì l’impresario di pompe funebri.

“Abbiamo saputo della famiglia solo la notte prima dell’ultima”, disse l’ufficiale; “e non avremmo saputo nulla di loro se una donna che alloggia nella stessa casa non avesse fatto domanda alla commissione parrocchiale affinché mandassero il chirurgo parrocchiale a visitare una donna molto malata. Era uscito per pranzo; ma il suo apprendista (che è un ragazzo molto intelligente) gli ha inviato subito una medicina in una bottiglia di lucido da scarpe.”

«Ah, c’è la puntualità», disse l’imprenditore di pompe funebri.

«Puntualità, davvero!» rispose l’ufficiale. «Ma qual è la conseguenza; qual è il comportamento ingrato di questi ribelli, signore? Ebbene, il marito risponde che la medicina non si addice al disturbo della moglie e quindi lei non la prenderà — dice che non la prenderà, signore! Una buona, forte e salutare medicina, che fu somministrata con grande successo a due operai irlandesi e a un scaricatore di carbone solo una settimana prima — mandatagliela gratis, con una bottiglia di lucido da scarpe, — e lui risponde che lei non la prenderà, signore!»

As the atrocity presented itself to Mr. Bumble’s mind in full force, he struck the counter sharply with his cane, and became flushed with indignation.

“Well,” said the undertaker, “I ne—ver—did—”

“Never did, sir!” ejaculated the beadle. “No, nor nobody never did; but now she’s dead, we’ve got to bury her; and that’s the direction; and the sooner it’s done, the better.”

Thus saying, Mr. Bumble put on his cocked hat wrong side first, in a fever of parochial excitement; and flounced out of the shop.

“Why, he was so angry, Oliver, that he forgot even to ask after you!” said Mr. Sowerberry, looking after the beadle as he strode down the street.

“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver, who had carefully kept himself out of sight, during the interview; and who was shaking from head to foot at the mere recollection of the sound of Mr. Bumble’s voice. He needn’t have taken the trouble to shrink from Mr. Bumble’s glance, however; for that functionary, on whom the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat had made a very strong impression, thought that now the undertaker had got Oliver upon trial the subject was better avoided, until such time as he should be firmly bound for seven years, and all danger of his being returned upon the hands of the parish should be thus effectually and legally overcome.

“Well,” said Mr. Sowerberry, taking up his hat, “the sooner this job is done, the better. Noah, look after the shop. Oliver, put on your cap, and come with me.” Oliver obeyed, and followed his master on his professional mission.

They walked on, for some time, through the most crowded and densely inhabited part of the town; and then, striking down a narrow street more dirty and miserable than any they had yet passed through, paused to look for the house which was the object of their search. The houses on either side were high and large, but very old, and tenanted by people of the poorest class: as their neglected appearance would have sufficiently denoted, without the concurrent testimony afforded by the squalid looks of the few men and women who, with folded arms and bodies half doubled, occasionally skulked along. A great many of the tenements had shop-fronts; but these were fast closed, and mouldering away; only the upper rooms being inhabited. Some houses which had become insecure from age and decay, were prevented from falling into the street, by huge beams of wood reared against the walls, and firmly planted in the road; but even these crazy dens seemed to have been selected as the nightly haunts of some houseless wretches, for many of the rough boards which supplied the place of door and window, were wrenched from their positions, to afford an aperture wide enough for the passage of a human body. The kennel was stagnant and filthy. The very rats, which here and there lay putrefying in its rottenness, were hideous with famine.

There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver and his master stopped; so, groping his way cautiously through the dark passage, and bidding Oliver keep close to him and not be afraid, the undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight of stairs. Stumbling against a door on the landing, he rapped at it with his knuckles.

It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker at once saw enough of what the room contained, to know it was the apartment to which he had been directed. He stepped in; Oliver followed him.

There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically, over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door, there lay upon the ground, something covered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward the place, and crept involuntarily closer to his master; for though it was covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse.

The man’s face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly; his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman’s face was wrinkled; her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside.

“Nobody shall go near her,” said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. “Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you’ve a life to lose!”

“Nonsense, my good man,” said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. “Nonsense!”

“I tell you,” said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor,—“I tell you I won’t have her put into the ground. She couldn’t rest there. The worms would worry her—not eat her—she is so worn away.”

The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body.

“Ah!” said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of the dead woman; “kneel down, kneel down—kneel round her, every one of you, and mark my words! I say she was starved to death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her; and then her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark—in the dark! She couldn’t even see her children’s faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I came back, she was dying; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they starved her to death. I swear it before the God that saw it! They starved her!” He twined his hands in his hair; and, with a loud scream, rolled grovelling upon the floor: his eyes fixed, and the foam covering his lips.

The terrified children cried bitterly; but the old woman, who had hitherto remained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that passed, menaced them into silence. Having unloosened the cravat of the man who still remained extended on the ground, she tottered towards the undertaker.

Quando l’atrocità si presentò alla mente di Mr. Bumble con tutta la sua forza, egli colpì il banco con violenza col suo bastone e divenne rosso in viso per l’indignazione.

«Bene,» disse l’impresario di pompe funebri «non ho mai fatto, »

«Non l’ho mai fatto, signore!» esclamò il bidello. «E nessuno lo ha mai fatto; ma ora che è morta, dobbiamo seppellirla; e questa è la direttiva; e più presto si fa, meglio è».

Così dicendo, il signor Bumble si mise il tricorno al contrario, in preda a un’agitazione febbrile di eccitazione parrocchiale, e uscì sbattendo la porta dal negozio.

«Perché era così arrabbiato, Oliver, che ha dimenticato persino di chiedere di te!» disse il signor Sowerberry, guardando l’impiegato municipale mentre si allontanava per la strada.

«Sì, signore», rispose Oliver, che si era accuratamente tenuto lontano dalla vista durante il colloquio e che stava tremando da capo a piedi al solo ricordo del suono della voce di Mr. Bumble. Non avrebbe dovuto comunque preoccuparsi di nascondersi dallo sguardo di Mr. Bumble; perché quell’impiegato, sul quale la predizione dell’uomo in panciotto bianco aveva fatto una forte impressione, pensava che ora che l’impresario di pompe funebri aveva preso Oliver in prova il tema era meglio evitarlo, fino a quando non fosse stato fermamente legato per sette anni e ogni pericolo che potesse essere restituito alle cure della parrocchia fosse così efficacemente e legalmente superato.

“Bene,” disse il signor Sowerberry prendendo il cappello, “più presto si fa questa faccenda e meglio è. Noah, bada al negozio. Oliver, metti la tua berretta e vieni con me.” Oliver obbedì e seguì il suo padrone nella sua missione professionale.

Camminarono per qualche tempo attraverso la parte più affollata e densamente abitata della città; poi, imboccando una strada stretta più sporca e miserabile di tutte quelle che avevano finora attraversato, si fermarono a cercare la casa oggetto delle loro ricerche. Le case su entrambi i lati erano alte e grandi, ma molto vecchie, e abitate da persone della classe più povera: come il loro aspetto trascurato avrebbe ampiamente indicato, senza la testimonianza concorde fornita dagli sguardi squallidi degli uomini e delle donne che di tanto in tanto si aggiravano con le braccia incrociate e i corpi mezzo piegati. Molte delle abitazioni avevano facciate di negozio; ma queste erano chiuse e in via di decomposizione, solo le stanze superiori erano abitate. Alcune case che erano diventate insicure a causa dell’età e del decrepito stato, venivano impediti dal crollare sulla strada da enormi travi di legno innalzate contro le pareti e saldamente piantate nella strada; ma anche queste tane malandate sembravano essere state scelte come rifugi notturni per alcuni miserabili senza casa, poiché molte delle rozze tavole che sostituivano porte e finestre erano state strappate dalle loro posizioni per offrire un’apertura abbastanza larga da permettere il passaggio di un corpo umano. La fogna era stagnante e sporca. Anche i ratti, che qua e là giacevano in putrefazione nella sua corruzione, erano orribili per la fame.

Non c’era né un batacchio né una maniglia alla porta aperta dove Oliver e il suo padrone si fermarono; così, tastando cautamente la strada nel buio passaggio e dicendo a Oliver di restare vicino a lui e non aver paura, l’impresario di pompe funebri salì fino in cima alla prima rampa di scale. Inciampando contro una porta sul pianerottolo, bussò con i nocchi delle dita.

Fu aperta da una giovane ragazza di tredici o quattordici anni. Il becchino vide subito abbastanza di ciò che la stanza conteneva per capire che era l’appartamento in cui era stato indirizzato. Entrò; Oliver lo seguì.

Nella stanza non c’era fuoco; ma un uomo era accovacciato meccanicamente sopra la stufa spenta. Anche una vecchia aveva avvicinato uno sgabello basso al focolare freddo, e sedeva accanto a lui. In un altro angolo c’erano alcuni bambini straccioni; e in una piccola alcova di fronte alla porta giaceva per terra qualcosa coperto con una vecchia coperta. Oliver rabbrividì mentre gettava uno sguardo verso quel luogo, e si avvicinò involontariamente al suo padrone; perché sebbene fosse coperto, il ragazzo sentiva che era un cadavere.

Il volto dell’uomo era magro e molto pallido, i capelli e la barba erano grigiastri; gli occhi erano iniettati di sangue. Il viso della vecchia era rugoso, i due denti rimasti le sporgevano sul labbro inferiore e gli occhi erano luminosi e penetranti. Oliver aveva paura di guardare sia lei che l’uomo. Sembravano così simili ai ratti che aveva visto fuori.

«Nessuno si avvicinerà a lei», disse l’uomo alzandosi furiosamente in piedi mentre il becchino si avvicinava alla nicchia. «Tieniti indietro! Dannazione, tieniti indietro se hai una vita da perdere!»

“Sciocchezze, mio buon uomo”, disse l’impresario di pompe funebri, che era abbastanza abituato alla miseria in tutte le sue forme. “Sciocchezze!”

«Ve lo dico io» disse l’uomo, stringendo i pugni e pestando furiosamente i piedi sul pavimento: «ve lo dico che non voglio che la mettano sottoterra. Non potrebbe riposare là. I vermi le darebbero noia — non la mangerebbero — è così consumata».

Il becchino non rispose a questo delirio; ma tirò fuori un metro da tasca e si inginocchiò per un momento accanto alla salma.

“Ah!” disse l’uomo, scoppiando in lacrime e cadendo in ginocchio ai piedi della donna morta; “inginocchiatevi, inginocchiatevi - inginocchiatevi tutti intorno a lei, e ascoltate le mie parole! Dico che è stata lasciata morire di fame. Non ho mai saputo quanto fosse malata, finché non l’ha colpita la febbre; allora si vedevano le ossa sporgere attraverso la pelle. Non c’erano né fuoco né candela; è morta al buio - al buio! Non riusciva nemmeno a vedere i volti dei suoi bambini, anche se li sentivamo chiamare per nome con il fiato spezzato. Ho implorato per lei nelle strade: e mi hanno mandato in prigione. Quando sono tornato, stava morendo; e tutto il sangue del mio cuore si è prosciugato, perché l’hanno lasciata morire di fame. Lo giuro davanti al Dio che ha visto tutto! L’hanno lasciata morire di fame!” Si attorcigliò le mani nei capelli; e con un forte urlo rotolò sul pavimento, strisciando a terra: gli occhi fissi e la schiuma che gli copriva le labbra.

I bambini terrorizzati piangevano amaramente; ma la vecchia donna, che fino ad allora era rimasta calma come se fosse stata completamente sorda a tutto ciò che accadeva, li minacciò imponendo loro il silenzio. Dopo aver allentato il fazzoletto del uomo ancora disteso a terra, vacillò verso l’impresario di pompe funebri.

“She was my daughter,” said the old woman, nodding her head in the direction of the corpse; and speaking with an idiotic leer, more ghastly than even the presence of death in such a place. “Lord, Lord! Well, it is strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman then, should be alive and merry now, and she lying there: so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord!—to think of it; it’s as good as a play—as good as a play!”

As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment, the undertaker turned to go away.

“Stop, stop!” said the old woman in a loud whisper. “Will she be buried tomorrow, or next day, or tonight? I laid her out; and I must walk, you know. Send me a large cloak: a good warm one: for it is bitter cold. We should have cake and wine, too, before we go! Never mind; send some bread—only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Shall we have some bread, dear?” she said eagerly: catching at the undertaker’s coat, as he once more moved towards the door.

“Yes, yes,” said the undertaker, “of course. Anything you like!” He disengaged himself from the old woman’s grasp; and, drawing Oliver after him, hurried away.

The next day, (the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half-quartern loaf and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself,) Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode; where Mr. Bumble had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An old black cloak had been thrown over the rags of the old woman and the man; and the bare coffin having been screwed down, was hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried into the street.

“Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady!” whispered Sowerberry in the old woman’s ear; “we are rather late; and it won’t do, to keep the clergyman waiting. Move on, my men,—as quick as you like!”

Thus directed, the bearers trotted on under their light burden; and the two mourners kept as near them, as they could. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked at a good smart pace in front; and Oliver, whose legs were not so long as his master’s, ran by the side.

There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Sowerberry had anticipated, however; for when they reached the obscure corner of the churchyard in which the nettles grew, and where the parish graves were made, the clergyman had not arrived; and the clerk, who was sitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means improbable that it might be an hour or so, before he came. So, they put the bier on the brink of the grave; and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp clay, with a cold rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys whom the spectacle had attracted into the churchyard played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements by jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the paper.

At length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, and Sowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave. Immediately afterwards, the clergyman appeared: putting on his surplice as he came along. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the burial service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplice to the clerk, and walked away again.

“Now, Bill!” said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. “Fill up!”

It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full, that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped it loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.

“Come, my good fellow!” said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. “They want to shut up the yard.”

The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the grave side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces; and fell down in a swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off), to pay him any attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him; and when he came to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed on their different ways.

“Well, Oliver,” said Sowerberry, as they walked home, “how do you like it?”

“Pretty well, thank you, sir” replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. “Not very much, sir.”

“Ah, you’ll get used to it in time, Oliver,” said Sowerberry. “Nothing when you are used to it, my boy.”

Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr. Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask the question; and walked back to the shop: thinking over all he had seen and heard.

«Era mia figlia», disse la vecchia donna, annuendo in direzione del cadavere e parlando con un ghigno idiota più spettrale della presenza stessa della morte in un luogo simile. «Signore, Signore! Beh, è proprio strano che io, che l’ho messa al mondo ed ero una donna allora, sia viva e allegra ora mentre lei giace là: così fredda e rigida! Signore, Signore! — ci pensi; è come andare a teatro—come andare a teatro!»

Mentre la povera creatura borbottava e ridacchiava nella sua orribile allegria, l’impresario di pompe funebri si voltò per andarsene.

“Fermati, fermati!” disse la vecchia donna in un sussurro forte. “Sarà sepolta domani, o dopodomani, o stasera? L’ho preparata io; e devo camminare, sapete. Mandatemi un grande mantello: uno caldo e confortevole: perché fa freddo intenso. Dovremmo avere anche torta e vino, prima di andarcene! Non importa; mandate del pane—solo una pagnotta di pane e una tazza di acqua. Avremo un po’ di pane, tesoro?” disse con entusiasmo: afferrando la giacca dell’impresario di pompe funebri, mentre si avvicinava nuovamente alla porta.

“Sì, sì,” disse l’impresario di pompe funebri, “certamente. Quello che vuole!” Si liberò dalla presa della vecchia e, trascinando con sé Oliver, si affrettò ad andarsene.

Il giorno dopo (la famiglia nel frattempo era stata soccorsa con un mezzo pane da due libbre e un pezzo di formaggio, lasciati loro dal signor Bumble in persona), Oliver e il suo padrone tornarono nella misera dimora, dove il signor Bumble era già arrivato accompagnato da quattro uomini del ricovero che avrebbero fatto da portatori. Un vecchio mantello nero era stato gettato sopra i panni stracciati della vecchia e dell’uomo; la bara senza ornamenti fu inchiodata, issata sulle spalle dei portatori e trasportata in strada.

«Ora, dovete mettere il piede giusto avanti, vecchia signora!» sussurrò Sowerberry all’orecchio della vecchietta; «siamo un po’ in ritardo e non va bene far aspettare il prete. Avanti, miei uomini, — tanto veloce quanto volete!»

Così diretti, i portatori trotterellavano sotto il loro leggero carico; e i due addolorati li seguivano da vicino quanto potevano. Il signor Bumble e Sowerberry camminavano davanti a un buon ritmo svelto; e Oliver, le cui gambe non erano così lunghe come quelle del suo padrone, correva al fianco.

Non c’era però una necessità così grande di affrettarsi come aveva previsto il signor Sowerberry; infatti, quando arrivarono nell’angolo oscuro del cimitero dove crescevano le ortiche e dove venivano scavate le tombe della parrocchia, il sacerdote non era ancora arrivato; e l’impiegato, che stava seduto accanto al fuoco nella stanza dell’abito talare, sembrava pensare che fosse tutt’altro che improbabile che potesse passare un’ora o giù di lì prima che arrivasse. Così, posarono la bara sul bordo della fossa; e i due addolorati aspettarono pazientemente nell’argilla umida, con una pioggia fredda che cadeva a scrosci, mentre i ragazzi stracciati che lo spettacolo aveva attirato nel cimitero giocavano rumorosamente a nascondino tra le lapidi, o variavano i loro divertimenti saltando avanti e indietro sopra la bara. Il signor Sowerberry e Bumble, essendo amici personali dell’impiegato, si sedettero accanto al fuoco con lui, e lessero il giornale.

Alla fine, dopo un intervallo di poco più di un’ora, si videro il signor Bumble, Sowerberry e l’impiegato correre verso la tomba. Subito dopo apparve il clero: indossando la sua casula mentre arrivava. Il signor Bumble poi picchiò un ragazzo o due, per mantenere le apparenze; e il reverendo gentiluomo, avendo letto quanto del servizio funebre poteva essere compresso in quattro minuti, diede la sua casula all’impiegato e se ne andò di nuovo.

«Ora, Bill!» disse Sowerberry al becchino. «Riempite la fossa!»

Non era un compito molto difficile, perché la tomba era così piena che il feretro più in alto si trovava a pochi metri dalla superficie. Il becchino gettò dentro la terra; la calpestò leggermente con i piedi; si mise in spalla la vanga; e se ne andò, seguito dai ragazzi che mormoravano forti lamenti perché il divertimento era finito così presto.

«Su, mio buon uomo!» disse Bumble, dando una pacca sulla schiena all’uomo. «Vogliono chiudere il cortile.»

L’uomo che non si era mosso neppure una volta da quando aveva preso posto accanto alla tomba, trasalì, alzò la testa, fissò con sguardo fisso la persona che gli aveva parlato, avanzò di qualche passo e cadde a terra in un svenimento. La vecchia pazza era troppo occupata a piangere la perdita del suo mantello (che l’impresario di pompe funebri le aveva tolto) per prestargli attenzione; così gli gettarono addosso una tanica d’acqua fredda e, quando rinvenne, lo accompagnarono fuori dal cimitero in tutta sicurezza, chiusero il cancello e se ne andarono ognuno per la propria strada.

«Bene, Oliver», disse Sowerberry mentre tornavano a casa, «come ti trovi?»

«Abbastanza bene, grazie, signore» rispose Oliver, con notevole esitazione. «Non molto, signore».

«Ah, ti ci abituerai con il tempo, Oliver», disse Sowerberry «Non è niente quando ci sei già abituato, ragazzo mio.»

Oliver si chiedeva, tra sé e sé, se ci fosse voluto un tempo molto lungo per abituare il signor Sowerberry a quella situazione. Ma pensò che fosse meglio non fare domande; e tornò al negozio: riflettendo su tutto ciò che aveva visto e sentito.

CHAPTER VI. OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND RATHER ASTONISHES HIM

The month’s trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a nice sickly season just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins were looking up; and, in the course of a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great deal of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry’s ingenious speculation, exceeded even his most sanguine hopes. The oldest inhabitants recollected no period at which measles had been so prevalent, or so fatal to infant existence; and many were the mournful processions which little Oliver headed, in a hat-band reaching down to his knees, to the indescribable admiration and emotion of all the mothers in the town. As Oliver accompanied his master in most of his adult expeditions too, in order that he might acquire that equanimity of demeanour and full command of nerve which was essential to a finished undertaker, he had many opportunities of observing the beautiful resignation and fortitude with which some strong-minded people bear their trials and losses.

For instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich old lady or gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number of nephews and nieces, who had been perfectly inconsolable during the previous illness, and whose grief had been wholly irrepressible even on the most public occasions, they would be as happy among themselves as need be—quite cheerful and contented—conversing together with as much freedom and gaiety, as if nothing whatever had happened to disturb them. Husbands, too, bore the loss of their wives with the most heroic calmness. Wives, again, put on weeds for their husbands, as if, so far from grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds to render it as becoming and attractive as possible. It was observable, too, that ladies and gentlemen who were in passions of anguish during the ceremony of interment, recovered almost as soon as they reached home, and became quite composed before the tea-drinking was over. All this was very pleasant and improving to see; and Oliver beheld it with great admiration.

That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good people, I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm with any degree of confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for many months he continued meekly to submit to the domination and ill-treatment of Noah Claypole: who used him far worse than before, now that his jealousy was roused by seeing the new boy promoted to the black stick and hat-band, while he, the old one, remained stationary in the muffin-cap and leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, because Noah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry was disposed to be his friend; so, between these three on one side, and a glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as comfortable as the hungry pig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain department of a brewery.

And now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver’s history; for I have to record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance, but which indirectly produced a material change in all his future prospects and proceedings.

One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton—a pound and a half of the worst end of the neck; when Charlotte being called out of the way, there ensued a brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than aggravating and tantalising young Oliver Twist.

Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the table-cloth; and pulled Oliver’s hair; and twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion that he was a “sneak”; and furthermore announced his intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever that desirable event should take place; and entered upon various topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this day, when they want to be funny. He got rather personal.

“Work’us,” said Noah, “how’s your mother?”

“She’s dead,” replied Oliver; “don’t you say anything about her to me!”

Oliver’s colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge.

“What did she die of, Work’us?” said Noah.

“Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me,” replied Oliver: more as if he were talking to himself, than answering Noah. “I think I know what it must be to die of that!”

“Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work’us,” said Noah, as a tear rolled down Oliver’s cheek. “What’s set you a snivelling now?”

“Not you,” replied Oliver, sharply. “There; that’s enough. Don’t say anything more to me about her; you’d better not!”

“Better not!” exclaimed Noah. “Well! Better not! Work’us, don’t be impudent. Your mother, too! She was a nice ’un, she was. Oh, Lor!” And here, Noah nodded his head expressively; and curled up as much of his small red nose as muscular action could collect together, for the occasion.

“Yer know, Work’us,” continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver’s silence, and speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity: of all tones the most annoying: “Yer know, Work’us, it can’t be helped now; and of course yer couldn’t help it then; and I am very sorry for it; and I’m sure we all are, and pity yer very much. But yer must know, Work’us, yer mother was a regular right-down bad ’un.”

“What did you say?” inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly.

“A regular right-down bad ’un, Work’us,” replied Noah, coolly. “And it’s a great deal better, Work’us, that she died when she did, or else she’d have been hard labouring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung; which is more likely than either, isn’t it?”

Crimson with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the chair and table; seized Noah by the throat; shook him, in the violence of his rage, till his teeth chattered in his head; and collecting his whole force into one heavy blow, felled him to the ground.

A minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet child, mild, dejected creature that harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused at last; the cruel insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire. His breast heaved; his attitude was erect; his eye bright and vivid; his whole person changed, as he stood glaring over the cowardly tormentor who now lay crouching at his feet; and defied him with an energy he had never known before.

“He’ll murder me!” blubbered Noah. “Charlotte! missis! Here’s the new boy a murdering of me! Help! help! Oliver’s gone mad! Char—lotte!”

Noah’s shouts were responded to, by a loud scream from Charlotte, and a louder from Mrs. Sowerberry; the former of whom rushed into the kitchen by a side-door, while the latter paused on the staircase till she was quite certain that it was consistent with the preservation of human life, to come further down.

“Oh, you little wretch!” screamed Charlotte: seizing Oliver with her utmost force, which was about equal to that of a moderately strong man in particularly good training. “Oh, you little un-grate-ful, mur-de-rous, hor-rid villain!” And between every syllable, Charlotte gave Oliver a blow with all her might: accompanying it with a scream, for the benefit of society.

Charlotte’s fist was by no means a light one; but, lest it should not be effectual in calming Oliver’s wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry plunged into the kitchen, and assisted to hold him with one hand, while she scratched his face with the other. In this favourable position of affairs, Noah rose from the ground, and pommelled him behind.

This was rather too violent exercise to last long. When they were all wearied out, and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged Oliver, struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and there locked him up. This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a chair, and burst into tears.

“Bless her, she’s going off!” said Charlotte. “A glass of water, Noah, dear. Make haste!”

“Oh! Charlotte,” said Mrs. Sowerberry: speaking as well as she could, through a deficiency of breath, and a sufficiency of cold water, which Noah had poured over her head and shoulders. “Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy we have not all been murdered in our beds!”

“Ah! mercy indeed, ma’am,” was the reply. “I only hope this’ll teach master not to have any more of these dreadful creatures, that are born to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah! He was all but killed, ma’am, when I came in.”

“Poor fellow!” said Mrs. Sowerberry, looking piteously on the charity-boy.

Noah, whose top waistcoat-button might have been somewhere on a level with the crown of Oliver’s head, rubbed his eyes with the inside of his wrists while this commiseration was bestowed upon him, and performed some affecting tears and sniffs.

“What’s to be done!” exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. “Your master’s not at home; there’s not a man in the house, and he’ll kick that door down in ten minutes.” Oliver’s vigorous plunges against the bit of timber in question, rendered this occurance highly probable.

“Dear, dear! I don’t know, ma’am,” said Charlotte, “unless we send for the police-officers.”

“Or the millingtary,” suggested Mr. Claypole.

“No, no,” said Mrs. Sowerberry: bethinking herself of Oliver’s old friend. “Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly, and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap! Make haste! You can hold a knife to that black eye, as you run along. It’ll keep the swelling down.”

Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed; and very much it astonished the people who were out walking, to see a charity-boy tearing through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his head, and a clasp-knife at his eye.

CAPITOLO SESTO. Oliver, spinto dalle beffe di Noah, si risveglia all’azione e lo lascia piuttosto stupito.

Trascorso il mese di prova, Oliver fu formalmente assunto come apprendista. Era una stagione particolarmente malaticcia proprio in quel periodo. In termini commerciali, i cappelli funebri erano molto richiesti; e nel giro di alcune settimane Oliver acquisì molta esperienza. Il successo dell’ingegnosa speculazione del signor Sowerberry superò anche le sue speranze più ottimistiche. I vecchi abitanti non ricordavano un periodo in cui il morbillo fosse stato così diffuso o così fatale per i bambini; e furono molte le processioni funebri che il piccolo Oliver guidò, con una fascia da lutto che gli arrivava fino alle ginocchia, suscitando l’ammirazione indescrivibile di tutte le madri della città. Poiché Oliver accompagnava anche il suo padrone nella maggior parte delle sue spedizioni per adulti, in modo da acquisire quella equanimità di comportamento e quel pieno controllo dei nervi essenziali per un becchino esperto, ebbe molte occasioni di osservare la bella rassegnazione e la forza con cui alcune persone dal carattere forte sopportano le loro prove e perdite.

Per esempio, quando Sowerberry riceveva un ordine per la sepoltura di qualche ricca vecchia signora o gentiluomo circondato da numerosi nipoti e nipotine che erano stati perfettamente inconsolabili durante l’ultima malattia e il cui dolore era stato del tutto incontenibile anche nelle occasioni più pubbliche, si sarebbero trovati felici tra loro come se fosse necessario - allegri e contenti - conversando insieme con la stessa libertà e gaiezza, come se non fosse successo nulla a turbare il loro umore. Anche i mariti sopportavano la perdita delle mogli con la più eroica calma. Le mogli, d’altra parte, indossavano il lutto per i loro mariti come se, lungi dal rattristarsi nell’abito del dolore, avessero deciso di renderlo il più possibile elegante e attraente. Si poteva anche osservare che le signore e i gentiluomini che erano in preda a passioni di angoscia durante la cerimonia di sepoltura si riprendevano quasi non appena raggiungevano casa e diventavano del tutto composti prima che finisse il tè. Tutto ciò era molto piacevole e edificante da vedere; e Oliver lo osservava con grande ammirazione.

Che Oliver Twist fosse spinto alla rassegnazione dall’esempio di queste brave persone non posso, sebbene io sia il suo biografo, affermare con alcuna sicurezza; ma posso dire con la massima precisione che per molti mesi continuò umilmente a sottostare al dominio e ai maltrattamenti di Noah Claypole: che lo trattava molto peggio di prima, ora che il suo risentimento era stato suscitato dal vedere il nuovo ragazzo promosso alla canna nera e alla fascia per il cappello, mentre lui, il vecchio, rimaneva fermo nel berretto da muffin e nei panni di cuoio. Charlotte lo trattava male perché Noah lo faceva; e la signora Sowerberry era sua nemica dichiarata perché il signor Sowerberry era disposto ad essere suo amico; così, tra questi tre da una parte e un’abbondanza di funerali dall’altra, Oliver non era del tutto più comodo come lo era il maiale affamato quando fu chiuso per errore nel reparto cereali di una birreria.

E ora arrivo a una parte molto importante della storia di Oliver; perché devo registrare un atto, forse lieve e insignificante nell’aspetto, ma che indirettamente produsse un cambiamento sostanziale in tutte le sue prospettive e azioni future.

Un giorno, Oliver e Noah erano scesi in cucina all’ora solita di pranzo per banchettare su un piccolo pezzo d’agnello - un chilo e mezzo del peggior pezzo della nuca; quando Charlotte fu chiamata via, ne seguì un breve intervallo di tempo, che Noah Claypole, essendo affamato e malvagio, considerò non potesse essere dedicato a uno scopo più degno che quello di aggravare e tormentare il giovane Oliver Twist.

Immerso in questo innocente divertimento, Noah appoggiò i piedi sul tovagliolo; tirò i capelli di Oliver; gli strappò le orecchie; e esprime la sua opinione che fosse un “codardo”; e annunciò inoltre la sua intenzione di venire a vederlo impiccato, quando quell’auspicabile evento dovesse verificarsi; e si addentrò in vari argomenti di piccoli fastidi, come era solito fare un ragazzo della carità malizioso e di cattiva condotta. Ma, facendo piangere Oliver, Noah tentò di essere ancora più spiritoso; e nel suo tentativo, fece ciò che molti fanno ancora oggi, quando vogliono essere divertenti. Si fece un po’ troppo personale.

“Work’us”, disse Noah, “come sta tua madre?”

«È morta», rispose Oliver, «non dirmi niente di lei!»

Il viso di Oliver si arrossò mentre diceva questo; respirava affannosamente e c’era un curioso movimento della bocca e delle narici, che il signor Claypole pensò dovesse essere l’immediato precursore di una violenta crisi di pianto. Con questa impressione tornò all’attacco.

«Di che cosa è morta, Work’us?» disse Noah.

«Di un cuore infranto mi hanno parlato alcune delle nostre vecchie balie», rispose Oliver, più come se stesse parlando tra sé che rispondendo a Noah. «Penso di sapere com’è morire per questo!»

«Tol de rol lol lol, giusto fol lairy, Work’us», disse Noah mentre una lacrima scendeva sulla guancia di Oliver. «Cosa ti ha fatto metterti a piagnucolare adesso?»

«Non te», rispose Oliver con asprezza. «Basta così, non dirmi più niente di lei, è meglio!»

«Meglio di no!» esclamò Noah. «Beh! Meglio di no! Work’us, non fare lo sfrontato. Tua madre, poi! Era una bella tipa, era. Oh, Signore!» E qui Noah annuì con la testa in modo espressivo; e arricciò tutta quella parte del suo piccolo naso rosso che l’azione muscolare poteva raccogliere insieme per l’occasione.

«Voi sapete, Work’us», continuò Noah, incoraggiato dal silenzio di Oliver, e parlando con un tono schernitore di compassione affettata: tra tutti i toni il più irritante: «Voi sapete, Work’us, che ora non si può fare nulla; e naturalmente allora non potevate farci niente; e mi dispiace molto per questo; e sono sicuro che lo siamo tutti, e vi compatiamo moltissimo. Ma dovete sapere, Work’us, che vostra madre era una vera e propria cattiva persona».

«Cosa hai detto?» chiese Oliver, alzando lo sguardo molto rapidamente.

«Un vero e proprio cattivo elemento, Work’us», rispose Noah con freddezza. «E sarebbe stato molto meglio per lei, Work’us, che morisse quando è morta, altrimenti avrebbe fatto i lavori forzati a Bridewell o sarebbe stata deportata o impiccata; quest’ultima è la più probabile delle tre opzioni, non trovi?»

Rosso di rabbia, Oliver balzò su; rovesciò la sedia e il tavolo; afferrò Noah per la gola; lo scosse con tale violenza che i denti gli batterono in testa; e radunando tutte le sue forze in un colpo solo, lo abbatté a terra.

Un minuto fa il ragazzo aveva l’aspetto del tranquillo bambino, mite, abbattuta creatura che un trattamento duro lo aveva reso. Ma finalmente il suo spirito si era risvegliato; il crudele insulto alla madre defunta gli aveva messo il sangue in fiamme. Il petto gli si sollevava, la postura era eretta, lo sguardo luminoso e vivido. L’intera persona cambiò mentre stava lì a fissare con occhi fiammeggianti il codardo tormentatore che ora giaceva accovacciato ai suoi piedi; e lo sfidò con un’energia mai provata prima.

“Mi ucciderà!” singhiozzò Noah. “Charlotte! signora! Guardate che il nuovo ragazzo sta cercando di ammazzarmi! Aiuto! aiuto! Oliver è impazzito! Char—lotte!”

Ai gridi di Noah rispose un forte urlo di Charlotte e uno ancora più forte della signora Sowerberry; la prima si precipitò in cucina da una porta laterale, mentre l’altra si fermò sulle scale finché non fu certa che scendere oltre fosse compatibile con la conservazione della vita umana.

“Oh, piccolo disgraziato!” gridò Charlotte: afferrando Oliver con tutte le sue forze, che erano circa pari a quelle di un uomo moderatamente forte in particolarmente buona forma. “Oh, piccolo ingrato, assassino, orribile mascalzone!” E tra ogni sillaba, Charlotte dava a Oliver una botta con tutta la sua forza: accompagnandola con un urlo, per il bene della società.

Il pugno di Charlotte non era affatto leggero; ma, nel timore che non fosse sufficiente a placare la rabbia di Oliver, la signora Sowerberry si precipitò in cucina e lo aiutò a trattenerlo con una mano, mentre con l’altra gli graffiava il viso. In questa favorevole situazione, Noah si alzò da terra e lo percosse alle spalle.

Questo era un esercizio piuttosto violento che non poteva durare a lungo. Quando furono tutti esausti e non poterono più strappare e picchiare, trascinarono Oliver, che si dibatteva e gridava, ma senza perdere il coraggio, nella cantina della polvere e lì lo chiusero a chiave. Fatto ciò, la signora Sowerberry si lasciò cadere su una sedia e scoppiò in singhiozzi.

«Dio la benedica, sta per svenire!» disse Charlotte. «Un bicchiere d’acqua, caro Noah. Sbrigati!»

“Oh! Charlotte,” disse la signora Sowerberry: parlando nel modo migliore possibile, nonostante una carenza di respiro e un’abbondanza d’acqua fredda, che Noè aveva versato sulla sua testa e sulle spalle. “Oh! Charlotte, che meraviglia non siamo stati tutti assassinati nei nostri letti!”

«Ah! Sì, pietà davvero, signora», fu la risposta. «Spero solo che questo insegni al padrone a non voler più niente a che fare con queste creature terribili, destinate fin dalla culla ad essere assassini e ladri. Povero Noah! Era quasi morto, signora, quando sono entrato».

“Poveretto!” disse la signora Sowerberry, guardando con compassione il ragazzo beneficenza.

Noè, il cui primo bottone del panciotto poteva trovarsi all’incirca alla stessa altezza della corona della testa di Oliver, si strofinò gli occhi con l’interno dei polsi mentre gli veniva tributata questa compassione, e produsse alcune commoventi lacrime e singhiozzi.

“Che cosa si può fare!” esclamò la signora Sowerberry. “Il tuo padrone non è a casa; non c’è un uomo nella casa, e lui sfonderà quella porta in dieci minuti.” Le vigorose spallate di Oliver contro il pezzo di legno in questione rendevano questo evento assai probabile.

«Oh, oh! Non lo so, signora», disse Charlotte «a meno che non mandiamo a chiamare gli agenti di polizia.»

«O l’esercito», suggerì il signor Claypole.

“No, no”, disse la signora Sowerberry, ricordando l’antico amico di Oliver. “Corri dal signor Bumble, Noah, e digli di venire qui subito senza perdere un minuto; non preoccuparti del cappello! Affrettati! Puoi tenere un coltello su quell’occhio nero mentre corri. Ti impedirà di gonfiare.”

Noè non si fermò per rispondere, ma partì alla massima velocità; e fu molto sorprendente per le persone che erano uscite a passeggiare vedere un ragazzo di carità correre come un pazzo per le strade senza cappello in testa e con un coltellino pieghevole all’occhio.

CHAPTER VII. 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!”

CAPITOLO VII. OLIVER CONTINUA A ESSERE RIBELLE

Noè Claypole corse per le strade al massimo della sua velocità e non si fermò neppure una volta a riprendere fiato finché non raggiunse il cancello del lavoro. Dopo essersi riposato qui, per un minuto o giù di lì, per raccogliere un buon scoppio di singhiozzi e una suggestiva dimostrazione di lacrime e terrore, bussò forte alla porticina; e presentò al vecchio povero che la aprì un volto così addolorato che anche lui, che non vedeva altro che volti addolorati intorno a sé neppure nei momenti migliori, indietreggiò stupito.

«Ma che ha quel ragazzo?» disse il vecchio povero.

«Signor Bumble! Signor Bumble!» gridò Noah con un’apparente costernazione e in toni così forti e agitati che non solo attirarono l’attenzione dello stesso signor Bumble, che si trovava nelle vicinanze, ma lo allarmarono a tal punto da fargli precipitare nel cortile senza il suo tricorno — il che è una circostanza molto curiosa e degna di nota, in quanto dimostra che anche un becchino, se agito da un impulso improvviso e potente, può essere afflitto da un attimo di perdita della propria compostezza e dimenticanza della dignità personale.

“O, signor Bumble,” disse Noah, “Oliver, signore, Oliver ha, ”

«Che cosa? Che cosa?» intervenne il signor Bumble con un lampo di piacere nei suoi occhi metallici. «Non è scappato; non è scappato, vero, Noè?»

“No, signore, no. Non è scappato, signore, ma si è fatto malvagio”, rispose Noah. “Ha cercato di uccidermi, signore; e poi ha cercato di uccidere Charlotte; e poi la padrona. Oh! che dolore terribile! Un’agonia così, la prego, signore!” E qui Noah si contorse e torse il suo corpo in una vasta varietà di posizioni simili a quelle dell’anguilla; facendo così capire al signor Bumble che, per l’attacco violento e sanguinario di Oliver Twist, aveva subito gravi lesioni interne e danni, dai quali in quel momento stava soffrendo le torture più acute.

Quando Noè vide che le informazioni da lui comunicate avevano perfettamente paralizzato il signor Bumble, gli diede ulteriore efficacia lamentandosi delle sue terribili ferite dieci volte più forte di prima; e quando notò un gentiluomo con un gilet bianco attraversare il cortile, fu ancora più tragico nelle sue lamentele: giustamente concependo come altamente opportuno attirare l’attenzione e suscitare l’indignazione del suddetto gentiluomo.

L’attenzione del signore fu subito attirata; infatti non aveva fatto tre passi che si voltò con rabbia e chiese per quale motivo quel giovane cane stesse guaendo e perché il signor Bumble non gli desse qualcosa che rendesse involontario l’insieme di esclamazioni vocali così designate?

«È un povero ragazzo della scuola gratuita, signore», rispose il signor Bumble, «che è stato quasi ucciso — mancato poco che non fosse ucciso, signore — dal giovane Twist.»

«Per Giove!» esclamò il signore con la giubba bianca, fermandosi di colpo. «Lo sapevo! Ho avuto un strano presentimento fin dall’inizio che quel giovane selvaggio audace sarebbe stato impiccato!»

«Ha inoltre tentato, signore, di uccidere la serva», disse il signor Bumble con un volto pallido come le ceneri.

«E la sua signora», intervenne il signor Claypole.

«E anche il suo padrone, mi pare che tu abbia detto, Noè?» aggiunse il signor Bumble.

“No! È fuori, altrimenti l’avrebbe ucciso,” rispose Noah. “Ha detto che voleva farlo.”

«Ah! Ha detto che voleva farlo, vero, ragazzo mio?» chiese il signore con la giacca bianca.

«Sì, signore», rispose Noah. «E per favore, signore, la padrona vuole sapere se il signor Bumble può trovare tempo di salire lassù immediatamente e frustarlo, perché il padrone è fuori.»

«Certamente, ragazzo mio; certamente», disse il signore con la giacca bianca: sorridendo benignamente e accarezzando la testa di Noah, che era alta circa tre pollici più della sua. «Sei un bravo ragazzo — un bravissimo ragazzo. Ecco un penny per te. Bumble, sali da Sowerberry con il tuo bastone e vedi cosa è meglio fare. Non risparmiarlo, Bumble».

“No, non lo farò, signore”, rispose l’ufficiale giudiziario. E il cappello a tricorno e il bastone, avendo, entro questo tempo, soddisfatto il loro proprietario, il signor Bumble e Noah Claypole si diressero con tutta celerità verso la bottega del becchino.

Qui la situazione non era affatto migliorata. Sowerberry non era ancora tornato e Oliver continuava a scalciare contro la porta della cantina con vigore immutato. I resoconti sulla sua ferocia, come raccontati da Mrs. Sowerberry e Charlotte, erano di una natura così allarmante che Mr. Bumble giudicò prudente parlargli prima di aprire la porta. Con questo intento diede un calcio alla parte esterna a mo’ di preludio; quindi, avvicinando la bocca alla toppa della serratura, disse in tono profondo e solenne:

«Oliver!»

«Ebbene; mi lasciate uscire!» rispose Oliver, dall’interno.

«Conosci questa voce qui, Oliver?» disse il signor Bumble.

“Sì,” rispose Oliver.

«Non ne ha paura, signore? Non trema mentre le parlo, signore?» disse il signor Bumble.

“No!” rispose Oliver con coraggio.

Una risposta così diversa da quella che si aspettava di ottenere e a cui era abituato ad avere lasciò non poco attonito il signor Bumble. Si ritrasse dal buco della serratura; si raddrizzò in tutta la sua altezza, e guardò l’uno dopo l’altro i tre presenti con muta meraviglia.

«Oh, sapete bene, signor Bumble, che deve essere pazzo», disse la signora Sowerberry.

“Nessun ragazzo sano di mente oserebbe parlarti così.”

«Non è pazzia, signora», rispose il signor Bumble dopo alcuni momenti di profonda meditazione. «È carne.»

«Cosa?» esclamò la signora Sowerberry.

«Carne, signora, carne», rispose Bumble con severa enfasi. «L’ha soffocato di cibo, signora. Gli ha infuso un’anima e uno spirito artificiali, signora, inadatti a una persona della sua condizione: come le dirà il consiglio, signora Sowerberry, che è composto da filosofi pratici. Che cosa hanno a che fare i poveri con l’anima o lo spirito? È già abbastanza lasciarli vivere in corpi viventi. Se avesse tenuto il ragazzo a solo brodaglia, signora, questo non sarebbe mai successo».

«Oh, oh!» esclamò la signora Sowerberry, alzando gli occhi verso il soffitto della cucina con aria devota «questo è il risultato di essere generosi!»

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.

La generosità della signora Sowerberry verso Oliver si era manifestata con un abbondante elargimento di tutti i resti sporchi e le briciole che nessun altro avrebbe voluto mangiare; così c’era molta mansuetudine e dedizione in lei, nel rimanere volontariamente sotto l’accusa pesante del signor Bumble, della quale, per renderle giustizia, era completamente innocente, in pensiero, parola o azione.

«Ah!», disse il signor Bumble quando la donna riportò gli occhi sulla terra; «l’unica cosa che si può fare ora, per quanto ne so, è lasciarlo nella cantina per un giorno o due, finché non sia un po’ dimagrito; e poi tirarlo fuori e tenerlo a brodo d’orzo durante tutta l’apprendistato. Viene da una cattiva famiglia. Natura irrequieta, signora Sowerberry! Sia la balia che il medico dissero che quella madre sua si fece strada qui, nonostante difficoltà e dolore tali da aver ucciso qualsiasi donna di buona indole, settimane prima».

A questo punto del discorso di Mr. Bumble, Oliver, che aveva appena sentito abbastanza per sapere che si faceva qualche accenno a sua madre, ricominciò a scalciare con una violenza tale da rendere inudibili tutti gli altri suoni. Sowerberry tornò proprio in quel momento. Dopo avergli spiegato l’offesa di Oliver, con le esagerazioni che le signore ritenevano più adatte a suscitare la sua ira, aprì la porta della cantina in un batter d’occhio e trascinò fuori il suo ribelle apprendista per il colletto.

Gli abiti di Oliver erano strappati per la bastonatura che aveva ricevuto; il viso era livido e graffiato; i capelli gli ricadevano sulla fronte. Tuttavia, l’arrossamento di rabbia non era scomparso; quando fu tirato fuori dalla sua prigione, guardò con fare audace Noah e sembrava del tutto imperturbabile.

«Ora, tu sei un bel giovane, vero?» disse Sowerberry; dando a Oliver una scossa e uno schiaffo sulle orecchie.

«Ha insultato mia madre», rispose Oliver.

«Beh, e se lo avesse fatto, piccola ingrata?» disse la signora Sowerberry. «Si meritava quello che ha detto lui, e anche peggio.»

“Non lo ha fatto”, disse Oliver.

«Lo ha fatto», disse la signora Sowerberry.

“È una bugia!” disse Oliver.

La signora Sowerberry scoppiò in un diluvio di lacrime.

Questa inondazione di lacrime non lasciò al signor Sowerberry alternative. Se avesse esitato per un solo istante a punire Oliver con la massima severità, sarebbe stato chiaro a ogni lettore esperto che, secondo tutti i precedenti nei conflitti matrimoniali stabiliti, sarebbe stato un bruto, un marito innaturale, una creatura offensiva, una vile imitazione di uomo e vari altri personaggi piacevoli troppo numerosi per essere ricordati entro i limiti di questo capitolo. Per fare giustizia a lui, era, fino al limite delle sue possibilità - che non erano molto estese - benevolo verso il ragazzo; forse perché gli conveniva esserlo; forse perché sua moglie lo detestava. La marea di lacrime, tuttavia, non gli lasciò scampo; così gli diede subito una bella bastonata che soddisfece persino la stessa signora Sowerberry e rese piuttosto superflua l’applicazione successiva del bastone parrocchiale da parte del signor Bumble. Per il resto della giornata, fu rinchiuso in cucina insieme a una pompa e un pezzo di pane; e la notte, la signora Sowerberry, dopo aver fatto vari commenti fuori dalla porta, per nulla lusinghieri sulla memoria della madre del ragazzo, guardò nella stanza e, tra le risate e i gestacci di Noah e Charlotte, gli ordinò di salire al suo tetto squallido.

Non fu che quando rimase solo nel silenzio e nella quiete dell’oscuro laboratorio del becchino, che Oliver si abbandonò ai sentimenti che il trattamento di quel giorno poteva aver suscitato in un semplice bambino. Aveva ascoltato le loro prese in giro con uno sguardo di disprezzo; aveva sopportato la frustata senza un lamento: perché sentiva che il orgoglio gli gonfiava il cuore, e lo avrebbe trattenuto fino all’ultimo, anche se lo avessero arrostito vivo. Ma ora, quando non c’era nessuno a vederlo o ascoltarlo, cadde in ginocchio sul pavimento; e, nascondendo il viso tra le mani, pianse lacrime tali che, Iddio voglia per l’onore della nostra natura, pochi così giovani abbiano mai avuto motivo di versare davanti a Lui!

Per un lungo periodo, Oliver rimase immobile in questa posizione. La candela stava per spegnersi nel candelabro quando si alzò in piedi. Dopo aver guardato cautamente intorno a sé e ascoltato attentamente, aprì delicatamente i fermi della porta e sbirciò fuori.

Era una fredda e buia notte. Le stelle sembravano agli occhi del ragazzo più lontane dalla terra di quanto non le avesse mai viste prima; non c’era alcun vento; e le cupe ombre proiettate dagli alberi sul terreno apparivano sepolcrali e simili alla morte per la loro immobilità. Chiuse dolcemente la porta. Dopo aver approfittato della luce morente della candela per avvolgere in un fazzoletto i pochi indumenti che possedeva, si sedette su una panca ad aspettare il mattino.

Con il primo raggio di luce che filtrava attraverso le fessure nelle imposte, Oliver si alzò e di nuovo aprì la porta. Uno sguardo timido intorno - un attimo di esitazione - aveva chiuso la porta alle sue spalle ed era in strada aperta.

Guardò a destra e guardò a sinistra, incerto su dove fuggire.

Ricordava di aver visto i carri, mentre uscivano, faticare per salire la collina. Prese lo stesso percorso; e arrivato a un sentiero che attraversava i campi, il quale sapeva dopo un po’ tornasse sulla strada; imboccò quel sentiero e camminò velocemente.

Su questo stesso sentiero, Oliver ricordava bene di aver trotterellato accanto al signor Bumble quando lo portò per la prima volta all’ospizio dalla fattoria. La sua strada passava direttamente davanti alla casetta. Il cuore gli batteva forte quando ci pensò; e fu sul punto di tornare indietro. Ma aveva fatto molta strada, e avrebbe perso molto tempo facendo così. Inoltre, era ancora così presto che c’era ben poco pericolo di essere visto; così proseguì.

Raggiunse la casa. Non c’era segno che gli inquilini fossero già svegli a quell’ora mattutina. Oliver si fermò e sbirciò nel giardino. Un bambino stava sarchiando uno dei piccoli aiuoli; mentre si fermava, alzò il suo pallido viso e rivelò i tratti di uno dei suoi ex compagni. Oliver fu felice di vederlo prima di andarsene; perché, sebbene più giovane di lui, era stato il suo piccolo amico e compagno di giochi. Erano stati picchiati, affamati e rinchiusi insieme molte e molte volte.

«Zitto, Dick!» disse Oliver mentre il ragazzo correva verso il cancello e infilava il suo braccio magro tra le sbarre per salutarlo. «C’è qualcuno in piedi?»

«Nessuno se non io», rispose il bambino.

«Non devi dire che mi hai visto, Dick», disse Oliver. «Sto scappando. Mi picchiano e mi maltrattano, Dick; e sto andando a cercare fortuna in un posto lontanissimo. Non so dove. Come sei pallido!»

«Ho sentito il dottore dire loro che stavo morendo», rispose il bambino con un debole sorriso. «Sono molto contento di vederti, caro; ma non fermarti, non fermarti!»

“Sì, sì, verrò a salutarti”, rispose Oliver. “Ti rivedrò, Dick. So che ci rivedremo! Tu sarai bene e felice!”

“Lo spero”, rispose il bambino. “Dopo che sarò morto, ma non prima. So che il dottore ha ragione, Oliver, perché sogno tanto del Paradiso e degli Angeli e di volti gentili che mai vedo quando sono sveglio. Baciami”, disse il bambino salendo sul basso cancello e gettando le sue piccole braccia al collo di Oliver. “Arrivederci, caro! Dio ti benedica!”

La benedizione era uscita dalle labbra di un giovane bambino, ma fu la prima che Oliver avesse mai sentito invocare sulla sua testa; e attraverso le lotte, le sofferenze, i problemi e i cambiamenti della sua vita successiva, non la dimenticò mai.

CHAPTER VIII. OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON. HE ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD A STRANGE SORT OF YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Oliver reached the stile at which the by-path terminated; and once more gained the high-road. It was eight o’clock now. Though he was nearly five miles away from the town, he ran, and hid behind the hedges, by turns, till noon, fearing that he might be pursued and overtaken. Then he sat down to rest by the side of the milestone, and began to think, for the first time, where he had better go and try to live.

The stone by which he was seated, bore, in large characters, an intimation that it was just seventy miles from that spot to London. The name awakened a new train of ideas in the boy’s mind.

London!—that great place!—nobody—not even Mr. Bumble—could ever find him there! He had often heard the old men in the workhouse, too, say that no lad of spirit need want in London; and that there were ways of living in that vast city, which those who had been bred up in country parts had no idea of. It was the very place for a homeless boy, who must die in the streets unless some one helped him. As these things passed through his thoughts, he jumped upon his feet, and again walked forward.

He had diminished the distance between himself and London by full four miles more, before he recollected how much he must undergo ere he could hope to reach his place of destination. As this consideration forced itself upon him, he slackened his pace a little, and meditated upon his means of getting there. He had a crust of bread, a coarse shirt, and two pairs of stockings, in his bundle. He had a penny too—a gift of Sowerberry’s after some funeral in which he had acquitted himself more than ordinarily well—in his pocket. “A clean shirt,” thought Oliver, “is a very comfortable thing; and so are two pairs of darned stockings; and so is a penny; but they are small helps to a sixty-five miles’ walk in winter time.” But Oliver’s thoughts, like those of most other people, although they were extremely ready and active to point out his difficulties, were wholly at a loss to suggest any feasible mode of surmounting them; so, after a good deal of thinking to no particular purpose, he changed his little bundle over to the other shoulder, and trudged on.

Oliver walked twenty miles that day; and all that time tasted nothing but the crust of dry bread, and a few draughts of water, which he begged at the cottage-doors by the road-side. When the night came, he turned into a meadow; and, creeping close under a hay-rick, determined to lie there, till morning. He felt frightened at first, for the wind moaned dismally over the empty fields, and he was cold and hungry, and more alone than he had ever felt before. Being very tired with his walk, however, he soon fell asleep and forgot his troubles.

He felt cold and stiff, when he got up next morning, and so hungry that he was obliged to exchange the penny for a small loaf, in the very first village through which he passed. He had walked no more than twelve miles, when night closed in again. His feet were sore, and his legs so weak that they trembled beneath him. Another night passed in the bleak damp air, made him worse; when he set forward on his journey next morning he could hardly crawl along.

He waited at the bottom of a steep hill till a stage-coach came up, and then begged of the outside passengers; but there were very few who took any notice of him: and even those told him to wait till they got to the top of the hill, and then let them see how far he could run for a halfpenny. Poor Oliver tried to keep up with the coach a little way, but was unable to do it, by reason of his fatigue and sore feet. When the outsides saw this, they put their halfpence back into their pockets again, declaring that he was an idle young dog, and didn’t deserve anything; and the coach rattled away and left only a cloud of dust behind.

In some villages, large painted boards were fixed up: warning all persons who begged within the district, that they would be sent to jail. This frightened Oliver very much, and made him glad to get out of those villages with all possible expedition. In others, he would stand about the inn-yards, and look mournfully at every one who passed: a proceeding which generally terminated in the landlady’s ordering one of the post-boys who were lounging about, to drive that strange boy out of the place, for she was sure he had come to steal something. If he begged at a farmer’s house, ten to one but they threatened to set the dog on him; and when he showed his nose in a shop, they talked about the beadle—which brought Oliver’s heart into his mouth,—very often the only thing he had there, for many hours together.

In fact, if it had not been for a good-hearted turnpike-man, and a benevolent old lady, Oliver’s troubles would have been shortened by the very same process which had put an end to his mother’s; in other words, he would most assuredly have fallen dead upon the king’s highway. But the turnpike-man gave him a meal of bread and cheese; and the old lady, who had a shipwrecked grandson wandering barefoot in some distant part of the earth, took pity upon the poor orphan, and gave him what little she could afford—and more—with such kind and gentle words, and such tears of sympathy and compassion, that they sank deeper into Oliver’s soul, than all the sufferings he had ever undergone.

Early on the seventh morning after he had left his native place, Oliver limped slowly into the little town of Barnet. The window-shutters were closed; the street was empty; not a soul had awakened to the business of the day. The sun was rising in all its splendid beauty; but the light only served to show the boy his own lonesomeness and desolation, as he sat, with bleeding feet and covered with dust, upon a door-step.

CAPITOLO VIII.
Oliver si mette in cammino verso Londra. Incontra sulla strada un giovane signore di una strana specie

Oliver raggiunse il cancello dove terminava il sentiero; e ancora una volta si ritrovò sulla strada principale. Erano le otto di sera. Anche se era a quasi cinque miglia dalla città, corse e si nascose dietro i cespugli, alternativamente, fino alle dodici, temendo che lo potessero inseguire e raggiungere. Poi si sedette per riposare accanto al miliario e cominciò a pensare, per la prima volta, dove sarebbe stato meglio andare a cercare di vivere.

La pietra su cui era seduto portava inciso, con caratteri grandi, l’avviso che da quel punto erano esattamente settanta miglia fino a Londra. Il nome risvegliò una nuova serie di idee nella mente del ragazzo.

Londra! — quel grande posto! — nessuno — neanche il signor Bumble — avrebbe mai potuto trovarlo lì! Aveva spesso sentito gli anziani nel lavoro forzato dire anche che a Londra non c’era bisogno di desiderare per un ragazzo con spirito; e che esistevano modi di vivere in quella vasta città di cui coloro che erano stati cresciuti nelle zone rurali non avevano idea. Era proprio il posto giusto per un ragazzo senza casa, che sarebbe morto per le strade a meno che qualcuno non lo aiutasse. Mentre queste cose gli passavano per la mente, saltò in piedi e riprese a camminare.

Aveva ridotto la distanza tra sé e Londra di ben quattro miglia in più, prima che gli venisse in mente quanto avrebbe dovuto sopportare prima di poter sperare di raggiungere la sua destinazione. Mentre questa considerazione si imponeva a lui, rallentò un po’ il passo e meditò sui mezzi per arrivarci. Aveva una crosta di pane, una camicia grossolana e due paia di calze nel suo fagotto. Aveva anche un penny - un regalo di Sowerberry dopo qualche funerale in cui si era comportato più che ordinariamente bene - nella sua tasca. “Una camicia pulita”, pensò Oliver, “è una cosa molto comoda; e lo sono anche due paia di calze rammendate; e così è un penny; ma sono piccoli aiuti per una passeggiata di sessantacinque miglia in inverno tempo.” Ma i pensieri di Oliver, come quelli della maggior parte delle altre persone, sebbene fossero estremamente pronti e attivi nel segnalare le sue difficoltà, erano del tutto incapaci di suggerire un modo fattibile per superarle; così, dopo aver pensato molto senza uno scopo particolare, trasferì il suo piccolo fagotto sull’altra spalla e proseguì.

Oliver camminò per venti miglia quel giorno; e in tutto quel tempo non assaggiò altro che la crosta di pane secco e qualche sorso d’acqua, che chiese alle porte delle casette lungo il sentiero. Quando calò la notte, si rifugiò in un prato; e, rannicchiandosi sotto una catasta di fieno, decise di rimanere lì fino al mattino. All’inizio si sentì spaventato, perché il vento gemeva tristemente sui campi vuoti, ed era freddo e affamato, e più solo che mai. Tuttavia, essendo molto stanco per la camminata, ben presto si addormentò e dimenticò i suoi problemi.

Si sentiva freddo e rigido quando si alzò la mattina dopo, e così affamato che fu costretto a scambiare il penny per un piccolo pane nel primo villaggio in cui passò. Non aveva camminato più di dodici miglia quando notte calò nuovamente. I suoi piedi erano doloranti e le gambe così deboli che tremavano sotto di lui. Un’altra notte trascorsa nell’aria fredda e umida lo rese peggio; quando riprese il suo viaggio la mattina seguente riusciva a malapena a strisciare avanti.

Aspettò in fondo a una ripida collina finché non arrivò un carrozzone e poi chiese l’elemosina ai passeggeri seduti all’esterno; ma pochissimi gli fecero caso: e anche quelli gli dissero di aspettare che fossero arrivati in cima alla collina, per poi vedere quanto poteva correre per un mezzo penny. Il povero Oliver cercò di tenere il passo con la carrozza per un po’, ma non ci riuscì, a causa della stanchezza e dei piedi doloranti. Quando i passeggeri seduti all’esterno videro questo, rimisero i loro mezzo penny nelle tasche, dichiarando che era un giovane cane pigro e non meritava nulla; e la carrozza si allontanò lasciandosi dietro solo una nuvola di polvere.

In alcuni villaggi erano state fissate grandi tabelle dipinte: avvertivano tutti coloro che chiedevano l’elemosina nel distretto che sarebbero stati mandati in prigione. Questo spaventò molto Oliver e lo fece uscire da quei villaggi con la massima sollecitudine possibile. In altri, si fermava nei cortili delle locande e guardava tristemente ogni persona che passava: un comportamento che generalmente terminava con l’ostessa che ordinava a uno dei postiglioni che se ne stavano in giro di cacciare quel ragazzo strano dal posto, perché era sicura che fosse venuto a rubare qualcosa. Se chiedeva elemosina presso la casa di un agricoltore, quasi sempre minacciavano di scatenargli contro il cane; e quando mostrava il naso in un negozio, parlavano del becchino — cosa che portava il cuore di Oliver alla gola — molto spesso l’unica cosa che avesse lì per molte ore di seguito.

Infatti, se non fosse stato per un uomo di cuore che lavorava alla barriera e una vecchia signora benevola, i guai di Oliver sarebbero finiti con lo stesso processo che aveva posto fine a quelli di sua madre; in altre parole, sarebbe sicuramente caduto morto sulla strada pubblica. Ma l’uomo della barriera gli diede un pasto di pane e formaggio; e la vecchia signora, che aveva un nipote naufrago che vagava a piedi nudi in qualche remota parte del mondo, ebbe pietà del povero orfano e gli diede quel poco che poteva permettersi - e di più - con parole così gentili e delicate, e con tali lacrime di simpatia e compassione, che affondarono più profondamente nell’anima di Oliver di tutte le sofferenze che aveva mai sopportato.

All’inizio del settimo mattino dopo che aveva lasciato il suo paese natale, Oliver zoppicò lentamente nella piccola città di Barnet. Le persiane erano chiuse; la strada era vuota; nessuna anima si era svegliata per le faccende della giornata. Il sole stava sorgendo in tutta la sua splendida bellezza; ma la luce serviva solo a mostrare al ragazzo la propria solitudine e desolazione, mentre sedeva, con i piedi insanguinati e ricoperto di polvere, su un gradino della porta.

By degrees, the shutters were opened; the window-blinds were drawn up; and people began passing to and fro. Some few stopped to gaze at Oliver for a moment or two, or turned round to stare at him as they hurried by; but none relieved him, or troubled themselves to inquire how he came there. He had no heart to beg. And there he sat.

He had been crouching on the step for some time: wondering at the great number of public-houses (every other house in Barnet was a tavern, large or small), gazing listlessly at the coaches as they passed through, and thinking how strange it seemed that they could do, with ease, in a few hours, what it had taken him a whole week of courage and determination beyond his years to accomplish: when he was roused by observing that a boy, who had passed him carelessly some minutes before, had returned, and was now surveying him most earnestly from the opposite side of the way. He took little heed of this at first; but the boy remained in the same attitude of close observation so long, that Oliver raised his head, and returned his steady look. Upon this, the boy crossed over; and walking close up to Oliver, said,

“Hullo, my covey! What’s the row?”

The boy who addressed this inquiry to the young wayfarer, was about his own age: but one of the queerest looking boys that Oliver had even seen. He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and as dirty a juvenile as one would wish to see; but he had about him all the airs and manners of a man. He was short of his age: with rather bow-legs, and little, sharp, ugly eyes. His hat was stuck on the top of his head so lightly, that it threatened to fall off every moment—and would have done so, very often, if the wearer had not had a knack of every now and then giving his head a sudden twitch, which brought it back to its old place again. He wore a man’s coat, which reached nearly to his heels. He had turned the cuffs back, half-way up his arm, to get his hands out of the sleeves: apparently with the ultimate view of thrusting them into the pockets of his corduroy trousers; for there he kept them. He was, altogether, as roystering and swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood four feet six, or something less, in the bluchers.

“Hullo, my covey! What’s the row?” said this strange young gentleman to Oliver.

“I am very hungry and tired,” replied Oliver: the tears standing in his eyes as he spoke. “I have walked a long way. I have been walking these seven days.”

“Walking for sivin days!” said the young gentleman. “Oh, I see. Beak’s order, eh? But,” he added, noticing Oliver’s look of surprise, “I suppose you don’t know what a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on.”

Oliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird’s mouth described by the term in question.

“My eyes, how green!” exclaimed the young gentleman. “Why, a beak’s a madgst’rate; and when you walk by a beak’s order, it’s not straight forerd, but always agoing up, and niver a coming down agin. Was you never on the mill?”

“What mill?” inquired Oliver.

“What mill! Why, the mill—the mill as takes up so little room that it’ll work inside a Stone Jug; and always goes better when the wind’s low with people, than when it’s high; acos then they can’t get workmen. But come,” said the young gentleman; “you want grub, and you shall have it. I’m at low-water-mark myself—only one bob and a magpie; but, as far as it goes, I’ll fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There! Now then! Morrice!”

Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent chandler’s shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham and a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, “a fourpenny bran!” the ham being kept clean and preserved from dust, by the ingenious expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a portion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentleman turned into a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at his new friend’s bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention.

“Going to London?” said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.

“Yes.”

“Got any lodgings?”

“No.”

“Money?”

“No.”

The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go.

“Do you live in London?” inquired Oliver.

“Yes. I do, when I’m at home,” replied the boy. “I suppose you want some place to sleep in tonight, don’t you?”

“I do, indeed,” answered Oliver. “I have not slept under a roof since I left the country.”

“Don’t fret your eyelids on that score,” said the young gentleman. “I’ve got to be in London tonight; and I know a ’spectable old gentleman as lives there, wot’ll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change—that is, if any gentleman he knows interduces you. And don’t he know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!”

The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments of discourse were playfully ironical; and finished the beer as he did so.

This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted; especially as it was immediately followed up, by the assurance that the old gentleman referred to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a comfortable place, without loss of time. This led to a more friendly and confidential dialogue; from which Oliver discovered that his friend’s name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a peculiar pet and protégé of the elderly gentleman before mentioned.

Mr. Dawkins’s appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the comforts which his patron’s interest obtained for those whom he took under his protection; but, as he had a rather flightly and dissolute mode of conversing, and furthermore avowed that among his intimate friends he was better known by the sobriquet of “The Artful Dodger,” Oliver concluded that, being of a dissipated and careless turn, the moral precepts of his benefactor had hitherto been thrown away upon him. Under this impression, he secretly resolved to cultivate the good opinion of the old gentleman as quickly as possible; and, if he found the Dodger incorrigible, as he more than half suspected he should, to decline the honour of his farther acquaintance.

A poco a poco, gli scuri furono aperti; le persiane delle finestre alzate; e la gente cominciò ad andare e venire. Alcuni si fermarono per guardare Oliver per un momento o due, o si voltarono a fissarlo mentre passavano di corsa; ma nessuno lo soccorse, né si prese il disturbo di chiedere come fosse arrivato lì. Non aveva cuore di chiedere l’elemosina. E così rimase seduto.

Era rimasto accovacciato sul gradino per un po’ di tempo, meravigliandosi del gran numero di locali pubblici (ogni secondo edificio a Barnet era una taverna, grande o piccola), guardando con aria svogliata i calessi che passavano e pensando quanto fosse strano che potessero fare, senza sforzo, in poche ore, ciò che gli aveva richiesto un’intera settimana di coraggio e determinazione al di là dei suoi anni per realizzare: quando fu risvegliato dall’osservare che un ragazzo, che lo aveva superato con nonchalance alcuni minuti prima, era tornato indietro ed ora lo stava scrutando con grande attenzione dal lato opposto della strada. All’inizio non ci fece molto caso; ma il ragazzo rimase nella stessa posizione di osservazione così a lungo che Oliver alzò la testa e restituì lo sguardo fisso del ragazzo. A questo punto, il ragazzo attraversò la strada e avvicinandosi molto a Oliver, disse:

“Ehi, amico mio! Che succede?”

Il ragazzo che rivolse questa domanda al giovane viandante aveva più o meno la sua età: ma era uno dei ragazzi dall’aspetto più strano che Oliver avesse mai visto. Era un ragazzo abbastanza comune, con il naso schiacciato e la fronte piatta; e sporco quanto si può desiderare di vedere; ma aveva modi e maniere da uomo. Era basso per la sua età: con le gambe leggermente arcuate e occhi piccoli, acuti e brutti. Il cappello era appoggiato in cima alla testa così leggermente che sembrava sul punto di cadere ogni momento - e sarebbe caduto spesso se il portatore non avesse avuto la capacità di dare ogni tanto un improvviso scatto con la testa, riportandolo al suo posto. Indossava un cappotto da uomo che gli arrivava quasi ai talloni. Aveva arrotolato i polsini a metà del braccio per liberare le mani dalle maniche: apparentemente con l’intenzione finale di infilarle nelle tasche dei suoi pantaloni di velluto a coste; perché lì le teneva. Era, nel complesso, un giovane gentiluomo altrettanto baldanzoso e spaccone quanto ne esistano mai di quattro piedi e sei, o qualcosa in meno, nei bluchers.

«Ehi, mio piccolo amico! Che succede?» disse questo strano giovane signore a Oliver.

“Ho molta fame e sono molto stanco”, rispose Oliver, con le lacrime che gli salivano agli occhi mentre parlava. “Ho camminato per un lungo tratto. Ho camminato per sette giorni.”

«Camminare per sette giorni!» disse il giovane gentiluomo. «Oh, capisco. Ordine del Becco, eh? Ma», aggiunse, notando lo sguardo sorpreso di Oliver, «suppongo che tu non sappia cosa sia un becco, mio brillante compagno».

Oliver rispose con calma che aveva sempre sentito descrivere il becco di un uccello col termine in questione.

«I miei occhi, che verde!» esclamò il giovane signore. «Ma un becco è un magistrato; e quando cammini per ordine di un becco, non vai dritto avanti, ma sali sempre su, senza mai più scendere. Non sei mai stato in galera?»

“Quale mulino?” chiese Oliver.

“Che mulino? Ma il mulino, quello che occupa così poco spazio da poter funzionare dentro una brocca di pietra; e che va sempre meglio quando il vento è basso tra la gente, piuttosto che alto; perché allora non riescono a trovare operai. Ma vieni,” disse il giovane signore; “vuoi mangiare, e mangerai. Io stesso sono al segno di bassa-marea—ho solo una monetina e un gazza; ma, per quanto mi consente, ti aiuterò. In piedi! Ecco! Ora! Morrice!”

Aiutando Oliver ad alzarsi, il giovane lo portò in un negozio di candele vicino, dove comprò una quantità sufficiente di prosciutto già cotto e mezzo chilo di pane, o come lui stesso disse: “un quattro soldi di crusca!”; il prosciutto veniva mantenuto pulito e protetto dalla polvere grazie all’ingegnoso stratagemma di fare un buco nel pane tirando fuori una parte della mollica e infilarvi dentro il prosciutto. Prendendo il pane sotto il braccio, il giovane entrò in un piccolo pub e condusse Oliver nella stanza sul retro dell’edificio. Qui, su indicazione del misterioso ragazzo, fu portata una brocca di birra; e Oliver, mettendosi a tavola per volere del suo nuovo amico, fece un lungo e abbondante pasto, durante il quale lo strano ragazzo lo osservava con grande attenzione da tempo a tempo.

«Stai andando a Londra?» disse il ragazzo strano quando Oliver ebbe finalmente concluso.

“Sì, davvero.”

“Hai una sistemazione?”

“No.”

“Denaro?”

“No.”

Il ragazzo strano fischiò e mise le braccia nelle tasche per quanto i grandi manici del cappotto glielo permettevano.

«Abitate a Londra?» chiese Oliver.

“Sì. Lo faccio quando sono a casa”, rispose il ragazzo. “Suppongo che tu voglia un posto dove dormire stasera, vero?”

«È vero», rispose Oliver. «Da quando ho lasciato la campagna non ho più dormito sotto un tetto.»

«Non si preoccupi di questo», disse il giovane signore. «Devo essere a Londra stasera; e conosco un rispettabile vecchio signore che vive lì, che le darà alloggio gratis, senza chiedere nulla in cambio, cioè se qualcuno che lui conosce la presenterà. E non mi conosce forse? Oh no! Per niente! Nient’affatto. Certo che no!»

Il giovane signore sorrise, come per far intendere che gli ultimi frammenti di discorso erano giocosi e ironici; e mentre lo faceva finì la birra.

Questa inaspettata offerta di rifugio era troppo allettante per essere rifiutata; soprattutto perché fu immediatamente seguita dall’assicurazione che il vecchio signore in questione avrebbe senza dubbio provveduto a fornire Oliver un posto comodo, senza perdita di tempo. Questo portò ad un dialogo più amichevole e confidenziale; dal quale Oliver scoprì che il nome del suo amico era Jack Dawkins, e che egli era una peculiare creatura prediletta e protégé dello anziano signore precedentemente menzionato.

L’aspetto del signor Dawkins non diceva molto in favore dei comfort che l’interessamento del suo mecenate procurava a coloro che prendeva sotto la sua protezione; ma, dato che aveva un modo di conversare piuttosto frivolo e dissoluto, e inoltre confessava che tra i suoi intimi amici era meglio conosciuto col sobriquet di “Il Artful Dodger”, Oliver concluse che, essendo di indole dissipata e incurante, i precetti morali del suo benefattore erano stati finora sprecati con lui. Con questa impressione, decise segretamente di coltivare il buon parere del vecchio signore il più rapidamente possibile; e, se avesse scoperto che l’Artful Dodger era incorreggibile, come sospettava più che a metà, di rifiutare l’onore della sua ulteriore conoscenza.

As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it was nearly eleven o’clock when they reached the turnpike at Islington. They crossed from the Angel into St. John’s Road; struck down the small street which terminates at Sadler’s Wells Theatre; through Exmouth Street and Coppice Row; down the little court by the side of the workhouse; across the classic ground which once bore the name of Hockley-in-the-Hole; thence into Little Saffron Hill; and so into Saffron Hill the Great: along which the Dodger scudded at a rapid pace, directing Oliver to follow close at his heels.

Although Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping sight of his leader, he could not help bestowing a few hasty glances on either side of the way, as he passed along. A dirtier or more wretched place he had never seen. The street was very narrow and muddy, and the air was impregnated with filthy odours.

There were a good many small shops; but the only stock in trade appeared to be heaps of children, who, even at that time of night, were crawling in and out at the doors, or screaming from the inside. The sole places that seemed to prosper amid the general blight of the place, were the public-houses; and in them, the lowest orders of Irish were wrangling with might and main. Covered ways and yards, which here and there diverged from the main street, disclosed little knots of houses, where drunken men and women were positively wallowing in filth; and from several of the door-ways, great ill-looking fellows were cautiously emerging, bound, to all appearance, on no very well-disposed or harmless errands.

Oliver was just considering whether he hadn’t better run away, when they reached the bottom of the hill. His conductor, catching him by the arm, pushed open the door of a house near Field Lane; and drawing him into the passage, closed it behind them.

“Now, then!” cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle from the Dodger.

“Plummy and slam!” was the reply.

This seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right; for the light of a feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the remote end of the passage; and a man’s face peeped out, from where a balustrade of the old kitchen staircase had been broken away.

“There’s two on you,” said the man, thrusting the candle farther out, and shielding his eyes with his hand. “Who’s the t’other one?”

“A new pal,” replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward.

“Where did he come from?”

“Greenland. Is Fagin upstairs?”

“Yes, he’s a sortin’ the wipes. Up with you!” The candle was drawn back, and the face disappeared.

Oliver, groping his way with one hand, and having the other firmly grasped by his companion, ascended with much difficulty the dark and broken stairs: which his conductor mounted with an ease and expedition that showed he was well acquainted with them.

He threw open the door of a back-room, and drew Oliver in after him.

The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black with age and dirt. There was a deal table before the fire: upon which were a candle, stuck in a ginger-beer bottle, two or three pewter pots, a loaf and butter, and a plate. In a frying-pan, which was on the fire, and which was secured to the mantelshelf by a string, some sausages were cooking; and standing over them, with a toasting-fork in his hand, was a very old shrivelled Jew, whose villainous-looking and repulsive face was obscured by a quantity of matted red hair. He was dressed in a greasy flannel gown, with his throat bare; and seemed to be dividing his attention between the frying-pan and the clothes-horse, over which a great number of silk handkerchiefs were hanging. Several rough beds made of old sacks, were huddled side by side on the floor. Seated round the table were four or five boys, none older than the Dodger, smoking long clay pipes, and drinking spirits with the air of middle-aged men. These all crowded about their associate as he whispered a few words to the Jew; and then turned round and grinned at Oliver. So did the Jew himself, toasting-fork in hand.

“This is him, Fagin,” said Jack Dawkins; “my friend Oliver Twist.”

The Jew grinned; and, making a low obeisance to Oliver, took him by the hand, and hoped he should have the honour of his intimate acquaintance. Upon this, the young gentleman with the pipes came round him, and shook both his hands very hard—especially the one in which he held his little bundle. One young gentleman was very anxious to hang up his cap for him; and another was so obliging as to put his hands in his pockets, in order that, as he was very tired, he might not have the trouble of emptying them, himself, when he went to bed. These civilities would probably be extended much farther, but for a liberal exercise of the Jew’s toasting-fork on the heads and shoulders of the affectionate youths who offered them.

“We are very glad to see you, Oliver, very,” said the Jew. “Dodger, take off the sausages; and draw a tub near the fire for Oliver. Ah, you’re a-staring at the pocket-handkerchiefs! eh, my dear? There are a good many of ’em, ain’t there? We’ve just looked ’em out, ready for the wash; that’s all, Oliver; that’s all. Ha! ha! ha!”

The latter part of this speech, was hailed by a boisterous shout from all the hopeful pupils of the merry old gentleman. In the midst of which they went to supper.

Oliver ate his share, and the Jew then mixed him a glass of hot gin and water, telling him he must drink it off directly, because another gentleman wanted the tumbler. Oliver did as he was desired. Immediately afterwards he felt himself gently lifted on to one of the sacks; and then he sunk into a deep sleep.

Poiché John Dawkins si era opposto al loro ingresso in Londra prima del tramonto, erano quasi le undici e mezza quando raggiunsero il pedaggio di Islington. Attraversarono dall’Angel a St. John’s Road; scesero per la piccola strada che termina al Sadler’s Wells Theatre; attraverso Exmouth Street e Coppice Row; giù per il piccolo vicolo accanto all’ospizio; attraverso il terreno classico che un tempo portava il nome di Hockley-in-the-Hole; quindi in Little Saffron Hill; e così in Saffron Hill the Great: lungo la quale il Dodger si diresse a passo svelto, invitando Oliver a seguirlo da vicino.

Sebbene Oliver avesse abbastanza da fare a tenere d’occhio il suo capo, non poté fare a meno di lanciare qualche rapido sguardo ai lati della strada mentre passava. Non aveva mai visto un posto più squallido e misero. La via era molto stretta e fangosa, e l’aria era impregnata di odori disgustosi.

C’erano parecchi piccoli negozi; ma l’unico bene in commercio sembravano essere mucchi di bambini che, anche a quell’ora della notte, strisciavano dentro e fuori dalle porte o urlavano dall’interno. Gli unici luoghi che sembravano prosperare in mezzo al generale degrado del posto erano le bettole; e in esse, gli ordini più bassi di irlandesi si azzuffavano con tutte le loro forze. Viali coperti e cortili, che qua e là divergevano dalla strada principale, rivelavano piccoli gruppi di case dove uomini e donne ubriachi erano letteralmente immersi nella sporcizia; e da diverse delle porte, grossi tipi poco raccomandabili stavano emergendo cautamente, diretti, a quanto pareva, in commissioni non molto ben disposte o innocue.

Oliver stava giusto pensando se non fosse meglio scappare quando arrivarono in fondo alla collina. Il suo accompagnatore lo afferrò per il braccio e spalancò la porta di una casa vicino a Field Lane; poi, trascinandolo nel corridoio, chiuse la porta alle loro spalle.

«Allora!» gridò una voce dal basso, in risposta al fischio del Dodger.

«Grasso e schiacciato!» fu la risposta.

Questo sembrava essere una parola d’ordine o un segnale che tutto era in ordine; perché la luce di una debole candela brillò sul muro all’estremità più remota del corridoio, e il volto di un uomo sbucò fuori da dove una balaustra della vecchia scala della cucina si era rotta.

«Ce ne sono due contro di voi», disse l’uomo sporgendo la candela più in là e riparando gli occhi con la mano. «Chi è l’altro?»

“Un nuovo amico”, rispose Jack Dawkins tirando avanti Oliver.

“Da dove è venuto?”

«Groenlandia. È Fagin di sopra?»

«Sì, sta classificando gli stracci. Su con te!» La candela fu ritirata e il volto scomparve.

Oliver, tastando il cammino con una mano e avendo l’altra saldamente stretta dal suo compagno, risalì con molte difficoltà le scale buie e rotte: che il suo conduttore invece scalò con facilità e rapidità, dimostrando di conoscerle bene.

Aprì la porta di una stanza sul retro e trascinò dentro con sé Oliver.

Le pareti e il soffitto della stanza erano completamente neri per l’età e la sporcizia. C’era un tavolo di legno davanti al fuoco: sopra c’erano una candela, infilata in una bottiglia di ginger-beer, due o tre brocche di peltro, un pane con burro e un piatto. In una padella, che era sul fuoco, e che era assicurata allo scaffale del caminetto da una corda, si stavano cucinando delle salsicce; e in piedi sopra di esse, con una forchetta per tostare in mano, c’era un vecchio ebreo raggrinzito, il cui volto malvagio e repellente era oscurato da una quantità di capelli rossi incrostati. Era vestito con una veste di flanella untoia, con la gola nuda; e sembrava stesse dividendo la sua attenzione tra la padella e lo stendibiancheria, sopra il quale erano appesi un gran numero di fazzoletti di seta. Diverse brande grezze fatte con vecchi sacchi, erano ammassate una accanto all’altra sul pavimento. Seduti intorno al tavolo c’erano quattro o cinque ragazzi, nessuno più grande del Dodger, che fumavano lunghe pipe di creta, e bevevano liquori con l’aria di uomini di mezza età. Questi si affollarono tutti intorno al loro compagno mentre sussurrava poche parole all’ebreo; e poi si girarono e sogghignarono a Oliver. Lo stesso fece l’ebreo, con la forchetta per tostare in mano.

“Questo è lui, Fagin”, disse Jack Dawkins; “il mio amico Oliver Twist.”

L’ebreo ghignò; e, facendo un profondo inchino a Oliver, lo prese per mano e sperò di avere l’[L02|onore]] della sua intima conoscenza. A questo punto il giovane signore con la pipa gli si avvicinò e gli strinse molto forte entrambe le mani, specialmente quella in cui teneva il suo piccolo fagotto. Un giovane signore era molto ansioso di appendere per lui il cappello; e un altro fu così gentile da mettere le mani nelle sue tasche, affinché, dato che era molto stanco, non dovesse avere la seccatura di svuotarle lui stesso quando fosse andato a letto. Queste cortesie sarebbero probabilmente state estese molto oltre, ma per un generoso uso del tostapane dell’ebreo sulle teste e sulle spalle dei giovani affettuosi che le offrivano.

“Siamo molto contenti di vederti, Oliver, davvero”, disse l’ebreo. “Dodger, toglili le salsicce; e porta un secchio vicino al fuoco per Oliver. Ah, stai fissando i fazzoletti! eh, caro mio? Ce ne sono molti, non è vero? Li abbiamo appena tirati fuori, pronti per il bucato; questo è tutto, Oliver; questo è tutto. Ha! ha! ha!”

L’ultima parte di questo discorso fu accolta con un fragoroso urlo da tutti i promettenti allievi del lieto vecchio gentiluomo. Nel bel mezzo di tutto ciò andarono a cena.

Oliver mangiò la sua parte, e poi l’ebreo gli preparò un bicchiere di gin caldo con acqua, dicendogli che doveva berlo subito perché un altro signore voleva il bicchiere. Oliver fece come gli era stato detto. Subito dopo si sentì sollevare delicatamente su uno dei sacchi; e poi sprofondò in un profondo sonno.

CHAPTER IX. CONTAINING FURTHER PARTICULARS CONCERNING THE PLEASANT OLD GENTLEMAN, AND HIS HOPEFUL PUPILS

It was late next morning when Oliver awoke, from a sound, long sleep. There was no other person in the room but the old Jew, who was boiling some coffee in a saucepan for breakfast, and whistling softly to himself as he stirred it round and round, with an iron spoon. He would stop every now and then to listen when there was the least noise below: and when he had satisfied himself, he would go on whistling and stirring again, as before.

Although Oliver had roused himself from sleep, he was not thoroughly awake. There is a drowsy state, between sleeping and waking, when you dream more in five minutes with your eyes half open, and yourself half conscious of everything that is passing around you, than you would in five nights with your eyes fast closed, and your senses wrapt in perfect unconsciousness. At such time, a mortal knows just enough of what his mind is doing, to form some glimmering conception of its mighty powers, its bounding from earth and spurning time and space, when freed from the restraint of its corporeal associate.

Oliver was precisely in this condition. He saw the Jew with his half-closed eyes; heard his low whistling; and recognised the sound of the spoon grating against the saucepan’s sides: and yet the self-same senses were mentally engaged, at the same time, in busy action with almost everybody he had ever known.

When the coffee was done, the Jew drew the saucepan to the hob. Standing, then in an irresolute attitude for a few minutes, as if he did not well know how to employ himself, he turned round and looked at Oliver, and called him by his name. He did not answer, and was to all appearances asleep.

After satisfying himself upon this head, the Jew stepped gently to the door: which he fastened. He then drew forth: as it seemed to Oliver, from some trap in the floor: a small box, which he placed carefully on the table. His eyes glistened as he raised the lid, and looked in. Dragging an old chair to the table, he sat down; and took from it a magnificent gold watch, sparkling with jewels.

“Aha!” said the Jew, shrugging up his shoulders, and distorting every feature with a hideous grin. “Clever dogs! Clever dogs! Staunch to the last! Never told the old parson where they were. Never poached upon old Fagin! And why should they? It wouldn’t have loosened the knot, or kept the drop up, a minute longer. No, no, no! Fine fellows! Fine fellows!”

With these, and other muttered reflections of the like nature, the Jew once more deposited the watch in its place of safety. At least half a dozen more were severally drawn forth from the same box, and surveyed with equal pleasure; besides rings, brooches, bracelets, and other articles of jewellery, of such magnificent materials, and costly workmanship, that Oliver had no idea, even of their names.

Having replaced these trinkets, the Jew took out another: so small that it lay in the palm of his hand. There seemed to be some very minute inscription on it; for the Jew laid it flat upon the table, and shading it with his hand, pored over it, long and earnestly. At length he put it down, as if despairing of success; and, leaning back in his chair, muttered:

“What a fine thing capital punishment is! Dead men never repent; dead men never bring awkward stories to light. Ah, it’s a fine thing for the trade! Five of ’em strung up in a row, and none left to play booty, or turn white-livered!”

As the Jew uttered these words, his bright dark eyes, which had been staring vacantly before him, fell on Oliver’s face; the boy’s eyes were fixed on his in mute curiousity; and although the recognition was only for an instant—for the briefest space of time that can possibly be conceived—it was enough to show the old man that he had been observed.

He closed the lid of the box with a loud crash; and, laying his hand on a bread knife which was on the table, started furiously up. He trembled very much though; for, even in his terror, Oliver could see that the knife quivered in the air.

“What’s that?” said the Jew. “What do you watch me for? Why are you awake? What have you seen? Speak out, boy! Quick—quick! for your life.”

“I wasn’t able to sleep any longer, sir,” replied Oliver, meekly. “I am very sorry if I have disturbed you, sir.”

“You were not awake an hour ago?” said the Jew, scowling fiercely on the boy.

“No! No, indeed!” replied Oliver.

“Are you sure?” cried the Jew: with a still fiercer look than before: and a threatening attitude.

“Upon my word I was not, sir,” replied Oliver, earnestly. “I was not, indeed, sir.”

“Tush, tush, my dear!” said the Jew, abruptly resuming his old manner, and playing with the knife a little, before he laid it down; as if to induce the belief that he had caught it up, in mere sport. “Of course I know that, my dear. I only tried to frighten you. You’re a brave boy. Ha! ha! you’re a brave boy, Oliver.” The Jew rubbed his hands with a chuckle, but glanced uneasily at the box, notwithstanding.

“Did you see any of these pretty things, my dear?” said the Jew, laying his hand upon it after a short pause.

“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Ah!” said the Jew, turning rather pale. “They—they’re mine, Oliver; my little property. All I have to live upon, in my old age. The folks call me a miser, my dear. Only a miser; that’s all.”

Oliver thought the old gentleman must be a decided miser to live in such a dirty place, with so many watches; but, thinking that perhaps his fondness for the Dodger and the other boys, cost him a good deal of money, he only cast a deferential look at the Jew, and asked if he might get up.

“Certainly, my dear, certainly,” replied the old gentleman. “Stay. There’s a pitcher of water in the corner by the door. Bring it here; and I’ll give you a basin to wash in, my dear.”

CAPITOLO IX. CONTENENTE ALTRI PARTICOLARI SULL’AMABILE VECCHIO SIGNORE E I SUOI PROMETTENTI ALLIEVI

Era già mattina inoltrata quando Oliver si svegliò da un lungo e profondo sonno. Nella stanza non c’era nessun altro se non il vecchio ebreo, che stava preparando del caffè per la colazione in una pentola, fischiettando sommessamente mentre lo mescolava con un cucchiaio di ferro. Ogni tanto si fermava ad ascoltare quando sentiva anche solo il minimo rumore provenire dal basso: e quando era sicuro che non ci fosse nulla da temere, riprendeva a fischiettare e mescolare come prima.

Sebbene Oliver si fosse svegliato dal suo sonno, non era completamente desto. Esiste uno stato di torpore, tra il dormire e il risveglio, in cui si sogna più in cinque minuti con gli occhi semiaperti e se stessi mezzo consapevoli di tutto ciò che accade intorno a noi, di quanto non si farebbe in cinque notti con gli occhi ben chiusi e i sensi avvolti in un’assoluta incoscienza. In tali momenti, un mortale sa appena abbastanza di ciò che la sua mente sta facendo, da formare una vaga idea delle sue potenti capacità, del suo balzare dalla terra e disprezzare il tempo e lo spazio, quando è liberata dai vincoli della sua compagna corporea.

Oliver era esattamente in questo stato. Vedeva il vecchio ebreo con gli occhi socchiusi; sentiva il suo fischio sommesso; riconosceva il rumore del cucchiaio che strisciava contro le pareti della pentola: eppure quegli stessi sensi erano mentalmente impegnati, nello stesso tempo, in un’attività frenetica con quasi tutte le persone che aveva mai conosciuto.

Quando il caffè fu pronto, l’ebreo tirò la pentola verso di sé. Poi rimase in piedi per alcuni minuti con un atteggiamento incerto, come se non sapesse bene cosa fare; si voltò e guardò Oliver, chiamandolo per nome. Non rispose e sembrava addormentato.

Dopo essersi convinto su questo punto, l’ebreo si avvicinò con cautela alla porta: che chiuse. Poi estrasse: come sembrava a Oliver, da una botola nel pavimento: una piccola scatola, che posò con cura sul tavolo. I suoi occhi brillarono mentre sollevava il coperchio e guardava dentro. Trascinando una vecchia sedia al tavolo, si sedette; e ne prese un magnifico orologio d’oro, scintillante di gioielli.

“Aha!” disse l’ebreo, alzando le spalle e contorcendo ogni tratto del viso in un ghigno mostruoso. “Cani intelligenti! Cani intelligenti! Fedeli fino alla fine! Non hanno mai detto al vecchio parroco dove si trovavano. Non hanno mai tradito il vecchio Fagin! E perché avrebbero dovuto? Non avrebbe allentato il nodo, o ritardato la caduta, neanche di un minuto in più. No, no, no! Belli tipi! Belli tipi!”

Con questi e altri mormorati pensieri dello stesso genere, l’ebreo ripose nuovamente il crocifisso nel suo luogo sicuro. Almeno altre mezza dozzina di orologi furono estratti dallo stesso cassetto e osservati con pari piacere; oltre ad anelli, spille, bracciali e altri articoli di gioielleria, di materiali così magnifici e lavorazione costosa che Oliver non aveva nemmeno idea dei loro nomi.

Dopo aver riposto questi cianfrusaglie, l’ebreo ne tirò fuori un’altra: così piccola che stava nel palmo della sua mano. Sembra ci fosse sopra una qualche minuta iscrizione; perché l’ebreo la posò piatta sul tavolo e, riparandola con la mano, la scrutò a lungo e attentamente. Alla fine la mise via, come se avesse rinunciato alla speranza di successo; e, appoggiandosi allo schienale della sedia, borbottò:

«Che cosa meravigliosa è la pena capitale! I morti non si pentono mai; i morti non portano mai alla luce storie scomode. Ah, è una cosa meravigliosa per il mestiere! Cinque di loro appesi in fila, e nessuno rimasto a fare da bottino o a diventare codardo!»

Mentre l’ebreo pronunciava queste parole, i suoi occhi scuri e lucenti, che erano stati fissi nel vuoto davanti a sé, caddero sul volto di Oliver; gli occhi del ragazzo erano fissi su di lui in muta curiosità; e sebbene il riconoscimento durò solo un istante — per lo spazio più breve di tempo che si possa concepire — fu sufficiente a far capire al vecchio che era stato osservato.

Chiuse il coperchio della scatola con un forte tonfo e, appoggiando la mano su un coltello da pane che era sul tavolo, si alzò furiosamente. Tremava molto però; perché, anche nella sua paura, Oliver vide che il coltello tremava in aria.

«Che cos’è?» disse l’Ebreo. «Perché mi guardi? Perché sei sveglio? Cosa hai visto? Parla, ragazzo! Svelto — svelto! per la tua vita».

“Non sono più riuscito a dormire, signore”, rispose Oliver con umiltà. “Mi dispiace molto se l’ho disturbata, signore”.

«Non eri sveglio un’ora fa?» disse l’Ebreo, aggrottando furiosamente la fronte verso il ragazzo.

“Niente affatto!” rispose Oliver.

«Ne sei sicuro?» gridò l’ebreo con uno sguardo ancora più feroce di prima e un atteggiamento minaccioso.

«Sul mio onore non lo ero, signore», rispose Oliver con fervore. «Non lo ero davvero, signore».

«Bah, bah, mio caro!» disse l’ebreo, riprendendo bruscamente il suo vecchio modo di fare, e giocherellando col coltello un po’, prima di posarlo; come se volesse indurre a credere che lo avesse preso su solo per gioco. «Certo che lo so, mio caro. Ho solo cercato di spaventarti. Sei un ragazzo coraggioso. Ah! ah! sei un ragazzo coraggioso, Oliver.» L’ebreo si strofinò le mani con una risatina, ma nonostante ciò lanciò uno sguardo inquieto alla scatola.

«Avete visto qualcuna di queste graziose cose, mia cara?» disse l’ebreo, posandovi sopra la mano dopo una breve pausa.

«Sì, signore», rispose Oliver.

“Ah!” disse l’ebreo, impallidendo leggermente. “Sono—sono miei, Oliver; la mia piccola proprietà. Tutto ciò che mi serve per vivere nella vecchiaia. La gente mi chiama un avaro, caro mio. Solo un avaro; nient’altro.”

Oliver pensò che il vecchio signore dovesse essere un vero e proprio avaro per vivere in un posto così sporco con così tanti orologi; ma, pensando che forse la sua predilezione per il Dodger e gli altri ragazzi gli costasse parecchi soldi, si limitò a lanciare uno sguardo deferente verso l’ebreo e chiese se poteva alzarsi.

«Certamente, mia cara, certamente», rispose il vecchio signore. «Aspetta. C’è un brocca di acqua nell’angolo vicino alla porta. Portala qui; e ti darò una bacinella per lavarti, mia cara».

Oliver got up; walked across the room; and stooped for an instant to raise the pitcher. When he turned his head, the box was gone.

He had scarcely washed himself, and made everything tidy, by emptying the basin out of the window, agreeably to the Jew’s directions, when the Dodger returned: accompanied by a very sprightly young friend, whom Oliver had seen smoking on the previous night, and who was now formally introduced to him as Charley Bates. The four sat down, to breakfast, on the coffee, and some hot rolls and ham which the Dodger had brought home in the crown of his hat.

“Well,” said the Jew, glancing slyly at Oliver, and addressing himself to the Dodger, “I hope you’ve been at work this morning, my dears?”

“Hard,” replied the Dodger.

“As nails,” added Charley Bates.

“Good boys, good boys!” said the Jew. “What have you got, Dodger?”

“A couple of pocket-books,” replied that young gentleman.

“Lined?” inquired the Jew, with eagerness.

“Pretty well,” replied the Dodger, producing two pocket-books; one green, and the other red.

“Not so heavy as they might be,” said the Jew, after looking at the insides carefully; “but very neat and nicely made. Ingenious workman, ain’t he, Oliver?”

“Very indeed, sir,” said Oliver. At which Mr. Charles Bates laughed uproariously; very much to the amazement of Oliver, who saw nothing to laugh at, in anything that had passed.

“And what have you got, my dear?” said Fagin to Charley Bates.

“Wipes,” replied Master Bates; at the same time producing four pocket-handkerchiefs.

“Well,” said the Jew, inspecting them closely; “they’re very good ones, very. You haven’t marked them well, though, Charley; so the marks shall be picked out with a needle, and we’ll teach Oliver how to do it. Shall us, Oliver, eh? Ha! ha! ha!”

“If you please, sir,” said Oliver.

“You’d like to be able to make pocket-handkerchiefs as easy as Charley Bates, wouldn’t you, my dear?” said the Jew.

“Very much, indeed, if you’ll teach me, sir,” replied Oliver.

Master Bates saw something so exquisitely ludicrous in this reply, that he burst into another laugh; which laugh, meeting the coffee he was drinking, and carrying it down some wrong channel, very nearly terminated in his premature suffocation.

“He is so jolly green!” said Charley when he recovered, as an apology to the company for his unpolite behaviour.

The Dodger said nothing, but he smoothed Oliver’s hair over his eyes, and said he’d know better, by and by; upon which the old gentleman, observing Oliver’s colour mounting, changed the subject by asking whether there had been much of a crowd at the execution that morning? This made him wonder more and more; for it was plain from the replies of the two boys that they had both been there; and Oliver naturally wondered how they could possibly have found time to be so very industrious.

When the breakfast was cleared away; the merry old gentleman and the two boys played at a very curious and uncommon game, which was performed in this way. The merry old gentleman, placing a snuff-box in one pocket of his trousers, a note-case in the other, and a watch in his waistcoat pocket, with a guard-chain round his neck, and sticking a mock diamond pin in his shirt: buttoned his coat tight round him, and putting his spectacle-case and handkerchief in his pockets, trotted up and down the room with a stick, in imitation of the manner in which old gentlemen walk about the streets any hour in the day. Sometimes he stopped at the fire-place, and sometimes at the door, making believe that he was staring with all his might into shop-windows. At such times, he would look constantly round him, for fear of thieves, and would keep slapping all his pockets in turn, to see that he hadn’t lost anything, in such a very funny and natural manner, that Oliver laughed till the tears ran down his face. All this time, the two boys followed him closely about: getting out of his sight, so nimbly, every time he turned round, that it was impossible to follow their motions. At last, the Dodger trod upon his toes, or ran upon his boot accidently, while Charley Bates stumbled up against him behind; and in that one moment they took from him, with the most extraordinary rapidity, snuff-box, note-case, watch-guard, chain, shirt-pin, pocket-handkerchief, even the spectacle-case. If the old gentleman felt a hand in any one of his pockets, he cried out where it was; and then the game began all over again.

When this game had been played a great many times, a couple of young ladies called to see the young gentleman; one of whom was named Bet, and the other Nancy. They wore a good deal of hair, not very neatly turned up behind, and were rather untidy about the shoes and stockings. They were not exactly pretty, perhaps; but they had a great deal of colour in their faces, and looked quite stout and hearty. Being remarkably free and agreeable in their manners, Oliver thought them very nice girls indeed, as there is no doubt they were.

The visitors stopped a long time. Spirits were produced, in consequence of one of the young ladies complaining of a coldness in her inside; and the conversation took a very convivial and improving turn. At length, Charley Bates expressed his opinion that it was time to pad the hoof. This, it occurred to Oliver, must be French for going out; for directly afterwards, the Dodger, and Charley, and the two young ladies, went away together, having been kindly furnished by the amiable old Jew with money to spend.

“There, my dear,” said Fagin. “That’s a pleasant life, isn’t it? They have gone out for the day.”

“Have they done work, sir?” inquired Oliver.

“Yes,” said the Jew; “that is, unless they should unexpectedly come across any, when they are out; and they won’t neglect it, if they do, my dear, depend upon it. Make ’em your models, my dear. Make ’em your models,” tapping the fire-shovel on the hearth to add force to his words; “do everything they bid you, and take their advice in all matters—especially the Dodger’s, my dear. He’ll be a great man himself, and will make you one too, if you take pattern by him.—Is my handkerchief hanging out of my pocket, my dear?” said the Jew, stopping short.

“Yes, sir,” said Oliver.

“See if you can take it out, without my feeling it; as you saw them do, when we were at play this morning.”

Oliver held up the bottom of the pocket with one hand, as he had seen the Dodger hold it, and drew the handkerchief lightly out of it with the other.

“Is it gone?” cried the Jew.

“Here it is, sir,” said Oliver, showing it in his hand.

“You’re a clever boy, my dear,” said the playful old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head approvingly. “I never saw a sharper lad. Here’s a shilling for you. If you go on, in this way, you’ll be the greatest man of the time. And now come here, and I’ll show you how to take the marks out of the handkerchiefs.”

Oliver wondered what picking the old gentleman’s pocket in play, had to do with his chances of being a great man. But, thinking that the Jew, being so much his senior, must know best, he followed him quietly to the table, and was soon deeply involved in his new study.

Oliver si alzò, attraversò la stanza e si chinò per un istante a sollevare l’orciolo. Quando girò il capo, la scatola era sparita.

Si era appena lavato e aveva messo tutto a posto, svuotando il catino fuori dalla finestra, secondo le istruzioni dell’ebreo, quando tornò il Dodger: accompagnato da un giovane amico molto vivace che Oliver aveva visto fumare la sera prima e che gli venne ora presentato formalmente come Charley Bates. I quattro si sedettero a fare colazione con del caffè, dei panini caldi e del prosciutto che il Dodger aveva portato a casa nel cappello.

«Bene,» disse l’ebreo, lanciando un’occhiata furtiva a Oliver e rivolgendosi al Dodger «spero che abbiate lavorato stamattina, mie care?»

«Difficile», rispose il Dodger.

«Come chiodi», aggiunse Charley Bates.

“Bravi ragazzi, bravi ragazzi!” disse l’ebreo. “Cosa hai trovato, Dodger?”

«Un paio di portafogli», rispose quel giovane signore.

«Foderato?» chiese l’ebreo con impazienza.

“Abbastanza bene”, rispose il Dodger, tirando fuori due portafogli; uno verde e l’altro rosso.

«Non così pesanti come potrebbero essere», disse l’ebreo dopo aver esaminato attentamente l’interno; «ma molto ordinati e ben fatti. È un artigiano ingegnoso, non è vero, Oliver?»

«Proprio così, signore», disse Oliver. Al che il signor Charles Bates scoppiò a ridere fragorosamente; con grande stupore di Oliver, che non vedeva nulla di cui ridere in tutto ciò che era accaduto.

“E tu cosa hai trovato, mio caro?”, disse Fagin a Charley Bates.

«Fazzoletti», rispose il maestro Bates; e nello stesso tempo tirò fuori quattro fazzoletti da taschino.

«Bene,» disse l’ebreo, ispezionandoli attentamente; «sono molto buoni, molto. Non li hai marchiati bene, però, Charley; quindi i segni saranno rimossi con un ago e insegneremo a Oliver come farlo. Lo faremo, vero, Oliver, eh? Ha! ha! ha!»

«Se le fa piacere, signore», disse Oliver.

«Ti piacerebbe essere capace di fare fazzoletti da taschino con la stessa facilità di Charley Bates, vero, caro mio?» disse l’ebreo.

«Moltissimo, davvero, se mi insegnerà lei, signore», rispose Oliver.

Il signorino Bates trovò una tale squisita assurdità in quella risposta che scoppiò a ridere di nuovo; e questa risata, incontrando il caffè che stava bevendo e portandolo giù per un condotto sbagliato, lo avrebbe quasi soffocato prematuramente.

«È così verde e giovane!» disse Charley quando si riprese, come scusa verso gli altri per il suo comportamento maleducato.

Il Dodger non disse nulla, ma lisciò i capelli di Oliver sugli occhi, e gli disse che avrebbe capito meglio in seguito; a questo punto il vecchio signore, notando il colore del viso di Oliver salire alle guance, cambiò argomento chiedendo se ci fosse stata molta folla all’esecuzione quella mattina. Questo lo fece meravigliare sempre più; perché era chiaro dalle risposte dei due ragazzi che erano stati entrambi lì; e Oliver si chiedeva naturalmente come avessero potuto trovare il tempo per essere così molto operosi.

Quando la colazione fu sparecchiata, il vecchio allegrone e i due ragazzi si dedicarono a un gioco molto curioso e insolito che si svolgeva in questo modo: il vecchio allegrone metteva una tabacchiera in una tasca dei pantaloni, un portafoglio nell’altra, un orologio nel taschino del panciotto con la catena di guardia al collo e infilava uno spillone a brillante finto nella camicia; dopodiché si abbottonava stretta addosso la giacca, metteva in tasca il portacase e il fazzoletto e si metteva a camminare su e giù per la stanza con un bastone, imitando il modo in cui i vecchi signori passeggiano per le strade a qualsiasi ora del giorno. A volte si fermava davanti al camino o alla porta, fingendo di fissare con tutta l’energia possibile le vetrine dei negozi. In quei momenti guardava continuamente intorno per paura dei ladri e si dava a schiaffeggiare tutte le tasche a turno per assicurarsi di non aver perso nulla, in un modo così divertente e naturale che Oliver rideva fino alle lacrime. Tutto questo tempo, i due ragazzi lo seguivano da vicino: scompariva dalla sua vista con tale agilità ogni volta che si girava, che era impossibile seguire i loro movimenti. Alla fine il Dodger gli pestò un piede o gli calpestò accidentalmente una scarpa mentre Charley Bates gli venne addosso da dietro; e in quell’unico momento con la massima rapidità gli rubarono tabacchiera, portafoglio, catenina dell’orologio, catena, spillone della camicia, fazzoletto, persino il portacase. Se il vecchio sentiva una mano in una delle sue tasche gridava dove si trovava e allora il gioco ricominciava da capo.

Quando questo gioco era stato ripetuto molte volte, due giovani signore vennero a trovare il giovane gentiluomo; una delle quali si chiamava Bet e l’altra Nancy. Avevano i capelli lunghi, non molto ordinatamente raccolti dietro la nuca, ed erano piuttosto trasandate riguardo alle scarpe e alle calze. Forse non erano esattamente carine; ma avevano un bel colorito in viso e sembravano robuste e in buona salute. Essendo particolarmente libere e gradevoli nei loro modi, Oliver le trovò davvero delle ragazze molto simpatiche, come non c’è alcun dubbio che fossero.

I visitatori rimasero a lungo. Vennero fuori dei liquori, in seguito al fatto che una delle giovani signore si lamentò di un senso di freddo interno; e la conversazione prese una piega molto conviviale e edificante. Alla fine Charley Bates espose il suo parere che fosse ora di “pad the hoof”. A Oliver venne in mente che doveva essere un’espressione francese per dire uscire; infatti subito dopo, il Dodger e Charley e le due giovani signore se ne andarono insieme, avendo ricevuto gentilmente dal vecchio ebreo denaro da spendere.

«Ecco fatto, mio caro», disse Fagin. «Questa è una vita piacevole, non trovi? Sono usciti per la giornata.»

«Hanno lavorato, signore?» chiese Oliver.

“Sì”, disse l’ebreo; “cioè, a meno che non dovessero incontrarne qualcuno inaspettatamente, quando sono fuori; e se lo fanno, non lo trascureranno, mia cara, puoi contarci. Prendili come modello, mia cara. Prendili come modello”, battendo il poker sul focolare per dare più forza alle sue parole; “fai tutto quello che ti dicono e segui i loro consigli in ogni cosa, soprattutto quelli del Dodger, mia cara. Lui stesso diventerà un grande uomo e ne farà uno anche di te, se lo prendi come esempio.—Il mio fazzoletto è fuori dalla tasca, mia cara?” disse l’ebreo, fermandosi bruscamente.

«Sì, signore», disse Oliver.

«Vedi se riesci a toglierlo senza che io lo senta, come hai visto fare loro mentre giocavamo questa mattina.»

Oliver teneva con una mano il fondo della tasca, come aveva visto fare a Dodger, e con l’altra tirò delicatamente fuori il fazzoletto.

«È sparito?» gridò l’ebreo.

«Ecco qua, signore», disse Oliver, mostrandolo nella sua mano.

«Sei un ragazzo intelligente, mio caro», disse il vecchio signore giocoso, accarezzando la testa di Oliver con approvazione. «Non ho mai visto un ragazzo più acuto. Ecco uno scellino per te. Se continui così, diventerai l’uomo più grande del tempo. E ora vieni qui e ti mostrerò come togliere i segni dai fazzoletti.»

Oliver si chiedeva che cosa avesse a che fare il mettere le mani nelle tasche del vecchietto per gioco con la possibilità di diventare un grande uomo. Ma pensando che lo scassinatore, essendo molto più anziano di lui, doveva sapere meglio, lo seguì tranquillamente fino al tavolo e ben presto si trovò profondamente immerso nel suo nuovo studio.

CHAPTER X. OLIVER BECOMES BETTER ACQUAINTED WITH THE CHARACTERS OF HIS NEW ASSOCIATES; AND PURCHASES EXPERIENCE AT A HIGH PRICE. BEING A SHORT, BUT VERY IMPORTANT CHAPTER, IN THIS HISTORY

For many days, Oliver remained in the Jew’s room, picking the marks out of the pocket-handkerchief, (of which a great number were brought home,) and sometimes taking part in the game already described: which the two boys and the Jew played, regularly, every morning. At length, he began to languish for fresh air, and took many occasions of earnestly entreating the old gentleman to allow him to go out to work with his two companions.

Oliver was rendered the more anxious to be actively employed, by what he had seen of the stern morality of the old gentleman’s character. Whenever the Dodger or Charley Bates came home at night, empty-handed, he would expatiate with great vehemence on the misery of idle and lazy habits; and would enforce upon them the necessity of an active life, by sending them supperless to bed. On one occasion, indeed, he even went so far as to knock them both down a flight of stairs; but this was carrying out his virtuous precepts to an unusual extent.

At length, one morning, Oliver obtained the permission he had so eagerly sought. There had been no handkerchiefs to work upon, for two or three days, and the dinners had been rather meagre. Perhaps these were reasons for the old gentleman’s giving his assent; but, whether they were or no, he told Oliver he might go, and placed him under the joint guardianship of Charley Bates, and his friend the Dodger.

The three boys sallied out; the Dodger with his coat-sleeves tucked up, and his hat cocked, as usual; Master Bates sauntering along with his hands in his pockets; and Oliver between them, wondering where they were going, and what branch of manufacture he would be instructed in first.

The pace at which they went, was such a very lazy, ill-looking saunter, that Oliver soon began to think his companions were going to deceive the old gentleman, by not going to work at all. The Dodger had a vicious propensity, too, of pulling the caps from the heads of small boys and tossing them down areas; while Charley Bates exhibited some very loose notions concerning the rights of property, by pilfering divers apples and onions from the stalls at the kennel sides, and thrusting them into pockets which were so surprisingly capacious, that they seemed to undermine his whole suit of clothes in every direction. These things looked so bad, that Oliver was on the point of declaring his intention of seeking his way back, in the best way he could; when his thoughts were suddenly directed into another channel, by a very mysterious change of behaviour on the part of the Dodger.

They were just emerging from a narrow court not far from the open square in Clerkenwell, which is yet called, by some strange perversion of terms, “The Green”: when the Dodger made a sudden stop; and, laying his finger on his lip, drew his companions back again, with the greatest caution and circumspection.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Oliver.

“Hush!” replied the Dodger. “Do you see that old cove at the book-stall?”

“The old gentleman over the way?” said Oliver. “Yes, I see him.”

“He’ll do,” said the Dodger.

“A prime plant,” observed Master Charley Bates.

Oliver looked from one to the other, with the greatest surprise; but he was not permitted to make any inquiries; for the two boys walked stealthily across the road, and slunk close behind the old gentleman towards whom his attention had been directed. Oliver walked a few paces after them; and, not knowing whether to advance or retire, stood looking on in silent amazement.

The old gentleman was a very respectable-looking personage, with a powdered head and gold spectacles. He was dressed in a bottle-green coat with a black velvet collar; wore white trousers; and carried a smart bamboo cane under his arm. He had taken up a book from the stall, and there he stood, reading away, as hard as if he were in his elbow-chair, in his own study. It is very possible that he fancied himself there, indeed; for it was plain, from his abstraction, that he saw not the book-stall, nor the street, nor the boys, nor, in short, anything but the book itself: which he was reading straight through: turning over the leaf when he got to the bottom of a page, beginning at the top line of the next one, and going regularly on, with the greatest interest and eagerness.

What was Oliver’s horror and alarm as he stood a few paces off, looking on with his eyelids as wide open as they would possibly go, to see the Dodger plunge his hand into the old gentleman’s pocket, and draw from thence a handkerchief! To see him hand the same to Charley Bates; and finally to behold them, both running away round the corner at full speed!

In an instant the whole mystery of the hankerchiefs, and the watches, and the jewels, and the Jew, rushed upon the boy’s mind.

He stood, for a moment, with the blood so tingling through all his veins from terror, that he felt as if he were in a burning fire; then, confused and frightened, he took to his heels; and, not knowing what he did, made off as fast as he could lay his feet to the ground.

This was all done in a minute’s space. In the very instant when Oliver began to run, the old gentleman, putting his hand to his pocket, and missing his handkerchief, turned sharp round. Seeing the boy scudding away at such a rapid pace, he very naturally concluded him to be the depredator; and shouting “Stop thief!” with all his might, made off after him, book in hand.

But the old gentleman was not the only person who raised the hue-and-cry. The Dodger and Master Bates, unwilling to attract public attention by running down the open street, had merely retired into the very first doorway round the corner. They no sooner heard the cry, and saw Oliver running, than, guessing exactly how the matter stood, they issued forth with great promptitude; and, shouting “Stop thief!” too, joined in the pursuit like good citizens.

Although Oliver had been brought up by philosophers, he was not theoretically acquainted with the beautiful axiom that self-preservation is the first law of nature. If he had been, perhaps he would have been prepared for this. Not being prepared, however, it alarmed him the more; so away he went like the wind, with the old gentleman and the two boys roaring and shouting behind him.

“Stop thief! Stop thief!” There is a magic in the sound. The tradesman leaves his counter, and the car-man his waggon; the butcher throws down his tray; the baker his basket; the milkman his pail; the errand-boy his parcels; the school-boy his marbles; the paviour his pickaxe; the child his battledore. Away they run, pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash: tearing, yelling, screaming, knocking down the passengers as they turn the corners, rousing up the dogs, and astonishing the fowls: and streets, squares, and courts, re-echo with the sound.

“Stop thief! Stop thief!” The cry is taken up by a hundred voices, and the crowd accumulate at every turning. Away they fly, splashing through the mud, and rattling along the pavements: up go the windows, out run the people, onward bear the mob, a whole audience desert Punch in the very thickest of the plot, and, joining the rushing throng, swell the shout, and lend fresh vigour to the cry, “Stop thief! Stop thief!”

“Stop thief! Stop thief!” There is a passion for hunting something deeply implanted in the human breast. One wretched breathless child, panting with exhaustion; terror in his looks; agony in his eyes; large drops of perspiration streaming down his face; strains every nerve to make head upon his pursuers; and as they follow on his track, and gain upon him every instant, they hail his decreasing strength with joy. “Stop thief!” Ay, stop him for God’s sake, were it only in mercy!

Stopped at last! A clever blow. He is down upon the pavement; and the crowd eagerly gather round him: each new comer, jostling and struggling with the others to catch a glimpse. “Stand aside!” “Give him a little air!” “Nonsense! he don’t deserve it.” “Where’s the gentleman?” “Here he is, coming down the street.” “Make room there for the gentleman!” “Is this the boy, sir!” “Yes.”

Oliver lay, covered with mud and dust, and bleeding from the mouth, looking wildly round upon the heap of faces that surrounded him, when the old gentleman was officiously dragged and pushed into the circle by the foremost of the pursuers.

“Yes,” said the gentleman, “I am afraid it is the boy.”

“Afraid!” murmured the crowd. “That’s a good ’un!”

“Poor fellow!” said the gentleman, “he has hurt himself.”

“I did that, sir,” said a great lubberly fellow, stepping forward; “and preciously I cut my knuckle agin’ his mouth. I stopped him, sir.”

The fellow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for his pains; but, the old gentleman, eyeing him with an expression of dislike, look anxiously round, as if he contemplated running away himself: which it is very possible he might have attempted to do, and thus have afforded another chase, had not a police officer (who is generally the last person to arrive in such cases) at that moment made his way through the crowd, and seized Oliver by the collar.

“Come, get up,” said the man, roughly.

“It wasn’t me indeed, sir. Indeed, indeed, it was two other boys,” said Oliver, clasping his hands passionately, and looking round. “They are here somewhere.”

“Oh no, they ain’t,” said the officer. He meant this to be ironical, but it was true besides; for the Dodger and Charley Bates had filed off down the first convenient court they came to.

“Come, get up!”

“Don’t hurt him,” said the old gentleman, compassionately.

“Oh no, I won’t hurt him,” replied the officer, tearing his jacket half off his back, in proof thereof. “Come, I know you; it won’t do. Will you stand upon your legs, you young devil?”

Oliver, who could hardly stand, made a shift to raise himself on his feet, and was at once lugged along the streets by the jacket-collar, at a rapid pace. The gentleman walked on with them by the officer’s side; and as many of the crowd as could achieve the feat, got a little ahead, and stared back at Oliver from time to time. The boys shouted in triumph; and on they went.

CAPITOLO X. OLIVER SI FAMILIARIZZA SEMPRE PIÙ CON I PERSONAGGI DEI SUOI NUOVI ASSOCIATI; E ACQUISTA ESPERIENZA A UN PREZZO ALTO. È UN CAPITOLO BREVE, MA MOLTO IMPORTANTE, IN QUESTA STORIA

Per molti giorni Oliver rimase nella stanza dell’ebreo, togliendo i segni dai fazzoletti da taschino (ne furono portati a casa un gran numero) e talvolta partecipando al gioco già descritto che i due ragazzi e l’ebreo giocavano regolarmente ogni mattina. Alla fine cominciò ad anelare all’aria aperta e colse molte occasioni per pregare con insistenza il vecchio signore di permettergli di uscire a lavorare insieme ai suoi due compagni.

Oliver era reso ancor più ansioso di essere attivamente impiegato da ciò che aveva visto della severa moralità del carattere del vecchio signore. Ogni volta che il Dodger o Charley Bates tornavano a casa la sera a mani vuote, egli si dilungava con grande veemenza sulla miseria delle abitudini oziose e pigre; e sottolineava loro la necessità di una vita attiva mandandoli a letto senza cena. In un’occasione, anzi, arrivò addirittura ad arrivare al punto da spingerli giù per una rampa di scale; ma questo era portare i suoi virtuosi precetti a un’estensione insolita.

Alla fine, una mattina, Oliver ottenne il permesso che aveva tanto desiderato. Non c’erano stati fazzoletti da lavorare per due o tre giorni e i pranzi erano stati piuttosto magri. Forse queste furono le ragioni del consenso del vecchio signore; ma, fossero state quelle o no, disse a Oliver che poteva andare e lo mise sotto la tutela congiunta di Charley Bates e del suo amico il Dodger.

I tre ragazzi uscirono: il Dodger con le maniche del cappotto rimboccate e il cappello inclinato come al solito; Master Bates che si aggirava con le mani nelle tasche; e Oliver tra loro, chiedendosi dove stessero andando e in quale ramo dell’industria sarebbe stato istruito per primo.

Il passo con cui procedevano era così lento e svogliato che Oliver presto cominciò a pensare che i suoi compagni volessero ingannare il vecchio signore non andando affatto al lavoro. Il Dodger aveva inoltre una brutta abitudine di strappare i berretti dalla testa dei ragazzini e gettarli giù per le scale; mentre Charley Bates dimostrava delle idee piuttosto confuse sui diritti di proprietà, rubando varie mele e cipolle dai banchi ai lati del canile e infilandole nelle tasche che erano così sorprendentemente capienti da sembrare minacciare l’integrità dell’intero abito. Queste cose apparivano così negative che Oliver stava per dichiarare la sua intenzione di cercare di tornare indietro nel miglior modo possibile, quando i suoi pensieri furono improvvisamente deviati da un cambiamento molto misterioso del comportamento del Dodger.

Erano appena usciti da un angusto vicolo non lontano dalla piazza aperta di Clerkenwell, che per qualche strana perversione dei termini è ancora chiamata “Il Prato”: quando il Dodger si fermò bruscamente; e, portandosi un dito sulle labbra, fece indietreggiare i suoi compagni con la massima cautela e circospezione.

“Che succede?” chiese Oliver.

“Zitto!” rispose il Dodger. “Vedi quel vecchio tizio al banco dei libri?”

«Il vecchio signore di là?» disse Oliver. «Sì, lo vedo.»

«Va bene», disse il Dodger.

«Una pianta di prim’ordine», osservò il giovane Charley Bates.

Oliver guardò da uno all’altro con grande sorpresa; ma non gli fu permesso di fare domande: i due ragazzi attraversarono furtivamente la strada e si nascosero dietro il vecchio signore verso cui l’attenzione di Oliver era stata attirata. Oliver li seguì per qualche passo; e, non sapendo se avanzare o ritirarsi, rimase a guardare in silenzioso stupore.

Il vecchio signore era un personaggio dall’aspetto molto rispettabile, con la testa incipriata e gli occhiali d’oro. Era vestito con un abito verde bottiglia con il collo di velluto nero; indossava pantaloni bianchi; e portava sotto il braccio un elegante bastone di bambù. Aveva preso in mano un libro dal banco, e lì stava, leggendo senza sosta, come se fosse nella sua poltrona, nel suo studio. È molto probabile che si immaginasse davvero lì; infatti era evidente, dalla sua distrazione, che non vedeva il banco dei libri, né la strada, né i ragazzi, né, in breve, nulla tranne il libro stesso: che stava leggendo d’un fiato: girando pagina quando arrivava al fondo di una pagina, cominciando dalla riga superiore della successiva e procedendo regolarmente, con grande interesse ed entusiasmo.

Qual non fu l’orrore e lo spavento di Oliver mentre stava a pochi passi da loro, osservando con gli occhi sbarrati, nel vedere il Dodger infilare la mano nella tasca del vecchio signore ed estrarne un fazzoletto! Nel vederlo consegnarlo a Charley Bates; e infine nell’assistere mentre entrambi scappavano dietro l’angolo a tutta velocità!

In un istante l’intero mistero dei fazzoletti, degli orologi, dei gioielli e dell’ebreo balenò nella mente del ragazzo.

Rimase fermo per un momento con il sangue che gli pulsava così forte in tutte le vene dalla paura da sentirsi come se fosse in un rogo; poi, confuso e spaventato, prese a correre; e senza sapere cosa facesse, fuggì più veloce che poté.

Tutto ciò avvenne nel giro di un minuto. Proprio nell’istante in cui Oliver cominciò a correre, il vecchio signore, mettendo la mano in tasca e non trovando il fazzoletto, si voltò di scatto. Vedendo il ragazzo sfrecciare via a una velocità così rapida, concluse molto naturalmente che fosse lui il ladro; e gridando “Fermatelo!” con tutte le sue forze, gli corse dietro, libro alla mano.

Ma il vecchio gentiluomo non era l’unica persona che aveva dato l’allarme. Il Dodger e Master Bates, non volendo attirare l’attenzione del pubblico correndo per la strada aperta, si erano semplicemente ritirati nel primo portone dietro l’angolo. Non appena sentirono il grido e videro Oliver correre, intuendo esattamente come stessero le cose, uscirono con grande prontezza; e, gridando anche loro “Fermatelo!”, si unirono all’inseguimento come buoni cittadini.

Sebbene Oliver fosse stato allevato da filosofi, non conosceva teoricamente il bellissimo assioma secondo cui la conservazione di sé è la prima legge della natura. Se lo avesse saputo, forse sarebbe stato preparato a questo. Non essendo però preparato, ciò lo allarmò ancor più; così se ne andò come il vento, con il vecchio signore e i due ragazzi che gli ruggivano e gridavano dietro.

«Fermatelo! Fermatelo!» C’è una magia in quel suono. Il commerciante lascia il suo banco e il conducente di carro la sua vettura; il macellaio getta via il suo vassoio, il panettiere il suo cesto, il latteiro il suo secchio, il fattorino i suoi pacchi, lo scolaretto le sue biglie, l’asfaltatore la sua picca, il bambino il suo battipalla. Via che corrono, alla rinfusa, in disordine, a precipizio: strappando, urlando, gridando, facendo cadere i passanti mentre girano gli angoli, svegliando i cani e stupendo le galline; e strade, piazze e cortili riecheggiano del suono.

«Fermate il ladro! Fermate il ladro!» Il grido viene ripreso da cento voci, e la folla si accumula ad ogni svolta. Via che volano, schizzando nel fango e sfrecciando lungo i marciapiedi: le finestre si spalancano, la gente esce in strada, la folla avanza, un intero pubblico abbandona Punch proprio nel momento più intenso della trama, e, unendosi alla calca che corre, aumenta il clamore e dà nuovo vigore al grido: «Fermate il ladro! Fermate il ladro!»

«Fermate il ladro! Fermate il ladro!» Esiste una passione per la caccia a qualcosa profondamente radicata nel cuore umano. Un povero bambino senza fiato, bambino, ansimante per lo sfinimento; terrore nei suoi sguardi; agonia nei suoi occhi; grosse gocce di sudore che gli scorrono lungo il viso; fa uno sforzo disperato per tenere testa ai suoi inseguitori; e mentre questi seguono le sue tracce, guadagnando terreno ogni istante, salutano la sua forza sempre più esaurita con gioia. «Fermate il ladro!» Sì, fermatelo per amor di Dio, anche solo in pietà!

Finalmente fermato! Un colpo intelligente. È a terra sul marciapiede; e la folla si affolla avidamente intorno a lui: ogni nuovo arrivato spinge e lotta con gli altri per cogliere uno sguardo. «Fate largo!» «Dategli un po’ d’aria!» «Sciocchezze! non se lo merita». «Dov’è il signore?» «Eccolo, sta venendo giù per la strada». «Fate spazio lì per il signore!» «È questo il ragazzo, signore?» «Sì.»

Oliver giaceva ricoperto di fango e polvere, con il sangue che gli colava dalla bocca, guardandosi intorno smarrito tra la massa di volti che lo circondavano, quando il vecchio signore venne trascinato e spinto nel cerchio in modo invadente dal più avanti dei perseguitatori.

“Sì,” disse il signore, “temo che sia il ragazzo.”

“Spaventato!” mormorò la folla. “Che bella battuta!”

“Poveretto!” disse il signore, “si è fatto male.”

«L’ho fatto io, signore», disse un grosso e goffo tizio facendo un passo avanti; «e mi sono proprio slogato il polso contro la sua bocca. Sono stato io a fermarlo, signore».

Il tizio si toccò il cappello con un sorriso, aspettandosi qualcosa per le sue fatiche; ma il vecchio signore, guardandolo con aria di antipatia, si guardò intorno ansiosamente, come se stesse pensando di scappare lui stesso: cosa che molto probabilmente avrebbe potuto tentare di fare e così offrire un’altra caccia, se in quel momento un agente di polizia (che è generalmente l’ultima persona ad arrivare in casi del genere) non si fosse fatto largo tra la folla e avesse afferrato Oliver per il colletto.

«Su, alzati», disse l’uomo in tono brusco.

“Non sono stato io davvero, signore. Davvero, davvero, sono stati due altri ragazzi”, disse Oliver, stringendo le mani con passione e guardandosi intorno. “Sono da qualche parte qui vicino”.

«Oh no, non lo sono», disse l’ufficiale. Voleva essere ironico, ma era anche vero; perché il Dodger e Charley Bates si erano dileguati per la prima comoda corte che avevano trovato.

“Su, alzati!”

«Non gli faccia del male», disse il vecchio gentiluomo con compassione.

«Oh no, non gli farò del male», rispose l’ufficiale strappandosi la giacca a metà dalla schiena per dimostrarlo. «Su, ti conosco; non funzionerà. Ti alzerai in piedi, giovane diavolo?»

Oliver, che poteva a malapena stare in piedi, riuscì a tirarsi su e fu subito trascinato per le strade dal colletto della giacca, a passo svelto. Il signore camminava con loro al fianco dell’ufficiale; e quanti più persone nella folla potevano riuscirci si mettevano un po’ avanti e guardavano indietro verso Oliver di tanto in tanto. I ragazzi gridavano trionfanti; e così andarono avanti.

CHAPTER XI. TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE; AND FURNISHES A SLIGHT SPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE

The offence had been committed within the district, and indeed in the immediate neighborhood of, a very notorious metropolitan police office. The crowd had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two or three streets, and down a place called Mutton Hill, when he was led beneath a low archway, and up a dirty court, into this dispensary of summary justice, by the back way. It was a small paved yard into which they turned; and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of whiskers on his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand.

“What’s the matter now?” said the man carelessly.

“A young fogle-hunter,” replied the man who had Oliver in charge.

“Are you the party that’s been robbed, sir?” inquired the man with the keys.

“Yes, I am,” replied the old gentleman; “but I am not sure that this boy actually took the handkerchief. I—I would rather not press the case.”

“Must go before the magistrate now, sir,” replied the man. “His worship will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows!”

This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was searched; and nothing being found upon him, locked up.

This cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar, only not so light. It was most intolerably dirty; for it was Monday morning; and it had been tenanted by six drunken people, who had been locked up, elsewhere, since Saturday night. But this is little. In our station-houses, men and women are every night confined on the most trivial charges—the word is worth noting—in dungeons, compared with which, those in Newgate, occupied by the most atrocious felons, tried, found guilty, and under sentence of death, are palaces. Let any one who doubts this, compare the two.

The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key grated in the lock. He turned with a sigh to the book, which had been the innocent cause of all this disturbance.

“There is something in that boy’s face,” said the old gentleman to himself as he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the cover of the book, in a thoughtful manner; “something that touches and interests me. Can he be innocent? He looked like— Bye the bye,” exclaimed the old gentleman, halting very abruptly, and staring up into the sky, “Bless my soul!—where have I seen something like that look before?”

After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked, with the same meditative face, into a back anteroom opening from the yard; and there, retiring into a corner, called up before his mind’s eye a vast amphitheatre of faces over which a dusky curtain had hung for many years. “No,” said the old gentleman, shaking his head; “it must be imagination.”

He wandered over them again. He had called them into view, and it was not easy to replace the shroud that had so long concealed them. There were the faces of friends, and foes, and of many that had been almost strangers peering intrusively from the crowd; there were the faces of young and blooming girls that were now old women; there were faces that the grave had changed and closed upon, but which the mind, superior to its power, still dressed in their old freshness and beauty, calling back the lustre of the eyes, the brightness of the smile, the beaming of the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering of beauty beyond the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from earth only to be set up as a light, to shed a soft and gentle glow upon the path to Heaven.

But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver’s features bore a trace. So, he heaved a sigh over the recollections he awakened; and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman, buried them again in the pages of the musty book.

He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the man with the keys to follow him into the office. He closed his book hastily; and was at once ushered into the imposing presence of the renowned Mr. Fang.

The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr. Fang sat behind a bar, at the upper end; and on one side of the door was a sort of wooden pen in which poor little Oliver was already deposited; trembling very much at the awfulness of the scene.

Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with no great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and sides of his head. His face was stern, and much flushed. If he were really not in the habit of drinking rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy damages.

The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the magistrate’s desk, said, suiting the action to the word, “That is my name and address, sir.” He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned.

Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was out of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl.

“Who are you?” said Mr. Fang.

The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.

“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper. “Who is this fellow?”

“My name, sir,” said the old gentleman, speaking like a gentleman, “my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable person, under the protection of the bench.” Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information.

CAPITOLO XI. TRATTA DI SIGNOR FANG, IL GIUDICE DI PRIMO GRADO; E FORNISCE UN BREVE CAMPIONE DEL SUO MODO DI AMMINISTRARE LA GIUSTIZIA

Il reato era stato commesso nel distretto e addirittura nelle immediate vicinanze di un noto commissariato della polizia metropolitana. La folla ebbe solo la soddisfazione di accompagnare Oliver per due o tre strade, fino a un posto chiamato Mutton Hill, quando fu condotto sotto un basso arco e su per una sporca corte, in questo dispensario della giustizia sommaria, dalla parte posteriore. Era un piccolo cortile lastricato nel quale entrarono; qui incontrarono un uomo robusto con un ciuffo di baffi sul viso e un mazzo di chiavi in mano.

«Che succede adesso?» disse l’uomo con noncuranza.

«Un giovane cacciatore di portafogli», rispose l’uomo che aveva in custodia Oliver.

«È lei la persona derubata, signore?» chiese l’uomo con le chiavi.

«Sì, lo sono», rispose il vecchio signore; «ma non sono sicuro che questo ragazzo abbia effettivamente preso il fazzoletto. Io—io preferirei di non insistere sulla questione».

«Devo presentarmi davanti al magistrato adesso, signore», rispose l’uomo. «Sua Eccellenza sarà libero tra un minuto. E ora, giovane impiccagione!»

Questa era un’invitazione per Oliver ad entrare attraverso una porta che lui stesso aprì mentre parlava e che conduceva in una cella di pietra. Qui fu perquisito; e non trovando nulla su di lui, venne rinchiuso.

Questa cella aveva forma e dimensioni simili a quelle di una cantina, solo che non era così luminosa. Era terribilmente sporca; infatti era lunedì mattina e vi avevano soggiornato sei ubriachi, rinchiusi in un altro posto da sabato sera. Ma questo è poco. Nelle nostre stazioni di polizia, uomini e donne vengono ogni notte detenuti per le accuse più futili — la parola merita attenzione — in sotterranei che, se confrontati con quelli di Newgate, occupati dai criminali più atroci, processati, dichiarati colpevoli e condannati a morte, sono palazzi. Chiunque dubiti di questo, faccia il confronto.

Il vecchio signore sembrava quasi altrettanto dispiaciuto di Oliver quando la chiave stridette nella serratura. Si voltò con un sospiro verso il libro, che era stato la causa innocente di tutto quel trambusto.

«C’è qualcosa nel volto di quel ragazzo», disse il vecchio signore tra sé mentre si allontanava lentamente, tamburellando sul mento con la copertina del libro in modo pensieroso; «qualcosa che mi commuove e mi interessa. Può essere innocente? Sembrava. Ah!», esclamò il vecchio signore, fermandosi bruscamente e fissando il cielo, «anima mia! Dove ho già visto qualcosa di simile a quell’espressione?»

Dopo aver riflettuto per alcuni minuti, il vecchio signore si diresse con la stessa espressione meditabonda in una stanza anteriore sul retro che dava sul cortile; e lì, ritirandosi in un angolo, evocò davanti ai suoi occhi mentali un vasto anfiteatro di volti su cui era calata da molti anni una tenda scura. “No”, disse il vecchio signore, scuotendo la testa; “deve essere immaginazione.”

Egli vagò di nuovo su di loro. Le aveva richiamate alla vista e non era facile sostituire il sudario che le aveva tanto a lungo nascoste. C’erano i volti di amici, nemici e di molti che erano stati quasi estranei, che sbirciavano intrusivamente dalla folla; c’erano i volti di giovani ragazze in fiore che ora erano vecchie donne; c’erano volti che la tomba aveva cambiato e chiuso su sé stessi, ma che la mente, superiore al suo potere, ancora vestiva della loro antica freschezza e bellezza, richiamando lo splendore degli occhi, la luminosità del sorriso, il raggiare dell’anima attraverso la sua maschera di argilla, e sussurrando di una bellezza oltre la tomba, cambiata ma per essere accentuata, tolta dalla terra solo per essere eretta come luce, diffondendo un morbido e dolce bagliore sul cammino verso il Cielo.

Ma il vecchio signore non riusciva a ricordare nessun volto che avesse un tratto somigliante ai lineamenti di Oliver. Così, sospirò per i ricordi che aveva risvegliato; e dato che, fortunatamente per lui, era un vecchio signore distratto, li seppellì nuovamente nelle pagine del libro polveroso.

Fu risvegliato da una mano sulla spalla e dalla richiesta dell’uomo con le chiavi di seguirlo nell’ufficio. Chiuse in fretta il libro, e fu subito introdotto nella imponente presenza del rinomato signor Fang.

Lo studio era un salotto anteriore con pareti pannellate. Il signor Fang sedeva dietro a una barra, all’estremità superiore; e su un lato della porta c’era una sorta di recinto di legno in cui il povero piccolo Oliver era già stato messo; tremava molto per la terribilità della scena.

Il signor Fang era un uomo magro, con la schiena lunga e rigida, di statura media, con poca capigliatura, che gli cresceva sul retro e sui lati della testa. Il suo volto era severo e molto arrossato. Se non avesse veramente l’abitudine di bere più del dovuto, avrebbe potuto intentare causa al proprio viso per diffamazione, ottenendo un ingente risarcimento.

Il vecchio gentiluomo si inchinò rispettosamente e avanzando verso la scrivania del magistrato disse, accompagnando le parole con i gesti: «Questo è il mio nome e il mio indirizzo, signore». Si ritrasse poi di un passo o due e, con un altro cortese ed elegante inchino della testa, attese di essere interrogato.

Ora, per caso il signor Fang in quel momento stava leggendo un articolo di fondo su un giornale del mattino che faceva riferimento a una sua recente decisione e lo consigliava, per la trecentocinquantesima volta, all’attenzione speciale e particolare del Segretario di Stato al Ministero degli Interni. Era di cattivo umore; e alzò gli occhi con un’espressione arrabbiata.

«Chi siete?» disse il signor Fang.

Il vecchio gentiluomo indicò con un certo stupore il suo biglietto da visita.

«Ufficiale!» disse il signor Fang, scagliando via con disprezzo il biglietto insieme al giornale. «Chi è questo tizio?»

«Il mio nome, signore», disse il vecchio gentiluomo parlando da gentiluomo, «è Brownlow. Mi permetta di chiedere il nome del magistrato che offre un’offesa gratuita e non provocata a una persona rispettabile sotto la protezione della corte». Detto ciò, il signor Brownlow guardò in giro per l’ufficio come se cercasse qualcuno che gli potesse fornire le informazioni richieste.

“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, “what’s this fellow charged with?”

“He’s not charged at all, your worship,” replied the officer. “He appears against this boy, your worship.”

His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe one.

“Appears against the boy, does he?” said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. “Swear him!”

“Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word,” said Mr. Brownlow; “and that is, that I really never, without actual experience, could have believed—”

“Hold your tongue, sir!” said Mr. Fang, peremptorily.

“I will not, sir!” replied the old gentleman.

“Hold your tongue this instant, or I’ll have you turned out of the office!” said Mr. Fang. “You’re an insolent impertinent fellow. How dare you bully a magistrate!”

“What!” exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.

“Swear this person!” said Fang to the clerk. “I’ll not hear another word. Swear him.”

Mr. Brownlow’s indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting perhaps, that he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed his feelings and submitted to be sworn at once.

“Now,” said Fang, “what’s the charge against this boy? What have you got to say, sir?”

“I was standing at a bookstall—” Mr. Brownlow began.

“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Mr. Fang. “Policeman! Where’s the policeman? Here, swear this policeman. Now, policeman, what is this?”

The policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had taken the charge; how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his person; and how that was all he knew about it.

“Are there any witnesses?” inquired Mr. Fang.

“None, your worship,” replied the policeman.

Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the prosecutor, said in a towering passion.

“Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, man, or do you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing to give evidence, I’ll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will, by—”

By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailor coughed very loud, just at the right moment; and the former dropped a heavy book upon the floor, thus preventing the word from being heard—accidently, of course.

With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived to state his case; observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he had run after the boy because he had seen him running away; and expressing his hope that, if the magistrate should believe him, although not actually the thief, to be connected with the thieves, he would deal as leniently with him as justice would allow.

“He has been hurt already,” said the old gentleman in conclusion. “And I fear,” he added, with great energy, looking towards the bar, “I really fear that he is ill.”

“Oh! yes, I dare say!” said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. “Come, none of your tricks here, you young vagabond; they won’t do. What’s your name?”

Oliver tried to reply but his tongue failed him. He was deadly pale; and the whole place seemed turning round and round.

“What’s your name, you hardened scoundrel?” demanded Mr. Fang. “Officer, what’s his name?”

This was addressed to a bluff old fellow, in a striped waistcoat, who was standing by the bar. He bent over Oliver, and repeated the inquiry; but finding him really incapable of understanding the question; and knowing that his not replying would only infuriate the magistrate the more, and add to the severity of his sentence; he hazarded a guess.

“He says his name’s Tom White, your worship,” said the kind-hearted thief-taker.

“Oh, he won’t speak out, won’t he?” said Fang. “Very well, very well. Where does he live?”

“Where he can, your worship,” replied the officer; again pretending to receive Oliver’s answer.

“Has he any parents?” inquired Mr. Fang.

“He says they died in his infancy, your worship,” replied the officer: hazarding the usual reply.

At this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head; and, looking round with imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of water.

“Stuff and nonsense!” said Mr. Fang: “don’t try to make a fool of me.”

“I think he really is ill, your worship,” remonstrated the officer.

“I know better,” said Mr. Fang.

“Take care of him, officer,” said the old gentleman, raising his hands instinctively; “he’ll fall down.”

“Stand away, officer,” cried Fang; “let him, if he likes.”

Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell to the floor in a fainting fit. The men in the office looked at each other, but no one dared to stir.

“I knew he was shamming,” said Fang, as if this were incontestable proof of the fact. “Let him lie there; he’ll soon be tired of that.”

“How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?” inquired the clerk in a low voice.

“Summarily,” replied Mr. Fang. “He stands committed for three months—hard labour of course. Clear the office.”

The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were preparing to carry the insensible boy to his cell; when an elderly man of decent but poor appearance, clad in an old suit of black, rushed hastily into the office, and advanced towards the bench.

“Stop, stop! don’t take him away! For Heaven’s sake stop a moment!” cried the new comer, breathless with haste.

Although the presiding Genii in such an office as this, exercise a summary and arbitrary power over the liberties, the good name, the character, almost the lives, of Her Majesty’s subjects, especially of the poorer class; and although, within such walls, enough fantastic tricks are daily played to make the angels blind with weeping; they are closed to the public, save through the medium of the daily press. Mr. Fang was consequently not a little indignant to see an unbidden guest enter in such irreverent disorder.

“What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the office!” cried Mr. Fang.

“I will speak,” cried the man; “I will not be turned out. I saw it all. I keep the book-stall. I demand to be sworn. I will not be put down. Mr. Fang, you must hear me. You must not refuse, sir.”

«Ufficiale!» disse il signor Fang, scostando la carta da parte «di che cosa è accusato questo tizio?»

«Non è accusato affatto, vostro onore», rispose l’ufficiale. «È qui contro questo ragazzo, vostro onore».

Il suo culto lo sapeva perfettamente bene; ma era un buon fastidio e uno sicuro.

«Si presenta contro il ragazzo, eh?» disse il signor Fang, squadrando con disprezzo il signor Brownlow da capo a piedi. «Giurate!»

«Prima che io preghi di essere giurato, devo chiedere la parola per un attimo», disse il signor Brownlow; «e cioè, non avrei mai potuto credere davvero — senza averne fatto esperienza diretta —»

«Tenga a freno la lingua, signore!» disse il signor Fang in tono perentorio.

«Non lo farò, signore!» rispose il vecchio gentiluomo.

«Tieni la lingua a freno in questo istante o ti farò cacciare dall’ufficio!» disse il signor Fang. «Sei un maleducato e insolenze. Come osi minacciare un magistrato!»

«Che cosa!» esclamò il vecchio signore, arrossendo.

“Giuri questa persona!” disse Fang al cancelliere. “Non voglio sentire un’altra parola. Giuratelo.”

L’indignazione del signor Brownlow si accese vivamente; ma riflettendo forse che non avrebbe fatto altro che nuocere al ragazzo dando sfogo alla sua rabbia, egli represso i suoi sentimenti e si sottomise a essere subito giurato.

“Ora,” disse Fang, “qual è l’accusa contro questo ragazzo? Cosa ha da dire, signore?”

«Stavo in piedi davanti a un banco di libri —» cominciò il signor Brownlow.

«Tenga a freno la lingua, signore», disse il signor Fang. «Poliziotto! Dov’è il poliziotto? Ecco, faccia giurare questo agente. Ora, agente, che cosa è questa?»

Il poliziotto, con la dovuta umiltà, raccontò come avesse preso l’accusa; come avesse perquisito Oliver e non avesse trovato nulla addosso a lui; e come quello fosse tutto ciò che sapeva al riguardo.

«Ci sono testimoni?» chiese il signor Fang.

«Nessuno, vostro onore», rispose il poliziotto.

Il signor Fang rimase in silenzio per alcuni minuti e poi, voltandosi verso l’accusatore, disse con un’ira furibonda:

«Intende dichiarare qual è la sua accusa contro questo ragazzo, uomo, o non intende farlo? Ha giurato. Ora, se resta lì rifiutandosi di testimoniare, la punirò per mancanza di rispetto al tribunale; lo farò, per—»

Per cosa o per chi, nessuno lo sapeva, perché il cancelliere e il carceriere tossirono molto forte proprio nel momento giusto; e quest’ultimo fece cadere un pesante libro sul pavimento, impedendo così che la parola fosse udita — accidentalmente, naturalmente.

Con molte interruzioni e ripetuti insulti, il signor Brownlow riuscì a esporre la sua versione dei fatti; osservando che, sorpreso com’era in quel momento, aveva inseguito il ragazzo perché l’aveva visto scappare via; ed esprimendo la speranza che, se il magistrato dovesse crederlo, pur non essendo lui stesso il ladro, collegato ai ladri, lo trattasse con la massima clemenza consentita dalla giustizia.

«È già stato ferito», disse il vecchio signore a conclusione del discorso. «E io temo,» aggiunse con grande energia, guardando verso il bar, «io davvero temo che sia malato».

«Oh! sì, ne sono certo!» disse il signor Fang con sarcasmo. «Basta con i tuoi trucchi qui, giovane vagabondo; non funzioneranno. Come ti chiami?»

Oliver cercò di rispondere, ma la lingua non gli ubbidiva; era pallidissimo e tutto il luogo sembrava girare vorticosamente intorno a lui.

“Qual è il tuo nome, mascalzone incallito?” chiese l’agente Fang. “Agente, qual è il suo nome?”

Questo fu rivolto a un vecchio tizio schietto e cordiale, con un panciotto a righe, che stava in piedi vicino al bancone. Si chinò su Oliver e ripeté la domanda; ma trovandolo davvero incapace di capire la questione; e sapendo che il suo non rispondere avrebbe solo infuriato ancora di più il magistrato e aggiunto alla severità della sua sentenza; si azzardò a fare un’ipotesi.

«Dice che il suo nome è Tom White, vostro onore», disse il benevolo cacciatore di ladri.

“Eh? Non vuole parlare, eh?” disse Fang. “Bene, bene. Dove abita?”

«Dove può, vostro onore», rispose l’ufficiale, fingendo ancora una volta di ricevere la risposta di Oliver.

«Ha dei genitori?» chiese il signor Fang.

«Dice che morirono quando era bambino, vostro onore», rispose l’ufficiale, osando la solita risposta.

A questo punto dell’inchiesta, Oliver alzò la testa e, guardandosi intorno con occhi supplichevoli, mormorò una debole preghiera per un sorso d’acqua.

«Frottole!» disse il signor Fang: «non provate a prendere in giro me.»

«Penso che sia davvero malato, vostro onore», obiettò l’ufficiale.

«Lo so meglio io», disse il signor Fang.

«Prendetevi cura di lui, agente», disse il vecchio signore alzando le mani istintivamente, «sta per cadere.»

“Stai lontano, agente”, gridò Fang; “lascialo fare, se vuole.”

Oliver approfittò del gentile permesso e cadde a terra svenuto. Gli uomini nell’ufficio si guardarono l’un l’altro, ma nessuno osò muoversi.

«Sapevo che stava fingendo», disse Fang, come se ciò fosse una prova indiscutibile del fatto. «Lasciatelo lì; presto ne avrà abbastanza».

«Come proponete di trattare il caso, signore?» chiese l’impiegato a bassa voce.

«In breve», rispose il signor Fang, «è condannato a tre mesi di reclusione — naturalmente con lavori forzati. Svuotino l’ufficio».

La porta fu aperta per questo scopo e un paio di uomini si stavano preparando a trasportare il ragazzo privo di sensi nella sua cella; quando un anziano signore dall’aspetto decoroso ma povero, vestito con un vecchio abito nero, entrò affrettatamente nell’ufficio e avanzò verso la corte.

«Fermatevi, fermatevi! Non portatelo via! Per amor del cielo, fermatevi un momento!» gridò il nuovo arrivato, senza fiato per la fretta.

Sebbene i geni presidenziali di un ufficio come questo esercitino un potere sommario e arbitrario sulle libertà, sulla buona reputazione, sul carattere, quasi sulle vite dei sudditi della Regina, specialmente quelli delle classi più povere; e sebbene all’interno di tali mura si siano giocati ogni giorno abbastanza trucchi fantasiosi da far piangere gli angeli fino alla cecità; sono chiusi al pubblico, salvo attraverso l’intermediazione della stampa quotidiana. Il signor Fang era quindi non poco indignato nel vedere un ospite indesiderato entrare in tale disordine irriverente.

«Che cos’è questo? Chi è costui? Mettete fuori quest’uomo. Sgombrate l’ufficio!» gridò il signor Fang.

«Io parlerò», gridò l’uomo; «non mi faranno uscire. Ho visto tutto. Gestisco il banco dei libri. Chiedo di essere messo sotto giuramento. Non mi lascerò mettere a tacere. Signor Fang, deve ascoltarmi. Non può rifiutarsi, signore».

The man was right. His manner was determined; and the matter was growing rather too serious to be hushed up.

“Swear the man,” growled Mr. Fang, with a very ill grace. “Now, man, what have you got to say?”

“This,” said the man: “I saw three boys: two others and the prisoner here: loitering on the opposite side of the way, when this gentleman was reading. The robbery was committed by another boy. I saw it done; and I saw that this boy was perfectly amazed and stupified by it.” Having by this time recovered a little breath, the worthy book-stall keeper proceeded to relate, in a more coherent manner the exact circumstances of the robbery.

“Why didn’t you come here before?” said Fang, after a pause.

“I hadn’t a soul to mind the shop,” replied the man. “Everybody who could have helped me, had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobody till five minutes ago; and I’ve run here all the way.”

“The prosecutor was reading, was he?” inquired Fang, after another pause.

“Yes,” replied the man. “The very book he has in his hand.”

“Oh, that book, eh?” said Fang. “Is it paid for?”

“No, it is not,” replied the man, with a smile.

“Dear me, I forgot all about it!” exclaimed the absent old gentleman, innocently.

“A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!” said Fang, with a comical effort to look humane. “I consider, sir, that you have obtained possession of that book, under very suspicious and disreputable circumstances; and you may think yourself very fortunate that the owner of the property declines to prosecute. Let this be a lesson to you, my man, or the law will overtake you yet. The boy is discharged. Clear the office!”

“D—n me!” cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had kept down so long, “d—n me! I’ll—”

“Clear the office!” said the magistrate. “Officers, do you hear? Clear the office!”

The mandate was obeyed; and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was conveyed out, with the book in one hand, and the bamboo cane in the other: in a perfect phrenzy of rage and defiance. He reached the yard; and his passion vanished in a moment. Little Oliver Twist lay on his back on the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned, and his temples bathed with water; his face a deadly white; and a cold tremble convulsing his whole frame.

“Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. “Call a coach, somebody, pray. Directly!”

A coach was obtained, and Oliver having been carefully laid on the seat, the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.

“May I accompany you?” said the book-stall keeper, looking in.

“Bless me, yes, my dear sir,” said Mr. Brownlow quickly. “I forgot you. Dear, dear! I have this unhappy book still! Jump in. Poor fellow! There’s no time to lose.”

The book-stall keeper got into the coach; and away they drove.

L’uomo aveva ragione. Il suo comportamento era deciso e la faccenda stava diventando troppo seria per essere insabbiata.

«Giurate quest’uomo», brontolò il signor Fang con grande riluttanza. «Ora, uomo, cosa avete da dire?»

«Questo», disse l’uomo: «ho visto tre ragazzi: altri due e il prigioniero qui: che se ne stavano attorno sul lato opposto della strada mentre questo signore stava leggendo. Il furto è stato commesso da un altro ragazzo. L’ho visto fare; e ho visto che questo ragazzo era perfettamente stupito e sbalordito». Avendo in quel momento ripreso un po’ di fiato, il degno venditore di libri procedette a raccontare, in modo più coerente le esatte circostanze del furto.

«Perché non sei venuto qui prima?» disse Fang dopo una pausa.

“Non avevo una persona per badare al negozio”, rispose l’uomo. “Tutti quelli che avrebbero potuto aiutarmi si sono uniti alla caccia. Non ho trovato nessuno fino a cinque minuti fa; e sono corso qui tutto il tempo.”

«Il procuratore stava leggendo, vero?» chiese Fang dopo un’altra pausa.

“Sì,” rispose l’uomo. “Proprio il libro che ha in mano.”

“Ah, quel libro, eh?” disse Fang. “È già stato pagato?”

«No, non lo è», rispose l’uomo con un sorriso.

«Cielo santo! Me ne sono completamente dimenticato!» esclamò il vecchio signore distratto, con ingenuità.

«Una bella persona che preferisce un’accusa contro un povero ragazzo!» disse Fang, con uno sforzo comico di apparire umano. «Ritengo, signore, che lei abbia ottenuto il possesso di quel libro in circostanze molto sospette e disoneste; e può ritenersi molto fortunato che il proprietario del bene rinunci a perseguirla. Spero che questo le serva da lezione, mio caro, altrimenti la legge prima o poi l’accercherà. Il ragazzo è scarcerato. Liberate l’ufficio!»

«Maledizione a me!» gridò il vecchio signore, scoppiando nella rabbia che aveva represso per tanto tempo «maledizione a me! Io, »

“Svuotare l’ufficio!” disse il magistrato. “Agenti, avete sentito? Svuotare l’ufficio!”

Il mandato fu eseguito e il signor Brownlow, indignato, venne condotto fuori con in una mano il libro e nell’altra la canna di bambù: in un perfetto furore di rabbia e sfida. Raggiunse il cortile; e la sua passione svanì in un attimo. Il piccolo Oliver Twist giaceva supino sul selciato, con la camicia slacciata e le tempie bagnate di acqua; il suo viso era pallidissimo; e un freddo tremore lo scuoteva tutto.

«Povero ragazzo, povero ragazzo!» disse il signor Brownlow chinandosi su di lui. «Chiami una carrozza qualcuno, la prego. Subito!»

Fu procurata una carrozza e, dopo aver sistemato con cura Oliver sul sedile, il vecchio gentiluomo salì a bordo e si accomodò sull’altro lato.

«Posso accompagnarla?» disse il libraio guardando dentro.

«Dio mi scampi e liberi, sì, mio caro signore», disse Mr Brownlow rapidamente. «Mi ero dimenticato di lei. Mio Dio! Ho ancora questo maledetto libro! Salga in fretta. Poveraccio! Non c’è tempo da perdere».

Il venditore di libri salì sul calesse e via partirono.

CHAPTER XII. IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. AND IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE REVERTS TO THE MERRY OLD GENTLEMAN AND HIS YOUTHFUL FRIENDS.

The coach rattled away, over nearly the same ground as that which Oliver had traversed when he first entered London in company with the Dodger; and, turning a different way when it reached the Angel at Islington, stopped at length before a neat house, in a quiet shady street near Pentonville. Here, a bed was prepared, without loss of time, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his young charge carefully and comfortably deposited; and here, he was tended with a kindness and solicitude that knew no bounds.

But, for many days, Oliver remained insensible to all the goodness of his new friends. The sun rose and sank, and rose and sank again, and many times after that; and still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy bed, dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever. The worm does not work more surely on the dead body, than does this slow creeping fire upon the living frame.

Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to have been a long and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in the bed, with his head resting on his trembling arm, he looked anxiously around.

“What room is this? Where have I been brought to?” said Oliver. “This is not the place I went to sleep in.”

He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and weak; but they were overheard at once. The curtain at the bed’s head was hastily drawn back, and a motherly old lady, very neatly and precisely dressed, rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair close by, in which she had been sitting at needle-work.

“Hush, my dear,” said the old lady softly. “You must be very quiet, or you will be ill again; and you have been very bad,—as bad as bad could be, pretty nigh. Lie down again; there’s a dear!” With those words, the old lady very gently placed Oliver’s head upon the pillow; and, smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and loving in his face, that he could not help placing his little withered hand in hers, and drawing it round his neck.

“Save us!” said the old lady, with tears in her eyes. “What a grateful little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel if she had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!”

“Perhaps she does see me,” whispered Oliver, folding his hands together; “perhaps she has sat by me. I almost feel as if she had.”

“That was the fever, my dear,” said the old lady mildly.

“I suppose it was,” replied Oliver, “because heaven is a long way off; and they are too happy there, to come down to the bedside of a poor boy. But if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me, even there; for she was very ill herself before she died. She can’t know anything about me though,” added Oliver after a moment’s silence. “If she had seen me hurt, it would have made her sorrowful; and her face has always looked sweet and happy, when I have dreamed of her.”

The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first, and her spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were part and parcel of those features, brought some cool stuff for Oliver to drink; and then, patting him on the cheek, told him he must lie very quiet, or he would be ill again.

So, Oliver kept very still; partly because he was anxious to obey the kind old lady in all things; and partly, to tell the truth, because he was completely exhausted with what he had already said. He soon fell into a gentle doze, from which he was awakened by the light of a candle: which, being brought near the bed, showed him a gentleman with a very large and loud-ticking gold watch in his hand, who felt his pulse, and said he was a great deal better.

“You are a great deal better, are you not, my dear?” said the gentleman.

“Yes, thank you, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Yes, I know you are,” said the gentleman: “You’re hungry too, an’t you?”

“No, sir,” answered Oliver.

“Hem!” said the gentleman. “No, I know you’re not. He is not hungry, Mrs. Bedwin,” said the gentleman: looking very wise.

The old lady made a respectful inclination of the head, which seemed to say that she thought the doctor was a very clever man. The doctor appeared much of the same opinion himself.

“You feel sleepy, don’t you, my dear?” said the doctor.

“No, sir,” replied Oliver.

“No,” said the doctor, with a very shrewd and satisfied look. “You’re not sleepy. Nor thirsty. Are you?”

“Yes, sir, rather thirsty,” answered Oliver.

“Just as I expected, Mrs. Bedwin,” said the doctor. “It’s very natural that he should be thirsty. You may give him a little tea, ma’am, and some dry toast without any butter. Don’t keep him too warm, ma’am; but be careful that you don’t let him be too cold; will you have the goodness?”

The old lady dropped a curtsey. The doctor, after tasting the cool stuff, and expressing a qualified approval of it, hurried away: his boots creaking in a very important and wealthy manner as he went downstairs.

Oliver dozed off again, soon after this; when he awoke, it was nearly twelve o’clock. The old lady tenderly bade him good-night shortly afterwards, and left him in charge of a fat old woman who had just come: bringing with her, in a little bundle, a small Prayer Book and a large nightcap. Putting the latter on her head and the former on the table, the old woman, after telling Oliver that she had come to sit up with him, drew her chair close to the fire and went off into a series of short naps, chequered at frequent intervals with sundry tumblings forward, and divers moans and chokings. These, however, had no worse effect than causing her to rub her nose very hard, and then fall asleep again.

And thus the night crept slowly on. Oliver lay awake for some time, counting the little circles of light which the reflection of the rushlight-shade threw upon the ceiling; or tracing with his languid eyes the intricate pattern of the paper on the wall. The darkness and the deep stillness of the room were very solemn; as they brought into the boy’s mind the thought that death had been hovering there, for many days and nights, and might yet fill it with the gloom and dread of his awful presence, he turned his face upon the pillow, and fervently prayed to Heaven.

CAPITOLO XII. IN CUI OLIVER È TRATTATO MEGLIO DI QUANTO NON SIA MAI STATO PRIMA E IN CUI LA NARRAZIONE TORNA AL VECCHIO SIGNORE GAISSIMO ED AI SUOI AMICI GIOVANILI.

La carrozza sferragliò via, per quasi lo stesso tratto che Oliver aveva attraversato quando era entrato la prima volta a Londra in compagnia del Dodger; e, svoltando in un’altra direzione quando raggiunse l’Angel ad Islington, si fermò infine davanti a una graziosa casa, in una tranquilla strada ombreggiata vicino a Pentonville. Qui, senza perdere tempo, fu preparato un letto nel quale il signor Brownlow fece deporre con cura e comodità la sua giovane protetta; e qui, venne assistita con una gentilezza e sollecitudine che non conoscevano limiti.

Ma per molti giorni Oliver rimase insensibile a tutta la bontà dei suoi nuovi amici. Il sole sorgeva e tramontava, poi sorgeva di nuovo e ancora tramontava, molte volte dopo; e il ragazzo giaceva sempre disteso sul suo letto inquieto, consumandosi sotto il calore secco e divorante della febbre. Il verme non agisce più sicuramente sul corpo morto di quanto questa lenta, strisciante fiamma agisca sulla struttura vivente.

Debole, magro e pallido, alla fine si svegliò da quello che sembrava essere stato un lungo sogno agitato. Si sollevò debolmente sul letto, appoggiando la testa sul braccio tremante, guardandosi intorno con ansia.

“Che stanza è questa? Dove mi hanno portato?” disse Oliver. “Questo non è il posto dove sono andato a dormire.”

Egli pronunciò queste parole con voce debole, essendo molto svenuto e debole; ma furono subito udite. La tenda alla testata del letto fu affrettatamente scostata, e una vecchia signora materna, vestita in modo molto ordinato e preciso, si alzò mentre la ritraeva, da una poltrona vicina, su cui era seduta a fare lavori di ago.

«Ssst, mio caro», disse la vecchia signora dolcemente. «Devi stare molto tranquillo, altrimenti ti ammalerai di nuovo; e sei stato davvero malato, tanto male quanto si può essere, quasi. Torna a sdraiarti; così, bravo!» Con queste parole, la vecchia signora sistemò con grande delicatezza il capo di Oliver sul cuscino; e, lisciandogli i capelli dalla fronte, gli rivolse uno sguardo tanto gentile e amorevole che egli non poté fare a meno di metterle la sua piccola mano raggrinzita nella sua e di stringergliela intorno al collo.

«Salvateci!» disse la vecchia signora con lacrime negli occhi. «Che bambino così dolce e riconoscente è. Creatura adorabile! Che cosa proverebbe sua madre se fosse seduta accanto a lui come sono stata io, e potesse vederlo ora!»

“Forse mi vede davvero”, sussurrò Oliver, giungendo le mani, “forse è seduta accanto a me. Mi sembra quasi di sentirla”.

«È stata la febbre, mia cara», disse dolcemente l’anziana signora.

«Suppongo di sì», rispose Oliver, «perché il cielo è molto lontano; e là sono troppo felici per scendere al capezzale di un povero ragazzo. Ma se avesse saputo che ero malato, mi avrebbe compatito, anche da lassù; perché anche lei era molto malata prima di morire. Non può però saper nulla di me», aggiunse Oliver dopo un momento di silenzio. «Se mi avesse visto ferito, ne sarebbe stata addolorata; e il suo volto è sempre apparso dolce e felice, quando ho sognato lei.»

La vecchia signora non rispose a questo; ma asciugandosi prima gli occhi e poi gli occhiali, che giacevano sul copriletto, come se fossero parte integrante di quei tratti del viso, portò qualcosa di fresco da bere per Oliver; e poi, accarezzandolo sulla guancia, gli disse che doveva stare molto tranquillo, altrimenti sarebbe ricaduto malato.

Così Oliver rimase immobile; in parte perché era ansioso di obbedire alla gentile vecchietta in tutto e per tutto; e in parte, per dirla tutta, perché era completamente esausto per quello che aveva già detto. Ben presto cadde in un dolce sonnellino, dal quale fu svegliato dalla luce di una candela: la quale, portata vicino al letto, gli mostrò un gentiluomo con un orologio d’oro molto grande e rumoroso nella mano, che gli prese il polso e disse che stava molto meglio.

«Vi sentite molto meglio, vero, mia cara?» disse il gentiluomo.

“Sì, grazie, signore”, rispose Oliver.

“Sì, so che lo sei,” disse il signore: “Hai anche fame, vero?”

“No, signore”, rispose Oliver.

«Ehm!» disse il signore. «No, so che non lo è. Non ha fame, signora Bedwin», disse il signore, assumendo un’aria molto saggia.

La vecchia signora fece un rispettoso inchino del capo che sembrava dire che riteneva il dottore un uomo molto intelligente. Il dottore pareva essere dello stesso avviso.

«Vi sentite sonnolenta, vero, mia cara?» disse il dottore.

“No, signore”, rispose Oliver.

«No», disse il dottore con un’aria molto perspicace e soddisfatta, «non avete sonno. Né sete. Non è vero?»

«Sì, signore, piuttosto assetato», rispose Oliver.

«Proprio come mi aspettavo, signora Bedwin», disse il dottore. «È del tutto naturale che abbia sete. Può dargli un po’ di tè, signora, e qualche fettina di pane tostato senza burro. Non lo tenga troppo al caldo, signora; ma faccia attenzione a non lasciarlo prendere freddo; vuole avere la bontà?»

La vecchia signora fece una riverenza. Il dottore, dopo aver assaggiato la bevanda fresca e espresso un’approvazione qualificata, si affrettò ad andarsene: le sue scarpe scricchiolavano in modo molto importante e ricco mentre scendeva le scale.

Oliver si riaddormentò poco dopo; quando si svegliò erano quasi le dodici di notte. La vecchia signora lo salutò teneramente poco dopo e lo lasciò alle cure di una donna anziana e grassa che era appena arrivata, portando con sé, in un piccolo pacco, un piccolo libro di preghiere e un grande berretto da notte. Dopo aver messo quest’ultimo sulla testa e il primo sul tavolo, la vecchia donna, dopo aver detto a Oliver che era venuta per vegliare con lui, si avvicinò alla caminata e si addormentò in una serie di brevi sonnellini, intervallati da frequenti cadute in avanti e vari gemiti e soffocamenti. Tuttavia, questi non ebbero altro effetto che quello di farle strofinare il naso molto forte e poi riaddormentarsi.

E così la notte avanzava lentamente. Oliver rimase sveglio per un po’, contando i piccoli cerchi di luce che il riflesso del paralume a scaglie proiettava sul soffitto; o tracciando con i suoi occhi languidi il complicato motivo della carta da parati sulla parete. L’oscurità e la profonda quiete della stanza erano molto solenni; mentre portavano alla mente del ragazzo il pensiero che morte fosse stata in agguato lì, per molti giorni e notti, e potesse ancora riempirla con l’oscurità e la paura della sua terribile presenza, si voltò sul cuscino e pregò fervidamente il Cielo.

Gradually, he fell into that deep tranquil sleep which ease from recent suffering alone imparts; that calm and peaceful rest which it is pain to wake from. Who, if this were death, would be roused again to all the struggles and turmoils of life; to all its cares for the present; its anxieties for the future; more than all, its weary recollections of the past!

It had been bright day, for hours, when Oliver opened his eyes; he felt cheerful and happy. The crisis of the disease was safely past. He belonged to the world again.

In three days’ time he was able to sit in an easy-chair, well propped up with pillows; and, as he was still too weak to walk, Mrs. Bedwin had him carried downstairs into the little housekeeper’s room, which belonged to her. Having him set, here, by the fire-side, the good old lady sat herself down too; and, being in a state of considerable delight at seeing him so much better, forthwith began to cry most violently.

“Never mind me, my dear,” said the old lady; “I’m only having a regular good cry. There; it’s all over now; and I’m quite comfortable.”

“You’re very, very kind to me, ma’am,” said Oliver.

“Well, never you mind that, my dear,” said the old lady; “that’s got nothing to do with your broth; and it’s full time you had it; for the doctor says Mr. Brownlow may come in to see you this morning; and we must get up our best looks, because the better we look, the more he’ll be pleased.” And with this, the old lady applied herself to warming up, in a little saucepan, a basin full of broth: strong enough, Oliver thought, to furnish an ample dinner, when reduced to the regulation strength, for three hundred and fifty paupers, at the lowest computation.

“Are you fond of pictures, dear?” inquired the old lady, seeing that Oliver had fixed his eyes, most intently, on a portrait which hung against the wall; just opposite his chair.

“I don’t quite know, ma’am,” said Oliver, without taking his eyes from the canvas; “I have seen so few that I hardly know. What a beautiful, mild face that lady’s is!”

“Ah!” said the old lady, “painters always make ladies out prettier than they are, or they wouldn’t get any custom, child. The man that invented the machine for taking likenesses might have known that would never succeed; it’s a deal too honest. A deal,” said the old lady, laughing very heartily at her own acuteness.

“Is—is that a likeness, ma’am?” said Oliver.

“Yes,” said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the broth; “that’s a portrait.”

“Whose, ma’am?” asked Oliver.

“Why, really, my dear, I don’t know,” answered the old lady in a good-humoured manner. “It’s not a likeness of anybody that you or I know, I expect. It seems to strike your fancy, dear.”

“It is so pretty,” replied Oliver.

“Why, sure you’re not afraid of it?” said the old lady: observing in great surprise, the look of awe with which the child regarded the painting.

“Oh no, no,” returned Oliver quickly; “but the eyes look so sorrowful; and where I sit, they seem fixed upon me. It makes my heart beat,” added Oliver in a low voice, “as if it was alive, and wanted to speak to me, but couldn’t.”

“Lord save us!” exclaimed the old lady, starting; “don’t talk in that way, child. You’re weak and nervous after your illness. Let me wheel your chair round to the other side; and then you won’t see it. There!” said the old lady, suiting the action to the word; “you don’t see it now, at all events.”

Oliver did see it in his mind’s eye as distinctly as if he had not altered his position; but he thought it better not to worry the kind old lady; so he smiled gently when she looked at him; and Mrs. Bedwin, satisfied that he felt more comfortable, salted and broke bits of toasted bread into the broth, with all the bustle befitting so solemn a preparation. Oliver got through it with extraordinary expedition. He had scarcely swallowed the last spoonful, when there came a soft rap at the door. “Come in,” said the old lady; and in walked Mr. Brownlow.

Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but, he had no sooner raised his spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his hands behind the skirts of his dressing-gown to take a good long look at Oliver, than his countenance underwent a very great variety of odd contortions. Oliver looked very worn and shadowy from sickness, and made an ineffectual attempt to stand up, out of respect to his benefactor, which terminated in his sinking back into the chair again; and the fact is, if the truth must be told, that Mr. Brownlow’s heart, being large enough for any six ordinary old gentlemen of humane disposition, forced a supply of tears into his eyes, by some hydraulic process which we are not sufficiently philosophical to be in a condition to explain.

“Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his throat. “I’m rather hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I’m afraid I have caught cold.”

“I hope not, sir,” said Mrs. Bedwin. “Everything you have had, has been well aired, sir.”

“I don’t know, Bedwin. I don’t know,” said Mr. Brownlow; “I rather think I had a damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday; but never mind that. How do you feel, my dear?”

“Very happy, sir,” replied Oliver. “And very grateful indeed, sir, for your goodness to me.”

“Good boy,” said Mr. Brownlow, stoutly. “Have you given him any nourishment, Bedwin? Any slops, eh?”

“He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir,” replied Mrs. Bedwin, drawing herself up slightly, and laying strong emphasis on the last word, to intimate that between slops, and broth well compounded, there existed no affinity or connection whatsoever.

“Ugh!” said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder; “a couple of glasses of port wine would have done him a great deal more good. Wouldn’t they, Tom White, eh?”

A poco a poco cadde in quel profondo e tranquillo sonno che solo il sollievo da recenti sofferenze può donare; quel riposo calmo e pacifico dal quale è un dolore svegliarsi. Chi, se questo fosse la morte, vorrebbe essere risvegliato di nuovo a tutte le lotte e le agitazioni della vita; a tutti i suoi pensieri per il presente; alle sue ansie per il futuro; più che altro ai suoi stancanti ricordi del passato!

Era già da ore pieno giorno quando Oliver aprì gli occhi: si sentiva allegro e felice. La crisi della malattia era passata senza pericolo. Era di nuovo nel mondo.

In tre giorni di tempo fu in grado di sedersi su una poltrona, ben sostenuto da cuscini; e poiché era ancora troppo debole per camminare, la signora Bedwin lo fece trasportare al piano terra nella piccola stanza della governante, che le apparteneva. Dopo averlo sistemato qui accanto al fuoco, anche la buona vecchia signora si sedette; e trovandosi in uno stato di notevole gioia nel vederlo così migliorato, cominciò subito a piangere con grande violenza.

«Non ti preoccupare di me, mia cara», disse la vecchia signora; «sto solo piangendo come si deve. Ecco fatto; ora è tutto finito e mi sento benissimo».

«Siete molto, molto gentile con me, signora», disse Oliver.

«Bene, non ti preoccupare di questo, mia cara», disse la vecchia signora; «non ha niente a che fare con il tuo brodo; e ormai è più che tempo che tu lo abbia; perché il dottore dice che il signor Brownlow potrebbe venire a trovarti questa mattina; e dobbiamo metterci in ghingheri, perché più siamo presentabili, più sarà contento». E con questo la vecchia signora si mise ad riscaldare, in una piccola pentola, un bacile pieno di brodo: abbastanza forte, pensò Oliver, da fornire un ampio pranzo, se ridotto alla consistenza regolamentare, per trecentocinquanta poveri, al minimo calcolo.

«Le piacciono i quadri, caro?» chiese la vecchia signora, vedendo che Oliver aveva fissato gli occhi con grande intensità su un ritratto appeso alla parete, proprio di fronte alla sua sedia.

“Non saprei dire con certezza, signora”, disse Oliver senza staccare gli occhi dalla tela; “ne ho viste così poche che non saprei riconoscerle. Che bel viso dolce ha quella donna!”

“Ah!” disse la vecchia signora, “i pittori fanno sempre le donne più belle di quanto siano in realtà, altrimenti non avrebbero clienti, bambina. L’uomo che ha inventato la macchina per riprodurre i ritratti avrebbe dovuto sapere che questo non sarebbe mai riuscito; è troppo onesto. Troppo,” disse la vecchia signora, ridendo di gusto della sua perspicacia.

«È—è un ritratto, signora?» disse Oliver.

“Sì”, disse la vecchia signora, alzando lo sguardo per un momento dal brodo; “questo è un ritratto.”

«Di chi, signora?» chiese Oliver.

«Perché davvero, mia cara, non lo so», rispose la vecchia signora con bonomia. «Non è il ritratto di nessuno che tu o io conosciamo, credo. Sembra piacerti molto, tesoro».

«È così carino», rispose Oliver.

«Perché, non avete paura di esso?» disse la vecchia signora, osservando con grande sorpresa l’espressione di timore con cui il bambino guardava il dipinto.

“Oh no, no”, rispose Oliver in fretta; “ma gli occhi sembrano così tristi; e da dove sono seduto mi pare che siano fissi su di me. Mi fa battere il cuore”, aggiunse Oliver a bassa voce, “come se fosse vivo e volesse parlarmi ma non ci riuscisse.”

«Signore ci salvi!» esclamò la vecchia signora, sussultando; «non parlare in quel modo, bambina. Sei debole e nervosa dopo la tua malattia. Lascia che ti giri la sedia dall’altra parte; così non lo vedrai più. Ecco fatto!» disse la vecchia signora, accompagnando le parole con i fatti; «adesso almeno non lo vedi più.»

Oliver lo vedeva davvero con l’occhio della mente distintamente come se non avesse cambiato posizione; ma pensò che fosse meglio non preoccupare la gentile vecchietta; così sorrise dolcemente quando lei lo guardò; e Mrs. Bedwin, convinta che si sentisse più a suo agio, mise sotto sale e spezzettò pezzi di pane tostato nel brodo, con tutto l’affaccendamento adatto a una preparazione tanto solenne. Oliver lo consumò con straordinaria rapidità. Aveva appena ingoiato l’ultimo cucchiaio quando si sentì un lieve bussare alla porta. «Avanti», disse la vecchietta; e entrò Mr. Brownlow.

Ora, il vecchio gentiluomo entrò con la massima vivacità; ma non appena ebbe sollevato gli occhiali sulla fronte e infilato le mani dietro i lembi del suo accappatoio per dare una buona lunga occhiata a Oliver, il suo volto subì una grande varietà di strane contorsioni. Oliver appariva molto consumato e pallido per la malattia, e fece un tentativo inefficace di alzarsi in piedi, per rispetto verso il suo benefattore, che si concluse con il fatto che ricadde sulla sedia; e la verità è, se proprio bisogna dirlo, che il cuore del signor Brownlow, essendo abbastanza grande da contenere sei vecchi gentiluomini ordinari di umana disposizione, gli spinse una scorta di lacrime negli occhi, attraverso un processo idraulico che non siamo sufficientemente filosofi per essere in grado di spiegare.

«Povero ragazzo, povero ragazzo!» disse il signor Brownlow schiarendosi la gola. «Sono un po’ rauco questa mattina, signora Bedwin. Temo di essermi preso un raffreddore.»

“Spero di no, signore”, disse la signora Bedwin. “Tutto quello che ha avuto è stato ben areato, signore”.

“Non lo so, Bedwin. Non lo so”, disse il signor Brownlow; “mi pare di aver avuto un tovagliolo umido a pranzo ieri scorsa; ma non importa. Come ti senti, mio caro?”

«Molto felice, signore», rispose Oliver. «E davvero grato per la sua gentilezza nei miei confronti.»

«Bravo ragazzo», disse il signor Brownlow con fermezza. «Gli hai dato da mangiare qualcosa, Bedwin? Qualche brodaglia, eh?»

«Ha appena avuto una ciotola di un bellissimo brodo forte, signore», rispose la signora Bedwin, raddrizzandosi leggermente e ponendo grande enfasi sull’ultima parola, per far intendere che tra i liquidi e il brodo ben composto non esisteva alcuna affinità o connessione.

«Ugh!» disse il signor Brownlow con un leggero brivido «un paio di bicchieri di vino di Oporto gli avrebbero fatto molto più bene. Non è vero Tom White? Eh?»

“My name is Oliver, sir,” replied the little invalid with a look of great astonishment.

“Oliver,” said Mr. Brownlow; “Oliver what? Oliver White, eh?”

“No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist.”

“Queer name!” said the old gentleman. “What made you tell the magistrate your name was White?”

“I never told him so, sir,” returned Oliver in amazement.

This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked somewhat sternly in Oliver’s face. It was impossible to doubt him; there was truth in every one of its thin and sharpened lineaments.

“Some mistake,” said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive for looking steadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the resemblance between his features and some familiar face came upon him so strongly, that he could not withdraw his gaze.

“I hope you are not angry with me, sir?” said Oliver, raising his eyes beseechingly.

“No, no,” replied the old gentleman. “Why! what’s this? Bedwin, look there!”

As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture over Oliver’s head, and then to the boy’s face. There was its living copy. The eyes, the head, the mouth; every feature was the same. The expression was, for the instant, so precisely alike, that the minutest line seemed copied with startling accuracy!

Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation; for, not being strong enough to bear the start it gave him, he fainted away. A weakness on his part, which affords the narrative an opportunity of relieving the reader from suspense, in behalf of the two young pupils of the Merry Old Gentleman; and of recording—

That when the Dodger, and his accomplished friend Master Bates, joined in the hue-and-cry which was raised at Oliver’s heels, in consequence of their executing an illegal conveyance of Mr. Brownlow’s personal property, as has been already described, they were actuated by a very laudable and becoming regard for themselves; and forasmuch as the freedom of the subject and the liberty of the individual are among the first and proudest boasts of a true-hearted Englishman, so, I need hardly beg the reader to observe, that this action should tend to exalt them in the opinion of all public and patriotic men, in almost as great a degree as this strong proof of their anxiety for their own preservation and safety goes to corroborate and confirm the little code of laws which certain profound and sound-judging philosophers have laid down as the main-springs of all Nature’s deeds and actions: the said philosophers very wisely reducing the good lady’s proceedings to matters of maxim and theory: and, by a very neat and pretty compliment to her exalted wisdom and understanding, putting entirely out of sight any considerations of heart, or generous impulse and feeling. For, these are matters totally beneath a female who is acknowledged by universal admission to be far above the numerous little foibles and weaknesses of her sex.

If I wanted any further proof of the strictly philosophical nature of the conduct of these young gentlemen in their very delicate predicament, I should at once find it in the fact (also recorded in a foregoing part of this narrative), of their quitting the pursuit, when the general attention was fixed upon Oliver; and making immediately for their home by the shortest possible cut. Although I do not mean to assert that it is usually the practice of renowned and learned sages, to shorten the road to any great conclusion (their course indeed being rather to lengthen the distance, by various circumlocutions and discursive staggerings, like unto those in which drunken men under the pressure of a too mighty flow of ideas, are prone to indulge); still, I do mean to say, and do say distinctly, that it is the invariable practice of many mighty philosophers, in carrying out their theories, to evince great wisdom and foresight in providing against every possible contingency which can be supposed at all likely to affect themselves. Thus, to do a great right, you may do a little wrong; and you may take any means which the end to be attained, will justify; the amount of the right, or the amount of the wrong, or indeed the distinction between the two, being left entirely to the philosopher concerned, to be settled and determined by his clear, comprehensive, and impartial view of his own particular case.

It was not until the two boys had scoured, with great rapidity, through a most intricate maze of narrow streets and courts, that they ventured to halt beneath a low and dark archway. Having remained silent here, just long enough to recover breath to speak, Master Bates uttered an exclamation of amusement and delight; and, bursting into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, flung himself upon a doorstep, and rolled thereon in a transport of mirth.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the Dodger.

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Charley Bates.

“Hold your noise,” remonstrated the Dodger, looking cautiously round. “Do you want to be grabbed, stupid?”

“I can’t help it,” said Charley, “I can’t help it! To see him splitting away at that pace, and cutting round the corners, and knocking up again’ the posts, and starting on again as if he was made of iron as well as them, and me with the wipe in my pocket, singing out arter him—oh, my eye!” The vivid imagination of Master Bates presented the scene before him in too strong colours. As he arrived at this apostrophe, he again rolled upon the door-step, and laughed louder than before.

“What’ll Fagin say?” inquired the Dodger; taking advantage of the next interval of breathlessness on the part of his friend to propound the question.

“What?” repeated Charley Bates.

“Ah, what?” said the Dodger.

“Why, what should he say?” inquired Charley: stopping rather suddenly in his merriment; for the Dodger’s manner was impressive. “What should he say?”

Mr. Dawkins whistled for a couple of minutes; then, taking off his hat, scratched his head, and nodded thrice.

“What do you mean?” said Charley.

“Toor rul lol loo, gammon and spinnage, the frog he wouldn’t, and high cockolorum,” said the Dodger: with a slight sneer on his intellectual countenance.

This was explanatory, but not satisfactory. Master Bates felt it so; and again said, “What do you mean?”

The Dodger made no reply; but putting his hat on again, and gathering the skirts of his long-tailed coat under his arm, thrust his tongue into his cheek, slapped the bridge of his nose some half-dozen times in a familiar but expressive manner, and turning on his heel, slunk down the court. Master Bates followed, with a thoughtful countenance.

The noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs, a few minutes after the occurrence of this conversation, roused the merry old gentleman as he sat over the fire with a saveloy and a small loaf in his hand; a pocket-knife in his right; and a pewter pot on the trivet. There was a rascally smile on his white face as he turned round, and looking sharply out from under his thick red eyebrows, bent his ear towards the door, and listened.

“Why, how’s this?” muttered the Jew: changing countenance; “only two of ’em? Where’s the third? They can’t have got into trouble. Hark!”

The footsteps approached nearer; they reached the landing. The door was slowly opened; and the Dodger and Charley Bates entered, closing it behind them.

«Il mio nome è Oliver, signore», rispose il piccolo malato con un’espressione di grande stupore.

«Oliver», disse il signor Brownlow; «Oliver cosa? Oliver White, eh?»

“No, signore, Twist, Oliver Twist.”

«Nome strano!» disse il vecchio signore. «Perché avete detto al magistrato di chiamarvi White?»

“Non gliel’ho mai detto, signore”, rispose Oliver stupito.

Questo suonava così falso che il vecchio signore guardò con aria un po’ severa in faccia a Oliver. Era impossibile dubitare di lui; c’era la verità in ognuno dei suoi lineamenti magri e affilati.

“Qualche errore”, disse il signor Brownlow. Ma, sebbene la ragione per cui guardava fisso Oliver non esistesse più, l’antica idea della somiglianza tra i suoi lineamenti e un volto familiare gli tornò così forte che non riusciva a distogliere lo sguardo.

“Spero che non sia arrabbiato con me, signore?” disse Oliver, alzando gli occhi supplichevoli.

“No, no”, rispose il vecchio signore. “Ma che succede? Bedwin, guarda lì!”

Mentre parlava, indicò in fretta il ritratto sopra la testa di Oliver e poi il volto del ragazzo. Era la sua copia vivente. Gli occhi, la testa, la bocca; ogni tratto era identico. L’espressione era così precisamente uguale che anche la più piccola linea sembrava riprodotta con una precisione sorprendente!

Oliver non conosceva la causa di quell’improvvisa esclamazione; poiché, non essendo abbastanza forte da sopportare lo scossone che gli aveva dato, svenne. Una debolezza da parte sua, che offre al racconto l’opportunità di liberare il lettore dalla suspense, per quanto riguarda i due giovani allievi del Merry Old Gentleman; e di registrare—

Quando il Dodger e il suo abile amico Master Bates si unirono alla caccia che fu scatenata contro Oliver in conseguenza del trasferimento illegale dei beni personali di Mr. Brownlow, come già descritto, furono mossi da una considerazione molto lodevole e appropriata per se stessi; e poiché la libertà dell’individuo e la libertà del singolo sono tra le prime e più orgogliose glorie di un vero inglese, non ho bisogno di chiedere al lettore di notare che questa azione dovrebbe esaltarli nell’opinione di tutti gli uomini pubblici e patriottici, quasi quanto questa forte prova della loro ansia per la propria conservazione e sicurezza contribuisce a corroborare e confermare il piccolo codice di leggi che certi filosofi profondi e giudiziosi hanno stabilito come i principali motori di tutte le azioni e i comportamenti della Natura: detti filosofi riducono molto saggiamente le azioni della buona signora a questioni di massime e teorie, e con un complimento molto elegante e grazioso alla sua elevata saggezza e intelligenza, escludono completamente da ogni considerazione il cuore o gli impulsi generosi e i sentimenti. Perché queste sono questioni totalmente al di sotto di una femmina che è universalmente riconosciuta come molto superiore ai numerosi piccoli difetti e debolezze del suo sesso.

Se volessi ulteriori prove della rigorosamente filosofica natura del comportamento di questi giovani signori nella loro delicata situazione, le troverei subito nel fatto (anch’esso registrato in una parte precedente di questo racconto) che abbandonarono la caccia quando l’attenzione generale si concentrò su Oliver, e si diressero immediatamente verso la loro casa per il tragitto più breve possibile. Anche se non intendo affermare che sia consuetudine dei rinomati e dotti saggi abbreviare la strada verso una grande conclusione (anzi, il loro metodo è piuttosto quello di allungare la distanza con varie circonlocuzioni e deviazioni discorsive, simili a quelle in cui gli ubriachi sono inclini a indulgere sotto l’effetto di un flusso d’idee troppo potente); tuttavia voglio dire, e lo dico chiaramente, che è pratica costante di molti grandi filosofi, nel portare avanti le loro teorie, dimostrare grande saggezza e lungimiranza nel prevedere ogni possibile evenienza che si possa supporre in grado di influenzarli. Così, per compiere un grande atto giusto, si può commettere un piccolo torto; e si possono adottare qualsiasi mezzo che il fine da raggiungere giustifichi; la misura del bene o del male, o anzi la distinzione tra i due, viene lasciata interamente al filosofo in questione, per essere stabilita e determinata dalla sua chiara, esaustiva ed imparziale visione del proprio caso particolare.

I due ragazzi non si fermarono finché, con grande rapidità, non ebbero attraversato un labirinto intricatissimo di stradine e cortili stretti; solo allora osarono arrestarsi sotto una volta bassa e buia. Dopo essersi trattenuti in silenzio il tempo necessario per riprendere fiato e parlare, il giovane Bates proruppe in un’esclamazione di divertimento e gioia; poi, scosso da una risata irrefrenabile, si gettò su uno zerbino e vi rotolò sopra in preda a un’estasi di allegria.

«Che succede?» chiese il Dodger.

«Ah! ah! ah!» ruggì Charley Bates.

«Tieni a freno la tua lingua», ammonì il Dodger guardandosi intorno con cautela, «vuoi farti acciuffare, stupido?»

“Non posso farci niente”, disse Charley, “non posso farci niente! Vedere lui correre a quel ritmo, e girare gli angoli, e sbattere contro i pali, e ripartire come se fosse fatto di ferro come loro, mentre io ho il fazzoletto in tasca e lo chiamo ad alta voce, oh, mio Dio!” L’immaginazione vivace del giovane Bates gli presentava la scena davanti agli occhi con colori troppo forti. Quando arrivò a questa apostrofe, rotolò di nuovo sul gradino della porta e rise più forte che mai.

“Che cosa dirà Fagin?”, chiese il Dodger, approfittando del successivo intervallo di mancanza di fiato da parte dell’amico per porre la domanda.

«Cosa?», ripeté Charley Bates.

«Ah, che cosa?», disse il Dodger.

«Ebbene, che cosa dovrebbe dire?» chiese Charley, interrompendo piuttosto bruscamente la sua allegria, perché il modo di fare del Dodger era impressionante: «Che cosa dovrebbe dire?»

Il signor Dawkins fischiò per un paio di minuti; poi si tolse il cappello, si grattò la testa e annuì tre volte.

«Cosa intendete?» disse Charley.

«Toor rul lol loo, pancetta e spinaci, la rana non vuole, e alta fanfaronata», disse il Dodger con un leggero disprezzo sul suo volto intelligente.

Questa spiegazione non era soddisfacente. Lo sentiva anche il giovane Bates, che ripeté: «Cosa intendi?»

Il Dodger non rispose; ma rimettendosi il cappello e raccogliendo le falde del suo lungo soprabito sotto al braccio, si morse la guancia interna, diede un mezzo dozzina di pacche sul dorso del naso in modo confidenziale ma espressivo, e voltandosi sui tacchi, sgattaiolò giù per il vicolo. Master Bates lo seguì con aria pensierosa.

Il rumore di passi sulle scale scricchiolanti, pochi minuti dopo che si era svolta questa conversazione, svegliò il vecchio signore allegrone mentre sedeva accanto al fuoco con in mano un salame piccante e una piccola pagnotta; un coltellino tascabile nella destra; e una brocca di stagno sul treppiede. C’era un sorriso canaglia sulla sua faccia bianca mentre si girava, scrutando attentamente da sotto le sue folte sopracciglia rosse, inclinò l’orecchio verso la porta e ascoltò.

«Eh? Come mai?», borbottò l’ebreo cambiando espressione; «solo due di loro? E il terzo dov’è? Non saranno mica nei guai. Ascolta!»

I passi si avvicinarono; raggiunsero il pianerottolo. La porta fu aperta lentamente e entrarono il Dodger e Charley Bates, chiudendola dietro di loro.

CHAPTER XIII. SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES ARE INTRODUCED TO THE INTELLIGENT READER, CONNECTED WITH WHOM VARIOUS PLEASANT MATTERS ARE RELATED, APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY

“Where’s Oliver?” said the Jew, rising with a menacing look. “Where’s the boy?”

The young thieves eyed their preceptor as if they were alarmed at his violence; and looked uneasily at each other. But they made no reply.

“What’s become of the boy?” said the Jew, seizing the Dodger tightly by the collar, and threatening him with horrid imprecations. “Speak out, or I’ll throttle you!”

Mr. Fagin looked so very much in earnest, that Charley Bates, who deemed it prudent in all cases to be on the safe side, and who conceived it by no means improbable that it might be his turn to be throttled second, dropped upon his knees, and raised a loud, well-sustained, and continuous roar—something between a mad bull and a speaking trumpet.

“Will you speak?” thundered the Jew: shaking the Dodger so much that his keeping in the big coat at all, seemed perfectly miraculous.

“Why, the traps have got him, and that’s all about it,” said the Dodger, sullenly. “Come, let go o’ me, will you!” And, swinging himself, at one jerk, clean out of the big coat, which he left in the Jew’s hands, the Dodger snatched up the toasting fork, and made a pass at the merry old gentleman’s waistcoat; which, if it had taken effect, would have let a little more merriment out than could have been easily replaced.

The Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more agility than could have been anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the pot, prepared to hurl it at his assailant’s head. But Charley Bates, at this moment, calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl, he suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full at that young gentleman.

“Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!” growled a deep voice. “Who pitched that ’ere at me? It’s well it’s the beer, and not the pot, as hit me, or I’d have settled somebody. I might have know’d, as nobody but an infernal, rich, plundering, thundering old Jew could afford to throw away any drink but water—and not that, unless he done the River Company every quarter. Wot’s it all about, Fagin? D—me, if my neck-handkercher an’t lined with beer! Come in, you sneaking warmint; wot are you stopping outside for, as if you was ashamed of your master! Come in!”

The man who growled out these words, was a stoutly-built fellow of about five-and-thirty, in a black velveteen coat, very soiled drab breeches, lace-up half boots, and grey cotton stockings which inclosed a bulky pair of legs, with large swelling calves;—the kind of legs, which in such costume, always look in an unfinished and incomplete state without a set of fetters to garnish them. He had a brown hat on his head, and a dirty belcher handkerchief round his neck: with the long frayed ends of which he smeared the beer from his face as he spoke. He disclosed, when he had done so, a broad heavy countenance with a beard of three days’ growth, and two scowling eyes; one of which displayed various parti-coloured symptoms of having been recently damaged by a blow.

“Come in, d’ye hear?” growled this engaging ruffian.

A white shaggy dog, with his face scratched and torn in twenty different places, skulked into the room.

“Why didn’t you come in afore?” said the man. “You’re getting too proud to own me afore company, are you? Lie down!”

This command was accompanied with a kick, which sent the animal to the other end of the room. He appeared well used to it, however; for he coiled himself up in a corner very quietly, without uttering a sound, and winking his very ill-looking eyes twenty times in a minute, appeared to occupy himself in taking a survey of the apartment.

“What are you up to? Ill-treating the boys, you covetous, avaricious, in-sa-ti-a-ble old fence?” said the man, seating himself deliberately. “I wonder they don’t murder you! I would if I was them. If I’d been your ’prentice, I’d have done it long ago, and—no, I couldn’t have sold you afterwards, for you’re fit for nothing but keeping as a curiousity of ugliness in a glass bottle, and I suppose they don’t blow glass bottles large enough.”

“Hush! hush! Mr. Sikes,” said the Jew, trembling; “don’t speak so loud!”

“None of your mistering,” replied the ruffian; “you always mean mischief when you come that. You know my name: out with it! I shan’t disgrace it when the time comes.”

“Well, well, then—Bill Sikes,” said the Jew, with abject humility. “You seem out of humour, Bill.”

“Perhaps I am,” replied Sikes; “I should think you was rather out of sorts too, unless you mean as little harm when you throw pewter pots about, as you do when you blab and—”

“Are you mad?” said the Jew, catching the man by the sleeve, and pointing towards the boys.

Mr. Sikes contented himself with tying an imaginary knot under his left ear, and jerking his head over on the right shoulder; a piece of dumb show which the Jew appeared to understand perfectly. He then, in cant terms, with which his whole conversation was plentifully besprinkled, but which would be quite unintelligible if they were recorded here, demanded a glass of liquor.

“And mind you don’t poison it,” said Mr. Sikes, laying his hat upon the table.

This was said in jest; but if the speaker could have seen the evil leer with which the Jew bit his pale lip as he turned round to the cupboard, he might have thought the caution not wholly unnecessary, or the wish (at all events) to improve upon the distiller’s ingenuity not very far from the old gentleman’s merry heart.

After swallowing two of three glasses of spirits, Mr. Sikes condescended to take some notice of the young gentlemen; which gracious act led to a conversation, in which the cause and manner of Oliver’s capture were circumstantially detailed, with such alterations and improvements on the truth, as to the Dodger appeared most advisable under the circumstances.

CAPITOLO XIII. ALCUNI NUOVI CONOSCIUTI SONO PRESENTATI AL LETTORE INTELLIGENTE, CON CUI VENGONO COLLEGATE DIVERSE GRAZIOSE STORIELLE, APPARTENENTI A QUESTA STORIA

«Dov’è Oliver?» disse l’Ebreo alzandosi con uno sguardo minaccioso. «Dov’è il ragazzo?»

I giovani ladri osservarono il loro precettore come se fossero allarmati dalla sua violenza e si guardarono l’un l’altro con inquietudine. Ma non risposero.

«Che fine ha fatto il ragazzo?» disse l’ebreo afferrando lo Spilungone per la gola e minacciandolo con terribili maledizioni. «Parla, o ti strozzo!»

Il signor Fagin aveva un’aria così seria che Charley Bates, il quale riteneva prudente in ogni circostanza stare sul sicuro e non trovava affatto improbabile che potesse toccare a lui di essere strangolato per secondo, cadde in ginocchio e levò un lungo, bene-sostenuto e continuo urlo — qualcosa tra un toro impazzito e una tromba parlante.

«Parlerai?» tuonò l’ebreo scuotendo il Dodger così tanto che il fatto che lui riuscisse a rimanere nel grande cappotto sembrava assolutamente miracoloso.

«Perché, le trappole l’hanno preso e questo è tutto», disse il Dodger, con aria scontrosa. «Su, lasciami andare!» E, liberandosi in un solo scatto dal grande cappotto che lasciò nelle mani del vecchio ebreo, il Dodger afferrò la forchetta da tostatura e fece una mossa verso il panciotto dell’allegro signore anziano; se avesse fatto presa, ne sarebbe uscita un po’ più di allegria di quanta non si potesse facilmente sostituire.

L’ebreo indietreggiò in questa emergenza con più agilità di quanta si sarebbe potuta prevedere in un uomo della sua evidente decrepitezza; e afferrato il vaso, preparò a scagliarlo contro la testa dell’aggressore. Ma Charley Bates, proprio in quel momento, attirando la sua attenzione con un urlo assolutamente terrificante, cambiò improvvisamente destinazione al vaso e lo lanciò dritto contro il giovane signore.

«Eh, che diavolo c’è nel vento adesso?» brontolò una voce profonda. «Chi mi ha tirato addosso quella roba? Per fortuna era la birra e non il boccale a colpirmi, altrimenti avrei sistemato qualcuno. Avrei potuto immaginare che solo un vecchio ebraico infernale, ricco, saccheggiatore, tuonante si sarebbe permesso di buttare via qualsiasi bevanda tranne acqua—e nemmeno quella, a meno che non facesse parte della compagnia del fiume ogni trimestre. Di cosa si tratta, Fagin? Dannazione, se il mio fazzoletto da collo non è intriso di birra! Entra, mascalzone; perché ti fermi fuori come se avessi vergogna del tuo padrone! Entra!»

L’uomo che ringhiò queste parole era un tizio di corporatura robusta, di circa trentacinque anni, con un soprabito di velluto nero, pantaloni beige molto sporchi, stivali bassi allacciati e calze di cotone grigie che avvolgevano due gambe tozze dalle grosse cosce rigonfie; — quel tipo di gambe che in un tale costume appaiono sempre incompiute e imperfette, senza una serie di ceppi a guarnirle. Aveva un cappello marrone sulla testa e un fazzoletto da collo sporco attorno al collo: con i lunghi lembi sfilacciati di questo si strofinò la birra dal viso mentre parlava. Quando ebbe finito, si scoprì un volto largo e pesante con una barba di tre giorni e due occhi che fulminavano; uno dei quali mostrava vari sintomi policromatici di essere stato recentemente danneggiato da un colpo.

«Entra, mi senti?» ringhiò questo affascinante delinquente.

Un cane bianco e arruffato, con il muso graffiato e sdrucinato in venti punti diversi, si insinuò nella stanza.

«Perché non sei entrato prima?» disse l’uomo. «Ti vergogni troppo di riconoscermi davanti a gente, eh? Stai giù!»

Questo comando fu accompagnato da un calcio che mandò l’animale all’altra estremità della stanza. Tuttavia, sembrava abituato ad esso; si arrotolò tranquillamente in un angolo senza emettere alcun suono e, ammiccando con i suoi occhi davvero poco attraenti venti volte al minuto, sembrava occuparsi a esaminare l’appartamento.

“Che cosa state facendo? Maltrattare i ragazzi, voi avido, avarissimo, insaziabile vecchio ricettatore?” disse l’uomo sedendosi con calma. “Mi chiedo come mai non vi abbiano ancora ucciso! Io lo farei se fossi al loro posto. Se fossi stato io il vostro apprendista, l’avrei fatto da tempo e—no, non avrei potuto vendervi dopo, perché siete adatto solo a essere conservato come curiosità di bruttezza in una bottiglia di vetro, e immagino che non si fabbrichino bottiglie di vetro abbastanza grandi.”

“Zitto! Zitto! Signor Sikes,” disse l’ebreo tremando; “non parli così forte!”

«Niente di quel tuo fare da mistero», rispose il ruffiano; «significa sempre guai quando ti comporti così. Conosci il mio nome: sputalo fuori! Non lo screditerò quando verrà il momento.»

«Beh, beh, allora—Bill Sikes», disse l’ebreo con abietta umiltà. «Sembri di cattivo umore, Bill.»

«Forse lo sono», rispose Sikes; «dovresti pensare che sei piuttosto fuori di te anche tu, a meno che non intendi fare poco danno quando lanci i boccali di peltro in giro, come fai quando blateri e—»

«Siete pazzo?», disse l’ebreo afferrando l’uomo per la manica e indicando i ragazzi.

Il signor Sikes si accontentò di annodare un nodo immaginario sotto il suo orecchio sinistro e di girare la testa sulla spalla destra; una pantomima che l’ebreo sembrava comprendere perfettamente. Poi, in gergo, con cui tutta la sua conversazione era abbondantemente intrisa, ma che sarebbe del tutto incomprensibile se fosse stato trascritto qui, chiese un bicchiere di liquore.

«E bada di non avvelenarlo», disse il signor Sikes posando il cappello sul tavolo.

Questo fu detto in scherzo; ma se chi parlava avesse potuto vedere il cattivo ghigno con cui l’ebreo si mordeva il pallido labbro mentre si voltava verso la credenza, forse non avrebbe ritenuto del tutto superflua quell’avvertenza o (in ogni caso) che il desiderio di migliorare sull’ingegnosità del distillatore fosse molto lontano dal gaio cuore del vecchio signore.

Dopo aver ingurgitato due dei tre bicchieri di liquore, il signor Sikes si degnò di prestare un po’ d’attenzione ai giovani gentiluomini; e questo atto di grazia portò a una conversazione in cui le cause e i modi della cattura di Oliver furono descritti nei dettagli, con tali alterazioni e miglioramenti rispetto alla verità, che al Dodger parvero assolutamente consigliabili date le circostanze.

“I’m afraid,” said the Jew, “that he may say something which will get us into trouble.”

“That’s very likely,” returned Sikes with a malicious grin. “You’re blowed upon, Fagin.”

“And I’m afraid, you see,” added the Jew, speaking as if he had not noticed the interruption; and regarding the other closely as he did so,—“I’m afraid that, if the game was up with us, it might be up with a good many more, and that it would come out rather worse for you than it would for me, my dear.”

The man started, and turned round upon the Jew. But the old gentleman’s shoulders were shrugged up to his ears; and his eyes were vacantly staring on the opposite wall.

There was a long pause. Every member of the respectable coterie appeared plunged in his own reflections; not excepting the dog, who by a certain malicious licking of his lips seemed to be meditating an attack upon the legs of the first gentleman or lady he might encounter in the streets when he went out.

“Somebody must find out wot’s been done at the office,” said Mr. Sikes in a much lower tone than he had taken since he came in.

The Jew nodded assent.

“If he hasn’t peached, and is committed, there’s no fear till he comes out again,” said Mr. Sikes, “and then he must be taken care on. You must get hold of him somehow.”

Again the Jew nodded.

The prudence of this line of action, indeed, was obvious; but, unfortunately, there was one very strong objection to its being adopted. This was, that the Dodger, and Charley Bates, and Fagin, and Mr. William Sikes, happened, one and all, to entertain a violent and deeply-rooted antipathy to going near a police-office on any ground or pretext whatever.

How long they might have sat and looked at each other, in a state of uncertainty not the most pleasant of its kind, it is difficult to guess. It is not necessary to make any guesses on the subject, however; for the sudden entrance of the two young ladies whom Oliver had seen on a former occasion, caused the conversation to flow afresh.

“The very thing!” said the Jew. “Bet will go; won’t you, my dear?”

“Wheres?” inquired the young lady.

“Only just up to the office, my dear,” said the Jew coaxingly.

It is due to the young lady to say that she did not positively affirm that she would not, but that she merely expressed an emphatic and earnest desire to be “blessed” if she would; a polite and delicate evasion of the request, which shows the young lady to have been possessed of that natural good breeding which cannot bear to inflict upon a fellow-creature, the pain of a direct and pointed refusal.

The Jew’s countenance fell. He turned from this young lady, who was gaily, not to say gorgeously attired, in a red gown, green boots, and yellow curl-papers, to the other female.

“Nancy, my dear,” said the Jew in a soothing manner, “what do you say?”

“That it won’t do; so it’s no use a-trying it on, Fagin,” replied Nancy.

“What do you mean by that?” said Mr. Sikes, looking up in a surly manner.

“What I say, Bill,” replied the lady collectedly.

“Why, you’re just the very person for it,” reasoned Mr. Sikes: “nobody about here knows anything of you.”

“And as I don’t want ’em to, neither,” replied Nancy in the same composed manner, “it’s rather more no than yes with me, Bill.”

“She’ll go, Fagin,” said Sikes.

“No, she won’t, Fagin,” said Nancy.

“Yes, she will, Fagin,” said Sikes.

And Mr. Sikes was right. By dint of alternate threats, promises, and bribes, the lady in question was ultimately prevailed upon to undertake the commission. She was not, indeed, withheld by the same considerations as her agreeable friend; for, having recently removed into the neighborhood of Field Lane from the remote but genteel suburb of Ratcliffe, she was not under the same apprehension of being recognised by any of her numerous acquaintances.

Accordingly, with a clean white apron tied over her gown, and her curl-papers tucked up under a straw bonnet,—both articles of dress being provided from the Jew’s inexhaustible stock,—Miss Nancy prepared to issue forth on her errand.

“Stop a minute, my dear,” said the Jew, producing, a little covered basket. “Carry that in one hand. It looks more respectable, my dear.”

“Give her a door-key to carry in her t’other one, Fagin,” said Sikes; “it looks real and genivine like.”

“Yes, yes, my dear, so it does,” said the Jew, hanging a large street-door key on the forefinger of the young lady’s right hand. “There; very good! Very good indeed, my dear!” said the Jew, rubbing his hands.

“Oh, my brother! My poor, dear, sweet, innocent little brother!” exclaimed Nancy, bursting into tears, and wringing the little basket and the street-door key in an agony of distress. “What has become of him! Where have they taken him to! Oh, do have pity, and tell me what’s been done with the dear boy, gentlemen; do, gentlemen, if you please, gentlemen!”

Having uttered those words in a most lamentable and heart-broken tone: to the immeasurable delight of her hearers: Miss Nancy paused, winked to the company, nodded smilingly round, and disappeared.

“Ah, she’s a clever girl, my dears,” said the Jew, turning round to his young friends, and shaking his head gravely, as if in mute admonition to them to follow the bright example they had just beheld.

“She’s a honour to her sex,” said Mr. Sikes, filling his glass, and smiting the table with his enormous fist. “Here’s her health, and wishing they was all like her!”

While these, and many other encomiums, were being passed on the accomplished Nancy, that young lady made the best of her way to the police-office; whither, notwithstanding a little natural timidity consequent upon walking through the streets alone and unprotected, she arrived in perfect safety shortly afterwards.

Entering by the back way, she tapped softly with the key at one of the cell-doors, and listened. There was no sound within: so she coughed and listened again. Still there was no reply: so she spoke.

«Temo» disse l’ebreo «che possa dire qualcosa che ci metterà nei guai».

«È molto probabile», rispose Sikes con un ghigno malizioso. «Sei stato deluso, Fagin.»

«E temo, vede», aggiunse l’ebreo, parlando come se non avesse notato l’interruzione; e osservando attentamente l’altro mentre lo faceva, «temo che, se il gioco fosse finito per noi, potrebbe essere finito anche per molti altri, e che sarebbe peggio per lei che per me, mio caro.»

L’uomo trasalì e si voltò verso l’ebreo. Ma le spalle del vecchio signore erano alzate fino alle orecchie, e i suoi occhi fissavano vuotamente il muro di fronte.

Ci fu una lunga pausa. Ogni membro del rispettabile gruppo sembrava immerso nei propri pensieri; non escluso il cane, che con un certo leccarsi malizioso delle labbra pareva meditare di attaccare le gambe del primo signore o signora che avesse incontrato per strada quando fosse uscito.

«Qualcuno deve scoprire che cosa è stato fatto all’ufficio», disse il signor Sikes con un tono molto più basso di quello che aveva usato da quando era entrato.

L’ebreo annuì in segno di assenso.

«Se non ha fatto la spia e viene arrestato, non c’è da temere finché non esce di nuovo», disse il signor Sikes, «e allora bisogna tenerlo d’occhio. Dovete assolutamente mettervi in contatto con lui».

Ancora una volta l’ebreo annuì.

La prudenza di questa linea d’azione era evidente; ma, sfortunatamente, c’era un forte ostacolo alla sua adozione. Questo era che il Dodger e Charley Bates e Fagin e il signor William Sikes avevano tutti insieme una violenta e profondamente radicata antipatia per avvicinarsi a un commissariato di polizia, per qualsiasi motivo o pretesto.

È difficile dire quanto tempo sarebbero rimasti seduti a guardarsi l’un l’altro in uno stato di incertezza non certo dei più piacevoli; tuttavia, non è necessario fare alcuna congettura al riguardo, poiché l’improvvisa entrata delle due giovani signore che Oliver aveva visto in precedenza fece riprendere il flusso della conversazione.

“Proprio quello che ci vuole!” disse l’ebreo. “Bet andrà, vero tesoro?”

«Dove?» chiese la giovane signora.

«Sono appena arrivato in ufficio, mia cara», disse l’ebreo con tono mellifluo.

È doveroso nei confronti della giovane signora dire che non ha negato in modo categorico, ma si è limitata ad esprimere un desiderio enfatico e sincero di essere “benedetta” se lo avesse fatto; una delicata ed elegante elusione della richiesta, che dimostra la giovane signora fosse dotata di quel naturale buon gusto che non sopporta infliggere ad un altro essere vivente, il dolore di un rifiuto diretto e pungente.

Il volto dell’ebreo si rabbuiò. Si voltò da questa giovane signora, vestita allegramente, per non dire sontuosamente, con un abito rosso, stivali verdi e bigodini gialli, verso l’altra donna.

«Nancy, mia cara», disse l’ebreo con tono rassicurante, «che ne pensi?»

«Non va bene così; quindi non serve provarci, Fagin», rispose Nancy.

«Che cosa intendete dire?» disse il signor Sikes, alzando lo sguardo con aria scontrosa.

«Quello che dico, Bill», rispose la signora con calma.

«Ebbene, sei proprio la persona adatta», ragionò il signor Sikes: «nessuno qui sa nulla di te».

“E poiché non voglio che lo facciano,” rispose Nancy nello stesso modo composto, “per me è piuttosto un no che un sì, Bill.”

«Andrà, Fagin», disse Sikes.

“No, non lo farà, Fagin”, disse Nancy.

«Sì, lo farà, Fagin», disse Sikes.

E aveva ragione il signor Sikes. Con minacce alternate a promesse e lusinghe, alla fine si riuscì a convincere la suddetta dama ad accettare l’incarico. Non era infatti frenata dalle stesse considerazioni della sua amabile amica; poiché, essendosi recentemente trasferita nei pressi di Field Lane dal remoto ma signorile sobborgo di Ratcliffe, non aveva le stesse apprensioni di essere riconosciuta da qualcuno dei suoi numerosi conoscenti.

Di conseguenza, con un grembiule bianco pulito legato sopra il suo abito e i suoi bigodini infilati sotto un cappello di paglia — entrambi gli articoli d’abbigliamento forniti dallo stock inesauribile dell’Ebreo — la signorina Nancy si preparò a uscire per la sua commissione.

«Fermati un momento, caro mio», disse l’ebreo tirando fuori un picco cesto coperto. «Tienilo con una mano. Sembra più rispettabile, caro mio».

«Dale una chiave di casa da portare con l’altra, Fagin», disse Sikes, «così sembra vera e autentica.»

«Sì, sì, mia cara, proprio così», disse l’ebreo appendendo una grande chiave di porta d’ingresso all’indice della mano destra della giovane signora. «Ecco; molto bene! Molto bene davvero, mia cara!» disse l’ebreo strofinandosi le mani.

“Oh, mio fratellino! Mio povero caro dolce innocente piccolo fratello!” esclamò Nancy, scoppiando in lacrime e strizzando il cestino e la chiave della porta di casa in un’agonia di disperazione. “Che ne è stato di lui! Dove l’hanno portato! Oh, abbiate pietà, per favore ditemi che cosa hanno fatto del caro ragazzo, signori; ve ne prego, signori!”

Dopo aver pronunciato quelle parole con un tono di voce davvero pietoso e straziante: al grande divertimento dei suoi ascoltatori: la signorina Nancy fece una pausa, ammiccò ai presenti, sorrise a tutti e poi sparì.

«Ah, è una ragazza intelligente, miei cari», disse l’ebreo, voltandosi verso i suoi giovani amici e scuotendo la testa con gravità, come se volesse ammonirli in silenzio a seguire il brillante esempio che avevano appena visto.

«È un onore per il suo sesso», disse Sikes riempiendosi il bicchiere e colpendo il tavolo con il suo enorme pugno. «Ecco alla sua salute, e auguro che fossero tutte come lei!»

Mentre questi e molti altri elogi venivano rivolti alla composta Nancy, la giovane si affrettò verso il commissariato; dove, nonostante un po’ di timidezza naturale dovuta al fatto che camminava per le strade sola e senza protezione, arrivò in perfetta sicurezza poco dopo.

Entrando dal retro, bussò delicatamente con la chiave a una delle porte della cella e ascoltò. Non c’era alcun suono all’interno: così tossì e ascoltò di nuovo. Ancora non ci fu risposta: così parlò.

“Nolly, dear?” murmured Nancy in a gentle voice; “Nolly?”

There was nobody inside but a miserable shoeless criminal, who had been taken up for playing the flute, and who, the offence against society having been clearly proved, had been very properly committed by Mr. Fang to the House of Correction for one month; with the appropriate and amusing remark that since he had so much breath to spare, it would be more wholesomely expended on the treadmill than in a musical instrument. He made no answer: being occupied mentally bewailing the loss of the flute, which had been confiscated for the use of the county: so Nancy passed on to the next cell, and knocked there.

“Well!” cried a faint and feeble voice.

“Is there a little boy here?” inquired Nancy, with a preliminary sob.

“No,” replied the voice; “God forbid.”

This was a vagrant of sixty-five, who was going to prison for not playing the flute; or, in other words, for begging in the streets, and doing nothing for his livelihood. In the next cell was another man, who was going to the same prison for hawking tin saucepans without license; thereby doing something for his living, in defiance of the Stamp-office.

But, as neither of these criminals answered to the name of Oliver, or knew anything about him, Nancy made straight up to the bluff officer in the striped waistcoat; and with the most piteous wailings and lamentations, rendered more piteous by a prompt and efficient use of the street-door key and the little basket, demanded her own dear brother.

“I haven’t got him, my dear,” said the old man.

“Where is he?” screamed Nancy, in a distracted manner.

“Why, the gentleman’s got him,” replied the officer.

“What gentleman! Oh, gracious heavens! What gentleman?” exclaimed Nancy.

In reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the deeply affected sister that Oliver had been taken ill in the office, and discharged in consequence of a witness having proved the robbery to have been committed by another boy, not in custody; and that the prosecutor had carried him away, in an insensible condition, to his own residence: of and concerning which, all the informant knew was, that it was somewhere in Pentonville, he having heard that word mentioned in the directions to the coachman.

In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young woman staggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a swift run, returned by the most devious and complicated route she could think of, to the domicile of the Jew.

Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered, than he very hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat, expeditiously departed: without devoting any time to the formality of wishing the company good-morning.

“We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found,” said the Jew greatly excited. “Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear,—to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay,” added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; “there’s money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop tonight. You’ll know where to find me! Don’t stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!”

With these words, he pushed them from the room: and carefully double-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of concealment the box which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver. Then, he hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery beneath his clothing.

A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. “Who’s there?” he cried in a shrill tone.

“Me!” replied the voice of the Dodger, through the key-hole.

“What now?” cried the Jew impatiently.

“Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?” inquired the Dodger.

“Yes,” replied the Jew, “wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find him out, that’s all. I shall know what to do next; never fear.”

The boy murmured a reply of intelligence: and hurried downstairs after his companions.

“He has not peached so far,” said the Jew as he pursued his occupation. “If he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth yet.”

«Nolly, caro?» mormorò Nancy con voce dolce; «Nolly?»

Non c’era nessuno all’interno tranne un miserabile criminale senza scarpe, che era stato arrestato per suonare il flauto e che, essendo l’offesa alla società stata chiaramente provata, era stato giustamente condannato dal signor Fang a un mese di reclusione nella Casa di correzione; con la pertinente e divertente osservazione che dato che aveva tanto fiato da spendere, sarebbe stato meglio impiegarlo sulla macina piuttosto che su uno strumento musicale. Non rispose nulla: era occupato a rimpiangere mentalmente la perdita del flauto, che gli era stato confiscato per l’uso della contea; così Nancy passò alla cella successiva e bussò.

«Ebbene!» esclamò una voce flebile e debole.

«C’è un bambino qui?» chiese Nancy con un singhiozzo preliminare.

“No,” rispose la voce; “Dio ce ne scampi.”

Questo era un vagabondo di sessantacinque anni che andava in carcere per non suonare il flauto; o, in altre parole, per elemosinare nelle strade e non fare nulla per vivere. Nella cella accanto c’era un altro uomo che andava nella stessa prigione per vendere pentole di latta senza licenza; facendo così qualcosa per vivere, in aperta sfida all’Ufficio del Bollo.

Ma poiché nessuno di questi criminali rispondeva al nome di Oliver o sapeva qualcosa di lui, Nancy si rivolse direttamente all’ufficiale spavaldo con il panciotto a righe; e con i più pietosi lamenti e gemiti, resi ancora più pietosi da un uso tempestivo ed efficace della chiave della porta d’ingresso e del piccolo cestino, chiese di suo fratello caro.

«Non l’ho preso, mia cara», disse il vecchio.

«Dov’è?» gridò Nancy con aria distratta.

«Ebbene, il signore lo ha preso», rispose l’ufficiale.

“Che gentiluomo! Oh, cielo misericordioso! Che gentiluomo?” esclamò Nancy.

In risposta a questo interrogatorio confuso, il vecchio informò la profondamente turbata sorella che Oliver si era ammalato nell’ufficio e successivamente licenziato a causa di un testimone che aveva provato che il furto era stato commesso da un altro ragazzo non in custodia; e che l’accusatore lo aveva portato via, in condizioni insensibili, nella sua residenza: riguardo alla quale, tutto ciò che l’informatore sapeva era che si trovava da qualche parte a Pentonville, avendo sentito quella parola menzionata nelle istruzioni al cocchiere.

In uno stato terribile di dubbio e incertezza, la giovane donna angosciata barcollò fino al cancello, e poi, trasformando il suo passo vacillante in una corsa veloce, tornò per l’itinerario più tortuoso e complicato che le venne in mente alla dimora dell’ebreo.

Non appena il signor Bill Sikes ebbe ascoltato la relazione sull’impresa, chiamò in gran fretta il cane bianco e, mettendosi il cappello, partì con altrettanta sollecitudine: senza dedicare alcun tempo alla formalità di augurare buongiorno agli astanti.

«Dobbiamo sapere dove si trova, miei cari; deve essere trovato», disse l’ebreo, molto agitato. «Charley, non fare altro che aggirarti furtivamente finché non porterai a casa qualche notizia di lui! Nancy, mia cara, devo trovarlo. Mi affido a te, mia cara, e all’Artful per tutto! Aspetta, aspetta», aggiunse l’ebreo, aprendo un cassetto con mano tremante; «qui ci sono dei soldi, miei cari. Stasera chiuderò questo negozio. Saprete dove trovarmi! Non fermatevi qui neanche per un minuto. Neanche per un istante, miei cari!»

Con queste parole li spinse fuori dalla stanza: e dopo aver chiuso con cura la porta a doppia mandata e bloccato il chiavistello dietro di loro, tirò fuori dal suo nascondiglio la scatola che aveva involontariamente rivelato a Oliver. Poi si affrettò a sistemare gli orologi e i gioielli sotto i suoi vestiti.

Un colpetto alla porta lo fece sobbalzare mentre era intento in questa occupazione. «Chi è?» esclamò con voce stridula.

«Io!» rispose la voce del Dodger attraverso la serratura.

«E adesso?» gridò l’ebreo con impazienza.

«Deve essere rapito nell’altro mondo», dice Nancy?» chiese il Dodger.

“Sì”, rispose l’ebreo, “ovunque lei metta le mani su di lui. Trovatelo, scopritelo, ecco tutto. Io saprò cosa fare dopo; non bisogna mai temere.”

Il ragazzo mormorò una risposta intelligente e si affrettò a scendere le scale dietro ai suoi compagni.

«Finora non ha parlato», disse l’ebreo mentre continuava il suo lavoro. «Se intende tradirci con i suoi nuovi amici, possiamo ancora farlo stare zitto».

CHAPTER XIV. COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER’S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW’S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND

Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow’s abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver’s history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper’s room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed.

“Ah!” said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver’s eyes. “It is gone, you see.”

“I see it is ma’am,” replied Oliver. “Why have they taken it away?”

“It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know,” rejoined the old lady.

“Oh, no, indeed. It didn’t worry me, ma’am,” said Oliver. “I liked to see it. I quite loved it.”

“Well, well!” said the old lady, good-humouredly; “you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else.”

This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea. After tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage: which he learnt as quickly as she could teach: and at which game they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and then to go cosily to bed.

They were happy days, those of Oliver’s recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that after the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like Heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver was told that he might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to think that they were safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger of his ever being able to wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell the truth; and Oliver had never had a new suit before.

One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he was sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr. Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like to see him in his study, and talk to him a little while.

“Bless us, and save us! Wash your hands, and let me part your hair nicely for you, child,” said Mrs. Bedwin. “Dear heart alive! If we had known he would have asked for you, we would have put you a clean collar on, and made you as smart as sixpence!”

Oliver did as the old lady bade him; and, although she lamented grievously, meanwhile, that there was not even time to crimp the little frill that bordered his shirt-collar; he looked so delicate and handsome, despite that important personal advantage, that she went so far as to say: looking at him with great complacency from head to foot, that she really didn’t think it would have been possible, on the longest notice, to have made much difference in him for the better.

Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door. On Mr. Brownlow calling to him to come in, he found himself in a little back room, quite full of books, with a window, looking into some pleasant little gardens. There was a table drawn up before the window, at which Mr. Brownlow was seated reading. When he saw Oliver, he pushed the book away from him, and told him to come near the table, and sit down. Oliver complied; marvelling where the people could be found to read such a great number of books as seemed to be written to make the world wiser. Which is still a marvel to more experienced people than Oliver Twist, every day of their lives.

“There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?” said Mr. Brownlow, observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling.

“A great number, sir,” replied Oliver. “I never saw so many.”

“You shall read them, if you behave well,” said the old gentleman kindly; “and you will like that, better than looking at the outsides,—that is, some cases; because there are books of which the backs and covers are by far the best parts.”

“I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir,” said Oliver, pointing to some large quartos, with a good deal of gilding about the binding.

CAPITOLO XIV. CONTENENTE ALTRI PARTICOLARI DEL SOGGIORNO DI OLIVER DA SIGNOR BROWNLOW, CON LA REMARCA-BILE PREVISIONE CHE UN CERTO SIGNOR GRIMWIG EMISE RIGUARDANDOLO QUANDO USCÌ PER UNA COMMISSIONE

Oliver, rimettendosi presto dallo svenimento provocato dall’improvviso esclamazione del signor Brownlow, il soggetto della pittura fu accuratamente evitato sia dal vecchio gentiluomo che dalla signora Bedwin, nella conversazione che seguì: la quale in effetti non faceva riferimento alla storia o alle prospettive di Oliver, ma si limitava a temi che potessero divertirlo senza eccitarlo. Era ancora troppo debole per alzarsi per la colazione; ma, quando scese nella stanza della governante il giorno dopo, il suo primo atto fu quello di lanciare uno sguardo ansioso alla parete, nella speranza di rivedere il volto della bella signora. Le sue aspettative furono però deluse, poiché la pittura era stata rimossa.

«Ah!», disse la governante osservando la direzione dello sguardo di Oliver. «È sparito, come vedi.»

«Lo vedo, signora», rispose Oliver, «ma perché l’hanno portato via?»

«È stata tolta, bambino, perché il signor Brownlow ha detto che, dato che sembrava preoccuparti, forse avrebbe impedito di rimetterti in salute, sai», replicò la vecchia signora.

«Oh, no, davvero. Non mi ha preoccupato, signora», disse Oliver. «Mi piaceva vederlo. Lo amavo proprio».

«Bene, bene!» disse la vecchia signora con buon umore; «tu guarisci il più in fretta che puoi, caro mio, e sarà appeso di nuovo. Ecco! Te lo prometto! Ora, parliamo d’altro».

Queste furono tutte le informazioni che Oliver poté ottenere riguardo il quadro in quel momento. Poiché la vecchia signora era stata così gentile con lui durante la sua malattia, cercò di non pensare più all’argomento per il momento; così ascoltò attentamente molte storie che lei gli raccontava riguardo una figlia amabile e bella, sposata a un uomo altrettanto amabile e bello, e che viveva in campagna; e riguardo a un figlio, impiegato presso un mercante nelle Indie Occidentali; e che era anche lui un giovane così buono, e scriveva lettere così rispettose a casa quattro volte l’anno, che le venivano i pompini agli occhi solo a parlarne. Quando la vecchia signora ebbe parlato per un lungo periodo delle eccellenze dei suoi figli e dei meriti del suo buon marito, oltre che della sua cara dolce anima, morta da ventisei anni esatti, fu ora di prendere il tè. Dopo il tè cominciò a insegnare a Oliver il cribbage: che lui imparò con la stessa velocità con cui lei poteva insegnarglielo; e a questo gioco giocarono, con grande interesse e serietà, fino a quando fu ora per l’infermo di prendere un po’ di vino caldo e acqua, con una fetta di pane tostato secco, e poi andare comodamente a letto.

Erano giorni felici, quelli della convalescenza di Oliver. Tutto era così tranquillo, ordinato e pulito; tutti erano così gentili e amabili che dopo il rumore e la confusione in mezzo ai quali aveva sempre vissuto, gli sembrava quasi di essere in Paradiso. Non appena fu abbastanza forte per vestirsi come si deve, il signor Brownlow fece provvedere a un completo nuovo, un nuovo berretto e un nuovo paio di scarpe. Oliver venne informato che poteva fare quello che voleva con i vecchi abiti, così li regalò a una domestica che era stata molto gentile con lui e le chiese di venderli a un ebreo e di tenersi il denaro. Lei lo fece subito; e mentre Oliver guardava fuori dalla finestra del salotto e vedeva l’ebreo riporli nella sua borsa e allontanarsi, si sentì davvero felice al pensiero che fossero ormai al sicuro e che non ci fosse più alcun pericolo di doverli mai indossare di nuovo. Erano stracci miseri, a dire il vero; e Oliver non aveva mai avuto un completo nuovo prima d’allora.

Una sera, circa una settimana dopo l’affare del ritratto, mentre era seduto e parlava con la signora Bedwin, arrivò un messaggio da parte di Mr. Brownlow che se Oliver Twist si sentiva abbastanza in forma, gli sarebbe piaciuto vederlo nel suo studio per chiacchierare un po’.

«Dio ci benedica e ci salvi! Lavi le mani, e lasci che io pettini i suoi capelli in modo carino, bambina», disse la signora Bedwin. «Oh mio Dio! Se avessimo saputo che lui l’avrebbe chiesta, le avremmo messo un colletto pulito e l’avremmo fatta bella come un quattrino!»

Oliver fece come la vecchia signora gli aveva detto; e, sebbene nel frattempo si lamentasse amaramente che non c’era nemmeno tempo per arricciare il piccolo volant che bordava il suo colletto della camicia, appariva così delicato ed elegante, nonostante quel notevole vantaggio personale, che arrivò a dire: guardandolo con grande compiacimento dalla testa ai piedi, che davvero non pensava sarebbe stato possibile, anche avendo il massimo tempo per farlo, migliorarlo molto.

Così incoraggiato, Oliver bussò alla porta dello studio. Su invito di Mr. Brownlow ad entrare, si trovò in una piccola stanza sul retro, completamente piena di libri, con una finestra che dava su alcuni piacevoli giardini. C’era un tavolo davanti alla finestra, a cui era seduto Mr. Brownlow intento nella lettura. Quando vide Oliver, allontanò il libro e gli disse di avvicinarsi al tavolo e sedersi. Oliver obbedì, meravigliandosi di dove si potessero trovare le persone per leggere un numero così grande di libri che sembravano essere stati scritti per rendere il mondo più saggio. Il che è ancora una meraviglia per persone più esperte di Oliver Twist, ogni giorno della loro vita.

“Ci sono parecchi libri, vero, ragazzo mio?” disse il signor Brownlow, osservando la curiosità con cui Oliver esaminava gli scaffali che andavano dal pavimento al soffitto.

«Un gran numero, signore», rispose Oliver. «Non ne ho mai visti così tanti.»

«Le leggerai, se ti comporterai bene», disse il vecchio gentiluomo con gentilezza; «e questo ti piacerà più che guardare le copertine, — almeno in certi casi; perché ci sono libri di cui le giunture e i dorso sono di gran lunga le parti migliori.»

“Suppongo che siano quelli pesanti, signore”, disse Oliver, indicando alcuni grandi in-quarto con molto dorato sulla rilegatura.

“Not always those,” said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head, and smiling as he did so; “there are other equally heavy ones, though of a much smaller size. How should you like to grow up a clever man, and write books, eh?”

“I think I would rather read them, sir,” replied Oliver.

“What! wouldn’t you like to be a book-writer?” said the old gentleman.

Oliver considered a little while; and at last said, he should think it would be a much better thing to be a book-seller; upon which the old gentleman laughed heartily, and declared he had said a very good thing. Which Oliver felt glad to have done, though he by no means knew what it was.

“Well, well,” said the old gentleman, composing his features. “Don’t be afraid! We won’t make an author of you, while there’s an honest trade to be learnt, or brick-making to turn to.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Oliver. At the earnest manner of his reply, the old gentleman laughed again; and said something about a curious instinct, which Oliver, not understanding, paid no very great attention to.

“Now,” said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possible in a kinder, but at the same time in a much more serious manner, than Oliver had ever known him assume yet, “I want you to pay great attention, my boy, to what I am going to say. I shall talk to you without any reserve; because I am sure you are well able to understand me, as many older persons would be.”

“Oh, don’t tell you are going to send me away, sir, pray!” exclaimed Oliver, alarmed at the serious tone of the old gentleman’s commencement! “Don’t turn me out of doors to wander in the streets again. Let me stay here, and be a servant. Don’t send me back to the wretched place I came from. Have mercy upon a poor boy, sir!”

“My dear child,” said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of Oliver’s sudden appeal; “you need not be afraid of my deserting you, unless you give me cause.”

“I never, never will, sir,” interposed Oliver.

“I hope not,” rejoined the old gentleman. “I do not think you ever will. I have been deceived, before, in the objects whom I have endeavoured to benefit; but I feel strongly disposed to trust you, nevertheless; and I am more interested in your behalf than I can well account for, even to myself. The persons on whom I have bestowed my dearest love, lie deep in their graves; but, although the happiness and delight of my life lie buried there too, I have not made a coffin of my heart, and sealed it up, forever, on my best affections. Deep affliction has but strengthened and refined them.”

As the old gentleman said this in a low voice: more to himself than to his companion: and as he remained silent for a short time afterwards: Oliver sat quite still.

“Well, well!” said the old gentleman at length, in a more cheerful tone, “I only say this, because you have a young heart; and knowing that I have suffered great pain and sorrow, you will be more careful, perhaps, not to wound me again. You say you are an orphan, without a friend in the world; all the inquiries I have been able to make, confirm the statement. Let me hear your story; where you come from; who brought you up; and how you got into the company in which I found you. Speak the truth, and you shall not be friendless while I live.”

Oliver’s sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; when he was on the point of beginning to relate how he had been brought up at the farm, and carried to the workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a peculiarly impatient little double-knock was heard at the street-door: and the servant, running upstairs, announced Mr. Grimwig.

“Is he coming up?” inquired Mr. Brownlow.

“Yes, sir,” replied the servant. “He asked if there were any muffins in the house; and, when I told him yes, he said he had come to tea.”

Mr. Brownlow smiled; and, turning to Oliver, said that Mr. Grimwig was an old friend of his, and he must not mind his being a little rough in his manners; for he was a worthy creature at bottom, as he had reason to know.

“Shall I go downstairs, sir?” inquired Oliver.

“No,” replied Mr. Brownlow, “I would rather you remained here.”

At this moment, there walked into the room: supporting himself by a thick stick: a stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, who was dressed in a blue coat, striped waistcoat, nankeen breeches and gaiters, and a broad-brimmed white hat, with the sides turned up with green. A very small-plaited shirt frill stuck out from his waistcoat; and a very long steel watch-chain, with nothing but a key at the end, dangled loosely below it. The ends of his white neckerchief were twisted into a ball about the size of an orange; the variety of shapes into which his countenance was twisted, defy description. He had a manner of screwing his head on one side when he spoke; and of looking out of the corners of his eyes at the same time: which irresistibly reminded the beholder of a parrot. In this attitude, he fixed himself, the moment he made his appearance; and, holding out a small piece of orange-peel at arm’s length, exclaimed, in a growling, discontented voice,

“Look here! do you see this! Isn’t it a most wonderful and extraordinary thing that I can’t call at a man’s house but I find a piece of this poor surgeon’s friend on the staircase? I’ve been lamed with orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel will be my death, or I’ll be content to eat my own head, sir!”

This was the handsome offer with which Mr. Grimwig backed and confirmed nearly every assertion he made; and it was the more singular in his case, because, even admitting for the sake of argument, the possibility of scientific improvements being brought to that pass which will enable a gentleman to eat his own head in the event of his being so disposed, Mr. Grimwig’s head was such a particularly large one, that the most sanguine man alive could hardly entertain a hope of being able to get through it at a sitting—to put entirely out of the question, a very thick coating of powder.

«Non sempre quelli», disse il vecchio signore, accarezzando Oliver sulla testa e sorridendo mentre lo faceva; «ce ne sono altri altrettanto pesanti, anche se di dimensioni molto più piccole. Che ne diresti di diventare un uomo intelligente e scrivere libri, eh?»

«Penso che preferirei leggerli, signore», rispose Oliver.

«Che cosa? Non vorresti essere uno scrittore di libri?» disse il vecchio signore.

Oliver rifletté un po’; e alla fine disse che avrebbe pensato fosse molto meglio fare il libraio; a questo punto l’anziano signore rise di cuore e dichiarò che aveva detto una cosa davvero buona. Di che Oliver si sentì contento, sebbene non sapesse affatto quale fosse quella cosa.

«Bene, bene», disse il vecchio signore, componendo i suoi lineamenti. «Non aver paura! Non faremo di te uno scrittore finché c’è un onesto mestiere da imparare o la fabbricazione di mattoni a cui rivolgersi».

«Grazie, signore», disse Oliver. Al modo sincero con cui rispose, il vecchio gentiluomo rise di nuovo; e disse qualcosa riguardo a un curioso istinto che Oliver, non comprendendolo, non prestò molta attenzione.

«Ora», disse il signor Brownlow, parlando se possibile in modo più gentile, ma allo stesso tempo con un tono molto più serio di quanto Oliver lo avesse mai sentito usare prima, «voglio che tu presti molta attenzione, ragazzo mio, a quello che sto per dirti. Ti parlerò senza riserve; perché sono sicuro che sei in grado di capirmi, come potrebbero fare molte persone più anziane».

“Oh, non dica che mi manderà via, la prego!”, esclamò Oliver, allarmato dal tono serio con cui il vecchio signore aveva iniziato. “Non mi scacci di casa per vagabondare ancora nelle strade. Mi lasci rimanere qui e fare l’aiutante. Non mi mandi indietro nel miserabile posto da cui sono venuto. Abbia pietà di un povero ragazzo, la prego!”

“Mio caro bambino,” disse il vecchio signore, commosso dal calore del brusco appello di Oliver; “non devi temere che io ti abbandoni, a meno che tu non mi dia una ragione.”

“Non lo farò mai, mai, signore”, intervenne Oliver.

“Spero di no”, rispose il vecchio gentiluomo. “Non credo che lo farai mai. Mi sono già lasciato ingannare in passato dalle persone a cui ho cercato di fare del bene; ma mi sento fortemente incline a fidarmi di te, nonostante tutto; e sono più interessato alla tua sorte di quanto possa bene spiegare, anche a me stesso. Le persone alle quali ho donato il mio più caro amore, giacciono profondamente nelle loro tombe; ma, sebbene la felicità e il piacere della mia vita siano sepolti lì insieme a loro, non ho fatto un sarcofago del mio cuore, sigillandolo per sempre sulle mie migliori affezioni. La profonda sofferenza le ha solo rafforzate e purificate.”

Mentre il vecchio signore diceva questo con voce bassa, più a se stesso che al suo compagno, e mentre rimase in silenzio per un breve periodo dopo: Oliver rimase perfettamente immobile.

«Bene, bene!», disse alla fine il vecchio signore, con un tono più allegro, «dico solo questo perché hai un cuore giovane; e sapendo che ho sofferto grandi dolori e dispiaceri, forse sarai più attento a non ferirmi di nuovo. Dici di essere un orfano, senza amici al mondo; tutte le indagini che sono stato in grado di fare confermano questa dichiarazione. Raccontami la tua storia; da dove vieni; chi ti ha cresciuto; e come sei finito nella compagnia in cui ti ho trovato. Di’ la verità, e non sarai senza amici mentre io vivo».

I singhiozzi di Oliver gli impedirono di parlare per alcuni minuti; quando stava per cominciare a raccontare come era stato allevato alla fattoria e portato all’ospizio dal signor Bumble, si udì un particolare bussare impaziente alla porta d’ingresso: e la serva, correndo su per le scale, annunciò il signor Grimwig.

«Sta salendo?» chiese il signor Brownlow.

«Sì, signore», rispose il domestico. «Ha chiesto se c’erano dei muffin nella casa; e quando gli ho detto di sì, ha detto che era venuto per prendere il tè».

Il signor Brownlow sorrise e, rivolgendosi a Oliver, disse che il signor Grimwig era un vecchio amico suo e non doveva badare se fosse un po’ rude nei modi; perché in fondo era una persona onesta, come aveva motivo di sapere.

«Devo scendere di sotto, signore?» chiese Oliver.

“No”, rispose il signor Brownlow, “preferirei che rimaneste qui.”

In quel momento entrò nella stanza: appoggiandosi su un bastone spesso: un vecchio signore robusto, piuttosto zoppicante ad una gamba, che indossava un cappotto blu, un panciotto a righe, brache di nankeen e ghette, oltre a un largo cappello bianco con il bordo ampio e i lati rivoltati in verde. Un piccolo volant della camicia spuntava dal suo panciotto; e una lunghissima catena dell’orologio d’acciaio, che aveva solo una chiave all’estremità, pendeva liberamente al di sotto. Le estremità del suo fazzoletto da collo bianco erano attorcigliate a formare una palla delle dimensioni di un’arancia; la varietà di forme in cui il suo volto era contorto sfida ogni descrizione. Aveva l’abitudine di inclinare la testa su un lato quando parlava, e contemporaneamente guardava con la coda dell’occhio: ciò che irresistibilmente ricordava a chi lo osservava un pappagallo. In questa posizione si fermò nel momento in cui fece il suo ingresso; e, tenendo in mano un piccolo pezzo di scorza d’arancia allungato al massimo, esclamò con voce brontolante e scontenta:

«Guardi qui! vede questo? Non è la cosa più straordinaria e meravigliosa che non possa fare visita alla casa di un uomo senza trovare un pezzo dell’amico del povero chirurgo sulle scale? Una volta sono rimasto zoppo a causa della buccia d’arancia, e so che la buccia d’arancia sarà la mia morte, o mangerò la mia stessa testa, signore!»

Questa era l’offerta generosa con cui il signor Grimwig sosteneva e confermava quasi ogni sua asserzione; ed era tanto più singolare nel suo caso perché, anche ammettendo per ipotesi la possibilità che i progressi scientifici raggiungessero un tale livello da permettere a un gentiluomo di mangiare la propria testa se fosse stato così incline, la testa del signor Grimwig era talmente particolarmente grande che l’uomo più ottimista al mondo difficilmente avrebbe potuto nutrire una speranza di riuscire a consumarla in un’unica seduta — senza considerare poi uno spesso strato di polvere.

“I’ll eat my head, sir,” repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick upon the ground. “Hallo! what’s that!” looking at Oliver, and retreating a pace or two.

“This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about,” said Mr. Brownlow.

Oliver bowed.

“You don’t mean to say that’s the boy who had the fever, I hope?” said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little more. “Wait a minute! Don’t speak! Stop—” continued Mr. Grimwig, abruptly, losing all dread of the fever in his triumph at the discovery; “that’s the boy who had the orange! If that’s not the boy, sir, who had the orange, and threw this bit of peel upon the staircase, I’ll eat my head, and his too.”

“No, no, he has not had one,” said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. “Come! Put down your hat; and speak to my young friend.”

“I feel strongly on this subject, sir,” said the irritable old gentleman, drawing off his gloves. “There’s always more or less orange-peel on the pavement in our street; and I know it’s put there by the surgeon’s boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit last night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got up I saw her look towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light. ‘Don’t go to him,’ I called out of the window, ‘he’s an assassin! A man-trap!’ So he is. If he is not—” Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick; which was always understood, by his friends, to imply the customary offer, whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass, which he wore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again.

“That’s the boy, is it?” said Mr. Grimwig, at length.

“That’s the boy,” replied Mr. Brownlow.

“How are you, boy?” said Mr. Grimwig.

“A great deal better, thank you, sir,” replied Oliver.

Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea; which, as he did not half like the visitor’s manner, he was very happy to do.

“He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?” inquired Mr. Brownlow.

“I don’t know,” replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly.

“Don’t know?”

“No. I don’t know. I never see any difference in boys. I only knew two sort of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys.”

“And which is Oliver?”

“Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy, they call him; with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid boy; with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes; with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I know him! The wretch!”

“Come,” said Mr. Brownlow, “these are not the characteristics of young Oliver Twist; so he needn’t excite your wrath.”

“They are not,” replied Mr. Grimwig. “He may have worse.”

Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to afford Mr. Grimwig the most exquisite delight.

“He may have worse, I say,” repeated Mr. Grimwig. “Where does he come from! Who is he? What is he? He has had a fever. What of that? Fevers are not peculiar to good people; are they? Bad people have fevers sometimes; haven’t they, eh? I knew a man who was hung in Jamaica for murdering his master. He had had a fever six times; he wasn’t recommended to mercy on that account. Pooh! nonsense!”

Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr. Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver’s appearance and manner were unusually prepossessing; but he had a strong appetite for contradiction, sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the orange-peel; and, inwardly determining that no man should dictate to him whether a boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved, from the first, to oppose his friend. When Mr. Brownlow admitted that on no one point of inquiry could he yet return a satisfactory answer; and that he had postponed any investigation into Oliver’s previous history until he thought the boy was strong enough to hear it; Mr. Grimwig chuckled maliciously. And he demanded, with a sneer, whether the housekeeper was in the habit of counting the plate at night; because if she didn’t find a table-spoon or two missing some sunshiny morning, why, he would be content to—and so forth.

All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous gentleman: knowing his friend’s peculiarities, bore with great good humour; as Mr. Grimwig, at tea, was graciously pleased to express his entire approval of the muffins, matters went on very smoothly; and Oliver, who made one of the party, began to feel more at his ease than he had yet done in the fierce old gentleman’s presence.

“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 his subject.

“Tomorrow morning,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “I would rather he was alone with me at the time. Come up to me tomorrow 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 tomorrow 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.”

«Mangerò la mia testa, signore», ripeté il signor Grimwig battendo il bastone per terra. «Ehi! che cos’è quello?» guardando Oliver e arretrando di un passo o due.

«Questo è il giovane Oliver Twist di cui stavamo parlando», disse il signor Brownlow.

Oliver si inchinò.

«Non vorrete dire che è il ragazzo che ha avuto la febbre, spero?» disse il signor Grimwig, ritraendosi un po’ di più. «Aspettate un momento! Non parlate! Fermatevi—» continuò il signor Grimwig, bruscamente, perdendo ogni timore della febbre nel suo trionfo per la scoperta; «questo è il ragazzo che aveva l’arancia! Se non è questo il ragazzo, signore, che ha avuto l’arancia e ha gettato questo pezzo di buccia sulle scale, mi mangio la testa, e anche la sua.»

«No, no, non ne ha avuto uno», disse il signor Brownlow ridendo. «Su, metti giù il cappello e parla al mio giovane amico».

«Sento molto forte su questo argomento, signore», disse il vecchio signore irritabile, togliendosi i guanti. «C’è sempre più o meno buccia d’arancia sul marciapiede della nostra strada; e so che la mette lì il ragazzo del chirurgo all’angolo. Una giovane donna è inciampata in un pezzo ieri sera, ed è caduta contro le mie ringhiere del giardino; appena si è rialzata ho visto che guardava verso la sua dannata lampada rossa con la luce da pantomima. ‘Non andare da lui’, ho gridato dal finestrino, ‘è un assassino! Una trappola per uomini!’ E lo è. Se non lo fosse—» Qui il vecchio signore irascibile diede un gran colpo a terra con il bastone; che era sempre interpretato, dai suoi amici, come l’implicazione dell’offerta consueta, quando questa non veniva espressa a parole. Poi, tenendo ancora il bastone in mano, si sedette; e, aprendo un doppio occhiale che portava appeso a una larga fascia nera, diede un’occhiata a Oliver: che, vedendosi oggetto di ispezione, arrossì e si inchinò di nuovo.

«Questo è il ragazzo, vero?» disse alla fine il signor Grimwig.

«Questo è il ragazzo», rispose il signor Brownlow.

«Come stai, ragazzo?» disse il signor Grimwig.

“Molto meglio, grazie signore”, rispose Oliver.

Il signor Brownlow, temendo che il suo singolare amico stesse per dire qualcosa di spiacevole, chiese a Oliver di scendere e avvertire la signora Bedwin che erano pronti per il tè; e poiché non gli piaceva del tutto il comportamento dell’ospite, fu ben felice di farlo.

«È un ragazzo di bell’aspetto, non è vero?» chiese il signor Brownlow.

«Non lo so», rispose il signor Grimwig, con irritazione.

“Non lo sai?”

«No. Non lo so. Io non vedo mai differenze tra i ragazzi. Ne ho conosciuti solo di due tipi: quelli pallidi e quelli robusti».

“E chi è Oliver?”

«Mealy. Conosco un amico che ha un ragazzo dal viso carnoso; lo chiamano un bel ragazzo; con una testa rotonda, guance rosse e occhi sporgenti; un ragazzo orribile; con un corpo e arti che sembrano gonfiarsi fuori dalle cuciture dei suoi vestiti blu; con la voce di un pilota e l’appetito di un lupo. Lo conosco! Il miserabile!»

«Come», disse il signor Brownlow, «queste non sono le caratteristiche del giovane Oliver Twist; quindi non dovrebbe suscitare la tua ira.»

“Non lo sono”, rispose il signor Grimwig. “Potrebbe andare peggio.”

A questo punto il signor Brownlow tossì con impazienza, e ciò sembrò procurare al signor Grimwig un piacere squisito.

«Potrebbe andare peggio, dico io», ripeté il signor Grimwig. «Da dove viene? Chi è? Cosa fa? Ha avuto la febbre. E allora? La febbre non colpisce solo le brave persone; o sbaglio? Anche i malvagi hanno a volte la febbre; no? Conoscevo un uomo che fu impiccato in Giamaica per aver ucciso il suo padrone. Aveva avuto sei volte la febbre, ma questo non gli valse una raccomandazione alla clemenza. Bah! Sciocchezze!»

Ora, il fatto era che nelle più intime profondità del suo cuore, il signor Grimwig era fortemente incline ad ammettere che l’aspetto e i modi di Oliver fossero insolitamente gradevoli; ma aveva un forte appetito per la contraddizione, acuito in questa occasione dalla scoperta della buccia d’arancia; e, avendo interiormente deciso che nessuno gli avrebbe dettato se un ragazzo era di bell’aspetto o no, aveva risolto fin dall’inizio di opporsi al suo amico. Quando il signor Brownlow ammise che su nessun punto dell’indagine poteva ancora fornire una risposta soddisfacente; e che aveva rimandato qualsiasi indagine sulla storia precedente di Oliver fino a quando non avesse ritenuto il ragazzo abbastanza forte da sopportarla; il signor Grimwig ghignò maliziosamente. E chiese con sarcasmo se la governante fosse solita contare l’argenteria di notte; perché se non avesse trovato una o due cucchiai mancanti qualche mattina di sole, beh, sarebbe stato contento di, e così via.

Tutto ciò, signor Brownlow, sebbene egli stesso fosse un gentiluomo piuttosto impulsivo: conoscendo le peculiarità del suo amico, lo sopportò con grande buon umore; poiché il signor Grimwig, durante il tè, si degnò di esprimere la sua piena approvazione per i muffin, tutto procedette molto tranquillamente; e Oliver, che faceva parte del gruppo, iniziò a sentirsi più a suo agio di quanto non fosse mai stato in presenza dell’anziano signore feroce.

“E quando sentiremo un resoconto completo, vero e particolareggiato della vita e delle avventure di Oliver Twist?” chiese Grimwig al signor Brownlow alla fine del pasto; guardando di traverso Oliver, mentre riprendeva il discorso.

«Domani mattina», rispose il signor Brownlow. «Preferirei che fosse solo con me in quel momento. Vieni da me domani mattina alle dieci e mezzo, caro mio.»

“Sì, signore”, rispose Oliver. Rispose con qualche esitazione perché era confuso dal fatto che il signor Grimwig lo guardasse così intensamente.

«Le dirò una cosa», sussurrò quell’uomo al signor Brownlow; «domani mattina non verrà da lei. L’ho visto esitare. La sta ingannando, mio buon amico».

«Giuro che non lo è», rispose vivacemente il signor Brownlow.

«Se non lo è», disse il signor Grimwig, «io, » e lasciò cadere il bastone.

«Risponderò della verità di quel ragazzo con la mia vita!» disse il signor Brownlow, battendo sul tavolo.

«E io per la sua falsità con la mia testa!» replicò il signor Grimwig, battendosi anche lui sul tavolo.

«Lo vedremo», disse il signor Brownlow, reprimendo la sua crescente ira.

“Lo faremo”, rispose il signor Grimwig con un sorriso provocatorio; “lo faremo”.

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 tonight.”

“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,” said Oliver, eagerly. Having buttoned up the bank-note 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 corner. 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.

Per un colpo di fortuna, la signora Bedwin si trovò a portare in quel momento, un piccolo pacco di libri che il signor Brownlow aveva acquistato quella mattina dal medesimo venditore ambulante di libri già comparso in questa storia; avendoli deposti sul tavolo, si preparò ad uscire dalla stanza.

“Fermi il ragazzo, signora Bedwin!” disse il signor Brownlow; “c’è qualcosa da fare.”

«Se n’è andato, signore», rispose la signora Bedwin.

«Chiamatelo», disse il signor Brownlow; «è una cosa particolare. È un povero uomo e non gli vengono pagati. Ci sono anche alcuni libri da riportare».

La porta di strada fu aperta. Oliver corse da una parte; e la ragazza dall’altra; e la signora Bedwin rimase sul gradino e gridò per il ragazzo; ma non c’era nessun ragazzo in vista. Oliver e la ragazza tornarono, senza fiato, a riferire che non vi erano notizie di lui.

«Oh, mi dispiace molto», esclamò il signor Brownlow; «desideravo particolarmente che quei libri fossero restituiti stasera».

«Mandate Oliver con loro», disse il signor Grimwig con un sorriso ironico «è sicuro che le consegnerà senza problemi, sapete.»

«Sì, per favore, signore, lasci che le porti io» disse Oliver. «Correrò tutto il tempo, signore.»

Il vecchio gentiluomo stava per dire che Oliver non doveva assolutamente uscire; quando un colpo di tosse molto malizioso del signor Grimwig lo convinse che invece doveva farlo, e che, con la sua pronta esecuzione dell’incarico, avrebbe dimostrato al signor Grimwig l’ingiustizia dei suoi sospetti: su questo punto almeno.

«Andrai, mia cara», disse il vecchio signore. «I libri sono su una sedia accanto al mio tavolo. Portali qui».

Oliver, felice di rendersi utile, portò giù i libri sotto il braccio con gran fretta e attese, cappello alla mano, per sentire quale messaggio doveva trasmettere.

«Devi dire», disse il signor Brownlow guardando Grimwig con fermezza, «devi dire che hai riportato quei libri e che sei venuto a pagare i quattro sterline e dieci scellini che gli devo. Questo è un biglietto da cinque sterline, quindi dovrai portarmi indietro dieci scellini di resto».

“Non ci metterò dieci minuti, signore”, disse Oliver, con impeto. Dopo aver messo al sicuro la banconota nella tasca della giacca e riposto i libri sotto il braccio, fece un inchino rispettoso ed uscì dalla stanza. La signora Bedwin lo accompagnò fino alla porta di strada, dandogli molte istruzioni sul percorso più breve, sul nome del libraio e su quello della via: tutte cose che Oliver disse di aver ben compreso. Dopo aver aggiunto molti ammonimenti a non prendere freddo, la vecchia signora alla fine gli permise di andarsene.

«Dio benedica il suo dolce visetto!» disse la vecchia signora guardandolo allontanarsi. «Non riesco a sopportare, in qualche modo, di lasciarlo andar via dalla mia vista».

In quel momento, Oliver guardò allegramente intorno e fece un cenno con la testa prima di svoltare l’angolo. La vecchia signora ricambiò il saluto sorridendo e, chiudendo la porta, tornò nella sua stanza.

«Vediamo: tornerà tra venti minuti al massimo», disse il signor Brownlow tirando fuori l’orologio e posandolo sul tavolo, «a quell’ora sarà buio.»

«Oh! Lei si aspetta davvero che torni?» chiese il signor Grimwig.

«Non lo fa?» chiese il signor Brownlow sorridendo.

Lo spirito di contraddizione era forte nel petto del signor Grimwig, in quel momento; e fu reso più forte dal sorriso fiducioso del suo amico.

“No,” disse, colpendo il tavolo con il pugno, “non lo farà. Il ragazzo ha un nuovo completo addosso, una serie di libri preziosi sotto il braccio e una banconota da cinque sterline in tasca. Si unirà ai suoi vecchi amici i ladri e riderà di voi. Se mai quel ragazzo tornerà in questa casa, signore, mangerò la mia testa.”

Con queste parole avvicinò la sedia al tavolo e lì i due amici sedettero, in attesa silenziosa, con l’orologio tra loro.

Vale la pena di osservare, per illustrare l’importanza che attribuiamo ai nostri giudizi e il orgoglio con cui esprimiamo le nostre conclusioni più avventate e affrettate, che sebbene il signor Grimwig non fosse assolutamente un uomo di cattivo cuore e sarebbe stato sinceramente dispiaciuto nel vedere il suo stimato amico ingannato e truffato, in quel momento sperava davvero con grande fervore e convinzione che Oliver Twist non tornasse.

Si fece così buio che le cifre sul quadrante erano a malapena distinguibili; ma lì continuarono a sedere i due vecchi signori, nel silenzio, con l’orologio tra loro.

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 gas-light 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 the 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 in 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 nightcap. 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.

CAPITOLO XV. MOSTRANDO QUANTO IL VECCHIO EBREO ALLEGRO E LA SIGNORINA NANCY FOSSE ROSSI DI OLIVER TWIST

Nel salotto oscuro di un’umile osteria, nella parte più lurida della Piccola Saffron Hill; una tana buia e tetra dove la luce del gas ardeva tutto il giorno in pieno inverno-tempo, e dove mai un raggio di sole penetrava durante l’estate: sedeva, meditando su una piccola misura d’osso e un bicchiere, fortemente impregnati dell’odore di liquore, un uomo in giacca di velluto, calzoni color topo, stivali a mezza gamba e calze, che anche alla luce fioca nessun agente esperto della polizia avrebbe esitato a riconoscere come il signor William Sikes. Ai suoi piedi sedeva un cane dal pelo bianco e gli occhi rossi; che si occupava alternativamente di strizzar l’occhio al suo padrone con entrambi gli occhi contemporaneamente, e di leccare una grossa ferita fresca su un lato della bocca, che sembrava il risultato di qualche recente scontro.

«Stai zitto, cane maledetto! Stai zitto!» disse il signor Sikes, rompendo improvvisamente silenzio. Se le sue meditazioni fossero state così intense da essere disturbate dallo strizzare l’occhio del cane, o se i suoi sentimenti fossero stati così agitati dalle sue riflessioni che richiedevano tutto il sollievo derivabile dal dare un calcio a un animale innocente per placarli, è materia di discussione e considerazione. Qualunque sia stata la causa, l’effetto fu un calcio e una maledizione, inflitti al cane simultaneamente.

I cani non sono generalmente portati alla vendetta per le offese inflitte loro dai padroni; ma il cane del signor Sikes, che aveva in comune con il suo proprietario alcuni difetti di carattere e forse in quel momento era particolarmente sensibile a un’offesa subita, non perse tempo e affondò i denti in uno degli stivaloni. Dopo averlo scosso energicamente, si ritirò ringhiando sotto una panca; riuscendo così a evitare la brocca di peltro che il signor Sikes gli aveva lanciato contro.

«Voi lo fareste, eh?» disse Sikes afferrando il poker con una mano e aprendo deliberatamente con l’altra un grande coltello a serramanico che aveva in tasca. «Vieni qui, diavolo impenitente! Vieni qui! Mi sentite?»

Il cane senza dubbio udì; perché il signor Sikes parlò nel tono più aspro di una voce già molto aspra; ma sembrando nutrire qualche inspiegabile obiezione all’idea di farsi tagliare la gola, rimase dov’era e ringhiò ancora più furiosamente del prima: nello stesso tempo afferrando con i denti l’estremità del pugnaletto e mordendolo come una bestia selvaggia.

Questa resistenza non fece che infuriare ancora di più il signor Sikes; che, cadendo in ginocchio, cominciò ad assalire l’animale con la massima furia. Il cane saltava da destra a sinistra e da sinistra a destra; ringhiando, brontolando e abbaiando; l’uomo spingeva e imprecava, colpiva e bestemmiava; e la lotta stava raggiungendo un punto critico per uno o per l’altro; quando, aprendosi improvvisamente la porta, il cane si lanciò fuori: lasciando Bill Sikes con il poker e il coltello a serramanico in mano.

Un vecchio proverbio dice che per una lite ci vogliono sempre due parti. Il signor Sikes, non vedendo il cane partecipare alla disputa, subito trasferì la sua parte di contesa al nuovo arrivato.

«Che diavolo ci fate voi tra me e il mio cane?» disse Sikes con un gesto feroce.

“Non lo sapevo, mia cara, non lo sapevo”, rispose umilmente Fagin; perché il nuovo arrivato era l’ebreo.

“Non lo sapevo, ladro codardo!” ringhiò Sikes. “Non hai sentito il rumore?”

«Non un suono, giuro sul mio onore, Bill», rispose l’ebreo.

“Oh no! Non senti niente, non lo fai,” ribatté Sikes con un ghigno feroce. “Entrare ed uscire di nascosto, in modo che nessuno sappia come vieni o vai! Vorrei che tu fossi stato il cane, Fagin, mezzo minuto fa.”

«Perché?» chiese l’ebreo con un sorriso forzato.

«Perché il governo, che si preoccupa della vita di uomini come te, che non hai nemmeno la metà del coraggio dei cani randagi, permette a un uomo di uccidere un cane come gli pare», rispose Sikes, chiudendo il coltello con uno sguardo molto eloquente; «questo è il motivo.»

L’ebreo si strofinò le mani e sedendosi al tavolo cercò di ridere della battuta del suo amico; era però visibilmente molto a disagio.

«Ridi pure», disse Sikes, riponendo il pugnaletto e osservandolo con disprezzo selvaggio; «ridi pure. Non riderai mai di me, però, a meno che non sia dietro un cappuccio. Ho la meglio su di te, Fagin; e, dannazione, la manterrò. Ecco! Se io vado, vai anche tu; quindi prenditi cura di me».

«Beh, beh, caro mio», disse l’ebreo, «lo so tutto questo; noi — noi — abbiamo un interesse comune, Bill, — un interesse comune.»

“Humf,” disse Sikes, come se pensasse che l’interesse fosse piuttosto dalla parte dell’Ebreo che dalla sua. “Bene, cosa hai da dirmi?”

«È tutto passato indenne attraverso il crogiolo», rispose Fagin, «e questa è la tua parte. È un po’ più di quanto dovrebbe essere, caro mio; ma dato che so che mi farai un buon servizio un’altra volta, e—»

“Zitto con quella chiacchiera,” intervenne il ladro, impaziente. “Dov’è? Consegnalo!”

“Sì, sì, Bill; dammi tempo, dammi tempo”, rispose l’ebreo, con tono rassicurante. “Ecco qua! Tutto al sicuro!” Mentre parlava, tirò fuori un vecchio fazzoletto di cotone dal petto; e sciogliendo un grande nodo in un angolo, produsse un piccolo pacchetto di carta marrone. Sikes, strappandoglielo dalle mani, lo aprì affrettatamente; e procedette a contare le sovrane che conteneva.

«Questo è tutto, vero?» chiese Sikes.

«Tutto», rispose l’ebreo.

«Non avete aperto il pacco e ingoiato uno o due mentre camminavate, vero?» chiese Sikes con sospetto. «Non fate quell’aria offesa per la domanda; l’avete fatto già tante volte. Tirate il campanello.»

Queste parole, in chiaro inglese, trasmettevano un ordine di suonare la campana. Fu risposto da un altro ebreo: più giovane di Fagin, ma quasi altrettanto vile e ripugnante nell’aspetto.

Bill Sikes si limitò a indicare la brocca vuota. L’ebreo, che aveva perfettamente compreso l’allusione, si ritirò per riempirla: prima però scambiò uno sguardo notevole con Fagin, il quale alzò gli occhi per un istante, come se lo aspettasse, e scosse la testa in risposta; così leggermente che l’azione sarebbe stata quasi impercettibile a una terza persona attenta. Non fu notata da Sikes, che si stava chinando in quel momento per allacciare il laccio della scarpa strappato dal cane. Forse, se avesse osservato lo scambio di segnali, avrebbe potuto pensare che non gli augurasse nulla di buono.

“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 eye-brows, 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 distant, 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 accidently 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 have found him! Oh! Oliver! Oliver! Oh you naughty boy, to make me suffer such 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!”

“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 heels; “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 him!”

Weak with recent illness; stupified 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 neighborhood; 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.

«C’è qualcuno qui, Barney?» chiese Fagin, parlando ora che Sikes lo stava osservando senza sollevare gli occhi dal pavimento.

«Dot a shoul», rispose Barney; le cui parole: che venissero dal cuore o no: si facevano strada attraverso il naso.

«Nessuno?», chiese Fagin con tono sorpreso, il che forse poteva voler dire che a Barney era permesso di dire la verità.

«Nessuno se non Miss Dasie», rispose Barney.

«Nancy!» esclamò Sikes. «Dove? Mi colpisca la cecità se non onoro quella ragazza per i suoi talenti naturali».

«Ha chiesto di avere un piatto di manzo bollito al bar», rispose Barney.

“Mandala qui”, disse Sikes, versando un bicchiere di liquore. “Mandala qui”.

Barney guardò timidamente Fagin, come se chiedesse il permesso; dato che l’ebreo rimaneva in silenzio e non alzava gli occhi dal pavimento, lui si ritirò; e poco dopo tornò facendo entrare Nancy; che era decorata con il cappello, il grembiule, il cestino e la chiave della porta di casa, completi.

“Sei sulla pista, vero, Nancy?”, chiese Sikes, offrendo il bicchiere.

«Sì, sono io, Bill», rispose la giovane signora, disponendo del contenuto; «e ne ho abbastanza di questa situazione. Il piccolo marmocchio è stato malato e rinchiuso nella culla; e, »

«Ah, cara Nancy!», disse Fagin, alzando lo sguardo.

Ora, se una particolare contrazione delle sopracciglia rosse dell’ebreo e un mezzo chiudersi dei suoi occhi profondamente incassati avessero messo in guardia la signorina Nancy che era troppo loquace, non è una questione di grande importanza. Il fatto è tutto ciò che ci interessa qui; e il fatto è che lei si fermò improvvisamente e, con diversi graziosi sorrisi al signor Sikes, cambiò discorso su altri argomenti. In circa dieci minuti tempo, il signor Fagin fu colto da una crisi di tosse; a questo punto Nancy si tirò lo scialle sulle spalle e dichiarò che era ora di andare. Il signor Sikes, scoprendo che stava camminando per un breve tratto del suo stesso percorso, espresse l’intenzione di accompagnarla; se ne andarono insieme, seguiti a poca distanza dal cane, che sgusciò fuori da un cortile sul retro non appena il padrone fu fuori vista.

Quando Sikes uscì dalla stanza l’ebreo affacciò la testa alla porta, lo guardò mentre si allontanava lungo il buio corridoio, scosse il pugno chiuso, borbottò una maledizione e poi, con un orribile ghigno, tornò a sedersi al tavolo; dove ben presto fu profondamente assorto nelle interessanti pagine del Hue-and-Cry.

Nel frattempo Oliver Twist, lontano dal sospettare di trovarsi così vicino al vecchio signore allegra compagnia, si dirigeva verso il banco dei libri. Quando arrivò a Clerkenwell, per caso svoltò in un vicolo laterale che non era esattamente sulla sua strada; ma non accorgendosi dell’errore finché non ne aveva percorso metà e sapendo che comunque lo avrebbe portato nella giusta direzione, non gli parve il caso di tornare indietro; così proseguì a passo svelto con i libri sotto al braccio.

Camminava pensando quanto felice e contento avrebbe dovuto sentirsi; e quanta gioia gli avrebbe fatto anche solo uno sguardo al povero piccolo Dick, che forse in quel preciso momento piangeva amaramente per la fame e le botte; quando fu sorpreso da una giovane donna che gridava a squarciagola: «Oh, mio caro fratello!». E non aveva ancora alzato lo sguardo per vedere cosa stesse succedendo, quando si fermò perché un paio di braccia gli si strinsero forte intorno al collo.

«No», gridò Oliver, dibattendosi, «lasciatemi andare! Chi è? Perché mi fermate?»

L’unica risposta fu un gran numero di forti lamenti da parte della giovane donna che lo aveva abbracciato, e che teneva in mano un piccolo cestino e una chiave di porta d’ingresso.

“Oh, mio Dio!” disse la giovane donna, “l’ho trovato! Oh! Oliver! Oliver! Oh, birbante che non sei altro, a farmi soffrire tanto per colpa tua! Vieni a casa, tesoro mio, vieni. L’ho trovato. Grazie al cielo, l’ho trovato!” Con queste esclamazioni incoerenti, la giovane donna scoppiò di nuovo in lacrime e si mise in uno stato disterico così terribile che un paio di donne che passavano in quel momento chiesero a un ragazzo del macellaio con una testa lucida di capelli unti di sego, che stava guardando anche lui, se non pensasse fosse meglio andare a cercare il dottore. A cui il ragazzo del macellaio: che sembrava avere un atteggiamento svogliato, per non dire indolente: rispose che non gli pareva il caso.

“Oh, no, no, non ci pensi nemmeno”, disse la giovane donna, afferrando la mano di Oliver; “Ora sto meglio. Vieni subito a casa, ragazzo crudele! Vieni!”

«Oh, signora», rispose la giovane donna, «è scappato di casa quasi un mese fa, da suoi genitori che sono persone laboriose e rispettabili; ed è andato a unirsi a una banda di ladri e malviventi; e ha quasi spezzato il cuore alla madre.»

«Giovane disgraziata!» disse una donna.

«Vai a casa, dai, piccolo bruto», disse l’altro.

“Non lo sono”, rispose Oliver, molto allarmato. “Non la conosco. Non ho sorelle né padre e madre. Sono un orfano; vivo a Pentonville”.

«Solo ascoltatelo, come se ne infischia!» gridò la giovane donna.

«Ma è Nancy!», esclamò Oliver, che ora vedeva il suo volto per la prima volta e indietreggiò, colpito da un incontenibile stupore.

«Vedete che mi conosce!» gridò Nancy, rivolgendosi ai presenti. «Non può farne a meno. Fatelo tornare a casa, per carità, altrimenti ucciderà i suoi cari genitori e mi spezzerà il cuore!»

«Che diavolo è questo?», disse un uomo, uscendo a precipizio da una birreria con un cane bianco alle calcagna; «Oliver! Vieni a casa dalla tua povera madre, tu giovane cane! Vieni a casa subito.»

“Non appartengo a loro. Non li conosco. Aiuto! aiuto!” gridò Oliver, dibattendosi nella potente presa dell’uomo.

«Aiuto!» ripeté l’uomo. «Sì, ti aiuterò io, mascalzone che non sei altro! Che libri sono questi? Li hai rubati, vero? Dammi qui quei volumi.» Con queste parole, l’uomo strappò i libri dalle sue mani e lo colpì alla testa.

“Esatto!” gridò un osservatore da una finestra di soffitta. “Questo è l’unico modo per riportarlo in sé!”

«Certo!» esclamò un falegname dal viso assonnato, lanciando uno sguardo di approvazione alla finestra del solaio.

«Gli farà bene!», dissero le due donne.

“E lo avrà anche!” ribatté l’uomo, infliggendo un altro colpo e afferrando Oliver per il collo. “Vieni qui, giovane mascalzone! Ecco, Bull’s-eye, tienilo d’occhio, ragazzo! Tienilo d’occhio!”

Debole per una recente malattia; stordito dai colpi e dalla rapidità dell’aggressione; terrorizzato dal feroce ringhio del cane e dalla brutalità dell’uomo; sopraffatto dalla convinzione degli astanti che fosse davvero il piccolo disgraziato che lo descrivevano; cosa poteva fare un povero bambino! Era calata la notte, si trovava in una zona malfamata e non c’era aiuto nelle vicinanze. Opporre resistenza sarebbe stato inutile. Un attimo dopo venne trascinato in un labirinto di vicoli bui e stretti e costretto a correre così veloce che i pochi gridi che osava emettere divennero incomprensibili. In realtà, non aveva molta importanza se erano comprensibili o meno; perché comunque nessuno si sarebbe preoccupato di loro, anche se fossero stati chiari come il sole.

Le lampade a gas erano accese; la signora Bedwin stava aspettando ansiosamente sulla porta aperta; la serva era corsa su e giù per la strada venti volte per vedere se c’erano tracce di Oliver; e ancora i due vecchi signori sedevano, con perseveranza, nel salotto buio, con l’orologio tra loro.

CHAPTER XVI. RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY NANCY

The narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open space; scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other indications of a cattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they reached this spot: the girl being quite unable to support any longer, the rapid rate at which they had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he roughly commanded him to take hold of Nancy’s hand.

“Do you hear?” growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round.

They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers.

Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers.

“Give me the other,” said Sikes, seizing Oliver’s unoccupied hand. “Here, Bull’s-Eye!”

The dog looked up, and growled.

“See here, boy!” said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver’s throat; “if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D’ye mind!”

The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.

“He’s as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn’t!” said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. “Now, you know what you’ve got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young ’un!”

Bull’s-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the benefit of Oliver, led the way onward.

It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was dark and foggy. The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle through the heavy mist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the streets and houses in gloom; rendering the strange place still stranger in Oliver’s eyes; and making his uncertainty the more dismal and depressing.

They had hurried on a few paces, when a deep church-bell struck the hour. With its first stroke, his two conductors stopped, and turned their heads in the direction whence the sound proceeded.

“Eight o’clock, Bill,” said Nancy, when the bell ceased.

“What’s the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can’t I?” replied Sikes.

“I wonder whether they can hear it,” said Nancy.

“Of course they can,” replied Sikes. “It was Bartlemy time when I was shopped; and there warn’t a penny trumpet in the fair, as I couldn’t hear the squeaking on. Arter I was locked up for the night, the row and din outside made the thundering old jail so silent, that I could almost have beat my brains out against the iron plates of the door.”

“Poor fellow!” said Nancy, who still had her face turned towards the quarter in which the bell had sounded. “Oh, Bill, such fine young chaps as them!”

“Yes; that’s all you women think of,” answered Sikes. “Fine young chaps! Well, they’re as good as dead, so it don’t much matter.”

With this consolation, Mr. Sikes appeared to repress a rising tendency to jealousy, and, clasping Oliver’s wrist more firmly, told him to step out again.

“Wait a minute!” said the girl: “I wouldn’t hurry by, if it was you that was coming out to be hung, the next time eight o’clock struck, Bill. I’d walk round and round the place till I dropped, if the snow was on the ground, and I hadn’t a shawl to cover me.”

“And what good would that do?” inquired the unsentimental Mr. Sikes. “Unless you could pitch over a file and twenty yards of good stout rope, you might as well be walking fifty mile off, or not walking at all, for all the good it would do me. Come on, and don’t stand preaching there.”

The girl burst into a laugh; drew her shawl more closely round her; and they walked away. But Oliver felt her hand tremble, and, looking up in her face as they passed a gas-lamp, saw that it had turned a deadly white.

They walked on, by little-frequented and dirty ways, for a full half-hour: meeting very few people, and those appearing from their looks to hold much the same position in society as Mr. Sikes himself. At length they turned into a very filthy narrow street, nearly full of old-clothes shops; the dog running forward, as if conscious that there was no further occasion for his keeping on guard, stopped before the door of a shop that was closed and apparently untenanted; the house was in a ruinous condition, and on the door was nailed a board, intimating that it was to let: which looked as if it had hung there for many years.

“All right,” cried Sikes, glancing cautiously about.

Nancy stooped below the shutters, and Oliver heard the sound of a bell. They crossed to the opposite side of the street, and stood for a few moments under a lamp. A noise, as if a sash window were gently raised, was heard; and soon afterwards the door softly opened. Mr. Sikes then seized the terrified boy by the collar with very little ceremony; and all three were quickly inside the house.

The passage was perfectly dark. They waited, while the person who had let them in, chained and barred the door.

“Anybody here?” inquired Sikes.

“No,” replied a voice, which Oliver thought he had heard before.

“Is the old ’un here?” asked the robber.

“Yes,” replied the voice, “and precious down in the mouth he has been. Won’t he be glad to see you? Oh, no!”

The style of this reply, as well as the voice which delivered it, seemed familiar to Oliver’s ears: but it was impossible to distinguish even the form of the speaker in the darkness.

“Let’s have a glim,” said Sikes, “or we shall go breaking our necks, or treading on the dog. Look after your legs if you do!”

“Stand still a moment, and I’ll get you one,” replied the voice. The receding footsteps of the speaker were heard; and, in another minute, the form of Mr. John Dawkins, otherwise the Artful Dodger, appeared. He bore in his right hand a tallow candle stuck in the end of a cleft stick.

CAPITOLO XVI. RACCONTA COSA DIVENNE DI OLIVER TWIST DOPO CHE FUI RICHIAMATO DA NANCY

Le strade e i vicoli stretti terminavano infine in un ampio spazio aperto; disseminato di recinti per animali e altri segni che indicavano la presenza di un mercato del bestiame. Sikes rallentò il passo quando arrivarono a quel punto: la ragazza non era più in grado di sostenere l’andatura rapida con cui avevano camminato fino ad allora. Si rivolse a Oliver e gli ordinò rudemente di prendere per mano Nancy.

«Avete sentito?» ringhiò Sikes mentre Oliver esitava e guardava intorno.

Erano in un angolo buio, completamente fuori dal percorso dei passeggeri.

Oliver vide, ma troppo chiaramente, che resistere non sarebbe servito a nulla. Tese la mano, che Nancy strinse forte nella sua.

«Dammi l’altro», disse Sikes, afferrando la mano libera di Oliver. «Ecco, Bull’s-Eye!»

Il cane alzò lo sguardo e ringhiò.

«Guarda qui, ragazzo!» disse Sikes, mettendo la sua altra mano alla gola di Oliver; «se lui dice anche solo una parolina sussurrata, tienilo fermo! Hai capito?»

Il cane ringhiò di nuovo e, leccandosi le labbra, guardò Oliver come se fosse ansioso di attaccarsi alla sua trachea senza indugio.

«È docile come un cristiano, mi fulmini se non lo è!» disse Sikes, guardando l’animale con una sorta di approvazione cupa e feroce. «Ora sai cosa devi aspettarti, padrone, quindi chiama pure quando vuoi; il cane smetterà presto quel gioco. Avanti, giovane!»

Bull’s-eye agitò la coda per riconoscere questa forma di discorso insolitamente affettuosa e, dando sfogo a un altro ringhio ammonitore a beneficio di Oliver, prese il comando della marcia.

Stavano attraversando Smithfield, anche se avrebbe potuto essere Grosvenor Square, per quanto ne sapeva Oliver. La notte era buia e fosca. Le luci dei negozi riuscivano a malapena a farsi strada attraverso la fitta nebbia, che si addensava di momento in momento avvolgendo le strade e le case nell’oscurità; rendendo quel luogo sconosciuto ancora più estraneo agli occhi di Oliver e aumentando il suo senso di smarrimento, sempre più cupo e opprimente.

Avevano fretta e avevano fatto pochi passi quando una profonda campana di chiesa suonò l’ora. Con il primo rintocco i suoi due accompagnatori si fermarono, e girarono la testa nella direzione da cui proveniva il suono.

«Le otto, Bill», disse Nancy quando la campana smise di suonare.

«A che serve dirmelo? Lo sento anch’io, no?» rispose Sikes.

“Mi chiedo se loro possono sentirlo”, disse Nancy.

«Certo che possono», rispose Sikes. «Era il periodo di Bartlemy fiera quando fui arrestato; e non c’era un trombino da un penny alla fiera, che io non potessi sentire stridere. Dopo essere stato rinchiuso per la notte, il baccano all’esterno rendeva la vecchia prigione così silenziosa, che avrei quasi potuto sfondarmi il cranio contro le lastre di ferro della porta».

«Poveretto!» disse Nancy, che ancora aveva il viso rivolto verso la direzione da cui era giunto il suono della campana. «Oh, Bill, ragazzi così belli e giovani come loro!»

«Sì, è tutto quello a cui pensate voi donne», rispose Sikes. «Giovani bei ragazzi! Beh, sono quasi morti, quindi non importa molto».

Con questo conforto, il signor Sikes sembrò reprimere una crescente tendenza alla gelosia, e, stringendo più saldamente il polso di Oliver, gli disse di riprendere a camminare.

«Aspetta un minuto!» disse la ragazza: «Non mi affrettarei se fossi tu che stai per uscire per essere impiccato alla prossima volta che l’orologio batte le otto, Bill. Girerei intorno al posto fino a cadere, anche se ci fosse la neve e non avessi una sciarpa per coprirmi».

“E che bene ne verrebbe?” chiese l’insensibile signor Sikes. “A meno che non possiate lanciarmi un lima e venti metri di buona robusta corda, potreste anche camminare a cinquanta miglia da qui, o non camminare affatto, per tutto il bene che mi farebbe. Vieni avanti, e non stare lì a predicare.”

La ragazza scoppiò a ridere, si strinse meglio lo scialle intorno alle spalle e se ne andarono via. Ma Oliver sentì tremare la sua mano e, guardandola in faccia mentre passavano sotto un lampione a gas, vide che era diventata mortalmente pallida.

Camminarono per mezz’ora buona su strade poco frequentate e sporche: incontrando pochissime persone, che dal loro aspetto sembravano avere la stessa posizione sociale del signor Sikes. Alla fine svoltarono in una via stretta e molto sudicia, quasi piena di negozi di vestiti usati; il cane corse avanti, come se fosse consapevole che non c’era più bisogno di stare in guardia, si fermò davanti alla porta di un negozio chiuso e apparentemente disabitato; la casa era in condizioni di rovina, e sulla porta era inchiodata una targa che annunciava l’affitto: sembrava fosse appesa lì da molti anni.

«Va bene», gridò Sikes, guardandosi cautamente intorno.

Nancy si chinò sotto gli scuri, e Oliver udì il suono di una campana. Attraversarono la strada fino al lato opposto e rimasero per qualche istante sotto un lampione. Si sentì un rumore come se una finestra a ghigliottina fosse stata sollevata con delicatezza, e poco dopo la porta si aprì dolcemente. Il signor Sikes afferrò quindi il ragazzo terrorizzato per il colletto senza troppe cerimonie; e i tre furono ben presto all’interno della casa.

Il passaggio era completamente buio. Aspettarono mentre la persona che li aveva fatti entrare chiudeva e assicurava con catene e sbarre la porta.

«C’è qualcuno qui?» chiese Sikes.

“No”, rispose una voce che Oliver gli sembrò di aver già sentito prima.

«È qui il vecchio?» chiese il bandito.

«Sì», rispose la voce, «e che bocconcino prelibato è stato.
Non sarà contento di vederti? Oh, no!»

Lo stile di questa risposta, così come la voce che l’aveva pronunciata, sembrava familiare alle orecchie di Oliver: ma era impossibile distinguere anche solo le sembianze del parlante nell’oscurità.

«Prendiamo una luce», disse Sikes, «altrimenti finiremo per romperci il collo o pestare il cane. Fai attenzione a dove metti i piedi!»

«Restate fermo un momento e ve lo procurerò», rispose la voce. Si udirono i passi dell’interlocutore allontanarsi; e, dopo un minuto, apparve la figura di Mr. John Dawkins, altrimenti noto come il Dodger Astuto. Egli teneva nella sua mano destra una candela di sego infissa nell’estremità di un bastone fessurato.

The young gentleman did not stop to bestow any other mark of recognition upon Oliver than a humourous grin; but, turning away, beckoned the visitors to follow him down a flight of stairs. They crossed an empty kitchen; and, opening the door of a low earthy-smelling room, which seemed to have been built in a small back-yard, were received with a shout of laughter.

“Oh, my wig, my wig!” cried Master Charles Bates, from whose lungs the laughter had proceeded: “here he is! oh, cry, here he is! Oh, Fagin, look at him! Fagin, do look at him! I can’t bear it; it is such a jolly game, I can’t bear it. Hold me, somebody, while I laugh it out.”

With this irrepressible ebullition of mirth, Master Bates laid himself flat on the floor: and kicked convulsively for five minutes, in an ectasy of facetious joy. Then jumping to his feet, he snatched the cleft stick from the Dodger; and, advancing to Oliver, viewed him round and round; while the Jew, taking off his nightcap, made a great number of low bows to the bewildered boy. The Artful, meantime, who was of a rather saturnine disposition, and seldom gave way to merriment when it interfered with business, rifled Oliver’s pockets with steady assiduity.

“Look at his togs, Fagin!” said Charley, putting the light so close to his new jacket as nearly to set him on fire. “Look at his togs! Superfine cloth, and the heavy swell cut! Oh, my eye, what a game! And his books, too! Nothing but a gentleman, Fagin!”

“Delighted to see you looking so well, my dear,” said the Jew, bowing with mock humility. “The Artful shall give you another suit, my dear, for fear you should spoil that Sunday one. Why didn’t you write, my dear, and say you were coming? We’d have got something warm for supper.”

At his, Master Bates roared again: so loud, that Fagin himself relaxed, and even the Dodger smiled; but as the Artful drew forth the five-pound note at that instant, it is doubtful whether the sally of the discovery awakened his merriment.

“Hallo, what’s that?” inquired Sikes, stepping forward as the Jew seized the note. “That’s mine, Fagin.”

“No, no, my dear,” said the Jew. “Mine, Bill, mine. You shall have the books.”

“If that ain’t mine!” said Bill Sikes, putting on his hat with a determined air; “mine and Nancy’s that is; I’ll take the boy back again.”

The Jew started. Oliver started too, though from a very different cause; for he hoped that the dispute might really end in his being taken back.

“Come! Hand over, will you?” said Sikes.

“This is hardly fair, Bill; hardly fair, is it, Nancy?” inquired the Jew.

“Fair, or not fair,” retorted Sikes, “hand over, I tell you! Do you think Nancy and me has got nothing else to do with our precious time but to spend it in scouting arter, and kidnapping, every young boy as gets grabbed through you? Give it here, you avaricious old skeleton, give it here!”

With this gentle remonstrance, Mr. Sikes plucked the note from between the Jew’s finger and thumb; and looking the old man coolly in the face, folded it up small, and tied it in his neckerchief.

“That’s for our share of the trouble,” said Sikes; “and not half enough, neither. You may keep the books, if you’re fond of reading. If you ain’t, sell ’em.”

“They’re very pretty,” said Charley Bates: who, with sundry grimaces, had been affecting to read one of the volumes in question; “beautiful writing, isn’t is, Oliver?” At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more boisterous than the first.

“They belong to the old gentleman,” said Oliver, wringing his hands; “to the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had me nursed, when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him back the books and money. Keep me here all my life long; but pray, pray send them back. He’ll think I stole them; the old lady: all of them who were so kind to me: will think I stole them. Oh, do have mercy upon me, and send them back!”

With these words, which were uttered with all the energy of passionate grief, Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jew’s feet; and beat his hands together, in perfect desperation.

“The boy’s right,” remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting his shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. “You’re right, Oliver, you’re right; they will think you have stolen ’em. Ha! ha!” chuckled the Jew, rubbing his hands, “it couldn’t have happened better, if we had chosen our time!”

“Of course it couldn’t,” replied Sikes; “I know’d that, directly I see him coming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It’s all right enough. They’re soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn’t have taken him in at all; and they’ll ask no questions after him, fear they should be obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged. He’s safe enough.”

Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being spoken, as if he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and tore wildly from the room: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare old house echo to the roof.

“Keep back the dog, Bill!” cried Nancy, springing before the door, and closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. “Keep back the dog; he’ll tear the boy to pieces.”

“Serve him right!” cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl’s grasp. “Stand off from me, or I’ll split your head against the wall.”

“I don’t care for that, Bill, I don’t care for that,” screamed the girl, struggling violently with the man, “the child shan’t be torn down by the dog, unless you kill me first.”

“Shan’t he!” said Sikes, setting his teeth. “I’ll soon do that, if you don’t keep off.”

Il giovane gentiluomo non si fermò per tributare ad Oliver altro segno di riconoscimento se non un ghigno umoristico; ma, voltandosi, fece cenno ai visitatori di seguirlo lungo una scala. Attraversarono una cucina vuota e, aprendo la porta di una stanza bassa dal tanfo terroso che sembrava essere stata costruita in un piccolo cortile sul retro, furono accolti da un urlo di risate.

“Oh, il mio parrucchino, il mio parrucchino!” gridò il signor Charles Bates, dai cui polmoni era uscita la risata: “Eccolo qui! oh, urlate, eccolo qui! Oh, Fagin, guardalo! Fagin, guarda che faccia! Non ce la faccio; è un gioco così divertente che non ce la faccio. Tenetemi qualcuno mentre mi sfogo a ridere.”

Con questa irrefrenabile esplosione di allegria, il signorino Bates si gettò a terra e per cinque minuti scalciò convulsamente in un’estasi di gioia scherzosa. Poi balzò in piedi, strappò la bacchetta fessurata al Dodger e, avvicinandosi a Oliver, lo esaminò da tutte le angolazioni; mentre il vecchio ebreo, togliendosi il berretto da notte, faceva numerosi inchini profondi al ragazzo disorientato. Nel frattempo l’Artful Dodger, che era di natura piuttosto saturnina e raramente si lasciava andare alle risate quando queste interferivano con gli affari, frugò nelle tasche di Oliver con costante assiduità.

«Guarda i suoi vestiti, Fagin!» disse Charley avvicinando la luce tanto alla sua nuova giacca da rischiare di metterla in fiamme. «Guarda i suoi vestiti! Stoffa superlativa e un taglio elegante e pesante! Oh, mio Dio, che spettacolo! E anche i suoi libri! Un vero gentiluomo, Fagin!»

«Sono felice di vederti così in forma, mia cara», disse l’ebreo, inchinandosi con una falsa umiltà. «L’Artful ti darà un altro vestito, mia cara, per paura che tu rovini quello della domenica. Perché non hai scritto, mia cara, per dirci che saresti venuta? Avremmo preparato qualcosa di caldo da cena.»

A questo punto il maestro Bates scoppiò di nuovo in una risata così fragorosa che persino Fagin si rilassò e anche il Dodger sorrise; ma poiché l’astuto tirò fuori la banconota da cinque sterline proprio in quel momento, è dubbio se fosse stata la scoperta a suscitare il suo divertimento.

«Ehi, cos’è quello?», chiese Sikes facendo un passo avanti mentre l’Ebreo afferrava il biglietto. «È mio, Fagin.»

“No, no, mio caro,” disse l’ebreo. “Miei, Bill, miei. Avrai i libri.”

«Se non è mio!» disse Bill Sikes, mettendosi il cappello con aria risoluta; «mio e di Nancy; riporterò indietro quel ragazzo.»

Il vecchio ebreo trasalì. Anche Oliver trasalì, ma per un motivo ben diverso: sperava infatti che la disputa finisse davvero con il suo ritorno a casa.

«Eh? Vuoi darmi il denaro?» disse Sikes.

“Questo non è giusto, Bill; non è giusto, vero, Nancy?”, chiese l’ebreo.

«Giusto o non giusto», ribatté Sikes, «dammi quello che mi spetta, ti dico! Credi forse che io e Nancy non abbiamo altro da fare con il nostro prezioso tempo se non passarlo a inseguire e rapire ogni ragazzo che viene catturato grazie a te? Dammi qui, vecchio avaro scheletro, dammelo!»

Con questa mite obiezione, il signor Sikes tolse la lettera tra le dita del vecchio ebraico; e guardando l’uomo con freddezza negli occhi, la ripiegò piccola e se la legò al collo nel fazzoletto.

«Questo è per la nostra parte di guai», disse Sikes; «e non basta neanche a coprirli. Puoi tenere i libri se ti piace leggere. Se non ti piace, vendili».

«Sono molto carine», disse Charley Bates: che, con varie smorfie, aveva simulato di leggere uno dei volumi in questione; «una bella scrittura, vero, Oliver?» Alla vista dello sguardo disperato con cui Oliver guardava i suoi tormentatori, il giovane Bates, che era dotato di un vivo senso dell’assurdo, cadde in un’altra estasi, più fragorosa della prima.

«Appartengono al vecchio signore», disse Oliver, strizzando le mani; «al buon, gentile, vecchio signore che mi ha accolto nella sua casa e mi ha fatto curare, quando ero quasi morto di febbre. Oh, vi prego, mandateglieli indietro; mandategli indietro i libri e il denaro. Tenetemi qui per tutta la vita; ma vi prego, vi prego, mandateglieli indietro. Lui penserà che li ho rubati; la vecchia signora: tutti quelli che sono stati così gentili con me: penseranno che li ho rubati. Oh, abbiate pietà di me, e mandateglieli indietro!»

Con queste parole, pronunciate con tutta l’energia di un dolore appassionato, Oliver cadde in ginocchio ai piedi dell’ebreo e batté le mani insieme, in perfetta disperazione.

«Il ragazzo ha ragione», osservò Fagin, guardandosi intorno furtivamente e aggrottando le sue sopracciglia arruffate in un nodo duro. «Hai ragione, Oliver, hai ragione; penseranno che sei stato tu a rubarle. Ha! ha!» rise l’ebreo strofinandosi le mani, «non avrebbe potuto andare meglio, anche se avessimo scelto il nostro momento!»

«Naturalmente non poteva», rispose Sikes; «lo sapevo appena l’ho visto arrivare a Clerkenwell con i libri sotto il braccio. È tutto abbastanza giusto. Sono cantori di salmi dal cuore tenero, altrimenti non lo avrebbero accolto affatto; e non gli faranno domande dopo, paura che siano obbligati a perseguirlo e così fargli fare la galera. È abbastanza sicuro».

Oliver aveva guardato l’uno e l’altro mentre queste parole venivano pronunciate, come se fosse disorientato e non riuscisse quasi a capire cosa stava succedendo; ma quando Bill Sikes ebbe finito, balzò improvvisamente in piedi e si strappò selvaggiamente dalla stanza: lanciando urla di aiuto che fecero rimbombare la vecchia e spoglia casa fino al tetto.

«Tieni indietro il cane, Bill!» gridò Nancy, balzando davanti alla porta e chiudendola mentre l’ebreo e i suoi due allievi si lanciarono fuori all’inseguimento. «Tieni indietro il cane; sbranerà il ragazzo».

«Gli serve!» gridò Sikes, cercando di liberarsi dalla presa della ragazza. «Stai lontana da me o ti spacco il cranio contro la parete».

“Non voglio questo, Bill, non voglio questo”, gridò la ragazza, lottando violentemente con l’uomo, “il bambino non sarà strappato via dal cane, a meno che tu prima non mi uccidi”.

“Non lo farà!” disse Sikes serrando i denti. “Lo farò presto se non ti tieni lontano.”

The housebreaker flung the girl from him to the further end of the room, just as the Jew and the two boys returned, dragging Oliver among them.

“What’s the matter here!” said Fagin, looking round.

“The girl’s gone mad, I think,” replied Sikes, savagely.

“No, she hasn’t,” said Nancy, pale and breathless from the scuffle; “no, she hasn’t, Fagin; don’t think it.”

“Then keep quiet, will you?” said the Jew, with a threatening look.

“No, I won’t do that, neither,” replied Nancy, speaking very loud. “Come! What do you think of that?”

Mr. Fagin was sufficiently well acquainted with the manners and customs of that particular species of humanity to which Nancy belonged, to feel tolerably certain that it would be rather unsafe to prolong any conversation with her, at present. With the view of diverting the attention of the company, he turned to Oliver.

“So you wanted to get away, my dear, did you?” said the Jew, taking up a jagged and knotted club which lay in a corner of the fireplace; “eh?”

Oliver made no reply. But he watched the Jew’s motions, and breathed quickly.

“Wanted to get assistance; called for the police; did you?” sneered the Jew, catching the boy by the arm. “We’ll cure you of that, my young master.”

The Jew inflicted a smart blow on Oliver’s shoulders with the club; and was raising it for a second, when the girl, rushing forward, wrested it from his hand. She flung it into the fire, with a force that brought some of the glowing coals whirling out into the room.

“I won’t stand by and see it done, Fagin,” cried the girl. “You’ve got the boy, and what more would you have?—Let him be—let him be—or I shall put that mark on some of you, that will bring me to the gallows before my time.”

The girl stamped her foot violently on the floor as she vented this threat; and with her lips compressed, and her hands clenched, looked alternately at the Jew and the other robber: her face quite colourless from the passion of rage into which she had gradually worked herself.

“Why, Nancy!” said the Jew, in a soothing tone; after a pause, during which he and Mr. Sikes had stared at one another in a disconcerted manner; “you,—you’re more clever than ever tonight. Ha! ha! my dear, you are acting beautifully.”

“Am I?” said the girl. “Take care I don’t overdo it. You will be the worse for it, Fagin, if I do; and so I tell you in good time to keep clear of me.”

There is something about a roused woman: especially if she add to all her other strong passions, the fierce impulses of recklessness and despair; which few men like to provoke. The Jew saw that it would be hopeless to affect any further mistake regarding the reality of Miss Nancy’s rage; and, shrinking involuntarily back a few paces, cast a glance, half imploring and half cowardly, at Sikes: as if to hint that he was the fittest person to pursue the dialogue.

Mr. Sikes, thus mutely appealed to; and possibly feeling his personal pride and influence interested in the immediate reduction of Miss Nancy to reason; gave utterance to about a couple of score of curses and threats, the rapid production of which reflected great credit on the fertility of his invention. As they produced no visible effect on the object against whom they were discharged, however, he resorted to more tangible arguments.

“What do you mean by this?” said Sikes; backing the inquiry with a very common imprecation concerning the most beautiful of human features: which, if it were heard above, only once out of every fifty thousand times that it is uttered below, would render blindness as common a disorder as measles: “what do you mean by it? Burn my body! Do you know who you are, and what you are?”

“Oh, yes, I know all about it,” replied the girl, laughing hysterically; and shaking her head from side to side, with a poor assumption of indifference.

“Well, then, keep quiet,” rejoined Sikes, with a growl like that he was accustomed to use when addressing his dog, “or I’ll quiet you for a good long time to come.”

The girl laughed again: even less composedly than before; and, darting a hasty look at Sikes, turned her face aside, and bit her lip till the blood came.

“You’re a nice one,” added Sikes, as he surveyed her with a contemptuous air, “to take up the humane and gen—teel side! A pretty subject for the child, as you call him, to make a friend of!”

“God Almighty help me, I am!” cried the girl passionately; “and I wish I had been struck dead in the street, or had changed places with them we passed so near tonight, before I had lent a hand in bringing him here. He’s a thief, a liar, a devil, all that’s bad, from this night forth. Isn’t that enough for the old wretch, without blows?”

“Come, come, Sikes,” said the Jew appealing to him in a remonstratory tone, and motioning towards the boys, who were eagerly attentive to all that passed; “we must have civil words; civil words, Bill.”

“Civil words!” cried the girl, whose passion was frightful to see. “Civil words, you villain! Yes, you deserve ’em from me. I thieved for you when I was a child not half as old as this!” pointing to Oliver. “I have been in the same trade, and in the same service, for twelve years since. Don’t you know it? Speak out! Don’t you know it?”

“Well, well,” replied the Jew, with an attempt at pacification; “and, if you have, it’s your living!”

“Aye, it is!” returned the girl; not speaking, but pouring out the words in one continuous and vehement scream. “It is my living; and the cold, wet, dirty streets are my home; and you’re the wretch that drove me to them long ago, and that’ll keep me there, day and night, day and night, till I die!”

“I shall do you a mischief!” interposed the Jew, goaded by these reproaches; “a mischief worse than that, if you say much more!”

The girl said nothing more; but, tearing her hair and dress in a transport of passion, made such a rush at the Jew as would probably have left signal marks of her revenge upon him, had not her wrists been seized by Sikes at the right moment; upon which, she made a few ineffectual struggles, and fainted.

“She’s all right now,” said Sikes, laying her down in a corner. “She’s uncommon strong in the arms, when she’s up in this way.”

The Jew wiped his forehead: and smiled, as if it were a relief to have the disturbance over; but neither he, nor Sikes, nor the dog, nor the boys, seemed to consider it in any other light than a common occurance incidental to business.

“It’s the worst of having to do with women,” said the Jew, replacing his club; “but they’re clever, and we can’t get on, in our line, without ’em. Charley, show Oliver to bed.”

“I suppose he’d better not wear his best clothes tomorrow, Fagin, had he?” inquired Charley Bates.

“Certainly not,” replied the Jew, reciprocating the grin with which Charley put the question.

Master Bates, apparently much delighted with his commission, took the cleft stick: and led Oliver into an adjacent kitchen, where there were two or three of the beds on which he had slept before; and here, with many uncontrollable bursts of laughter, he produced the identical old suit of clothes which Oliver had so much congratulated himself upon leaving off at Mr. Brownlow’s; and the accidental display of which, to Fagin, by the Jew who purchased them, had been the very first clue received, of his whereabout.

“Put off the smart ones,” said Charley, “and I’ll give ’em to Fagin to take care of. What fun it is!”

Poor Oliver unwillingly complied. Master Bates rolling up the new clothes under his arm, departed from the room, leaving Oliver in the dark, and locking the door behind him.

The noise of Charley’s laughter, and the voice of Miss Betsy, who opportunely arrived to throw water over her friend, and perform other feminine offices for the promotion of her recovery, might have kept many people awake under more happy circumstances than those in which Oliver was placed. But he was sick and weary; and he soon fell sound asleep.

Il ladro di case scagliò la ragazza dall’altra parte della stanza proprio mentre il vecchio e i due ragazzi tornavano trascinando con loro Oliver.

“Che succede qui!” disse Fagin, guardandosi intorno.

«Penso che la ragazza sia impazzita», rispose Sikes con ferocia.

“No, non l’ha fatto”, disse Nancy, pallida e senza fiato per la colluttazione; “no, non l’ha fatto, Fagin; non pensarlo”.

«Allora tieni la bocca chiusa, eh?» disse l’ebreo con uno sguardo minaccioso.

“No, non farò nemmeno questo”, rispose Nancy, parlando a voce molto alta. “Ecco! Cosa ne pensate?”

Il signor Fagin conosceva abbastanza bene i modi e le usanze di quella particolare specie d’umanità a cui apparteneva la Nancy, da sentirsi piuttosto sicuro che sarebbe stato pericoloso prolungare qualsiasi conversazione con lei, al momento. Per distrarre l’attenzione degli altri, si rivolse allora a Oliver.

«Volevi scappare, mia cara?» disse l’ebreo, afferrando un bastone nodoso e frastagliato che giaceva in un angolo del caminetto. «Eh?»

Oliver non rispose nulla. Ma osservò i movimenti dell’ebreo e respirò affannosamente.

«Voleva chiedere aiuto; ha chiamato la polizia; l’ha fatto?» ghignò il vecchio ebreo afferrando il ragazzo per un braccio. «Lei si guarirà da questa mania, mio giovane padroncino».

Il vecchio ebreo inflisse un forte colpo sulle spalle di Oliver con il bastone; e stava per alzarlo per un secondo, quando la ragazza, facendosi avanti, glielo strappò dalla mano. Lo scagliò nel fuoco, con una forza tale da far volare alcune delle braci ardenti nella stanza.

“Non starò a guardare mentre succede, Fagin”, gridò la ragazza. “Avete il ragazzo e che altro volete?—Lasciatelo stare—lasciatelo stare—o metterò quel segno su uno di voi, che mi porterà al patibolo prima del mio tempo.”

La ragazza pestò violentemente il piede sul pavimento mentre pronunciava questa minaccia; e con le labbra strette e i pugni chiusi, guardò alternativamente l’ebreo e l’altro ladro: il suo viso era completamente privo di colore per la passione della rabbia in cui si era gradualmente lasciata andare.

«Ma Nancy!» disse l’ebreo, con tono rassicurante, dopo una pausa durante la quale lui e il signor Sikes si erano fissati a vicenda in modo sconcertato; «tu, sei più intelligente che mai stasera. Ah ah! mia cara, reciti magnificamente».

«Lo sono?» disse la ragazza. «State attento che non esageri. Ne risentirete voi, Fagin, se lo faccio; e quindi ve lo dico in buon tempo per tenervi alla larga da me».

C’è qualcosa in una donna esasperata: specialmente se aggiunge a tutte le sue altre forti passioni gli impulsi feroci della temerarietà e dello sconforto; che pochi uomini amano provocare. L’ebreo vide che sarebbe stato inutile fingere ulteriormente di non capire la reale rabbia della signorina Nancy; e, ritraendosi involontariamente indietro di qualche passo, lanciò uno sguardo, metà supplichevole e metà codardo, a Sikes: come per suggerire che lui era la persona più adatta a proseguire il dialogo.

Il signor Sikes, così tacitamente interpellato; e forse sentendo il suo personale orgoglio e la sua influenza in gioco nella immediata riduzione della signorina Nancy alla ragione; diede voce a una ventina di maledizioni e minacce, la rapida produzione delle quali rifletteva grande credito sulla fecondità del suo ingegno. Poiché non ebbero alcun effetto visibile sull’oggetto contro cui furono scagliate, tuttavia, ricorse ad argomenti più tangibili.

“Che cosa intendi dire con questo?” disse Sikes; accompagnando la domanda con una imprecazione molto comune riguardante il più bello dei tratti umani: che se fosse ascoltata lassù anche solo una volta su cinquantamila di quelle in cui viene pronunciata quaggiù, renderebbe la cecità un disturbo comune quanto il morbillo: “che cosa intendi dire con questo? Bruci il mio corpo! Sai chi sei e che cosa sei?”

«Oh, sì, ne so tutto», rispose la ragazza ridendo istericamente e scuotendo il capo da una parte all’altra con un povero tentativo di indifferenza.

«Bene, allora tieni la bocca chiusa», ribatté Sikes con un ringhio simile a quello che usava quando si rivolgeva al suo cane, «o ti farò stare zitto per un bel po’ di tempo a venire.»

La ragazza rise di nuovo: ancora meno compostamente che prima; e, dopo aver lanciato un’occhiata frettolosa a Sikes, distolse il viso e si morse le labbra fino a far venire il sangue.

«Sei proprio un bel tipo», aggiunse Sikes mentre la osservava con aria sprezzante, «a prendere le difese del lato umano e gentile! Un bell’argomento per il bambino, come lo chiami tu, da scegliere come amico!»

«Dio Onnipotente mi aiuti, lo sono!» gridò la ragazza con passione; «e vorrei che fossi stata colpita a morte in strada, o avessi cambiato posto con quelli che abbiamo superato così vicino stasera, prima di aver dato una mano a portarlo qui. È un ladro, un bugiardo, un diavolo, tutto ciò che è cattivo, da questa notte in poi. Non è abbastanza per il vecchio miserabile, senza i colpi?»

«Dai, dai, Sikes», disse il vecchio ebreo rivolgendosi a lui con tono di rimprovero e facendo cenno verso i ragazzi che ascoltavano tutto con grande attenzione «dobbiamo usare parole gentili; parole gentili, Bill.»

«Parole gentili!» gridò la ragazza, la cui passione era spaventosa da vedere. «Parole gentili, tu villano! Sì, te le meriti da me. Ho rubato per te quando ero una bambina non ancora mezza la sua età!» indicando Oliver. «Sono stata nello stesso mestiere e al servizio dello stesso padrone per dodici anni. Non lo sai? Parla chiaro! Non lo sai?»

«Bene, bene», rispose l’ebreo con un tentativo di placare la situazione «e se lo hai fatto è il tuo mestiere!»

“Sì, lo è!” rispose la ragazza; non parlando, ma riversando le parole in un urlo continuo e violento. “È il mio sostentamento; e le strade fredde, bagnate e sporche sono la mia casa; e tu sei la miserabile che mi ha spinto verso di loro tanto tempo fa, e che mi terrà lì, giorno e notte, giorno e notte, fino alla morte!”

«Vi farò del male!» si intromise l’ebreo, spinto da queste accuse «un danno peggiore di quello, se continuate a parlare!»

La ragazza non disse altro; ma strappandosi i capelli e il vestito in un trasporto di passione si scagliò contro l’ebreo con tale violenza che probabilmente gli avrebbe lasciato segni evidenti della sua vendetta, se Sikes non le avesse afferrato i polsi al momento giusto; a quel punto, lei fece qualche inutile sforzo e poi svenne.

«Ora sta bene», disse Sikes, depolandola in un angolo. «Ha una forza straordinaria nelle braccia quando si mette così».

L’ebreo si asciugò la fronte e sorrise come se fosse un sollievo che il trambusto fosse finito; ma né lui, né Sikes, né il cane, né i ragazzi sembravano considerarlo diversamente da un fatto comune incidentale agli affari.

«È il peggio di avere a che fare con le donne», disse l’ebreo rimettendo al suo posto il bastone; «ma sono intelligenti e non possiamo andare avanti nel nostro mestiere senza di loro. Charley, porta Oliver a letto».

“Suppongo che sarebbe meglio se domani non si mettesse i vestiti migliori, Fagin, vero?”, chiese Charley Bates.

«Certamente no», rispose l’ebreo, ricambiando il ghigno con cui Charley aveva posto la domanda.

Il signor Bates, apparentemente molto compiaciuto della sua commissione, prese il bastone biforcato e condusse Oliver in una cucina adiacente dove c’erano due o tre dei letti su cui aveva dormito prima; qui, con molte risate irrefrenabili, tirò fuori l’identico vecchio abito che Oliver si era tanto congratulato per aver lasciato a casa del signor Brownlow e la cui esposizione accidentale davanti a Fagin, da parte dell’ebreo che li aveva acquistati, era stata il primo indizio ricevuto sulla sua posizione.

«Mettete da parte i più svegli», disse Charley, «e li darò a Fagin perché se ne prenda cura. Che divertimento!»

Il povero Oliver obbedì suo malgrado. Master Bates arrotolò i nuovi vestiti sotto il braccio e uscì dalla stanza lasciando Oliver al buio, chiudendo la porta a chiave dietro di sé.

Il rumore della risata di Charley e la voce della signorina Betsy, che arrivò opportunamente per gettare acqua sulla sua amica ed eseguire altri servizi femminili per favorire il suo recupero, avrebbero potuto tenere sveglie molte persone in circostanze più felici di quelle in cui si trovava Oliver. Ma lui era malato e stanco; e presto cadde profondamente addormentato.

CHAPTER XVII. OLIVER’S DESTINY CONTINUING UNPROPITIOUS, BRINGS A GREAT MAN TO LONDON TO INJURE HIS REPUTATION

It is the custom on the stage, in all good murderous melodramas, to present the tragic and the comic scenes, in as regular alternation, as the layers of red and white in a side of streaky bacon. The hero sinks upon his straw bed, weighed down by fetters and misfortunes; in the next scene, his faithful but unconscious squire regales the audience with a comic song. We behold, with throbbing bosoms, the heroine in the grasp of a proud and ruthless baron: her virtue and her life alike in danger, drawing forth her dagger to preserve the one at the cost of the other; and just as our expectations are wrought up to the highest pitch, a whistle is heard, and we are straightway transported to the great hall of the castle; where a grey-headed seneschal sings a funny chorus with a funnier body of vassals, who are free of all sorts of places, from church vaults to palaces, and roam about in company, carolling perpetually.

Such changes appear absurd; but they are not so unnatural as they would seem at first sight. The transitions in real life from well-spread boards to death-beds, and from mourning-weeds to holiday garments, are not a whit less startling; only, there, we are busy actors, instead of passive lookers-on, which makes a vast difference. The actors in the mimic life of the theatre, are blind to violent transitions and abrupt impulses of passion or feeling, which, presented before the eyes of mere spectators, are at once condemned as outrageous and preposterous.

As sudden shiftings of the scene, and rapid changes of time and place, are not only sanctioned in books by long usage, but are by many considered as the great art of authorship: an author’s skill in his craft being, by such critics, chiefly estimated with relation to the dilemmas in which he leaves his characters at the end of every chapter: this brief introduction to the present one may perhaps be deemed unnecessary. If so, let it be considered a delicate intimation on the part of the historian that he is going back to the town in which Oliver Twist was born; the reader taking it for granted that there are good and substantial reasons for making the journey, or he would not be invited to proceed upon such an expedition.

Mr. Bumble emerged at early morning from the workhouse-gate, and walked with portly carriage and commanding steps, up the High Street. He was in the full bloom and pride of beadlehood; his cocked hat and coat were dazzling in the morning sun; he clutched his cane with the vigorous tenacity of health and power. Mr. Bumble always carried his head high; but this morning it was higher than usual. There was an abstraction in his eye, an elevation in his air, which might have warned an observant stranger that thoughts were passing in the beadle’s mind, too great for utterance.

Mr. Bumble stopped not to converse with the small shopkeepers and others who spoke to him, deferentially, as he passed along. He merely returned their salutations with a wave of his hand, and relaxed not in his dignified pace, until he reached the farm where Mrs. Mann tended the infant paupers with parochial care.

“Drat that beadle!” said Mrs. Mann, hearing the well-known shaking at the garden-gate. “If it isn’t him at this time in the morning! Lauk, Mr. Bumble, only think of its being you! Well, dear me, it is a pleasure, this is! Come into the parlour, sir, please.”

The first sentence was addressed to Susan; and the exclamations of delight were uttered to Mr. Bumble: as the good lady unlocked the garden-gate: and showed him, with great attention and respect, into the house.

“Mrs. Mann,” said Mr. Bumble; not sitting upon, or dropping himself into a seat, as any common jackanapes would: but letting himself gradually and slowly down into a chair; “Mrs. Mann, ma’am, good morning.”

“Well, and good morning to you, sir,” replied Mrs. Mann, with many smiles; “and hoping you find yourself well, sir!”

“So-so, Mrs. Mann,” replied the beadle. “A porochial life is not a bed of roses, Mrs. Mann.”

“Ah, that it isn’t indeed, Mr. Bumble,” rejoined the lady. And all the infant paupers might have chorussed the rejoinder with great propriety, if they had heard it.

“A porochial life, ma’am,” continued Mr. Bumble, striking the table with his cane, “is a life of worrit, and vexation, and hardihood; but all public characters, as I may say, must suffer prosecution.”

Mrs. Mann, not very well knowing what the beadle meant, raised her hands with a look of sympathy, and sighed.

“Ah! You may well sigh, Mrs. Mann!” said the beadle.

Finding she had done right, Mrs. Mann sighed again: evidently to the satisfaction of the public character: who, repressing a complacent smile by looking sternly at his cocked hat, said,

“Mrs. Mann, I am going to London.”

“Lauk, Mr. Bumble!” cried Mrs. Mann, starting back.

“To London, ma’am,” resumed the inflexible beadle, “by coach. I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has appointed me—me, Mrs. Mann—to dispose to the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question,” added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, “whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me.”

“Oh! you mustn’t be too hard upon them, sir,” said Mrs. Mann, coaxingly.

“The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble; “and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they come off rather worse than they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have only themselves to thank.”

There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs. Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said,

CAPITOLO XVII. LA FORTUNA DI OLIVER NON MIGLIORA E PORTA UN UOMO IMPORTANTE A LONDRA PER NUOCERE ALLA SUA RIBUTAZIONE

È consuetudine sul palcoscenico, in tutti i buoni melodrammi omicidi, presentare le scene tragiche e comiche in alternanza regolare come gli strati di rosso e bianco nel lato di pancetta striata. L’eroe si abbandona sul suo letto di paglia, oppresso da catene e disgrazie; nella scena successiva, il suo fedele ma inconsapevole scudiero intrattiene il pubblico con una canzone comica. Assistiamo, con cuori palpitanti, all’eroina nelle grinfie di un barone orgoglioso e spietato: la sua virtù e la sua vita sono in pericolo, estrae il pugnale per preservare l’una a costo dell’altra; e proprio quando le nostre aspettative raggiungono il culmine, si sente un fischio e veniamo immediatamente trasportati nella grande sala del castello; dove un senescalco dai capelli grigi canta un divertente coro con un corpo di vassalli ancora più buffi, che sono liberi in tutti i tipi di luoghi, dalle cripte delle chiese ai palazzi, e vagano insieme, cantando senza sosta.

Tali cambiamenti sembrano assurdi; ma non sono così innaturali come potrebbero apparire a prima vista. Le transizioni nella vita reale da tavole imbandite alla morte e dagli abiti di lutto ai vestiti festivi, non sono affatto meno sorprendenti; solo che in quel caso siamo noi stessi gli attori impegnati, anziché semplici spettatori passivi, il che fa una grande differenza. Gli attori nella vita teatrale mimata sono ciechi di fronte a transizioni violente e impulsi bruschi di passione o sentimento, che, presentati davanti agli occhi dei soli spettatori, vengono subito condannati come oltraggiosi e spropositati.

Poiché i repentini cambiamenti di scena e le rapide variazioni di tempo e luogo non sono solo tollerate nei libri per antica consuetudine, ma da molti vengono considerate la grande arte dell’autore: la competenza di un autore nella sua professione essendo, secondo tali critici, valutata principalmente in relazione ai dilemmi in cui egli lascia i suoi personaggi alla fine di ogni capitolo; questa breve introduzione al presente potrebbe forse essere considerata superflua. Se così fosse, si prega di considerarla una delicata allusione da parte dello storico che sta per tornare nella città in cui Oliver Twist nacque; il lettore può dare per scontato che ci sono buone e solide ragioni per compiere questo viaggio, altrimenti non sarebbe invitato a intraprendere una tale spedizione.

Il signor Bumble uscì al mattino presto dal cancello del lavoro e camminò con portamento maestoso e passi decisi per la High Street. Era nel pieno fiore e orgoglio della sua carica di beadle; il suo cappello a tricorno e il suo mantello brillavano al sole del mattino; stringeva il suo bastone con la vigorosa tenacia della salute e del potere. Il signor Bumble portava sempre la testa alta, ma quella mattina era più alta del solito. C’era un’astrazione nel suo sguardo, una nobiltà nell’aria che avrebbe potuto mettere in guardia uno straniero attento che pensieri troppo grandi per essere espressi stavano passando nella mente del beadle.

Il signor Bumble non si fermò per conversare con i piccoli commercianti e altri che gli parlavano deferentemente mentre passava. Si limitò a rispondere ai loro saluti con un gesto della mano, senza rallentare il suo dignitoso passo, finché non raggiunse la fattoria dove la signora Mann si prendeva cura dei bambini poveri con l’assistenza parrocchiale.

«Maledetto quel becchino!» disse la signora Mann, sentendo il noto scuotimento del cancello del giardino. «Se non è lui a quest’ora del mattino! Oh, Mr. Bumble, solo pensare che sei tu! Bene, cara me, è un piacere, questo! Entri nello studio, signore, per favore.»

La prima frase era rivolta a Susan; e le esclamazioni di gioia furono rivolte al signor Bumble: mentre la buona donna apriva il cancello del giardino e lo accompagnava, con grande attenzione e rispetto, nella casa.

«Signora Mann», disse il signor Bumble; non sedendosi o lasciandosi cadere su una sedia come avrebbe fatto qualsiasi comune mascalzone: ma abbassandosi lentamente e gradualmente fino a trovarsi in una poltrona; «signora Mann, buongiorno».

«Beh, e buongiorno anche a lei, signore», rispose la signora Mann con un gran sorriso «e sperando che si trovi in buona salute, signore!»

«Così così, signora Mann», rispose l’impiegato comunale. «La vita parrocchiale non è un letto di rose, signora Mann».

«Ah, non lo è affatto, signor Bumble», replicò la signora. E tutti i piccoli poveri avrebbero potuto ripetere in coro la risposta con grande proprietà, se l’avessero sentita.

«Una vita parrocchiale, signora», continuò il signor Bumble battendo con il bastone sul tavolo, «è una vita di preoccupazioni e di tormento e di durezza; ma tutti i personaggi pubblici, come posso dire, devono subire persecuzioni.»

La signora Mann, che non capiva molto bene cosa intendesse il becchino, alzò le mani con un’espressione di simpatia e sospirò.

«Ah! Può benissimo sospirare, signora Mann!» disse l’impiegato comunale.

Accertatasi di aver fatto bene, la signora Mann sospirò ancora; evidentemente con soddisfazione del personaggio pubblico che, trattenendo un sorriso compiaciuto e assumendo un’espressione severa mentre guardava il suo cappello a tricorno, disse:

«Signora Mann, sto per andare a Londra.»

«Lauk, signor Bumble!» esclamò la signora Mann, indietreggiando.

«A Londra, signora», riprese l’implacabile becchino, «in carrozza. Io e due poveri, signora Mann! Sta per iniziare un’azione legale riguardante una sistemazione; e il consiglio mi ha incaricato - me, signora Mann - di risolvere la questione prima delle sessioni trimestrali a Clerkenwell. E dubito molto», aggiunse il signor Bumble, drizzandosi in piedi, «che le Sessioni di Clerkenwell non si ritroveranno nella scatola sbagliata prima di aver finito con me».

«Oh! non bisogna essere troppo severi con loro, signore», disse la signora Mann in tono blandente.

«Le udienze di Clerkenwell se lo sono procurato da sole, signora», rispose il signor Bumble; «e se le udienze di Clerkenwell scoprono che la situazione è peggiore di quanto si aspettavano, le udienze di Clerkenwell hanno solo se stesse a cui rivolgersi per ringraziamenti.»

C’era tanta determinazione e profondità di intenti nel modo minaccioso con cui il signor Bumble pronunciò queste parole che la signora Mann ne rimase quasi sopraffatta. Alla fine disse:

“You’re going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them paupers in carts.”

“That’s when they’re ill, Mrs. Mann,” said the beadle. “We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Mann.

“The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap,” said Mr. Bumble. “They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come two pound cheaper to move ’em than to bury ’em—that is, if we can throw ’em upon another parish, which I think we shall be able to do, if they don’t die upon the road to spite us. Ha! ha! ha!”

When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered the cocked hat; and he became grave.

“We are forgetting business, ma’am,” said the beadle; “here is your porochial stipend for the month.”

Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his pocket-book; and requested a receipt: which Mrs. Mann wrote.

“It’s very much blotted, sir,” said the farmer of infants; “but it’s formal enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much obliged to you, I’m sure.”

Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann’s curtsey; and inquired how the children were.

“Bless their dear little hearts!” said Mrs. Mann with emotion, “they’re as well as can be, the dears! Of course, except the two that died last week. And little Dick.”

“Isn’t that boy no better?” inquired Mr. Bumble.

Mrs. Mann shook her head.

“He’s a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child that,” said Mr. Bumble angrily. “Where is he?”

“I’ll bring him to you in one minute, sir,” replied Mrs. Mann. “Here, you Dick!”

After some calling, Dick was discovered. Having had his face put under the pump, and dried upon Mrs. Mann’s gown, he was led into the awful presence of Mr. Bumble, the beadle.

The child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken; and his eyes large and bright. The scanty parish dress, the livery of his misery, hung loosely on his feeble body; and his young limbs had wasted away, like those of an old man.

Such was the little being who stood trembling beneath Mr. Bumble’s glance; not daring to lift his eyes from the floor; and dreading even to hear the beadle’s voice.

“Can’t you look at the gentleman, you obstinate boy?” said Mrs. Mann.

The child meekly raised his eyes, and encountered those of Mr. Bumble.

“What’s the matter with you, porochial Dick?” inquired Mr. Bumble, with well-timed jocularity.

“Nothing, sir,” replied the child faintly.

“I should think not,” said Mrs. Mann, who had of course laughed very much at Mr. Bumble’s humour.

“You want for nothing, I’m sure.”

“I should like—” faltered the child.

“Hey-day!” interposed Mrs. Mann, “I suppose you’re going to say that you do want for something, now? Why, you little wretch—”

“Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop!” said the beadle, raising his hand with a show of authority. “Like what, sir, eh?”

“I should like,” faltered the child, “if somebody that can write, would put a few words down for me on a piece of paper, and fold it up and seal it, and keep it for me, after I am laid in the ground.”

“Why, what does the boy mean?” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, on whom the earnest manner and wan aspect of the child had made some impression: accustomed as he was to such things. “What do you mean, sir?”

“I should like,” said the child, “to leave my dear love to poor Oliver Twist; and to let him know how often I have sat by myself and cried to think of his wandering about in the dark nights with nobody to help him. And I should like to tell him,” said the child pressing his small hands together, and speaking with great fervour, “that I was glad to die when I was very young; for, perhaps, if I had lived to be a man, and had grown old, my little sister who is in Heaven, might forget me, or be unlike me; and it would be so much happier if we were both children there together.”

Mr. Bumble surveyed the little speaker, from head to foot, with indescribable astonishment; and, turning to his companion, said, “They’re all in one story, Mrs. Mann. That out-dacious Oliver had demogalized them all!”

“I couldn’t have believed it, sir” said Mrs Mann, holding up her hands, and looking malignantly at Dick. “I never see such a hardened little wretch!”

“Take him away, ma’am!” said Mr. Bumble imperiously. “This must be stated to the board, Mrs. Mann.”

“I hope the gentleman will understand that it isn’t my fault, sir?” said Mrs. Mann, whimpering pathetically.

“They shall understand that, ma’am; they shall be acquainted with the true state of the case,” said Mr. Bumble. “There; take him away, I can’t bear the sight on him.”

Dick was immediately taken away, and locked up in the coal-cellar. Mr. Bumble shortly afterwards took himself off, to prepare for his journey.

At six o’clock next morning, Mr. Bumble: having exchanged his cocked hat for a round one, and encased his person in a blue great-coat with a cape to it: took his place on the outside of the coach, accompanied by the criminals whose settlement was disputed; with whom, in due course of time, he arrived in London.

He experienced no other crosses on the way, than those which originated in the perverse behaviour of the two paupers, who persisted in shivering, and complaining of the cold, in a manner which, Mr. Bumble declared, caused his teeth to chatter in his head, and made him feel quite uncomfortable; although he had a great-coat on.

Having disposed of these evil-minded persons for the night, Mr. Bumble sat himself down in the house at which the coach stopped; and took a temperate dinner of steaks, oyster sauce, and porter. Putting a glass of hot gin-and-water on the chimney-piece, he drew his chair to the fire; and, with sundry moral reflections on the too-prevalent sin of discontent and complaining, composed himself to read the paper.

“Viaggia in carrozza, signore? Credevo che i poveri venissero sempre mandati in carri.”

«È quando sono malati, signora Mann», disse l’ufficiale. «Mettiamo i poveri ammalati sui carri aperti durante il tempo piovoso per evitare che prendano freddo».

«Oh!» disse la signora Mann.

«Il coach dell’opposizione stipula contratti per questi due; e li prende a buon mercato», disse il signor Bumble. «Entrambi sono in uno stato molto grave, e abbiamo scoperto che ci costerebbe meno trasferirli piuttosto che seppellirli — cioè, se riusciamo a scaricarli su un’altra parrocchia, cosa di cui credo siamo capaci, purché non muoiano sulla strada per farci dispetto. Ah! ah! ah!»

Quando il signor Bumble ebbe riso per un po’, i suoi occhi incontrarono di nuovo il cappello a tricorno e divenne serio.

«Ci stiamo dimenticando degli affari, signora», disse l’ufficiale di parrocchia; «ecco il suo stipendio parrocchiale per il mese.»

Il signor Bumble estrasse dal portafoglio alcune monete d’argento avvolte nella carta e chiese una ricevuta che la signora Mann scrisse.

«È molto sbavato, signore», disse l’educatrice di bambini piccoli «ma è abbastanza formale, oserei dire. Grazie, signor Bumble, sono davvero molto obbligata a voi, ve lo assicuro».

Il signor Bumble annuì con bonomia per rispondere al cenno di saluto della signora Mann e chiese come stessero i bambini.

«Dio benedica i loro cari piccoli cuori!» disse la signora Mann con emozione «sono in ottima salute, questi tesori! Naturalmente a parte i due che sono morti la settimana scorsa e il piccolo Dick.»

«Quel ragazzo non sta meglio?», chiese il signor Bumble.

La signora Mann scosse la testa.

«È un bambino parrocchiale bambino malcostumato, cattivo e di pessimo carattere», disse il signor Bumble con rabbia. «Dov’è?»

“Lo porterò da voi tra un minuto, signore,” rispose la signora Mann. “Ecco, tu Dick!”

Dopo averlo chiamato più volte, si scoprì dov’era Dick. Dopo che gli avevano messo la faccia sotto il rubinetto e l’avevano asciugata sulla veste della signora Mann, lo condussero nella terribile presenza del signor Bumble, l’ostiente.

Il bambino era pallido e magro; le sue guance erano incavate; e i suoi occhi grandi e luminosi. Il misero abito parrocchiale, la livrea della sua miseria, pendeva largo sul suo debole corpo; e i suoi giovani arti si erano consumati, come quelli di un vecchio.

Tale era il piccolo essere che stava tremando sotto lo sguardo del signor Bumble, non osando alzare gli occhi dal pavimento e temendo persino di udire la voce dell’usciere.

«Non puoi guardare il signore, ragazzo ostinato?» disse la signora Mann.

Il bambino sollevò umilmente gli occhi e incontrò quelli del signor Bumble.

“Che cosa ti succede, parrocchiale Dick?”, chiese il signor Bumble con una ben calibrata battuta scherzosa.

«Nulla, signore», rispose il bambino con voce flebile.

“Certo che no”, disse la signora Mann, che ovviamente aveva riso molto dello umorismo del signor Bumble.

“Non ti manca nulla, ne sono sicuro.”

“Mi piacerebbe—” balbettò il bambino.

«Eh sì!» intervenne la signora Mann «Suppongo che tu voglia dire che ora ti manca qualcosa. Ma tu piccola disgraziata, »

«Fermatevi, signora Mann, fermatevi!» disse l’impiegato alzando la mano con un gesto di autorità. «Come, scusi? Eh?»

“Mi piacerebbe,” balbettò il bambino, “che qualcuno che sa scrivere mettesse per iscritto qualche parola per conto mio su un pezzo di carta, lo piegasse e lo sigillasse, e lo conservasse per me dopo che sarò stato messo sottoterra.”

«Ma che cosa vuole dire il ragazzo?» esclamò il signor Bumble, sul quale l’aspetto serio e lo sguardo smunto del bambino avevano fatto qualche impressione: abituato com’era a cose simili. «Che cosa vuoi dire, giovanotto?»

“Mi piacerebbe,” disse il bambino, “lasciare la mia cara amata al povero Oliver Twist; e fargli sapere quante volte sono rimasto seduto da solo a piangere pensando a lui che vagava nelle notti buie senza nessuno ad aiutarlo. E mi piacerebbe dirgli,” disse il bambino stringendo insieme le sue piccole mani e parlando con grande fervore, “che ero felice di morire quando ero molto giovane; perché forse se fossi vissuto fino a diventare un uomo, e fossi invecchiato, la mia sorellina che è in Cielo potrebbe dimenticarmi o essere diversa da me; e sarebbe tanto più felice se fossimo entrambi bambini lassù insieme.”

Il signor Bumble scrutò il piccolo oratore da capo a piedi con un’indescrivibile sorpresa; e, rivolgendosi alla sua compagna, disse: «Sono tutti nella stessa storia, signora Mann. Quell’audace Oliver li ha demoralizzati tutti!»

«Non avrei mai creduto una cosa del genere, signore» disse la signora Mann alzando le mani e guardando con cattiveria Dick. «Non ho mai visto un piccolo disgraziato così incallito!»

«Portatelo via, signora!» disse il signor Bumble in tono perentorio. «Devo riferire questo al consiglio, signora Mann».

“Spero che il signore capisca che non è colpa mia, signore?”, disse la signora Mann piagnucolando pateticamente.

«Capiranno, signora; verranno a conoscenza della vera situazione», disse il signor Bumble. «E ora portatelo via, non posso sopportare la vista di lui».

Dick fu immediatamente portato via e rinchiuso nella cantina del carbone. Il signor Bumble poco dopo se ne andò per prepararsi al suo viaggio.

Alle sei del mattino seguente, il signor Bumble, avendo scambiato il suo cappello a tricorno con uno tondo e avvolto la sua persona in un grande soprabito blu con una mantella: prese posto all’esterno della diligenza, accompagnato dai criminali la cui sistemazione era oggetto di disputa; con i quali, nel corso del tempo dovuto, arrivò a Londra.

Non incontrò altri ostacoli lungo la strada se non quelli dovuti al comportamento perverso dei due mendicanti che continuavano a tremare e lamentarsi del freddo in un modo tale da far dichiarare a Mr Bumble di avere i denti che gli battevano in testa e di sentirsi proprio a disagio, nonostante indossasse il cappotto.

Dopo aver sistemato queste persone di cattiva reputazione per la notte, il signor Bumble si sedette nella casa dove si fermava la diligenza e fece un pasto moderato a base di bistecche, salsa di ostriche e birra scura. Appoggiando un bicchiere di gin caldo con acqua sul caminetto, avvicinò la sedia al fuoco; e, dopo aver fatto alcune riflessioni morali sul peccato troppo diffuso del malcontento e delle lamentele, si dispose a leggere il giornale.

The very first paragraph upon which Mr. Bumble’s eye rested, was the following advertisement.

“FIVE GUINEAS REWARD

“Whereas a young boy, named Oliver Twist, absconded, or was enticed, on Thursday evening last, from his home, at Pentonville; and has not since been heard of. The above reward will be paid to any person who will give such information as will lead to the discovery of the said Oliver Twist, or tend to throw any light upon his previous history, in which the advertiser is, for many reasons, warmly interested.”

And then followed a full description of Oliver’s dress, person, appearance, and disappearance: with the name and address of Mr. Brownlow at full length.

Mr. Bumble opened his eyes; read the advertisement, slowly and carefully, three several times; and in something more than five minutes was on his way to Pentonville: having actually, in his excitement, left the glass of hot gin-and-water, untasted.

“Is Mr. Brownlow at home?” inquired Mr. Bumble of the girl who opened the door.

To this inquiry the girl returned the not uncommon, but rather evasive reply of “I don’t know; where do you come from?”

Mr. Bumble no sooner uttered Oliver’s name, in explanation of his errand, than Mrs. Bedwin, who had been listening at the parlour door, hastened into the passage in a breathless state.

“Come in, come in,” said the old lady: “I knew we should hear of him. Poor dear! I knew we should! I was certain of it. Bless his heart! I said so all along.”

Having said this, the worthy old lady hurried back into the parlour again; and seating herself on a sofa, burst into tears. The girl, who was not quite so susceptible, had run upstairs meanwhile; and now returned with a request that Mr. Bumble would follow her immediately: which he did.

He was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr. Brownlow and his friend Mr. Grimwig, with decanters and glasses before them. The latter gentleman at once burst into the exclamation:

“A beadle. A parish beadle, or I’ll eat my head.”

“Pray don’t interrupt just now,” said Mr. Brownlow. “Take a seat, will you?”

Mr. Bumble sat himself down; quite confounded by the oddity of Mr. Grimwig’s manner. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp, so as to obtain an uninterrupted view of the beadle’s countenance; and said, with a little impatience,

“Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the advertisement?”

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Bumble.

“And you are a beadle, are you not?” inquired Mr. Grimwig.

“I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen,” rejoined Mr. Bumble proudly.

“Of course,” observed Mr. Grimwig aside to his friend, “I knew he was. A beadle all over!”

Mr. Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence on his friend, and resumed:

“Do you know where this poor boy is now?”

“No more than nobody,” replied Mr. Bumble.

“Well, what do you know of him?” inquired the old gentleman. “Speak out, my friend, if you have anything to say. What do you know of him?”

“You don’t happen to know any good of him, do you?” said Mr. Grimwig, caustically; after an attentive perusal of Mr. Bumble’s features.

Mr. Bumble, catching at the inquiry very quickly, shook his head with portentous solemnity.

“You see?” said Mr. Grimwig, looking triumphantly at Mr. Brownlow.

Mr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr. Bumble’s pursed-up countenance; and requested him to communicate what he knew regarding Oliver, in as few words as possible.

Mr. Bumble put down his hat; unbuttoned his coat; folded his arms; inclined his head in a retrospective manner; and, after a few moments’ reflection, commenced his story.

It would be tedious if given in the beadle’s words: occupying, as it did, some twenty minutes in the telling; but the sum and substance of it was, that Oliver was a foundling, born of low and vicious parents. That he had, from his birth, displayed no better qualities than treachery, ingratitude, and malice. That he had terminated his brief career in the place of his birth, by making a sanguinary and cowardly attack on an unoffending lad, and running away in the night-time from his master’s house. In proof of his really being the person he represented himself, Mr. Bumble laid upon the table the papers he had brought to town. Folding his arms again, he then awaited Mr. Brownlow’s observations.

“I fear it is all too true,” said the old gentleman sorrowfully, after looking over the papers. “This is not much for your intelligence; but I would gladly have given you treble the money, if it had been favourable to the boy.”

It is not improbable that if Mr. Bumble had been possessed of this information at an earlier period of the interview, he might have imparted a very different colouring to his little history. It was too late to do it now, however; so he shook his head gravely, and, pocketing the five guineas, withdrew.

Mr. Brownlow paced the room to and fro for some minutes; evidently so much disturbed by the beadle’s tale, that even Mr. Grimwig forbore to vex him further.

At length he stopped, and rang the bell violently.

“Mrs. Bedwin,” said Mr. Brownlow, when the housekeeper appeared; “that boy, Oliver, is an imposter.”

“It can’t be, sir. It cannot be,” said the old lady energetically.

“I tell you he is,” retorted the old gentleman. “What do you mean by can’t be? We have just heard a full account of him from his birth; and he has been a thorough-paced little villain, all his life.”

“I never will believe it, sir,” replied the old lady, firmly. “Never!”

“You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying story-books,” growled Mr. Grimwig. “I knew it all along. Why didn’t you take my advice in the beginning; you would if he hadn’t had a fever, I suppose, eh? He was interesting, wasn’t he? Interesting! Bah!” And Mr. Grimwig poked the fire with a flourish.

“He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir,” retorted Mrs. Bedwin, indignantly. “I know what children are, sir; and have done these forty years; and people who can’t say the same, shouldn’t say anything about them. That’s my opinion!”

This was a hard hit at Mr. Grimwig, who was a bachelor. As it extorted nothing from that gentleman but a smile, the old lady tossed her head, and smoothed down her apron preparatory to another speech, when she was stopped by Mr. Brownlow.

“Silence!” said the old gentleman, feigning an anger he was far from feeling. “Never let me hear the boy’s name again. I rang to tell you that. Never. Never, on any pretence, mind! You may leave the room, Mrs. Bedwin. Remember! I am in earnest.”

There were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow’s that night.

Oliver’s heart sank within him, when he thought of his good friends; it was well for him that he could not know what they had heard, or it might have broken outright.

Il primo paragrafo su cui si posò l’occhio del signor Bumble era il seguente annuncio.

“RICOMPENSA DI CINQUE GHinee”

«Considerato che un giovane ragazzo di nome Oliver Twist è fuggito o è stato indotto a farlo la sera di giovedì scorsa dalla sua casa a Pentonville; e da allora non si hanno più sue notizie. La ricompensa sopra indicata sarà pagata a chiunque fornirà informazioni che possano portare alla scoperta del suddetto Oliver Twist, o contribuire in qualche modo a far luce sulla sua precedente storia, nella quale il sottoscritto è per molte ragioni vivamente interessato.»

E poi seguì una descrizione completa dell’abbigliamento di Oliver, della sua persona, del suo aspetto e della sua scomparsa: con il nome e l’indirizzo del signor Brownlow in dettaglio.

Il signor Bumble spalancò gli occhi; lesse l’annuncio lentamente e con attenzione per tre volte; e dopo poco più di cinque minuti era già in viaggio verso Pentonville: avendo effettivamente, nella sua eccitazione, lasciato il bicchiere di gin caldo con acqua senza assaggiarlo.

«È il signor Brownlow a casa?» chiese il signor Bumble alla ragazza che aprì la porta.

A questa domanda la ragazza rispose con una risposta non rara ma piuttosto elusiva: «Non lo so; da dove venite voi?»

Non appena il signor Bumble pronunciò il nome di Oliver per spiegare la sua missione, la signora Bedwin, che aveva ascoltato alla porta del salotto, si affrettò nel corridoio in uno stato senza fiato.

«Entri, entri», disse la vecchia signora: «Sapevo che avremmo saputo di lui. Povero caro! Lo sapevo! Ne ero certa. Benedetto il suo cuore! L’ho sempre detto».

Detto questo, la rispettabile vecchia signora rientrò di corsa nel salotto e, sedendosi su un divano, scoppiò in singhiozzi. La ragazza, che non era altrettanto sensibile, nel frattempo era corsa al piano superiore; e ora tornava con la richiesta che il signor Bumble la seguisse immediatamente: cosa che lui fece.

Fu fatto entrare nello studio sul retro dove sedevano il signor Brownlow e il suo amico signor Grimwig con caraffe e bicchieri davanti a loro. Quest’ultimo gentiluomo proruppe subito in un’esclamazione:

“Un bidello. Un bidello parrocchiale, o mangio la mia testa.”

“Per favore, non interrompetemi adesso,” disse il signor Brownlow. “Si accomodi.”

Il signor Bumble si sedette, completamente sconcertato dall’insolita maniera del signor Grimwig. Il signor Brownlow spostò la lampada in modo da avere una visuale ininterrotta sul volto dell’usciere; e disse con un po’ di impazienza:

“Ora, signore, è venuto perché ha visto l’annuncio?”

«Sì, signore», disse il signor Bumble.

«E lei è un becchino, non è così?» chiese il signor Grimwig.

«Sono un sagrestano parrocchiale, signori», rispose orgoglioso il signor Bumble.

“Naturalmente,” osservò Mr. Grimwig sottovoce al suo amico, “lo sapevo che era un becchino in tutto e per tutto!”

Il signor Brownlow scosse dolcemente la testa per imporre silenzio al suo amico e riprese a parlare.

“Sapete dove si trova questo povero ragazzo adesso?”

«Non più di nessuno», rispose il signor Bumble.

«Bene, che cosa sapete di lui?» chiese il vecchio signore. «Parlate, amico mio, se avete qualcosa da dire. Che cosa sapete di lui?»

«Non gli troverete certo nulla di buono, vero?» disse il signor Grimwig con sarcasmo dopo aver attentamente esaminato i lineamenti del signor Bumble.

Il signor Bumble, cogliendo la domanda al volo, scosse il capo con portentosa solennità.

«Vedete?» disse il signor Grimwig, guardando trionfalmente il signor Brownlow.

Il signor Brownlow guardò con apprensione il volto contratto del signor Bumble e lo pregò di comunicare ciò che sapeva riguardo a Oliver nel minor numero possibile di parole.

Il signor Bumble depose il cappello; si sbottonò la giacca; incrociò le braccia; chinò la testa con aria meditabonda e, dopo aver riflettuto per qualche istante, iniziò a raccontare.

Sarebbe noioso se fosse raccontato con le parole del becchino: avrebbe richiesto circa venti minuti; ma il succo della questione era che Oliver era un trovatello, nato da genitori di bassa estrazione e viziosi. Che fin dalla sua nascita non aveva mostrato qualità migliori come tradimento, ingratitudine e malizia. Che aveva concluso la sua breve carriera nel luogo della sua nascita con un attacco sanguinario e codardo a un ragazzo innocente, scappando nella notte-tempo dalla casa del suo padrone. A dimostrazione che era davvero la persona che sosteneva di essere, il signor Bumble posò sulla tavola i documenti che aveva portato in città. Incrociando nuovamente le braccia, attese poi le osservazioni del signor Brownlow.

«Temo che sia tutto vero», disse il vecchio gentiluomo con tristezza, dopo aver esaminato i documenti. «Questo non è molto per la tua intelligenza; ma avrei volentieri dato tre volte tanto, se fosse stato a favore del ragazzo».

Non è improbabile che se il signor Bumble fosse stato in possesso di queste informazioni in una fase precedente dell’incontro, avrebbe potuto dare un colore molto diverso alla sua piccola storia. Era troppo tardi per farlo ora, tuttavia; così scosse gravemente la testa e, messi in tasca i cinque ghinee, se ne andò.

Il signor Brownlow camminò su e giù per la stanza per alcuni minuti; evidentemente così turbato dal racconto del becchino che anche il signor Grimwig si astenne dall’importunarlo ulteriormente.

Alla fine si fermò e suonò il campanello con violenza.

«Signora Bedwin», disse il signor Brownlow quando la governante apparve, «quel ragazzo, Oliver, è un impostore.»

«Non può essere, signore. Non può proprio essere», disse la vecchia signora con energia.

«Vi dico che lo è», ribatté il vecchio signore. «Che cosa intendete con non può essere? Abbiamo appena ascoltato un resoconto completo di lui dalla sua nascita; ed è stato un piccolo canaglia impenitente, tutta la sua vita».

“Non ci crederò mai, signore,” rispose la vecchia signora con fermezza. “Mai!”

“Voi vecchie donne non credete mai in niente se non nei ciarlatani e nei libri di storie bugiarde”, brontolò il signor Grimwig. “Lo sapevo fin dall’inizio. Perché non avete seguito i miei consigli all’inizio; li avreste seguiti, immagino, se lui non avesse avuto la febbre, eh? Era interessante, no? Interessante! Bah!” E il signor Grimwig pungolò il fuoco con un gesto enfatico.

«Era un caro, riconoscente e gentile bambino, signore», ribatté indignata la signora Bedwin. «So com’è fatta la gente giovane, signore; lo so da quarant’anni ormai; e chi non può dire altrettanto farebbe meglio a non parlare di loro. È questa la mia opinione!»

Questo fu un duro colpo per il signor Grimwig, che era celibe. Poiché non riuscì a strappare altro a quel gentiluomo se non un sorriso, la vecchia signora scosse la testa e si lisciò il grembiule in preparazione di un altro discorso, quando fu fermata dal signor Brownlow.

«Silenzio!», disse il vecchio signore fingendo una collera ben lontana dal suo sentire. «Non voglio mai più sentir nominare quel ragazzo. Ho suonato per dirvelo. Mai. Mai, per nessun motivo, avete capito? Potete andarvene, signora Bedwin. Ricordatevi! Sono serio».

C’erano cuori tristi a casa del signor Brownlow quella sera.

Il cuore di Oliver affondò quando pensò ai suoi buoni amici; fu bene per lui che non poté sapere cosa avevano sentito, altrimenti forse gli sarebbe scoppiato.

CHAPTER XVIII. HOW OLIVER PASSED HIS TIME IN THE IMPROVING SOCIETY OF HIS REPUTABLE FRIENDS

About noon next day, when the Dodger and Master Bates had gone out to pursue their customary avocations, Mr. Fagin took the opportunity of reading Oliver a long lecture on the crying sin of ingratitude; of which he clearly demonstrated he had been guilty, to no ordinary extent, in wilfully absenting himself from the society of his anxious friends; and, still more, in endeavouring to escape from them after so much trouble and expense had been incurred in his recovery. Mr. Fagin laid great stress on the fact of his having taken Oliver in, and cherished him, when, without his timely aid, he might have perished with hunger; and he related the dismal and affecting history of a young lad whom, in his philanthropy, he had succoured under parallel circumstances, but who, proving unworthy of his confidence and evincing a desire to communicate with the police, had unfortunately come to be hanged at the Old Bailey one morning. Mr. Fagin did not seek to conceal his share in the catastrophe, but lamented with tears in his eyes that the wrong-headed and treacherous behaviour of the young person in question, had rendered it necessary that he should become the victim of certain evidence for the crown: which, if it were not precisely true, was indispensably necessary for the safety of him (Mr. Fagin) and a few select friends. Mr. Fagin concluded by drawing a rather disagreeable picture of the discomforts of hanging; and, with great friendliness and politeness of manner, expressed his anxious hopes that he might never be obliged to submit Oliver Twist to that unpleasant operation.

Little Oliver’s blood ran cold, as he listened to the Jew’s words, and imperfectly comprehended the dark threats conveyed in them. That it was possible even for justice itself to confound the innocent with the guilty when they were in accidental companionship, he knew already; and that deeply-laid plans for the destruction of inconveniently knowing or over-communicative persons, had been really devised and carried out by the Jew on more occasions than one, he thought by no means unlikely, when he recollected the general nature of the altercations between that gentleman and Mr. Sikes: which seemed to bear reference to some foregone conspiracy of the kind. As he glanced timidly up, and met the Jew’s searching look, he felt that his pale face and trembling limbs were neither unnoticed nor unrelished by that wary old gentleman.

The Jew, smiling hideously, patted Oliver on the head, and said, that if he kept himself quiet, and applied himself to business, he saw they would be very good friends yet. Then, taking his hat, and covering himself with an old patched great-coat, he went out, and locked the room-door behind him.

And so Oliver remained all that day, and for the greater part of many subsequent days, seeing nobody, between early morning and midnight, and left during the long hours to commune with his own thoughts. Which, never failing to revert to his kind friends, and the opinion they must long ago have formed of him, were sad indeed.

After the lapse of a week or so, the Jew left the room-door unlocked; and he was at liberty to wander about the house.

It was a very dirty place. The rooms upstairs had great high wooden chimney-pieces and large doors, with panelled walls and cornices to the ceiling; which, although they were black with neglect and dust, were ornamented in various ways. From all of these tokens Oliver concluded that a long time ago, before the old Jew was born, it had belonged to better people, and had perhaps been quite gay and handsome: dismal and dreary as it looked now.

Spiders had built their webs in the angles of the walls and ceilings; and sometimes, when Oliver walked softly into a room, the mice would scamper across the floor, and run back terrified to their holes. With these exceptions, there was neither sight nor sound of any living thing; and often, when it grew dark, and he was tired of wandering from room to room, he would crouch in the corner of the passage by the street-door, to be as near living people as he could; and would remain there, listening and counting the hours, until the Jew or the boys returned.

In all the rooms, the mouldering shutters were fast closed: the bars which held them were screwed tight into the wood; the only light which was admitted, stealing its way through round holes at the top: which made the rooms more gloomy, and filled them with strange shadows. There was a back-garret window with rusty bars outside, which had no shutter; and out of this, Oliver often gazed with a melancholy face for hours together; but nothing was to be descried from it but a confused and crowded mass of housetops, blackened chimneys, and gable-ends. Sometimes, indeed, a grizzly head might be seen, peering over the parapet-wall of a distant house; but it was quickly withdrawn again; and as the window of Oliver’s observatory was nailed down, and dimmed with the rain and smoke of years, it was as much as he could do to make out the forms of the different objects beyond, without making any attempt to be seen or heard,—which he had as much chance of being, as if he had lived inside the ball of St. Paul’s Cathedral.

One afternoon, the Dodger and Master Bates being engaged out that evening, the first-named young gentleman took it into his head to evince some anxiety regarding the decoration of his person (to do him justice, this was by no means an habitual weakness with him); and, with this end and aim, he condescendingly commanded Oliver to assist him in his toilet, straightway.

Oliver was but too glad to make himself useful; too happy to have some faces, however bad, to look upon; too desirous to conciliate those about him when he could honestly do so; to throw any objection in the way of this proposal. So he at once expressed his readiness; and, kneeling on the floor, while the Dodger sat upon the table so that he could take his foot in his laps, he applied himself to a process which Mr. Dawkins designated as “japanning his trotter-cases.” The phrase, rendered into plain English, signifieth, cleaning his boots.

CAPITOLO XVIII. COME OLIVER TRASCORSE IL SUO TEMPO NELLA SOCIETÀ EDIFICANTE DEI SUOI RISPECTABILI AMICI

Verso le dodici del giorno seguente, quando il Dodger e Master Bates erano usciti per dedicarsi alle loro consuete occupazioni, il signor Fagin colse l’occasione di impartire a Oliver un lungo sermone sul grave peccato dell’ingratitudine; dimostrando con chiarezza che egli ne era stato colpevole, in misura non comune, allontanandosi volontariamente dalla società dei suoi amici ansiosi; e ancor più tentando di sfuggire loro dopo tante spese e difficoltà sostenute per il suo recupero. Il signor Fagin insistette molto sul fatto che aveva accolto Oliver e lo aveva nutrito, quando, senza il suo tempestivo aiuto, sarebbe potuto morire di fame; e raccontò la tetra e commovente storia di un giovane ragazzo che, nella sua filantropia, aveva soccorso in circostanze simili, ma che, dimostrandosi indegno della sua fiducia e manifestando il desiderio di mettersi in contatto con la polizia, era purtroppo finito impiccato all’Old Bailey una mattina. Il signor Fagin non cercò di nascondere la sua parte nella catastrofe, ma deploreva con le lacrime agli occhi che il comportamento ostinato e traditore del giovane in questione avesse reso necessario che egli diventasse vittima di certe prove a favore della corona: che, se non erano precisamente vere, erano indispensabili per la sicurezza sua (del signor Fagin) e di alcuni amici scelti. Il signor Fagin concluse dipingendo un quadro piuttosto sgradevole dei disagi dell’impiccagione; e, con grande cordialità e cortesia, espresse la fervida speranza che non sarebbe mai stato costretto a sottoporre Oliver Twist a quell’operazione spiacevole.

Il sangue di Oliver si gelò mentre ascoltava le parole dell’ebreo e comprendeva in modo imperfetto le oscure minacce che esse contenevano. Che fosse possibile anche per la giustizia stessa confondere l’[[]03|innocente]] con il colpevole quando si trovavano insieme accidentalmente, lo sapeva già; e che piani accuratamente elaborati per la distruzione di persone scomode o troppo comunicative fossero stati davvero ideati e messi in atto dall’ebreo più di una volta, non gli sembrava affatto improbabile, quando ricordava il carattere generale delle altercazioni tra quel signore e il signor Sikes: che sembravano fare riferimento a qualche precedente cospirazione del genere. Mentre lanciava un timido sguardo in su e incontrava lo sguardo scrutatore dell’ebreo, sentiva che il suo viso pallido e le membra tremanti non erano né passati inosservati né dispiaciuti a quel vecchio signore prudente.

L’ebreo, sorridendo in modo orribile, accarezzò Oliver sulla testa e disse che se si fosse tenuto tranquillo e si fosse dedicato agli affari, vedeva che sarebbero diventati molto buoni amici. Poi, prendendo il cappello e coprendosi con un vecchio pastrano rattoppato, uscì e chiuse la porta della stanza dietro di sé.

E così Oliver rimase tutto quel giorno e per la maggior parte di molti giorni successivi senza vedere nessuno dalle prime ore del mattino fino a mezzanotte, lasciato durante le lunghe ore a confrontarsi con i propri pensieri. Che, non mancando mai di tornare ai suoi gentili amici e all’opinione che dovevano aver già da tempo formato su di lui, erano davvero tristi.

Dopo una settimana circa, l’ebreo lasciò la porta della stanza sbloccata; e lui era libero di vagare per la casa.

Era un posto molto sporco. Le stanze al piano di sopra avevano grandi caminetti in legno e porte ampie, con pareti a pannelli e cornici sul soffitto; che, sebbene fossero nere per trascuratezza e polvere, erano ornate in vari modi. Da tutti questi segni Oliver concluse che molto tempo fa, prima che il vecchio ebreo nascesse, era appartenuto a persone migliori ed era forse stato piuttosto allegro e bello: desolato e squallido come appariva ora.

Gli angoli delle pareti e dei soffitti erano pieni di ragnatele; e talvolta, quando Oliver entrava silenziosamente in una stanza, i topi si precipitavano attraverso il pavimento per tornare terrorizzati nelle loro tane. A parte queste eccezioni, non c’era né vista né suono di alcuna cosa vivente; e spesso, quando calava la sera e lui era stanco di vagabondare da una stanza all’altra, si accucciava nell’angolo del corridoio vicino alla porta d’ingresso per stare il più vicino possibile alle persone vive; e rimaneva lì ad ascoltare e a contare le ore fino al ritorno dell’Ebreo o dei ragazzi.

In tutte le stanze, gli scuri in rovina erano ben chiusi: i ferri che li tenevano fissati erano saldamente avvitati nel legno; l’unica luce ammessa entrava furtivamente attraverso dei fori circolari nella parte alta, il che rendeva le stanze ancora più cupe e le riempiva di strane ombre. C’era una soffitta sul retro con una finestra dotata all’esterno di sbarre arrugginite ma senza persiane; da questa, Oliver spesso guardava fuori per ore e ore con un volto malinconico; ma non si poteva distinguere altro che una massa confusa e affollata di tetti, ciminiere annerite e frontoni. A volte, infatti, si poteva scorgere una testa grinzosa che sbirciava oltre il muro parapetto di un edificio lontano; ma veniva subito ritirata; e dato che la finestra dell’osservatorio di Oliver era inchiodata e offuscata dalla pioggia e dal fumo degli anni, faceva già abbastanza a distinguere le forme dei diversi oggetti oltre di essa senza fare alcun tentativo di farsi vedere o sentire — cosa che aveva tante possibilità di riuscire quanto se avesse vissuto all’interno della cupola della Cattedrale di San Paolo.

Un pomeriggio, dato che il Dodger e Master Bates erano impegnati quella sera fuori casa, al primo giovane signore venne in mente di dimostrare un po’ d’ansia riguardo alla decorazione del suo corpo (per fare giustizia, questa non era affatto una debolezza abituale per lui); e con questo scopo e obiettivo, comandò con condiscendenza a Oliver di aiutarlo nel suo trucco subito.

Oliver fu più che felice di rendersi utile; troppo contento di avere dei volti, per quanto cattivi, su cui posare lo sguardo; troppo desideroso di conciliarsi chi gli stava intorno quando poteva farlo onestamente; per opporre obiezioni a questa proposta. Così espresse subito la sua disponibilità e, inginocchiandosi sul pavimento mentre il Dodger sedeva sul tavolo in modo da poter mettere i piedi in grembo a Oliver, si dedicò a un’operazione che il signor Dawkins definiva “dipingere di nero le sue scatole per trotto”. La frase, tradotta in semplice italiano, significa pulire gli stivali.

Whether it was the sense of freedom and independence which a rational animal may be supposed to feel when he sits on a table in an easy attitude smoking a pipe, swinging one leg carelessly to and fro, and having his boots cleaned all the time, without even the past trouble of having taken them off, or the prospective misery of putting them on, to disturb his reflections; or whether it was the goodness of the tobacco that soothed the feelings of the Dodger, or the mildness of the beer that mollified his thoughts; he was evidently tinctured, for the nonce, with a spice of romance and enthusiasm, foreign to his general nature. He looked down on Oliver, with a thoughtful countenance, for a brief space; and then, raising his head, and heaving a gentle sigh, said, half in abstraction, and half to Master Bates:

“What a pity it is he isn’t a prig!”

“Ah!” said Master Charles Bates; “he don’t know what’s good for him.”

The Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe: as did Charley Bates. They both smoked, for some seconds, in silence.

“I suppose you don’t even know what a prig is?” said the Dodger mournfully.

“I think I know that,” replied Oliver, looking up. “It’s a the—; you’re one, are you not?” inquired Oliver, checking himself.

“I am,” replied the Dodger. “I’d scorn to be anything else.” Mr. Dawkins gave his hat a ferocious cock, after delivering this sentiment, and looked at Master Bates, as if to denote that he would feel obliged by his saying anything to the contrary.

“I am,” repeated the Dodger. “So’s Charley. So’s Fagin. So’s Sikes. So’s Nancy. So’s Bet. So we all are, down to the dog. And he’s the downiest one of the lot!”

“And the least given to peaching,” added Charley Bates.

“He wouldn’t so much as bark in a witness-box, for fear of committing himself; no, not if you tied him up in one, and left him there without wittles for a fortnight,” said the Dodger.

“Not a bit of it,” observed Charley.

“He’s a rum dog. Don’t he look fierce at any strange cove that laughs or sings when he’s in company!” pursued the Dodger. “Won’t he growl at all, when he hears a fiddle playing! And don’t he hate other dogs as ain’t of his breed! Oh, no!”

“He’s an out-and-out Christian,” said Charley.

This was merely intended as a tribute to the animal’s abilities, but it was an appropriate remark in another sense, if Master Bates had only known it; for there are a good many ladies and gentlemen, claiming to be out-and-out Christians, between whom, and Mr. Sikes’ dog, there exist strong and singular points of resemblance.

“Well, well,” said the Dodger, recurring to the point from which they had strayed: with that mindfulness of his profession which influenced all his proceedings. “This hasn’t got anything to do with young Green here.”

“No more it has,” said Charley. “Why don’t you put yourself under Fagin, Oliver?”

“And make your fortun’ out of hand?” added the Dodger, with a grin.

“And so be able to retire on your property, and do the gen-teel: as I mean to, in the very next leap-year but four that ever comes, and the forty-second Tuesday in Trinity-week,” said Charley Bates.

“I don’t like it,” rejoined Oliver, timidly; “I wish they would let me go. I—I—would rather go.”

“And Fagin would rather not!” rejoined Charley.

Oliver knew this too well; but thinking it might be dangerous to express his feelings more openly, he only sighed, and went on with his boot-cleaning.

“Go!” exclaimed the Dodger. “Why, where’s your spirit? Don’t you take any pride out of yourself? Would you go and be dependent on your friends?”

“Oh, blow that!” said Master Bates: drawing two or three silk handkerchiefs from his pocket, and tossing them into a cupboard, “that’s too mean; that is.”

“I couldn’t do it,” said the Dodger, with an air of haughty disgust.

“You can leave your friends, though,” said Oliver with a half smile; “and let them be punished for what you did.”

“That,” rejoined the Dodger, with a wave of his pipe, “That was all out of consideration for Fagin, ’cause the traps know that we work together, and he might have got into trouble if we hadn’t made our lucky; that was the move, wasn’t it, Charley?”

Master Bates nodded assent, and would have spoken, but the recollection of Oliver’s flight came so suddenly upon him, that the smoke he was inhaling got entangled with a laugh, and went up into his head, and down into his throat: and brought on a fit of coughing and stamping, about five minutes long.

“Look here!” said the Dodger, drawing forth a handful of shillings and halfpence. “Here’s a jolly life! What’s the odds where it comes from? Here, catch hold; there’s plenty more where they were took from. You won’t, won’t you? Oh, you precious flat!”

“It’s naughty, ain’t it, Oliver?” inquired Charley Bates. “He’ll come to be scragged, won’t he?”

“I don’t know what that means,” replied Oliver.

“Something in this way, old feller,” said Charley. As he said it, Master Bates caught up an end of his neckerchief; and, holding it erect in the air, dropped his head on his shoulder, and jerked a curious sound through his teeth; thereby indicating, by a lively pantomimic representation, that scragging and hanging were one and the same thing.

“That’s what it means,” said Charley. “Look how he stares, Jack! I never did see such prime company as that ’ere boy; he’ll be the death of me, I know he will.” Master Charley Bates, having laughed heartily again, resumed his pipe with tears in his eyes.

“You’ve been brought up bad,” said the Dodger, surveying his boots with much satisfaction when Oliver had polished them. “Fagin will make something of you, though, or you’ll be the first he ever had that turned out unprofitable. You’d better begin at once; for you’ll come to the trade long before you think of it; and you’re only losing time, Oliver.”

Che fosse il senso di libertà e indipendenza che un essere ragionevole può provare quando siede su un tavolo con disinvoltura fumando una pipa, dondolando una gamba avanti e indietro senza curarsi delle conseguenze, mentre gli puliscono gli stivali per tutto il tempo, senza nemmeno la seccatura passata di doverli togliere o la prospettiva infelice di rimetterli, a turbare i suoi pensieri; oppure che fosse la qualità del tabacco ad addolcire i sentimenti dello Scippatore, o la morbidezza della birra ad ammorbidirne il pensiero; era evidente che per il momento ne aveva preso una spruzzata di romanticismo e entusiasmo, estranei al suo carattere abituale. Guardò giù verso Oliver, con un’espressione pensierosa, per qualche istante; poi sollevò la testa, emise un sospiro lieve e disse, a metà tra l’astrazione e il discorso rivolto al piccolo Bates:

“Peccato che non sia un presuntuoso!”

“Ah!” disse il giovane Charles Bates, “non sa cosa gli conviene.”

Il Dodger sospirò di nuovo e riprese la pipa: come fece Charley Bates. Fumarono entrambi per alcuni secondi nel più completo silenzio.

«Suppongo che non sappiate nemmeno cosa sia un furfante?» disse il Dodger con tristezza.

«Credo di saperlo», rispose Oliver, alzando lo sguardo. «È un,; lei ne è uno, non è così?» chiese Oliver, frenandosi.

«Lo sono», rispose il Dodger. «Mi rifiuterei di essere qualsiasi altra cosa». Il signor Dawkins inclinò ferocemente il cappello dopo aver espresso questo sentimento e guardò il giovane Bates, come per far capire che si sarebbe sentito obbligato se avesse detto qualcosa di contrario.

«Lo sono», ripeté il Dodger. «E lo è anche Charley. E Fagin. E Sikes. E Nancy. E Bet. Lo siamo tutti, fino al cane. E lui è il più furbo di tutti!»

«E il meno propenso a fare la spia», aggiunse Charley Bates.

“Non abbaierebbe neanche dentro una gabbia dei testimoni per paura di compromettersi; no, anche se lo legaste lì dentro e lo lasciaste senza cibo per due settimane”, disse il Dodger.

«Niente affatto», osservò Charley.

«È un cane strano. Non sembra feroce con qualsiasi tizio sconosciuto che ride o canta quando è in compagnia?» proseguì il Dodger. «Non abbaierà mai quando sente suonare uno strumento a corde! E non odia gli altri cani che non sono della sua razza! Oh, no!»

«È un cristiano vero e proprio», disse Charley.

Questo era inteso semplicemente come un tributo alle capacità dell’animale, ma fu un commento appropriato in un altro senso, se il giovane Bates lo avesse solo saputo; perché ci sono parecchie signore e signori che si dicono cristiani integrali tra i quali e il cane del signor Sikes esistono punti di somiglianza forti e singolari.

«Bene, bene», disse il Dodger, tornando al punto da cui si erano allontanati: con quella attenzione alla sua professione che influenzava tutte le sue azioni. «Questo non ha nulla a che fare col giovane Green qui presente».

“Non ce l’ha più”, disse Charley. “Perché non ti metti sotto la protezione di Fagin, Oliver?”

«E fai subito la tua fortuna?» aggiunse il Dodger con un ghigno.

«E così potrete ritirarvi con le vostre proprietà e fare la bella vita: come intendo fare io nel prossimo anno bisestile fra quattro anni che verrà, e il quarantaduesimo martedì della settimana di Pentecoste», disse Charley Bates.

“Non mi piace”, replicò Oliver con timidezza, “vorrei che mi lasciassero andare. Io, io preferirei andarmene”.

“E Fagin preferirebbe di no!” ribatté Charley.

Oliver lo sapeva anche troppo bene; ma pensando che potesse essere pericoloso esprimere i suoi sentimenti più apertamente, sospirò soltanto e continuò a pulire le scarpe.

«Vai!» esclamò il Dodger. «Ma dove hai messo lo spirito? Non provi un po’ di orgoglio per te stesso? Vuoi forse dipendere dagli amici?»

«Oh, lascia perdere!» disse il giovane Bates tirando fuori due o tre fazzoletti di seta dalla tasca e gettandoli in un armadio «è troppo meschino, lo è davvero.»

«Io non potrei farlo», disse il Dodger con un’aria di sprezzante disgusto.

«Puoi lasciare i tuoi amici, però», disse Oliver con un mezzo sorriso, «e farli punire per quello che hai fatto tu.»

«Questo», ribatté il Dodger con un gesto della pipa, «questo è stato tutto per riguardo a Fagin, perché i poliziotti sanno che lavoriamo insieme e lui avrebbe potuto avere dei guai se non fossimo riusciti a fare la nostra fortuna; questa era l’idea, no, Charley?»

Il maestro Bates annuì in segno di assenso e avrebbe voluto parlare, ma il ricordo della fuga di Oliver gli tornò così all’improvviso alla mente che la boccata di fumo che stava aspirando si mescolò con una risata, gli salì al cervello e gli scese in gola: e lo fece tossire e pestare i piedi per circa cinque minuti.

«Guarda qui!» disse il Dodger tirando fuori un pugno di scellini e mezzi penny. «Ecco una bella vita! Che importa da dove viene? Ecco, prendi; ce n’è ancora tanta dove li abbiamo presi. Non vuoi, eh? Oh, che caro ingenuo!»

“È cattivo, vero, Oliver?” chiese Charley Bates. “Finirà sulla forca, no?”

“Non so cosa significhi”, rispose Oliver.

«Più o meno così, vecchio mio», disse Charley. Mentre lo diceva, il piccolo Bates afferrò un lembo del suo fazzoletto da collo; e, tenendolo dritto in aria, appoggiò la testa sulla spalla e fece uscire dai denti uno strano suono a scatti; indicando così, con una vivace rappresentazione pantomimica, che strangolare e impiccare erano la stessa cosa.

«È questo il significato», disse Charley. «Guarda come lo fissa, Jack! Non ho mai visto una compagnia così eccellente come quel ragazzo; mi farà la morte, so che lo farà». Il giovane Charley Bates, dopo aver riso di cuore ancora una volta, riprese la pipa con le lacrime negli occhi.

«Sei stato educato male», disse il Dodger, esaminando le sue scarpe con grande soddisfazione dopo che Oliver le aveva lucidate. «Fagin ne farà qualcosa di te, comunque, o sarai il primo che gli è capitato a non essere utile. È meglio che tu inizi subito; perché ti dedicherai al mestiere molto prima di quanto pensi; e stai solo perdendo tempo, Oliver.»

Master Bates backed this advice with sundry moral admonitions of his own: which, being exhausted, he and his friend Mr. Dawkins launched into a glowing description of the numerous pleasures incidental to the life they led, interspersed with a variety of hints to Oliver that the best thing he could do, would be to secure Fagin’s favour without more delay, by the means which they themselves had employed to gain it.

“And always put this in your pipe, Nolly,” said the Dodger, as the Jew was heard unlocking the door above, “if you don’t take fogels and tickers—”

“What’s the good of talking in that way?” interposed Master Bates; “he don’t know what you mean.”

“If you don’t take pocket-handkechers and watches,” said the Dodger, reducing his conversation to the level of Oliver’s capacity, “some other cove will; so that the coves that lose ’em will be all the worse, and you’ll be all the worse, too, and nobody half a ha’p’orth the better, except the chaps wot gets them—and you’ve just as good a right to them as they have.”

“To be sure, to be sure!” said the Jew, who had entered unseen by Oliver. “It all lies in a nutshell my dear; in a nutshell, take the Dodger’s word for it. Ha! ha! ha! He understands the catechism of his trade.”

The old man rubbed his hands gleefully together, as he corroborated the Dodger’s reasoning in these terms; and chuckled with delight at his pupil’s proficiency.

The conversation proceeded no farther at this time, for the Jew had returned home accompanied by Miss Betsy, and a gentleman whom Oliver had never seen before, but who was accosted by the Dodger as Tom Chitling; and who, having lingered on the stairs to exchange a few gallantries with the lady, now made his appearance.

Mr. Chitling was older in years than the Dodger: having perhaps numbered eighteen winters; but there was a degree of deference in his deportment towards that young gentleman which seemed to indicate that he felt himself conscious of a slight inferiority in point of genius and professional aquirements. He had small twinkling eyes, and a pock-marked face; wore a fur cap, a dark corduroy jacket, greasy fustian trousers, and an apron. His wardrobe was, in truth, rather out of repair; but he excused himself to the company by stating that his “time” was only out an hour before; and that, in consequence of having worn the regimentals for six weeks past, he had not been able to bestow any attention on his private clothes. Mr. Chitling added, with strong marks of irritation, that the new way of fumigating clothes up yonder was infernal unconstitutional, for it burnt holes in them, and there was no remedy against the county. The same remark he considered to apply to the regulation mode of cutting the hair: which he held to be decidedly unlawful. Mr. Chitling wound up his observations by stating that he had not touched a drop of anything for forty-two moral long hard-working days; and that he “wished he might be busted if he warn’t as dry as a lime-basket.”

“Where do you think the gentleman has come from, Oliver?” inquired the Jew, with a grin, as the other boys put a bottle of spirits on the table.

“I—I—don’t know, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Who’s that?” inquired Tom Chitling, casting a contemptuous look at Oliver.

“A young friend of mine, my dear,” replied the Jew.

“He’s in luck, then,” said the young man, with a meaning look at Fagin. “Never mind where I came from, young ’un; you’ll find your way there, soon enough, I’ll bet a crown!”

At this sally, the boys laughed. After some more jokes on the same subject, they exchanged a few short whispers with Fagin; and withdrew.

After some words apart between the last comer and Fagin, they drew their chairs towards the fire; and the Jew, telling Oliver to come and sit by him, led the conversation to the topics most calculated to interest his hearers. These were, the great advantages of the trade, the proficiency of the Dodger, the amiability of Charley Bates, and the liberality of the Jew himself. At length these subjects displayed signs of being thoroughly exhausted; and Mr. Chitling did the same: for the house of correction becomes fatiguing after a week or two. Miss Betsy accordingly withdrew; and left the party to their repose.

From this day, Oliver was seldom left alone; but was placed in almost constant communication with the two boys, who played the old game with the Jew every day: whether for their own improvement or Oliver’s, Mr. Fagin best knew. At other times the old man would tell them stories of robberies he had committed in his younger days: mixed up with so much that was droll and curious, that Oliver could not help laughing heartily, and showing that he was amused in spite of all his better feelings.

In short, the wily old Jew had the boy in his toils. Having prepared his mind, by solitude and gloom, to prefer any society to the companionship of his own sad thoughts in such a dreary place, he was now slowly instilling into his soul the poison which he hoped would blacken it, and change its hue for ever.

Il signor Bates sostenne questo consiglio con varie ammonizioni morali di sua invenzione: esaurite le quali lui e il suo amico Dawkins si lanciarono in una brillante descrizione dei numerosi piaceri che accompagnavano la vita che conducevano, intervallata da un’ampia gamma di suggerimenti a Oliver che la cosa migliore che potesse fare sarebbe stata assicurarsi i favori di Fagin senza ulteriori indugi, usando gli stessi mezzi che loro avevano impiegato per ottenerli.

«E ricordati sempre questo, Nolly», disse il Dodger mentre si sentiva lo scatto della serratura della porta al piano di sopra, «se non prendi i fogli e gli orologi, »

«A che serve parlare così?» intervenne il signorino Bates «Non capisce quello che vuoi dire.»

«Se non prendi fazzoletti da taschino e orologi», disse il Dodger, adattando la conversazione al livello di comprensione di Oliver, «lo farà qualche altro tizio; così quelli che li perdono staranno peggio, e tu pure starai peggio, e nessuno ne verrà nemmeno un po’ meglio, tranne i tipi che se li accaparrano - e hai esattamente lo stesso diritto di prenderli quanto loro.»

«Certo, certo!» disse l’ebreo, che era entrato senza essere visto da Oliver. «Tutto sta in un guscio di noce, mio caro; in un guscio di noce, prendi la parola del Dodger. Ah! ah! ah! Conosce il catechismo della sua professione.»

Il vecchio si strofinò le mani con piacere mentre confermava il ragionamento del Dodger in questi termini e rise di gusto per la competenza del suo allievo.

La conversazione non proseguì oltre in quel momento, perché l’ebreo era tornato a casa accompagnato da Miss Betsy e un signore che Oliver non aveva mai visto prima, ma che il Dodger chiamò Tom Chitling; quest’ultimo, dopo essersi trattenuto sulle scale per scambiare qualche galanteria con la signora, fece ora la sua comparsa.

Il signor Chitling era più anziano del Dodger per anni: ne aveva forse diciotto; ma c’era un grado di deferenza nel suo comportamento verso quel giovane gentiluomo che sembrava indicare che si sentiva cosciente di una leggera inferiorità in fatto di genio e competenze professionali. Aveva piccoli occhi scintillanti, il viso butterato; indossava un berretto di pelliccia, una giacca di cordura scura, pantaloni di fustagno unto e un grembiule. Il suo guardaroba era, in verità, piuttosto malandato; ma si giustificò con la compagnia dicendo che il suo “periodo” era finito solo un’ora prima; e che, a causa dell’aver indossato l’uniforme per le ultime sei settimane, non aveva potuto prestare alcuna attenzione ai suoi vestiti privati. Il signor Chitling aggiunse, con forti segni di irritazione, che il nuovo modo di fumigare i vestiti là fuori era infernalmente anticonstituzionale, perché bruciava dei buchi e non c’era rimedio contro la contea. Considerò che lo stesso commento si applicasse al metodo regolamentare per tagliare i capelli: che riteneva decisamente illegale. Il signor Chitling concluse le sue osservazioni affermando di non aver toccato una goccia di nulla per quarantadue lunghi giorni di duro lavoro; e che “sperava di scoppiare se non era asciutto come un cesto di calce.”

«Da dove pensi che sia venuto il signore, Oliver?» chiese l’ebreo con un ghigno mentre gli altri ragazzi mettevano una bottiglia di liquore sul tavolo.

“N-n-non lo so, signore”, rispose Oliver.

«Chi è quello?» chiese Tom Chitling, lanciando uno sguardo sprezzante a Oliver.

«Una giovane amica mia, mia cara», rispose l’ebreo.

«Allora è fortunato», disse il giovane, lanciando un’occhiata significativa a Fagin. «Non importa da dove vengo, ragazzo; troverai la strada per arrivarci abbastanza presto, scommetterei una corona!»

A questa battuta i ragazzi risero. Dopo altre battute sullo stesso argomento, scambiarono qualche breve bisbiglio con Fagin e se ne andarono.

Dopo alcune parole in disparte tra l’ultimo arrivato e Fagin, si avvicinarono con le sedie al fuoco; e il vecchio ebreo, invitando Oliver ad accomodarsi vicino a lui, indirizzò la conversazione sugli argomenti più calcolati per interessare i suoi ascoltatori. Questi erano: i grandi vantaggi del mestiere, l’abilità di Dodger, l’amabilità di Charley Bates e la generosità dello stesso vecchio ebreo. Alla fine questi argomenti mostrarono segni di essere stati esauriti; e lo stesso Mr. Chitling fece altrettanto: perché il carcere correzionale diventa stancante dopo una settimana o due. La signorina Betsy si ritirò quindi, lasciando la compagnia al suo riposo.

Da quel giorno, Oliver fu raramente lasciato solo; ma venne messo quasi costantemente a contatto con i due ragazzi, che giocavano ogni giorno al vecchio gioco con l’ebreo: se per il loro miglioramento o per quello di Oliver, lo sapeva meglio il signor Fagin. Altre volte il vecchio raccontava loro storie dei furti che aveva commesso nei suoi giorni più giovani: mescolate con tante cose buffe e curiose, che Oliver non poteva fare a meno di ridere di gusto, dimostrando di essere divertito nonostante tutti i suoi migliori sentimenti.

Insomma, l’astuto vecchio ebreo aveva il ragazzo nelle sue grinfie. Avendo preparato la sua mente, con la solitudine e il buio, a preferire qualsiasi compagnia a quella dei propri tristi pensieri in un luogo così desolato, stava ora lentamente instillando nella sua anima l’veleno che sperava avrebbe oscurato per sempre il suo colore.

CHAPTER XIX. IN WHICH A NOTABLE PLAN IS DISCUSSED AND DETERMINED ON

It was a chill, damp, windy night, when the Jew: buttoning his great-coat tight round his shrivelled body, and pulling the collar up over his ears so as completely to obscure the lower part of his face: emerged from his den. He paused on the step as the door was locked and chained behind him; and having listened while the boys made all secure, and until their retreating footsteps were no longer audible, slunk down the street as quickly as he could.

The house to which Oliver had been conveyed, was in the neighborhood of Whitechapel. The Jew stopped for an instant at the corner of the street; and, glancing suspiciously round, crossed the road, and struck off in the direction of the Spitalfields.

The mud lay thick upon the stones, and a black mist hung over the streets; the rain fell sluggishly down, and everything felt cold and clammy to the touch. It seemed just the night when it befitted such a being as the Jew to be abroad. As he glided stealthily along, creeping beneath the shelter of the walls and doorways, the hideous old man seemed like some loathsome reptile, engendered in the slime and darkness through which he moved: crawling forth, by night, in search of some rich offal for a meal.

He kept on his course, through many winding and narrow ways, until he reached Bethnal Green; then, turning suddenly off to the left, he soon became involved in a maze of the mean and dirty streets which abound in that close and densely-populated quarter.

The Jew was evidently too familiar with the ground he traversed to be at all bewildered, either by the darkness of the night, or the intricacies of the way. He hurried through several alleys and streets, and at length turned into one, lighted only by a single lamp at the farther end. At the door of a house in this street, he knocked; having exchanged a few muttered words with the person who opened it, he walked upstairs.

A dog growled as he touched the handle of a room-door; and a man’s voice demanded who was there.

“Only me, Bill; only me, my dear,” said the Jew looking in.

“Bring in your body then,” said Sikes. “Lie down, you stupid brute! Don’t you know the devil when he’s got a great-coat on?”

Apparently, the dog had been somewhat deceived by Mr. Fagin’s outer garment; for as the Jew unbuttoned it, and threw it over the back of a chair, he retired to the corner from which he had risen: wagging his tail as he went, to show that he was as well satisfied as it was in his nature to be.

“Well!” said Sikes.

“Well, my dear,” replied the Jew.—“Ah! Nancy.”

The latter recognition was uttered with just enough of embarrassment to imply a doubt of its reception; for Mr. Fagin and his young friend had not met, since she had interfered in behalf of Oliver. All doubts upon the subject, if he had any, were speedily removed by the young lady’s behaviour. She took her feet off the fender, pushed back her chair, and bade Fagin draw up his, without saying more about it: for it was a cold night, and no mistake.

“It is cold, Nancy dear,” said the Jew, as he warmed his skinny hands over the fire. “It seems to go right through one,” added the old man, touching his side.

“It must be a piercer, if it finds its way through your heart,” said Mr. Sikes. “Give him something to drink, Nancy. Burn my body, make haste! It’s enough to turn a man ill, to see his lean old carcase shivering in that way, like a ugly ghost just rose from the grave.”

Nancy quickly brought a bottle from a cupboard, in which there were many: which, to judge from the diversity of their appearance, were filled with several kinds of liquids. Sikes pouring out a glass of brandy, bade the Jew drink it off.

“Quite enough, quite, thankye, Bill,” replied the Jew, putting down the glass after just setting his lips to it.

“What! You’re afraid of our getting the better of you, are you?” inquired Sikes, fixing his eyes on the Jew. “Ugh!”

With a hoarse grunt of contempt, Mr. Sikes seized the glass, and threw the remainder of its contents into the ashes: as a preparatory ceremony to filling it again for himself: which he did at once.

The Jew glanced round the room, as his companion tossed down the second glassful; not in curiousity, for he had seen it often before; but in a restless and suspicious manner habitual to him. It was a meanly furnished apartment, with nothing but the contents of the closet to induce the belief that its occupier was anything but a working man; and with no more suspicious articles displayed to view than two or three heavy bludgeons which stood in a corner, and a “life-preserver” that hung over the chimney-piece.

“There,” said Sikes, smacking his lips. “Now I’m ready.”

“For business?” inquired the Jew.

“For business,” replied Sikes; “so say what you’ve got to say.”

“About the crib at Chertsey, Bill?” said the Jew, drawing his chair forward, and speaking in a very low voice.

“Yes. Wot about it?” inquired Sikes.

“Ah! you know what I mean, my dear,” said the Jew. “He knows what I mean, Nancy; don’t he?”

“No, he don’t,” sneered Mr. Sikes. “Or he won’t, and that’s the same thing. Speak out, and call things by their right names; don’t sit there, winking and blinking, and talking to me in hints, as if you warn’t the very first that thought about the robbery. Wot d’ye mean?”

“Hush, Bill, hush!” said the Jew, who had in vain attempted to stop this burst of indignation; “somebody will hear us, my dear. Somebody will hear us.”

“Let ’em hear!” said Sikes; “I don’t care.” But as Mr. Sikes did care, on reflection, he dropped his voice as he said the words, and grew calmer.

“There, there,” said the Jew, coaxingly. “It was only my caution, nothing more. Now, my dear, about that crib at Chertsey; when is it to be done, Bill, eh? When is it to be done? Such plate, my dear, such plate!” said the Jew: rubbing his hands, and elevating his eyebrows in a rapture of anticipation.

CAPITOLO XIX. IN CUI VIENE DISCUSO E DECISO UN PIANO NOTEVOLISSIMO

Era una notte fredda, umida e ventosa quando l’ebreo: abbottonando il suo cappotto lungo stretto intorno al suo raggrinzito corpo, e tirando su il bavero fino alle orecchie in modo da nascondere completamente la parte inferiore del viso, uscì dalla sua tana. Si fermò sul gradino mentre la porta veniva chiusa a chiave e assicurata dietro di lui; e dopo aver ascoltato mentre i ragazzi mettevano tutto in sicurezza, e fino a quando i loro passi che si allontanavano non furono più udibili, sgattaiolò giù per la strada il più velocemente possibile.

La casa dove era stato condotto Oliver si trovava nei pressi di Whitechapel. Lo scassinatore si fermò per un istante all’angolo della strada; e, guardandosi intorno con sospetto, attraversò la strada e prese la direzione di Spitalfields.

Il fango giaceva spesso sulle pietre e una nebbia nera si addensava sopra le strade; la pioggia cadeva lentamente e tutto sembrava freddo e umido al tatto. Sembrava proprio la notte in cui era degno di uscire un essere come l’ebreo. Mentre si muoveva furtivamente, strisciando sotto il riparo dei muri e delle porte, il vecchio orribile sembrava una sorta di disgustoso rettile, generato nel limo e nell’oscurità attraverso cui si muoveva: usciva allo scoperto, di notte, in cerca di qualche ricco avanzi per un pasto.

Continuò il suo cammino attraverso molti vicoli tortuosi e stretti fino a raggiungere Bethnal Green; poi, svoltando bruscamente verso sinistra, si ritrovò presto intrappolato in un labirinto di strade squallide e sudicie che abbondano in quel quartiere chiuso e densamente popolato.

Evidentemente l’ebreo conosceva troppo bene il terreno che stava percorrendo per lasciarsi confondere né dall’oscurità della notte né dalle complessità del cammino. Attraversò in fretta diversi vicoli e strade, fino a imboccarne uno illuminato solo da una lampada all’estremità più lontana. Alla porta di una casa in questa strada bussò; dopo aver scambiato poche parole sottovoce con la persona che gli aprì, salì al piano superiore.

Un cane ringhiò quando egli toccò la maniglia della porta di una stanza, e una voce maschile chiese chi ci fosse.

«Solo io, Bill; solo io, mio caro», disse l’ebreo guardando dentro.

«Porta dentro il tuo corpo, allora», disse Sikes. «Stenditi, stupido bruto! Non sai riconoscere il diavolo quando indossa un pastrano?»

A quanto pare il cane era stato un po’ ingannato dal capo di abbigliamento esterno del signor Fagin; infatti, mentre l’Ebreo lo sbottonava e lo gettava sullo schienale di una sedia, si ritirò nell’angolo da cui era uscito: scodinzolando mentre andava, per mostrare che era soddisfatto quanto poteva esserlo secondo la sua natura.

«Bene!» disse Sikes.

«Bene, mia cara», rispose l’ebreo, «Ah! Nancy.»

Quest’ultimo riconoscimento fu espresso con un imbarazzo appena sufficiente a lasciar intendere un dubbio sulla sua accoglienza; infatti il signor Fagin e la giovane amica non si erano più incontrati da quando lei era intervenuta in favore di Oliver. Tutti i dubbi sull’argomento, se ce ne fossero stati, furono rapidamente dissipati dal comportamento della giovane. Lei tolse i piedi dalla grata del caminetto, spinse indietro la sedia e invitò Fagin ad avvicinare la sua senza dire altro: perché era una fredda notte, e non c’erano dubbi.

“Fa davvero freddo, cara la mia Nancy”, disse l’ebreo mentre si riscaldava le ossute mani sul fuoco. “Sembra penetrare fino alle ossa”, aggiunse il vecchio toccandosi un fianco.

“Deve essere un pugnale, se riesce a trapassare il tuo cuore”, disse Mr. Sikes. “Dagli da bere qualcosa, Nancy. Brucia il mio corpo, sbrigati! È sufficiente per far venire la nausea a un uomo, vedere quel suo vecchio scheletro magro che trema in quel modo, come uno spaventoso fantasma appena risorto dalla tomba.”

Nancy prese rapidamente una bottiglia da un armadio, in cui ce n’erano molte: che, a giudicare dalla diversità del loro aspetto, erano piene di vari tipi di liquidi. Sikes versò un bicchiere di brandy e ordinò all’ebreo di berlo tutto.

«Più che sufficiente, davvero, grazie, Bill», rispose l’ebreo posando il bicchiere dopo averlo appena sfiorato con le labbra.

«Che cosa? Hai paura che noi possiamo avere la meglio su di te, eh?» chiese Sikes fissando gli occhi sul vecchio ebreo. «Ugh!»

Con un grugnito rauco di disprezzo, il signor Sikes afferrò il bicchiere e gettò il resto del suo contenuto tra le ceneri: come cerimonia preliminare a riempirlo nuovamente per sé stesso: cosa che fece subito.

L’ebreo diede un’occhiata intorno alla stanza mentre il suo compagno buttava giù il secondo bicchiere; non per curiosità, perché l’aveva vista spesso prima d’allora; ma in modo irrequieto e sospettoso, abitudine sua. Era una stanza modestamente arredata, con niente altro che i contenuti dell’armadio a indurre la credenza che il suo occupante fosse qualcosa di più di un lavoratore; e senza articoli più sospetti in vista se non due o tre pesanti manganelli che stavano in un angolo, e una “difesa personale” appesa sopra il caminetto.

“Ecco fatto,” disse Sikes, leccandosi le labbra. “Ora sono pronto.”

«Per affari?» chiese l’ebreo.

“Per affari”, rispose Sikes, “quindi dì quello che hai da dire.”

«E riguardo al presepe di Chertsey, Bill?» disse l’ebreo, avvicinando la sedia e parlando con voce molto bassa.

«Sì. E allora?» chiese Sikes.

«Ah! sai cosa voglio dire, mia cara», disse l’ebreo. «Sa cosa voglio dire, Nancy; non è così?»

«No, non lo fa», ghignò Sikes. «O meglio, non vuole farlo e la cosa è uguale. Parla chiaro e chiama le cose con il loro nome; non star lì a strizzare gli occhi e a parlarmi per allusioni come se tu fossi stato il primo a pensare al furto. Che intendi dire?»

«Zitto, Bill, zitto!» disse l’ebreo che aveva cercato invano di fermare quell’esplosione d’indignazione «qualcuno ci sentirà, mio caro. Qualcuno ci sentirà».

«Che li sentano!» disse Sikes; «non me ne importa nulla». Ma poiché a Sikes l’importava invece, dopo averci riflettuto un attimo abbassò la voce mentre pronunciava queste parole e si calmò.

«Ecco fatto, ecco fatto», disse l’ebreo con tono blandamente persuasivo. «È stata solo la mia prudenza, null’altro. Ora, caro mio, riguardo a quel colpo a Chertsey; quando sarà fatto, Bill, eh? Quando sarà fatto? Che argenteria, caro mio, che argenteria!», disse l’ebreo: strofinandosi le mani e alzando le sopracciglia in un rapimento di anticipazione.

“Not at all,” replied Sikes coldly.

“Not to be done at all!” echoed the Jew, leaning back in his chair.

“No, not at all,” rejoined Sikes. “At least it can’t be a put-up job, as we expected.”

“Then it hasn’t been properly gone about,” said the Jew, turning pale with anger. “Don’t tell me!”

“But I will tell you,” retorted Sikes. “Who are you that’s not to be told? I tell you that Toby Crackit has been hanging about the place for a fortnight, and he can’t get one of the servants in line.”

“Do you mean to tell me, Bill,” said the Jew: softening as the other grew heated: “that neither of the two men in the house can be got over?”

“Yes, I do mean to tell you so,” replied Sikes. “The old lady has had ’em these twenty years; and if you were to give ’em five hundred pound, they wouldn’t be in it.”

“But do you mean to say, my dear,” remonstrated the Jew, “that the women can’t be got over?”

“Not a bit of it,” replied Sikes.

“Not by flash Toby Crackit?” said the Jew incredulously. “Think what women are, Bill,”

“No; not even by flash Toby Crackit,” replied Sikes. “He says he’s worn sham whiskers, and a canary waistcoat, the whole blessed time he’s been loitering down there, and it’s all of no use.”

“He should have tried mustachios and a pair of military trousers, my dear,” said the Jew.

“So he did,” rejoined Sikes, “and they warn’t of no more use than the other plant.”

The Jew looked blank at this information. After ruminating for some minutes with his chin sunk on his breast, he raised his head and said, with a deep sigh, that if flash Toby Crackit reported aright, he feared the game was up.

“And yet,” said the old man, dropping his hands on his knees, “it’s a sad thing, my dear, to lose so much when we had set our hearts upon it.”

“So it is,” said Mr. Sikes. “Worse luck!”

A long silence ensued; during which the Jew was plunged in deep thought, with his face wrinkled into an expression of villainy perfectly demoniacal. Sikes eyed him furtively from time to time. Nancy, apparently fearful of irritating the housebreaker, sat with her eyes fixed upon the fire, as if she had been deaf to all that passed.

“Fagin,” said Sikes, abruptly breaking the stillness that prevailed; “is it worth fifty shiners extra, if it’s safely done from the outside?”

“Yes,” said the Jew, as suddenly rousing himself.

“Is it a bargain?” inquired Sikes.

“Yes, my dear, yes,” rejoined the Jew; his eyes glistening, and every muscle in his face working, with the excitement that the inquiry had awakened.

“Then,” said Sikes, thrusting aside the Jew’s hand, with some disdain, “let it come off as soon as you like. Toby and me were over the garden-wall the night afore last, sounding the panels of the door and shutters. The crib’s barred up at night like a jail; but there’s one part we can crack, safe and softly.”

“Which is that, Bill?” asked the Jew eagerly.

“Why,” whispered Sikes, “as you cross the lawn—”

“Yes?” said the Jew, bending his head forward, with his eyes almost starting out of it.

“Umph!” cried Sikes, stopping short, as the girl, scarcely moving her head, looked suddenly round, and pointed for an instant to the Jew’s face. “Never mind which part it is. You can’t do it without me, I know; but it’s best to be on the safe side when one deals with you.”

“As you like, my dear, as you like” replied the Jew. “Is there no help wanted, but yours and Toby’s?”

“None,” said Sikes, “’cept a centre-bit and a boy. The first we’ve both got; the second you must find us.”

“A boy!” exclaimed the Jew. “Oh! then it’s a panel, eh?”

“Never mind wot it is!” replied Sikes. “I want a boy, and he musn’t be a big ’un. Lord!” said Mr. Sikes, reflectively, “if I’d only got that young boy of Ned, the chimbley-sweeper’s! He kept him small on purpose, and let him out by the job. But the father gets lagged; and then the Juvenile Delinquent Society comes, and takes the boy away from a trade where he was earning money, teaches him to read and write, and in time makes a ’prentice of him. And so they go on,” said Mr. Sikes, his wrath rising with the recollection of his wrongs, “so they go on; and, if they’d got money enough (which it’s a Providence they haven’t,) we shouldn’t have half a dozen boys left in the whole trade, in a year or two.”

“No more we should,” acquiesced the Jew, who had been considering during this speech, and had only caught the last sentence. “Bill!”

“What now?” inquired Sikes.

The Jew nodded his head towards Nancy, who was still gazing at the fire; and intimated, by a sign, that he would have her told to leave the room. Sikes shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as if he thought the precaution unnecessary; but complied, nevertheless, by requesting Miss Nancy to fetch him a jug of beer.

“You don’t want any beer,” said Nancy, folding her arms, and retaining her seat very composedly.

“I tell you I do!” replied Sikes.

“Nonsense,” rejoined the girl coolly, “Go on, Fagin. I know what he’s going to say, Bill; he needn’t mind me.”

The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the other in some surprise.

“Why, you don’t mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?” he asked at length. “You’ve known her long enough to trust her, or the Devil’s in it. She ain’t one to blab. Are you Nancy?”

“I should think not!” replied the young lady: drawing her chair up to the table, and putting her elbows upon it.

“No, no, my dear, I know you’re not,” said the Jew; “but—” and again the old man paused.

“But wot?” inquired Sikes.

“I didn’t know whether she mightn’t p’r’aps be out of sorts, you know, my dear, as she was the other night,” replied the Jew.

At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into sundry exclamations of “Keep the game a-going!” “Never say die!” and the like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise.

«Niente affatto», rispose Sikes freddamente.

«Non si può fare affatto!» fece eco l’ebreo, appoggiandosi allo schienale della sedia.

“No, per niente,” ribatté Sikes. “Almeno non può essere una messinscena come ci aspettavamo.”

«Allora non si è proceduto nel modo giusto», disse l’ebreo, impallidendo per la rabbia. «Non dirmelo!»

«Ma ve lo dico io» ribatté Sikes «Chi siete voi che non dovrebbe saperlo? Ve lo dico: Toby Crackit si è aggirato nei paraggi per due settimane, e non è riuscito a mettere in riga uno solo dei domestici.»

«Vuoi dire che non si può corrompere nessuno dei due uomini nella casa?», disse l’ebreo, ammorbidendosi man mano che l’altro si scaldava.

«Sì, intendo dirvelo», rispose Sikes. «La vecchia signora le ha da vent’anni e anche se gliene dessero cinquecento sterline non ci rinuncerebbe».

«Ma intendi dire, mia cara», obiettò il vecchio ebreo, «che non si riesce a convincere le donne?»

«Niente affatto», rispose Sikes.

“Non è stato Flash Toby Crackit?” disse l’Ebreo incredulo. “Pensa a cosa sono le donne, Bill,”

“No; neanche da Flash Toby Crackit”, rispose Sikes. “Dice che ha indossato finte basette e un panciotto canarino per tutto il dannato tempo in cui è rimasto a gironzolare laggiù, ma non serve a niente.”

«Avrebbe dovuto provare i baffi e un paio di pantaloni militari, mia cara», disse l’ebreo.

«E così ha fatto», ribatté Sikes, «e non erano di alcuna utilità più della pianta».

L’ebreo rimase interdetto da questa notizia. Dopo aver meditato per qualche minuto con il mento affondato sul petto, alzò la testa e disse, con un profondo sospiro, che se Toby Crackit aveva riferito correttamente, temeva che la partita fosse finita.

«Eppure», disse il vecchio lasciando cadere le mani sulle ginocchia, «è una cosa triste, mia cara, perdere tanto quando ci avevamo messo il cuore.»

“E così è,” disse il signor Sikes. “Peggio per noi!”

Seguì un lungo silenzio; durante il quale l’ebreo era immerso in profondi pensieri, con la faccia contratta in un’espressione di malvagità perfettamente demoniaca. Sikes lo osservava furtivamente di tanto in tanto. Nancy, apparentemente timorosa di irritare il ladro, sedeva con gli occhi fissi sul fuoco, come se fosse stata sorda a tutto ciò che accadeva.

«Fagin», disse Sikes, rompendo bruscamente il silenzio che regnava, «vale la pena di pagare cinquanta scellini in più se l’affare viene portato a termine senza problemi dall’esterno?»

«Sì», disse l’ebreo, risvegliandosi improvvisamente.

«È un affare?» chiese Sikes.

«Sì, mia cara, sì», rispose l’ebreo, con gli occhi che brillavano e ogni muscolo del viso in movimento per l’eccitazione suscitata dalla domanda.

«Allora», disse Sikes, respingendo con un certo disprezzo la mano dell’ebreo, «facciamola finita come preferisci. Toby ed io eravamo oltre il muro del giardino la notte prima di ieri, tastando le ante della porta e gli scuri. La casa è chiusa a chiave di notte come una prigione; ma c’è un punto che possiamo aprire in tutta sicurezza e senza far rumore».

«Quale è quello, Bill?» chiese l’ebreo con impazienza.

«Perché», sussurrò Sikes, «mentre attraversi il prato, »

«Sì?», disse l’ebreo, inclinando la testa in avanti con gli occhi che sembravano uscire dalle orbite.

«Mmm!» esclamò Sikes fermandosi di colpo mentre la ragazza, senza quasi muovere il capo, si voltava improvvisamente e per un istante indicava il volto dell’ebreo. «Non importa quale parte sia. So che non puoi farlo senza di me; ma è meglio stare sul sicuro quando si ha a che fare con te».

«Come preferisci, mia cara, come preferisci», rispose l’ebreo. «Non serve altro aiuto se non il tuo e quello di Toby?»

«Nessuno», disse Sikes, «tranne un punteruolo e un ragazzo. La prima cosa ce l’abbiamo entrambi; la seconda dovrai trovarcela tu».

“Un ragazzo!” esclamò l’ebreo. “Ah! allora è un pannello, vero?”

«Non importa cosa sia!» rispose Sikes. «Mi serve un ragazzo, e non deve essere troppo grande. Signore Iddio!», disse il signor Sikes, pensieroso, «se solo avessi quel ragazzino di Ned, lo spazzacamino! Lo teneva piccolo apposta, e lo affittava per lavoro. Ma il padre viene arrestato; e allora arriva la Società dei Delinquenti Minorenni, e porta via il ragazzo da un mestiere in cui guadagnava soldi, gli insegna a leggere e scrivere, e col tempo lo fa diventare apprendista. E così vanno avanti», disse il signor Sikes, la sua ira che cresceva al ricordo dei torti subiti, «così vanno avanti; e se avessero abbastanza soldi (che è una Provvidenza non averne), non dovremmo avere neanche mezza dozzina di ragazzi rimasti in tutto il mestiere, tra un anno o due.»

“Non dovremmo più”, acconsentì l’ebreo, che aveva riflettuto durante questo discorso e aveva colto solo l’ultima frase. “Bill!”

«E adesso?» chiese Sikes.

Il vecchio ebreo fece un cenno con la testa verso Nancy, che continuava a fissare il fuoco; e, con un gesto, indicò di volerle dire di lasciare la stanza. Sikes alzò le spalle impazientemente, come se pensasse che la precauzione fosse inutile; ma acconsentì nondimeno, chiedendo alla signorina Nancy di portargli una brocca di birra.

“Non vuoi birra”, disse Nancy incrociando le braccia e rimanendo seduta con grande compostezza.

«Te lo dico io che sì!» rispose Sikes.

«Sciocchezze», ribatté la ragazza con freddezza. «Continua, Fagin. So già cosa sta per dire, Bill; non deve preoccuparsi di me».

L’ebreo esitava ancora. Sikes guardò l’uno e poi l’altra con un certo stupore.

«E allora, non ti importa della vecchia signora, vero, Fagin?» chiese alla fine. «La conosci abbastanza da fidarti di lei, o il Diavolo ci sia. Non è una che spiffera tutto. Vero, Nancy?»

«Io non lo penserei!» rispose la giovane signora, avvicinando la sedia al tavolo e appoggiandovi i gomiti.

«No, no, mia cara, so che non lo sei», disse l’ebreo; «ma, » e di nuovo il vecchio si fermò.

«Ma che cosa?» chiese Sikes.

“Non sapevo se per caso non fosse di cattivo umore, sai, mia cara, come l’altra sera”, rispose il vecchio ebreo.

A questa confessione, la signorina Nancy scoppiò in una fragorosa risata e, dopo aver trangugiato un bicchiere di brandy, scosse il capo con aria di sfida e proruppe in varie esclamazioni del tipo “Continua a giocare!” “Non mollare mai!” e simili. Queste sembrarono avere l’effetto di rassicurare entrambi i signori; infatti l’Ebreo annuì con aria soddisfatta e riprese il suo posto: così fece anche il signor Sikes.

“Now, Fagin,” said Nancy with a laugh. “Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!”

“Ha! you’re a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!” said the Jew, patting her on the neck. “It was about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!”

“What about him?” demanded Sikes.

“He’s the boy for you, my dear,” replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully.

“He!” exclaimed Sikes.

“Have him, Bill!” said Nancy. “I would, if I was in your place. He mayn’t be so much up, as any of the others; but that’s not what you want, if he’s only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he’s a safe one, Bill.”

“I know he is,” rejoined Fagin. “He’s been in good training these last few weeks, and it’s time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big.”

“Well, he is just the size I want,” said Mr. Sikes, ruminating.

“And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear,” interposed the Jew; “he can’t help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough.”

“Frighten him!” echoed Sikes. “It’ll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there’s anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won’t see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!” said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead.

“I’ve thought of it all,” said the Jew with energy. “I’ve—I’ve had my eye upon him, my dears, close—close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he’s ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn’t have come about better!” The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy.

“Ours!” said Sikes. “Yours, you mean.”

“Perhaps I do, my dear,” said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. “Mine, if you like, Bill.”

“And wot,” said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, “wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?”

“Because they’re of no use to me, my dear,” replied the Jew, with some confusion, “not worth the taking. Their looks convict ’em when they get into trouble, and I lose ’em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what I couldn’t with twenty of them. Besides,” said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, “he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it’s quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that’s all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way—which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides.”

“When is it to be done?” asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin’s affectation of humanity.

“Ah, to be sure,” said the Jew; “when is it to be done, Bill?”

“I planned with Toby, the night arter tomorrow,” rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, “if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy.”

“Good,” said the Jew; “there’s no moon.”

“No,” rejoined Sikes.

“It’s all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?” asked the Jew.

Sikes nodded.

“And about—”

“Oh, ah, it’s all planned,” rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. “Never mind particulars. You’d better bring the boy here tomorrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that’s all you’ll have to do.”

After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew’s next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit.

These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools: which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell.

“Good-night, Nancy,” said the Jew, muffling himself up as before.

“Good-night.”

Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no flinching about the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as Toby Crackit himself could be.

The Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a sly kick upon the prostrate form of Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, groped downstairs.

“Always the way!” muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homeward. “The worst of these women is, that a very little thing serves to call up some long-forgotten feeling; and, the best of them is, that it never lasts. Ha! ha! The man against the child, for a bag of gold!”

Beguiling the time with these pleasant reflections, Mr. Fagin wended his way, through mud and mire, to his gloomy abode: where the Dodger was sitting up, impatiently awaiting his return.

“Is Oliver a-bed? I want to speak to him,” was his first remark as they descended the stairs.

“Hours ago,” replied the Dodger, throwing open a door. “Here he is!”

The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the floor; so pale with anxiety, and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he looked like death; not death as it shows in shroud and coffin, but in the guise it wears when life has just departed; when a young and gentle spirit has, but an instant, fled to Heaven, and the gross air of the world has not had time to breathe upon the changing dust it hallowed.

“Not now,” said the Jew, turning softly away. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow.”

«Ora, Fagin», disse Nancy ridendo, «di’ subito a Bill di Oliver!»

“Ah! Sei una ragazza intelligente, mia cara: la più acuta che abbia mai visto!” disse l’ebreo, accarezzandole il collo. “Ero proprio sul punto di parlare di Oliver, ne sono certo. Ah! ah! ah!”

«E lui che c’entra?» chiese Sikes.

«È il ragazzo che fa per voi, mia cara», rispose l’ebreo con un sussurro rauco, mettendosi un dito sul fianco del naso e ghignando in modo spaventoso.

«Lui!» esclamò Sikes.

«Prendilo, Bill!» disse Nancy. «Lo farei io se fossi al tuo posto. Potrebbe non essere all’altezza degli altri; ma questo non è quello che vuoi, se deve solo aprire una porta per te. Puoi fidarti di lui, Bill».

«So che lo è», replicò Fagin. «È stato ben addestrato nelle ultime settimane e ora è ora che cominci a guadagnarsi il pane. Inoltre, gli altri sono tutti troppo grandi».

«Bene, è proprio della taglia che voglio», disse il signor Sikes, meditabondo.

«E farà tutto quello che vuoi, Bill, mio caro», intervenne l’ebreo, «non può fare diversamente. Cioè, se lo spaventi abbastanza».

«Spaventarlo!» fece eco Sikes. «Non sarà uno spavento simulato, stai attento. Se c’è qualcosa di strano in lui quando una volta ci metteremo al lavoro; chi è dentro per un penny, è dentro per una sterlina. Non lo vedrai più vivo, Fagin. Pensaci bene prima di mandarlo. Ricordati le mie parole!» disse il bandito, maneggiando una sbarra di ferro che aveva tirato fuori da sotto il letto.

«Ci ho pensato su», disse l’ebreo con energia. «Ho—ho tenuto gli occhi addosso a lui, miei cari, da vicino—da vicino. Una volta che si sentirà uno di noi; una volta che avrà in testa l’idea di essere un ladro; e sarà nostro! Nostro per tutta la vita. Oho! Non poteva andare meglio!» L’anziano incrociò le braccia sul petto, si rannicchiò con la testa e le spalle in una massa informe e letteralmente si abbracciò da solo per la gioia.

«Nostro!» disse Sikes «Vostro, volete dire».

“Magari sì, mia cara,” disse l’ebreo con una risatina acuta. “Mia, se preferisci, Bill.”

“E che cosa,” disse Sikes, aggrottando furiosamente le sopracciglia verso il suo amico così piacevole, “che cosa ti fa prendere tanto a cuore un bambino con la faccia bianca come la creta, quando sai che ci sono cinquanta ragazzi che dormono in giro per Common Garden ogni notte, da cui potresti scegliere?”

«Perché non mi servono, mia cara», rispose l’ebreo con un certo imbarazzo, «non valgono la pena di prenderli. Il loro aspetto li condanna quando si trovano nei guai e io li perdo tutti. Con questo ragazzo, se gestito correttamente, potrei fare ciò che non potrei fare nemmeno con venti di loro. Inoltre», disse l’ebreo riprendendo il suo auto-controllo, «ora ci tiene in pugno e se solo potesse darci ancora la cauzione; e deve essere nella stessa barca con noi. Non importa come sia finito lì; è più che sufficiente per il mio potere su di lui che fosse coinvolto in una rapina; questo è tutto ciò che voglio. Ora, quanto è meglio questa situazione piuttosto che essere costretti a eliminare il povero piccolo ragazzo — cosa che sarebbe pericolosa e ci farebbe perdere comunque».

«Quando si farà?» chiese Nancy, trattenendo un’esclamazione turbolenta da parte del signor Sikes, che esprimeva il disgusto con cui aveva accolto la finzione di umanità di Fagin.

“Ah, certo,” disse l’ebreo; “quando lo farete, Bill?”

«Avevo combinato con Toby per la notte dopo domani», ribatté Sikes con voce burbera, «se non avesse ricevuto notizie diverse da parte mia.»

«Bene», disse l’ebreo; «non c’è la luna.»

«No», ribatté Sikes.

«Tutto è stato organizzato per portare via il bottino, vero?» chiese l’ebreo.

Sikes annuì.

“E riguardo—”

“Oh, ah, è tutto pianificato,” ribatté Sikes, interrompendolo. “Non ti preoccupare dei dettagli. È meglio che tu porti il ragazzo qui domani notte. Scenderò dalla pietra un’ora dopo l’alba. Poi tieni la lingua a freno e tieni pronto il crogiolo, e questo è tutto ciò che dovrai fare.”

Dopo una discussione alla quale presero parte tutti e tre, si decise che Nancy si sarebbe recata dalla vecchia ebrea la sera successiva quando fosse calata la notte, per portare via con sé Oliver; Fagin osservò astutamente che, se avesse dimostrato qualche riluttanza al compito, sarebbe stato più disposto ad accompagnare la ragazza che si era recentemente intromessa in suo favore, piuttosto che chiunque altro. Fu anche solennemente stabilito che il povero Oliver sarebbe stato, ai fini della spedizione prevista, affidato senza riserve alle cure e alla custodia del signor William Sikes; inoltre, che lo stesso Sikes avrebbe potuto trattarlo come riteneva opportuno e non sarebbe stato ritenuto responsabile dall’ebreo per eventuali disgrazie o mali necessari a colpirlo: si convenne che, affinché l’accordo fosse vincolante in questo senso, qualsiasi dichiarazione fatta dal signor Sikes al suo ritorno avrebbe dovuto essere confermata e corroborata, in tutti i particolari importanti, dalla testimonianza di Toby Crackit.

Con queste premesse regolate, il signor Sikes procedette a bere brandy a un ritmo furioso e ad agitare la sbarra di ferro in modo allarmante; gridando allo stesso tempo frammenti assai disarmonici di canzone, mescolati con selvagge imprecazioni. Alla fine, in un accesso di entusiasmo professionale, insistette per mostrare la sua scatola degli attrezzi da scasso: non appena entrò barcollando con essa e la aprì allo scopo di spiegare la natura e le proprietà dei vari strumenti che conteneva, e le particolari bellezze della loro costruzione, cadde sopra la scatola sul pavimento e andò a dormire dove era caduto.

«Buona notte, Nancy», disse l’ebreo avvolgendosi di nuovo nel suo mantello.

«Buona notte.»

I loro sguardi si incontrarono e l’ebreo la scrutò attentamente. Non c’era alcuna esitazione nella ragazza. Era altrettanto sincera e seria quanto lo stesso Toby Crackit poteva essere.

L’ebreo le augurò di nuovo la buona notte e, mentre lei gli voltava le spalle, infliggendo un calcio furtivo al corpo prostrato del signor Sikes, si avviò tastoni verso il piano inferiore.

«È sempre così!» borbottò l’ebreo tra sé mentre si dirigeva verso casa. «Il peggio di queste donne è che una sciocchezza qualsiasi serve a risvegliare un sentimento dimenticato da tempo; e il meglio è che non dura mai. Ah! ah! L’uomo contro il bambino, per un sacco d’oro!»

Ingannando il tempo con queste piacevoli riflessioni, il signor Fagin si fece strada, tra fango e melma, fino alla sua tetra dimora: dove lo spilungone stava seduto ad aspettare impazientemente il suo ritorno.

«È Oliver a letto? Voglio parlargli», fu la sua prima osservazione mentre scendevano le scale.

“Ore fa”, rispose il Dodger aprendo una porta. “Eccolo qui!”

Il ragazzo giaceva profondamente addormentato su un letto rustico sul pavimento; così pallido per l’ansia, la tristezza e il soffocamento della sua prigione, che sembrava come se fosse morto; non una morte come appare in sudario e bara, ma nella forma che assume quando la vita è appena scomparsa; quando uno spirito giovane e gentile è fuggito al Cielo solo un istante prima, e l’aria pesante del mondo non ha avuto tempo di soffiare sulla polvere in trasformazione che esso ha santificato.

“Non ora”, disse l’ebreo, allontanandosi dolcemente. “Domani. Domani.”

CHAPTER XX. WHEREIN OLIVER IS DELIVERED OVER TO MR. WILLIAM SIKES

When Oliver awoke in the morning, he was a good deal surprised to find that a new pair of shoes, with strong thick soles, had been placed at his bedside; and that his old shoes had been removed. At first, he was pleased with the discovery: hoping that it might be the forerunner of his release; but such thoughts were quickly dispelled, on his sitting down to breakfast along with the Jew, who told him, in a tone and manner which increased his alarm, that he was to be taken to the residence of Bill Sikes that night.

“To—to—stop there, sir?” asked Oliver, anxiously.

“No, no, my dear. Not to stop there,” replied the Jew. “We shouldn’t like to lose you. Don’t be afraid, Oliver, you shall come back to us again. Ha! ha! ha! We won’t be so cruel as to send you away, my dear. Oh no, no!”

The old man, who was stooping over the fire toasting a piece of bread, looked round as he bantered Oliver thus; and chuckled as if to show that he knew he would still be very glad to get away if he could.

“I suppose,” said the Jew, fixing his eyes on Oliver, “you want to know what you’re going to Bill’s for—eh, my dear?”

Oliver coloured, involuntarily, to find that the old thief had been reading his thoughts; but boldly said, Yes, he did want to know.

“Why, do you think?” inquired Fagin, parrying the question.

“Indeed I don’t know, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Bah!” said the Jew, turning away with a disappointed countenance from a close perusal of the boy’s face. “Wait till Bill tells you, then.”

The Jew seemed much vexed by Oliver’s not expressing any greater curiosity on the subject; but the truth is, that, although Oliver felt very anxious, he was too much confused by the earnest cunning of Fagin’s looks, and his own speculations, to make any further inquiries just then. He had no other opportunity: for the Jew remained very surly and silent till night: when he prepared to go abroad.

“You may burn a candle,” said the Jew, putting one upon the table. “And here’s a book for you to read, till they come to fetch you. Good-night!”

“Good-night!” replied Oliver, softly.

The Jew walked to the door: looking over his shoulder at the boy as he went. Suddenly stopping, he called him by his name.

Oliver looked up; the Jew, pointing to the candle, motioned him to light it. He did so; and, as he placed the candlestick upon the table, saw that the Jew was gazing fixedly at him, with lowering and contracted brows, from the dark end of the room.

“Take heed, Oliver! take heed!” said the old man, shaking his right hand before him in a warning manner. “He’s a rough man, and thinks nothing of blood when his own is up. Whatever falls out, say nothing; and do what he bids you. Mind!” Placing a strong emphasis on the last word, he suffered his features gradually to resolve themselves into a ghastly grin, and, nodding his head, left the room.

Oliver leaned his head upon his hand when the old man disappeared, and pondered, with a trembling heart, on the words he had just heard. The more he thought of the Jew’s admonition, the more he was at a loss to divine its real purpose and meaning.

He could think of no bad object to be attained by sending him to Sikes, which would not be equally well answered by his remaining with Fagin; and after meditating for a long time, concluded that he had been selected to perform some ordinary menial offices for the housebreaker, until another boy, better suited for his purpose could be engaged. He was too well accustomed to suffering, and had suffered too much where he was, to bewail the prospect of change very severely. He remained lost in thought for some minutes; and then, with a heavy sigh, snuffed the candle, and, taking up the book which the Jew had left with him, began to read.

He turned over the leaves. Carelessly at first; but, lighting on a passage which attracted his attention, he soon became intent upon the volume. It was a history of the lives and trials of great criminals; and the pages were soiled and thumbed with use. Here, he read of dreadful crimes that made the blood run cold; of secret murders that had been committed by the lonely wayside; of bodies hidden from the eye of man in deep pits and wells: which would not keep them down, deep as they were, but had yielded them up at last, after many years, and so maddened the murderers with the sight, that in their horror they had confessed their guilt, and yelled for the gibbet to end their agony. Here, too, he read of men who, lying in their beds at dead of night, had been tempted (so they said) and led on, by their own bad thoughts, to such dreadful bloodshed as it made the flesh creep, and the limbs quail, to think of. The terrible descriptions were so real and vivid, that the sallow pages seemed to turn red with gore; and the words upon them, to be sounded in his ears, as if they were whispered, in hollow murmurs, by the spirits of the dead.

In a paroxysm of fear, the boy closed the book, and thrust it from him. Then, falling upon his knees, he prayed Heaven to spare him from such deeds; and rather to will that he should die at once, than be reserved for crimes, so fearful and appalling. By degrees, he grew more calm, and besought, in a low and broken voice, that he might be rescued from his present dangers; and that if any aid were to be raised up for a poor outcast boy who had never known the love of friends or kindred, it might come to him now, when, desolate and deserted, he stood alone in the midst of wickedness and guilt.

He had concluded his prayer, but still remained with his head buried in his hands, when a rustling noise aroused him.

“What’s that!” he cried, starting up, and catching sight of a figure standing by the door. “Who’s there?”

CAPITOLO XX. DOVE OLIVER VIENE CONSEGNATO AL SIGNOR WILLIAM SIKES

Quando Oliver si svegliò la mattina fu molto sorpreso di trovare un nuovo paio di scarpe, con suole spesse e robuste, accanto al suo letto; e che le sue vecchie scarpe erano state rimosse. All’inizio ne fu contento: sperando che potesse essere il preludio alla sua liberazione; ma tali pensieri svanirono rapidamente quando si sedette a colazione insieme all’ebreo, che gli disse con un tono e in modo che aumentarono la sua ansia, che sarebbe stato portato al domicilio di Bill Sikes quella sera.

“Fermarci qui, signore?” chiese ansiosamente Oliver.

“No, no, mio caro. Non per fermarti lì”, rispose l’ebreo. “Non vorremmo perderti. Non aver paura, Oliver, tornerai da noi. Ah! ah! ah! Non saremo così crudeli da mandarti via, mio caro. Oh no, no!”

Il vecchio, che si era chino sul fuoco per arrostire un pezzo di pane, si voltò mentre scherzava con Oliver in questo modo; e rise tra sé come se volesse dimostrare che sapeva che sarebbe stato comunque molto contento di andarsene, se avesse potuto.

«Suppongo», disse l’ebreo, fissando gli occhi su Oliver, «che tu voglia sapere a cosa ti servirà andare da Bill - eh, caro mio?»

Oliver arrossì suo malgrado nel constatare che il vecchio ladro gli aveva letto nel pensiero; ma rispose con coraggio: «Sì, voglio saperlo».

«Perché, secondo voi?» chiese Fagin, eludendo la domanda.

«In verità non lo so, signore», rispose Oliver.

«Bah!» disse l’ebreo, voltandosi con aria delusa dopo aver scrutato attentamente il volto del ragazzo. «Aspetta che te lo dica Bill».

Il vecchio ebreo sembrava molto irritato dal fatto che Oliver non dimostrasse una curiosità maggiore sull’argomento; ma la verità è che, sebbene Oliver fosse molto ansioso, era troppo confuso dall’espressione astuta e penetrante di Fagin e dalle sue stesse speculazioni per fare altre domande in quel momento. Non ebbe altra opportunità: perché l’ebreo rimase molto scontroso e silenzioso fino a notte, quando si preparò ad uscire.

«Potete accendere una candela», disse l’ebreo, mettendo una candela sul tavolo. «E qui c’è un libro da leggere fino a quando verranno a prendervi. Buonanotte!»

«Buona notte!» rispose Oliver, dolcemente.

L’ebreo si diresse verso la porta, guardando il ragazzo da sopra la spalla mentre andava. Si fermò improvvisamente e lo chiamò per nome.

Oliver alzò lo sguardo; l’ebreo, indicando la candela, gli fece cenno di accenderla. Egli così fece e, mentre posava il candelabro sul tavolo, vide che l’ebreo lo fissava con ciglia aggrottate e corrugate dall’estremità buia della stanza.

«Fai attenzione, Oliver! Fai attenzione!» disse il vecchio, agitando la mano destra davanti a lui in modo ammonitore. «È un uomo rude e non pensa a nulla quando si tratta di sangue. Qualunque cosa accada, non dire niente; e fai quello che ti dice. Sta’ attento!» Dando grande enfasi all’ultima parola, lasciò che i suoi lineamenti si trasformassero gradualmente in un ghigno spettrale, annuì con la testa e uscì dalla stanza.

Oliver appoggiò la testa sulla mano quando il vecchio scomparve e rifletté, con un cuore tremante, sulle parole che aveva appena udito. Più pensava all’ammonizione dell’ebreo, più era perplesso nel cercare di indovinarne lo scopo e il significato reale.

Non riusciva a pensare ad alcun obiettivo negativo da raggiungere mandandolo da Sikes che non sarebbe stato altrettanto ben raggiunto se fosse rimasto con Fagin; e dopo aver meditato per un lungo periodo, concluse che era stato scelto per svolgere alcuni compiti domestici ordinari per il ladro, fino a quando non si sarebbe trovato un altro ragazzo più adatto allo scopo. Era troppo ben abituato alla sofferenza, e aveva sofferto troppo dove si trovava, per piangere la prospettiva di un cambiamento in modo molto grave. Rimase perso nei suoi pensieri per alcuni minuti; poi, con un sospiro pesante, accese la candela e, prendendo il libro che l’ebreo gli aveva lasciato, cominciò a leggere.

Voltò le pagine. All’inizio con noncuranza; ma trovandosi davanti a un passaggio che attirava la sua attenzione, presto si concentrò sul volume. Era una storia delle vite e dei processi di grandi criminali; e le pagine erano sporche e consunte dall’uso. Qui lesse di crimini terribili che gelavano il sangue; di omicidi segreti commessi ai bordi della strada solitaria; di corpi nascosti agli occhi degli uomini in profondi pozzi e abissi: che non li tenevano giù, per quanto fossero profondi, ma alla fine li avevano restituiti, dopo molti anni, e così avevano mandato i criminali fuori di testa al punto da confessare la loro colpa e urlare per il patibolo che mettesse fine alle loro sofferenze. Qui lesse anche di uomini che, sdraiati nei loro letti nel cuore della notte, erano stati tentati (così dicevano) e spinti dai propri pensieri malvagi a un tale spargimento di sangue da far rizzare i peli e tremare le membra al solo pensarci. Le terribili descrizioni erano così reali e vivide che le pagine giallastre sembravano tingersi di rosso dal sangue; e le parole su di esse sembravano risuonargli nelle orecchie, come se fossero sussurrate da spiriti dei morti in mormorii profondi.

In un parossismo di terrore, il ragazzo chiuse il libro e lo scagliò lontano. Poi, cadendo in ginocchio, pregò il Cielo di preservarlo da tali atti; e piuttosto di volere che morisse subito, anziché essere riservato a crimini così terribili e spaventosi. A poco a poco si calmò, e implorò con voce bassa e spezzata di essere salvato dai suoi attuali pericoli; e che se qualche aiuto dovesse essere inviato per un povero ragazzo emarginato che non aveva mai conosciuto l’amore degli amici o dei parenti, gli giungesse ora, quando, desolato e abbandonato, si trovava solo in mezzo alla malvagità e alla colpa.

Aveva concluso la sua preghiera, ma rimase ancora con il capo nascosto tra le mani quando un fruscio lo svegliò.

«Che cos’è!» esclamò, alzandosi di scatto e scorgendo una figura in piedi accanto alla porta. «Chi c’è?»

“Me. Only me,” replied a tremulous voice.

Oliver raised the candle above his head: and looked towards the door. It was Nancy.

“Put down the light,” said the girl, turning away her head. “It hurts my eyes.”

Oliver saw that she was very pale, and gently inquired if she were ill. The girl threw herself into a chair, with her back towards him: and wrung her hands; but made no reply.

“God forgive me!” she cried after a while, “I never thought of this.”

“Has anything happened?” asked Oliver. “Can I help you? I will if I can. I will, indeed.”

She rocked herself to and fro; caught her throat; and, uttering a gurgling sound, gasped for breath.

“Nancy!” cried Oliver, “What is it?”

The girl beat her hands upon her knees, and her feet upon the ground; and, suddenly stopping, drew her shawl close round her: and shivered with cold.

Oliver stirred the fire. Drawing her chair close to it, she sat there, for a little time, without speaking; but at length she raised her head, and looked round.

“I don’t know what comes over me sometimes,” said she, affecting to busy herself in arranging her dress; “it’s this damp dirty room, I think. Now, Nolly, dear, are you ready?”

“Am I to go with you?” asked Oliver.

“Yes. I have come from Bill,” replied the girl. “You are to go with me.”

“What for?” asked Oliver, recoiling.

“What for?” echoed the girl, raising her eyes, and averting them again, the moment they encountered the boy’s face. “Oh! For no harm.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Oliver: who had watched her closely.

“Have it your own way,” rejoined the girl, affecting to laugh. “For no good, then.”

Oliver could see that he had some power over the girl’s better feelings, and, for an instant, thought of appealing to her compassion for his helpless state. But, then, the thought darted across his mind that it was barely eleven o’clock; and that many people were still in the streets: of whom surely some might be found to give credence to his tale. As the reflection occured to him, he stepped forward: and said, somewhat hastily, that he was ready.

Neither his brief consideration, nor its purport, was lost on his companion. She eyed him narrowly, while he spoke; and cast upon him a look of intelligence which sufficiently showed that she guessed what had been passing in his thoughts.

“Hush!” said the girl, stooping over him, and pointing to the door as she looked cautiously round. “You can’t help yourself. I have tried hard for you, but all to no purpose. You are hedged round and round. If ever you are to get loose from here, this is not the time.”

Struck by the energy of her manner, Oliver looked up in her face with great surprise. She seemed to speak the truth; her countenance was white and agitated; and she trembled with very earnestness.

“I have saved you from being ill-used once, and I will again, and I do now,” continued the girl aloud; “for those who would have fetched you, if I had not, would have been far more rough than me. I have promised for your being quiet and silent; if you are not, you will only do harm to yourself and me too, and perhaps be my death. See here! I have borne all this for you already, as true as God sees me show it.”

She pointed, hastily, to some livid bruises on her neck and arms; and continued, with great rapidity:

“Remember this! And don’t let me suffer more for you, just now. If I could help you, I would; but I have not the power. They don’t mean to harm you; whatever they make you do, is no fault of yours. Hush! Every word from you is a blow for me. Give me your hand. Make haste! Your hand!”

She caught the hand which Oliver instinctively placed in hers, and, blowing out the light, drew him after her up the stairs. The door was opened, quickly, by some one shrouded in the darkness, and was as quickly closed, when they had passed out. A hackney-cabriolet was in waiting; with the same vehemence which she had exhibited in addressing Oliver, the girl pulled him in with her, and drew the curtains close. The driver wanted no directions, but lashed his horse into full speed, without the delay of an instant.

The girl still held Oliver fast by the hand, and continued to pour into his ear, the warnings and assurances she had already imparted. All was so quick and hurried, that he had scarcely time to recollect where he was, or how he came there, when the carriage stopped at the house to which the Jew’s steps had been directed on the previous evening.

For one brief moment, Oliver cast a hurried glance along the empty street, and a cry for help hung upon his lips. But the girl’s voice was in his ear, beseeching him in such tones of agony to remember her, that he had not the heart to utter it. While he hesitated, the opportunity was gone; he was already in the house, and the door was shut.

“This way,” said the girl, releasing her hold for the first time. “Bill!”

“Hallo!” replied Sikes: appearing at the head of the stairs, with a candle. “Oh! That’s the time of day. Come on!”

This was a very strong expression of approbation, an uncommonly hearty welcome, from a person of Mr. Sikes’ temperament. Nancy, appearing much gratified thereby, saluted him cordially.

“Bull’s-eye’s gone home with Tom,” observed Sikes, as he lighted them up. “He’d have been in the way.”

“That’s right,” rejoined Nancy.

“So you’ve got the kid,” said Sikes when they had all reached the room: closing the door as he spoke.

“Yes, here he is,” replied Nancy.

“Did he come quiet?” inquired Sikes.

“Like a lamb,” rejoined Nancy.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Sikes, looking grimly at Oliver; “for the sake of his young carcase: as would otherways have suffered for it. Come here, young ’un; and let me read you a lectur’, which is as well got over at once.”

Thus addressing his new pupil, Mr. Sikes pulled off Oliver’s cap and threw it into a corner; and then, taking him by the shoulder, sat himself down by the table, and stood the boy in front of him.

«Io. Solo io», rispose una voce tremante.

Oliver alzò la candela sopra la testa e guardò verso la porta. Era Nancy.

“Spegni la luce,” disse la ragazza, distogliendo lo sguardo. “Mi ferisce gli occhi.”

Oliver vide che era molto pallida e le chiese gentilmente se si sentisse male. La ragazza si lasciò cadere su una sedia con la schiena rivolta verso di lui, si strinse le mani ma non rispose.

“Dio mi perdoni!” esclamò dopo un po’, “non ci avevo mai pensato.”

«È successo qualcosa?» chiese Oliver. «Posso aiutarvi? Lo farò se posso. Sì, lo farò davvero».

Si dondolò avanti e indietro; si strinse la gola; ed emettendo un suono gorgogliante, ansimò per riprendere fiato.

«Nancy!», esclamò Oliver, «Che succede?»

La ragazza batté le mani sulle ginocchia e i piedi per terra; poi, fermandosi di colpo, si strinse lo scialle intorno al corpo e rabbrividì di freddo.

Oliver ravvivò il fuoco. Avvicinando la sedia al caminetto, vi si sedette accanto per un poco di tempo, senza parlare; ma infine sollevò il capo e guardò intorno.

«Non so cosa mi prenda a volte», disse lei fingendo di essere impegnata ad accomodare il suo abito; «penso sia questa stanza umida e sporca. Ora, caro Nolly, sei pronto?»

«Devo venire con voi?» chiese Oliver.

“Sì. Sono venuta da Bill”, rispose la ragazza. “Devi venire con me.”

“Perché?” chiese Oliver, ritraendosi.

«A che scopo?» fece eco la ragazza, alzando gli occhi e distogliendoli di nuovo nell’istante in cui incontravano il volto del ragazzo. «Oh! Per niente di male.»

“Non ci credo”, disse Oliver, che l’aveva osservata attentamente.

“Decidi tu”, ribatté la ragazza, fingendo di ridere. “Allora non serve a nulla.”

Oliver vide che aveva un certo potere sui sentimenti migliori della ragazza e per un istante pensò di fare appello alla sua compassione per il suo stato di impotenza. Ma poi gli balenò in mente che erano appena le undici e un quarto; e che molte persone si trovavano ancora nelle strade: tra cui sicuramente qualcuno avrebbe potuto credere alla sua storia. Mentre questa riflessione gli veniva in mente, fece un passo avanti e disse, con una certa fretta, che era pronto.

Né la sua breve riflessione né il suo significato furono persi per la sua compagna. Lo osservò attentamente mentre parlava e gli lanciò uno sguardo intelligente che mostrò sufficientemente che aveva indovinato cosa fosse passato nella sua mente.

“Zitto!” disse la ragazza, chinandosi su di lui e indicando la porta mentre guardava cautamente intorno. “Non puoi farci niente. Ho fatto del mio meglio per te, ma senza alcun risultato. Sei circondato da ogni parte. Se mai dovessi riuscire a liberarti da qui, questo non è il momento.”

Colpito dall’energia del suo comportamento, Oliver alzò lo sguardo verso di lei con grande sorpresa. Sembrava dire la verità; il suo volto era pallido e agitato; e tremava per l’intensità delle sue emozioni.

«Vi ho salvato una volta dall’essere maltrattato e lo farò di nuovo, e lo sto facendo ora», continuò la ragazza ad alta voce; «perché coloro che sarebbero venuti a prendervi, se non ci fossi stata io, sarebbero stati molto più brutali di me. Ho promesso che sareste stato tranquillo e silenzioso; se non lo siete, farete solo del male a voi stesso e anche a me, e forse mi porterete alla morte. Guardate qui! Ho già sopportato tutto questo per voi, tanto quanto è vero che Dio vede che vi mostro la verità.»

Lei indicò in fretta alcune livide contusioni sul collo e sulle braccia; e continuò con grande rapidità:

«Ricordati di questo! E non farmi soffrire ancora per te in questo momento. Se potessi aiutarti, lo farei; ma non ho il potere. Non vogliono farti del male; qualunque cosa ti facciano fare, non è colpa tua. Sst! Ogni parola che dici è un pugno per me. Dammi la mano. Affrettati! La tua mano!»

Lei afferrò la mano che Oliver aveva istintivamente posato nella sua e, spegando la luce, lo trascinò dietro di sé su per le scale. La porta fu aperta da qualcuno avvolto nell’oscurità e richiusa altrettanto velocemente quando furono usciti. Un cabriolet pubblico era in attesa; con la stessa veemenza che aveva mostrato parlando a Oliver, la ragazza lo tirò dentro con sé e chiuse le tende. Il conducente non ebbe bisogno di indicazioni, ma frustò il suo cavallo fino a portarlo alla massima velocità, senza perdere un istante.

La ragazza continuava a tenere stretto per mano Oliver e gli ripeteva all’orecchio i consigli e le rassicurazioni che gli aveva già dato. Tutto era così rapido e confuso, che egli non ebbe quasi tempo di rendersi conto dove si trovasse o come vi fosse giunto, quando la carrozza si fermò davanti alla casa verso cui i passi dell’ebreo erano diretti la sera precedente.

Per un breve istante, Oliver lanciò uno sguardo affrettato lungo la strada vuota e un grido di aiuto gli rimase sulle labbra. Ma la voce della ragazza era vicino al suo orecchio, che lo supplicava con toni così disperati di ricordarsi di lei, che non ebbe il coraggio di emetterlo. Mentre esitava, l’occasione svanì; si trovava già nella casa e la porta era chiusa.

«Da questa parte», disse la ragazza, lasciandolo andare per la prima volta. «Bill!»

«Ah!» rispose Sikes, comparso in cima alle scale con una candela. «Oh! È l’ora del giorno. Avanti!»

Questa fu un’espressione di approvazione molto forte e un benvenuto insolitamente caloroso da parte di una persona dal temperamento del signor Sikes. Nancy, che sembrava esserne molto compiaciuta, lo salutò cordialmente.

«È andato a casa con Tom», osservò Sikes mentre li illuminava. «Sarebbe stato d’intralcio».

«Esatto», replicò Nancy.

«Allora avete preso il bambino», disse Sikes quando furono tutti nella stanza, chiudendo la porta mentre parlava.

«Sì, eccolo qui», rispose Nancy.

«È venuto tranquillo?» chiese Sikes.

«Come un agnello», replicò Nancy.

«Sono contento di saperlo», disse Sikes, guardando cupamente Oliver; «per il bene del suo giovane corpo: che altrimenti ne avrebbe sofferto. Vieni qui, ragazzo; e lascia che ti faccia una predica, che è meglio finirla subito».

Così rivolgendosi al suo nuovo allievo, il signor Sikes tolse di testa a Oliver il berretto e lo gettò in un angolo; quindi, afferrandolo per la spalla, si sedette accanto al tavolo e fece mettere il ragazzo davanti a sé.

“Now, first: do you know wot this is?” inquired Sikes, taking up a pocket-pistol which lay on the table.

Oliver replied in the affirmative.

“Well, then, look here,” continued Sikes. “This is powder; that ’ere’s a bullet; and this is a little bit of a old hat for waddin’.”

Oliver murmured his comprehension of the different bodies referred to; and Mr. Sikes proceeded to load the pistol, with great nicety and deliberation.

“Now it’s loaded,” said Mr. Sikes, when he had finished.

“Yes, I see it is, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Well,” said the robber, grasping Oliver’s wrist, and putting the barrel so close to his temple that they touched; at which moment the boy could not repress a start; “if you speak a word when you’re out o’doors with me, except when I speak to you, that loading will be in your head without notice. So, if you do make up your mind to speak without leave, say your prayers first.”

Having bestowed a scowl upon the object of this warning, to increase its effect, Mr. Sikes continued.

“As near as I know, there isn’t anybody as would be asking very partickler arter you, if you was disposed of; so I needn’t take this devil-and-all of trouble to explain matters to you, if it warn’t for your own good. D’ye hear me?”

“The short and the long of what you mean,” said Nancy: speaking very emphatically, and slightly frowning at Oliver as if to bespeak his serious attention to her words: “is, that if you’re crossed by him in this job you have on hand, you’ll prevent his ever telling tales afterwards, by shooting him through the head, and will take your chance of swinging for it, as you do for a great many other things in the way of business, every month of your life.”

“That’s it!” observed Mr. Sikes, approvingly; “women can always put things in fewest words.—Except when it’s blowing up; and then they lengthens it out. And now that he’s thoroughly up to it, let’s have some supper, and get a snooze before starting.”

In pursuance of this request, Nancy quickly laid the cloth; disappearing for a few minutes, she presently returned with a pot of porter and a dish of sheep’s heads: which gave occasion to several pleasant witticisms on the part of Mr. Sikes, founded upon the singular coincidence of “jemmies” being a can name, common to them, and also to an ingenious implement much used in his profession. Indeed, the worthy gentleman, stimulated perhaps by the immediate prospect of being on active service, was in great spirits and good humour; in proof whereof, it may be here remarked, that he humourously drank all the beer at a draught, and did not utter, on a rough calculation, more than four-score oaths during the whole progress of the meal.

Supper being ended—it may be easily conceived that Oliver had no great appetite for it—Mr. Sikes disposed of a couple of glasses of spirits and water, and threw himself on the bed; ordering Nancy, with many imprecations in case of failure, to call him at five precisely. Oliver stretched himself in his clothes, by command of the same authority, on a mattress upon the floor; and the girl, mending the fire, sat before it, in readiness to rouse them at the appointed time.

For a long time Oliver lay awake, thinking it not impossible that Nancy might seek that opportunity of whispering some further advice; but the girl sat brooding over the fire, without moving, save now and then to trim the light. Weary with watching and anxiety, he at length fell asleep.

When he awoke, the table was covered with tea-things, and Sikes was thrusting various articles into the pockets of his great-coat, which hung over the back of a chair. Nancy was busily engaged in preparing breakfast. It was not yet daylight; for the candle was still burning, and it was quite dark outside. A sharp rain, too, was beating against the window-panes; and the sky looked black and cloudy.

“Now, then!” growled Sikes, as Oliver started up; “half-past five! Look sharp, or you’ll get no breakfast; for it’s late as it is.”

Oliver was not long in making his toilet; having taken some breakfast, he replied to a surly inquiry from Sikes, by saying that he was quite ready.

Nancy, scarcely looking at the boy, threw him a handkerchief to tie round his throat; Sikes gave him a large rough cape to button over his shoulders. Thus attired, he gave his hand to the robber, who, merely pausing to show him with a menacing gesture that he had that same pistol in a side-pocket of his great-coat, clasped it firmly in his, and, exchanging a farewell with Nancy, led him away.

Oliver turned, for an instant, when they reached the door, in the hope of meeting a look from the girl. But she had resumed her old seat in front of the fire, and sat, perfectly motionless before it.

«Ora, prima di tutto: sapete che cos’è questo?» chiese Sikes, prendendo una pistola tascabile che giaceva sul tavolo.

Oliver rispose affermativamente.

«Bene, allora guardate qui», continuò Sikes. «Questo è polvere; quello lì è una palla; e questo è un pezzetto di vecchio cappello per la cartuccia».

Oliver mormorò che aveva compreso a quali diverse persone si riferissero, e il signor Sikes continuò a caricare la pistola, con grande cura e deliberazione.

«Ora è carica», disse il signor Sikes quando ebbe finito.

«Sì, vedo che lo è, signore», rispose Oliver.

«Bene,» disse il bandito, afferrando il polso di Oliver e avvicinando la canna della pistola così tanto al suo tempio che si toccavano; in quel momento il ragazzo non poté trattenere un sussulto; «se pronuncerai una sola parola quando sarai fuori con me, a meno che io non ti rivolga la parola, questo proiettile finirà nella tua testa senza preavviso. Quindi, se proprio decidi di parlare senza permesso, prima digi le tue preghiere».

Dopo aver rivolto un’occhiata torva all’oggetto di questo ammonimento, per aumentarne l’effetto, il signor Sikes continuò.

«Per quel che ne so io, non c’è nessuno che si interessi particolarmente di voi, se foste eliminato; quindi non avrei bisogno di prendermi tutta questa dannata fatica per spiegarvi le cose, se non fosse per il vostro bene. Mi sentite?»

«In breve e per esteso quello che intendi», disse Nancy, parlando con grande enfasi e aggrottando leggermente la fronte verso Oliver come se volesse attirare la sua seria attenzione alle sue parole, «è che se ti ostacola in questo lavoro che hai tra le mani, impedirai che possa mai raccontare storie dopo, sparandogli attraverso la testa e prenderai il rischio di essere impiccato per questo, come fai per molte altre cose nel tuo modo di fare affari, ogni mese della tua vita.»

«Ecco fatto!» osservò Sikes con approvazione «le donne sanno sempre dire le cose in poche parole, tranne quando sono arrabbiate e allora non finiscono più di parlare. E ora che lui ha capito tutto, facciamo un boccone e riposiamoci un po’ prima di partire».

In seguito a questa richiesta, Nancy apparecchiò rapidamente la tavola; scomparendo per qualche minuto, tornò poco dopo con una brocca di birra scura e un piatto di teste di pecora: il che diede occasione a diverse spiritose battute da parte del signor Sikes, basate sulla singolare coincidenza per cui “jemmies” era un nome comune sia a loro che a uno strumento ingegnoso molto usato nella sua professione. Infatti, il degno gentiluomo, forse stimolato dalla prospettiva immediata di entrare in servizio attivo, era di grande umore e buon umore; a dimostrazione di ciò, si può qui notare che bevve umoristicamente tutta la birra d’un fiato, e non pronunciò, secondo un calcolo approssimativo, più di ottanta bestemmie durante tutto il pasto.

Terminata la cena — si può facilmente immaginare che Oliver non avesse molta fame — il signor Sikes consumò un paio di bicchieri di liquore e acqua, e si gettò sul letto; ordinando a Nancy, con molte imprecazioni in caso di mancato rispetto dell’ordine, di svegliarlo esattamente alle cinque. Oliver si sdraiò vestito, per ordine della stessa autorità, su un materasso sul pavimento; e la ragazza, rifacendo il fuoco, sedette davanti ad esso, pronta a svegliarli all’ora stabilita.

Per un lungo periodo Oliver rimase sveglio, pensando che non fosse impossibile che Nancy potesse cercare quell’occasione per sussurrargli qualche ulteriore consiglio; ma la ragazza stava seduta a meditare sul fuoco, senza muoversi, se non di tanto in tanto per regolare la luce. Stanco di vegliare e d’ansia, alla fine si addormentò.

Quando si svegliò, il tavolo era coperto di cose per il tè e Sikes stava infilando vari oggetti nelle tasche del suo pastrano appeso allo schienale di una sedia. Nancy era intenta a preparare la colazione. Non era ancora l’alba, perché la candela continuava ad ardere ed era completamente buio fuori. Una pioggia battente tamburellava sui vetri della finestra; e il cielo appariva nero e nuvoloso.

«Ora, dunque!» brontolò Sikes mentre Oliver si alzava in piedi; «le cinque e mezza! Presto, o non avrai colazione; perché è già tardi».

Oliver non impiegò molto tempo per prepararsi; dopo aver fatto colazione, rispose a un’interrogazione scontrosa di Sikes dicendo che era del tutto pronto.

Nancy, senza quasi guardare il ragazzo, gli lanciò un fazzoletto da annodarsi al collo; Sikes gli diede una grande e ruvida giacca da abbottonarsi sulle spalle. Così vestito, egli porse la mano al bandito che, dopo aver solo fatto una pausa per mostrargli con un gesto minaccioso di avere quella stessa pistola in una tasca laterale del suo cappotto, gliela strinse saldamente e, scambiandosi un addio con Nancy, lo condusse via.

Oliver si voltò per un istante quando raggiunsero la porta, nella speranza di incrociare lo sguardo della ragazza. Ma lei aveva ripreso il suo vecchio posto davanti al fuoco, e sedeva perfettamente immobile di fronte ad esso.

CHAPTER XXI. THE EXPEDITION

It was a cheerless morning when they got into the street; blowing and raining hard; and the clouds looking dull and stormy. The night had been very wet: large pools of water had collected in the road: and the kennels were overflowing. There was a faint glimmering of the coming day in the sky; but it rather aggravated than relieved the gloom of the scene: the sombre light only serving to pale that which the street lamps afforded, without shedding any warmer or brighter tints upon the wet house-tops, and dreary streets. There appeared to be nobody stirring in that quarter of the town; the windows of the houses were all closely shut; and the streets through which they passed, were noiseless and empty.

By the time they had turned into the Bethnal Green Road, the day had fairly begun to break. Many of the lamps were already extinguished; a few country waggons were slowly toiling on, towards London; now and then, a stage-coach, covered with mud, rattled briskly by: the driver bestowing, as he passed, an admonitory lash upon the heavy waggoner who, by keeping on the wrong side of the road, had endangered his arriving at the office, a quarter of a minute after his time. The public-houses, with gas-lights burning inside, were already open. By degrees, other shops began to be unclosed, and a few scattered people were met with. Then, came straggling groups of labourers going to their work; then, men and women with fish-baskets on their heads; donkey-carts laden with vegetables; chaise-carts filled with live-stock or whole carcasses of meat; milk-women with pails; an unbroken concourse of people, trudging out with various supplies to the eastern suburbs of the town. As they approached the City, the noise and traffic gradually increased; when they threaded the streets between Shoreditch and Smithfield, it had swelled into a roar of sound and bustle. It was as light as it was likely to be, till night came on again, and the busy morning of half the London population had begun.

Turning down Sun Street and Crown Street, and crossing Finsbury square, Mr. Sikes struck, by way of Chiswell Street, into Barbican: thence into Long Lane, and so into Smithfield; from which latter place arose a tumult of discordant sounds that filled Oliver Twist with amazement.

It was market-morning. The ground was covered, nearly ankle-deep, with filth and mire; a thick steam, perpetually rising from the reeking bodies of the cattle, and mingling with the fog, which seemed to rest upon the chimney-tops, hung heavily above. All the pens in the centre of the large area, and as many temporary pens as could be crowded into the vacant space, were filled with sheep; tied up to posts by the gutter side were long lines of beasts and oxen, three or four deep. Countrymen, butchers, drovers, hawkers, boys, thieves, idlers, and vagabonds of every low grade, were mingled together in a mass; the whistling of drovers, the barking dogs, the bellowing and plunging of the oxen, the bleating of sheep, the grunting and squeaking of pigs, the cries of hawkers, the shouts, oaths, and quarrelling on all sides; the ringing of bells and roar of voices, that issued from every public-house; the crowding, pushing, driving, beating, whooping and yelling; the hideous and discordant dim that resounded from every corner of the market; and the unwashed, unshaven, squalid, and dirty figures constantly running to and fro, and bursting in and out of the throng; rendered it a stunning and bewildering scene, which quite confounded the senses.

Mr. Sikes, dragging Oliver after him, elbowed his way through the thickest of the crowd, and bestowed very little attention on the numerous sights and sounds, which so astonished the boy. He nodded, twice or thrice, to a passing friend; and, resisting as many invitations to take a morning dram, pressed steadily onward, until they were clear of the turmoil, and had made their way through Hosier Lane into Holborn.

“Now, young ’un!” said Sikes, looking up at the clock of St. Andrew’s Church, “hard upon seven! you must step out. Come, don’t lag behind already, Lazy-legs!”

Mr. Sikes accompanied this speech with a jerk at his little companion’s wrist; Oliver, quickening his pace into a kind of trot between a fast walk and a run, kept up with the rapid strides of the house-breaker as well as he could.

They held their course at this rate, until they had passed Hyde Park corner, and were on their way to Kensington: when Sikes relaxed his pace, until an empty cart which was at some little distance behind, came up. Seeing “Hounslow” written on it, he asked the driver with as much civility as he could assume, if he would give them a lift as far as Isleworth.

“Jump up,” said the man. “Is that your boy?”

“Yes; he’s my boy,” replied Sikes, looking hard at Oliver, and putting his hand abstractedly into the pocket where the pistol was.

“Your father walks rather too quick for you, don’t he, my man?” inquired the driver: seeing that Oliver was out of breath.

“Not a bit of it,” replied Sikes, interposing. “He’s used to it. Here, take hold of my hand, Ned. In with you!”

Thus addressing Oliver, he helped him into the cart; and the driver, pointing to a heap of sacks, told him to lie down there, and rest himself.

As they passed the different mile-stones, Oliver wondered, more and more, where his companion meant to take him. Kensington, Hammersmith, Chiswick, Kew Bridge, Brentford, were all passed; and yet they went on as steadily as if they had only just begun their journey. At length, they came to a public-house called the Coach and Horses; a little way beyond which, another road appeared to run off. And here, the cart stopped.

Sikes dismounted with great precipitation, holding Oliver by the hand all the while; and lifting him down directly, bestowed a furious look upon him, and rapped the side-pocket with his fist, in a significant manner.

CAPITOLO XXI. L’ESPEDIENTE

Era una mattinata triste quando uscirono per la strada: soffiava un vento forte e pioveva a dirotto, e le nuvole apparivano cupe e tempestose. La notte era stata molto umida: grandi pozze d’acqua si erano raccolte sulla strada, e i canali di scolo traboccavano. Nel cielo c’era un debole barlume dell’alba che si avvicinava; ma più che alleviare, acuiva la tetraggine della scena: quella luce cupa serviva solo a smorzare il chiarore delle lampade stradali senza diffondere toni più caldi o luminosi sui tetti bagnati e sulle strade desolate. Non sembrava che ci fosse nessuno in giro in quel quartiere della città; le finestre delle case erano tutte ben chiuse, e le vie per cui passavano erano silenziose e vuote.

Quando svoltarono nella strada di Bethnal Green, il giorno era già iniziato a spuntare. Molte delle lampade erano già state spente; alcuni carri agricoli si stavano lentamente affaticando verso Londra; di tanto in tanto, un diligenza coperta di fango passava rumorosamente: l’autista, mentre passava, infliggeva una frustata ammonitrice al pesante vetturino che, rimanendo sul lato sbagliato della strada, aveva rischiato di arrivare all’ufficio un quarto di minuto dopo il suo tempo. I pub, con le luci a gas accese all’interno, erano già aperti. A poco a poco, altri negozi iniziarono ad essere aperti e si incontrarono alcune persone sparse. Poi arrivarono gruppi sparsi di operai che andavano al lavoro; poi uomini e donne con cesti di pesce in testa; carretti trainati da asini carichi di verdure; carri pieni di bestiame vivo o carcasse intere di carne; donne al mercato del latte con secchi; un flusso continuo di persone che si dirigevano verso i sobborghi orientali della città con varie forniture. Mentre si avvicinavano alla City, il rumore e il traffico aumentarono gradualmente; quando percorrevano le strade tra Shoreditch e Smithfield, erano cresciuti in un fragore di suoni e trambusto. Era già chiaro come sarebbe stato fino a quando non fosse tornata la notte, e la mattina frenetica della metà della popolazione di Londra era iniziata.

Svoltando in Sun Street e in Crown Street, attraversando Finsbury Square, il signor Sikes imboccò per Chiswell Street la via del Barbican: da lì passò a Long Lane, quindi a Smithfield; dal quale luogo si levava un tumulto di suoni discordanti che riempirono Oliver Twist di stupore.

Era il mattino del mercato. Il terreno era ricoperto di sporcizia e fango fino quasi alla caviglia; un denso vapore che saliva ininterrottamente dai corpi puzzolenti dei bestiami si mescolava con la nebbia, che sembrava posarsi sui tetti delle case, gravando pesantemente sopra. Tutte le stalle al centro dell’ampio spazio e tutte quelle temporanee che potevano essere stipate nel vuoto disponibile erano piene di pecore; lunghe file di bestie e buoi, tre o quattro in profondità, erano legate a pali lungo il canale. Contadini, macellai, bovari, venditori ambulanti, ragazzi, ladri, oziosi e vagabondi di ogni bassa estrazione si mescolavano insieme in una massa; il fischio dei bovari, l’abbaiare cani, i muggiti e gli scatti dei buoi, il belare delle pecore, il grugnire e stridere dei maiali, le grida degli ambulanti, le urla, le imprecazioni e le liti da tutte le parti; il suono delle campane e il ruggito di voci che uscivano da ogni osteria; la calca, la spinta, il bestiame in movimento, i colpi, gli urli e le grida; l’orribile e dissonante frastuono che risuonava da ogni angolo del mercato; e le figure non lavate, non rasate, squallide e sporche che correvano continuamente avanti e indietro, entrando ed uscendo dalla folla; rendevano la scena sconcertante e disorientante, che confondeva completamente i sensi.

Il signor Sikes, trascinando Oliver dietro di sé, si fece largo tra la folla più densa e prestò poca attenzione ai numerosi spettacoli e rumori che tanto stupivano il ragazzo. Fece cenno con la testa due o tre volte a un amico che passava; e, rifiutando altrettante inviti a prendere un bicchierino al mattino, proseguì risolutamente finché non furono lontani dal trambusto e si fecero strada attraverso Hosier Lane fino a Holborn.

«Ora, ragazzo!» disse Sikes, guardando l’orologio della chiesa di San Andrea «è quasi le sette! devi sbrigarti. Dai, non rimanere indietro già adesso, gambe pigre!»

Il signor Sikes accompagnò questo discorso con uno strattone al polso del suo piccolo compagno; Oliver, accelerando il passo in una specie di trotto tra un’andatura veloce e una corsa, cercava di tenere il passo con le rapide falcate dello scassinatore di case quanto meglio poteva.

Continuarono così fino a passare l’angolo di Hyde Park e mettersi in direzione di Kensington: quando Sikes rallentò il passo finché non lo raggiunse un carro vuoto che era rimasto indietro di qualche centinaio di metri. Vedendo scritto “Hounslow” sul carro, chiese al conducente con la massima cortesia di cui fosse capace se poteva dargli e a lei un passaggio fino a Isleworth.

“Alzati,” disse l’uomo. “È tuo figlio?”

“Sì, è mio figlio”, rispose Sikes, fissando intensamente Oliver e mettendo la mano distrattamente nella tasca dove si trovava il fucile.

«Vostro padre cammina un po’ troppo in fretta per voi, non è vero, ragazzo?» chiese il conducente, vedendo che Oliver era senza fiato.

«Niente affatto», rispose Sikes, intervenendo. «Ci è abituato. Ecco, prendi la mia mano, Ned. Entra!»

Così rivolgendosi a Oliver, lo aiutò a salire sul carro; e il conducente, indicando un mucchio di sacchi, gli disse di sdraiarsi lì e riposarsi.

Mentre passavano i diversi pali miliari, Oliver si chiedeva sempre più dove il suo compagno intendesse portarlo. Kensington, Hammersmith, Chiswick, Kew Bridge e Brentford furono tutti superati; eppure continuarono a camminare con la stessa costanza come se avessero appena iniziato il loro viaggio. Alla fine arrivarono a un’osteria chiamata Coach and Horses, poco oltre la quale sembrava che un’altra strada si diramasse. E qui il carro si fermò.

Sikes smontò con grande precipitazione, tenendo Oliver per mano tutto il tempo; e facendolo scendere subito, gli rivolse uno sguardo furioso e batté sul taschino laterale col pugno, in modo significativo.

“Good-bye, boy,” said the man.

“He’s sulky,” replied Sikes, giving him a shake; “he’s sulky. A young dog! Don’t mind him.”

“Not I!” rejoined the other, getting into his cart. “It’s a fine day, after all.” And he drove away.

Sikes waited until he had fairly gone; and then, telling Oliver he might look about him if he wanted, once again led him onward on his journey.

They turned round to the left, a short way past the public-house; and then, taking a right-hand road, walked on for a long time: passing many large gardens and gentlemen’s houses on both sides of the way, and stopping for nothing but a little beer, until they reached a town. Here against the wall of a house, Oliver saw written up in pretty large letters, “Hampton.” They lingered about, in the fields, for some hours. At length they came back into the town; and, turning into an old public-house with a defaced sign-board, ordered some dinner by the kitchen fire.

The kitchen was an old, low-roofed room; with a great beam across the middle of the ceiling, and benches, with high backs to them, by the fire; on which were seated several rough men in smock-frocks, drinking and smoking. They took no notice of Oliver; and very little of Sikes; and, as Sikes took very little notice of them, he and his young comrade sat in a corner by themselves, without being much troubled by their company.

They had some cold meat for dinner, and sat so long after it, while Mr. Sikes indulged himself with three or four pipes, that Oliver began to feel quite certain they were not going any further. Being much tired with the walk, and getting up so early, he dozed a little at first; then, quite overpowered by fatigue and the fumes of the tobacco, fell asleep.

It was quite dark when he was awakened by a push from Sikes. Rousing himself sufficiently to sit up and look about him, he found that worthy in close fellowship and communication with a labouring man, over a pint of ale.

“So, you’re going on to Lower Halliford, are you?” inquired Sikes.

“Yes, I am,” replied the man, who seemed a little the worse—or better, as the case might be—for drinking; “and not slow about it neither. My horse hasn’t got a load behind him going back, as he had coming up in the mornin’; and he won’t be long a-doing of it. Here’s luck to him. Ecod! he’s a good ’un!”

“Could you give my boy and me a lift as far as there?” demanded Sikes, pushing the ale towards his new friend.

“If you’re going directly, I can,” replied the man, looking out of the pot. “Are you going to Halliford?”

“Going on to Shepperton,” replied Sikes.

“I’m your man, as far as I go,” replied the other. “Is all paid, Becky?”

“Yes, the other gentleman’s paid,” replied the girl.

“I say!” said the man, with tipsy gravity; “that won’t do, you know.”

“Why not?” rejoined Sikes. “You’re a-going to accommodate us, and wot’s to prevent my standing treat for a pint or so, in return?”

The stranger reflected upon this argument, with a very profound face; having done so, he seized Sikes by the hand: and declared he was a real good fellow. To which Mr. Sikes replied, he was joking; as, if he had been sober, there would have been strong reason to suppose he was.

After the exchange of a few more compliments, they bade the company good-night, and went out; the girl gathering up the pots and glasses as they did so, and lounging out to the door, with her hands full, to see the party start.

The horse, whose health had been drunk in his absence, was standing outside: ready harnessed to the cart. Oliver and Sikes got in without any further ceremony; and the man to whom he belonged, having lingered for a minute or two “to bear him up,” and to defy the hostler and the world to produce his equal, mounted also. Then, the hostler was told to give the horse his head; and, his head being given him, he made a very unpleasant use of it: tossing it into the air with great disdain, and running into the parlour windows over the way; after performing those feats, and supporting himself for a short time on his hind-legs, he started off at great speed, and rattled out of the town right gallantly.

The night was very dark. A damp mist rose from the river, and the marshy ground about; and spread itself over the dreary fields. It was piercing cold, too; all was gloomy and black. Not a word was spoken; for the driver had grown sleepy; and Sikes was in no mood to lead him into conversation. Oliver sat huddled together, in a corner of the cart; bewildered with alarm and apprehension; and figuring strange objects in the gaunt trees, whose branches waved grimly to and fro, as if in some fantastic joy at the desolation of the scene.

As they passed Sunbury Church, the clock struck seven. There was a light in the ferry-house window opposite: which streamed across the road, and threw into more sombre shadow a dark yew-tree with graves beneath it. There was a dull sound of falling water not far off; and the leaves of the old tree stirred gently in the night wind. It seemed like quiet music for the repose of the dead.

Sunbury was passed through, and they came again into the lonely road. Two or three miles more, and the cart stopped. Sikes alighted, took Oliver by the hand, and they once again walked on.

They turned into no house at Shepperton, as the weary boy had expected; but still kept walking on, in mud and darkness, through gloomy lanes and over cold open wastes, until they came within sight of the lights of a town at no great distance. On looking intently forward, Oliver saw that the water was just below them, and that they were coming to the foot of a bridge.

Sikes kept straight on, until they were close upon the bridge; then turned suddenly down a bank upon the left.

“The water!” thought Oliver, turning sick with fear. “He has brought me to this lonely place to murder me!”

He was about to throw himself on the ground, and make one struggle for his young life, when he saw that they stood before a solitary house: all ruinous and decayed. There was a window on each side of the dilapidated entrance; and one story above; but no light was visible. The house was dark, dismantled: and, to all appearance, uninhabited.

Sikes, with Oliver’s hand still in his, softly approached the low porch, and raised the latch. The door yielded to the pressure, and they passed in together.

«Addio, ragazzo», disse l’uomo.

«È di cattivo umore», rispose Sikes dandogli una scossa «è di cattivo umore. Un giovane cane! Non fateci caso».

«Non io!» rispose l’altro, salendo sul suo carro. «Dopo tutto è una bella giornata». E se ne andò via.

Sikes aspettò che fosse ben partito e poi, detto a Oliver che poteva guardarsi intorno se lo desiderava, lo condusse di nuovo avanti nel suo viaggio.

Girarono verso sinistra poco dopo la locanda pubblica e poi, imboccando una strada sulla destra, camminarono per un bel po’ di tempo: passando davanti a molti grandi giardini e case signorili su entrambi i lati della strada, e fermandosi solo per bere un po’ di birra, fino a raggiungere una città. Qui, sul muro di una casa, Oliver vide scritto in lettere piuttosto grandi: “Hampton”. Gironzolarono nei campi per alcune ore. Alla fine tornarono in città e, entrando in un’antica locanda con un’insegna sbiadita, ordinarono da mangiare accanto al fuoco della cucina.

La cucina era una vecchia stanza con il soffitto basso; aveva un grande travetto al centro del soffitto e panche con alti schienali accanto al fuoco; su cui erano seduti diversi uomini rozzi in camici di tela, che bevevano e fumavano. Non fecero caso a Oliver; e molto poco a Sikes; e dato che Sikes fece ben poca attenzione a loro, lui e il suo giovane compagno si sedettero in un angolo da soli, senza essere troppo disturbati dalla loro compagnia.

Mangiarono un po’ di carne fredda per cena e rimasero seduti ancora a lungo dopo, mentre il signor Sikes si concedeva tre o quattro pipe, tanto che Oliver cominciò a sentirsi abbastanza sicuro che non sarebbero andati più lontano. Essendo molto stanco per la passeggiata e per essersi alzato così presto, dapprima si assopì un po’; poi, completamente sopraffatto dalla fatica e dai fumi del tabacco, si addormentò.

Era ormai buio quando si svegliò per una spinta di Sikes. Si riscosse abbastanza da sedersi e guardarsi intorno: scoprì che quel degno personaggio era in stretta amicizia e comunicazione con un operaio, davanti a un boccale di birra.

«Dunque, state andando a Lower Halliford, vero?» chiese Sikes.

«Sì, lo sono», rispose l’uomo, che sembrava un po’ peggio - o meglio, a seconda dei casi - per il bere; «e non ci metto nemmeno tanto. Il mio cavallo non ha carico dietro di lui tornando indietro, come ne aveva venendo su questa mattina; e non ci metterà molto a farlo. Buona fortuna a lui. Ecco! è un buon animale!»

«Potreste dare un passaggio a mio figlio e a me fino là?» chiese Sikes, spingendo la birra verso il suo nuovo amico.

«Se state andando direttamente là, posso farlo io», rispose l’uomo guardando fuori dal vaso. «State andando a Halliford?»

«Proseguendo per Shepperton», rispose Sikes.

“Sono il tuo uomo, fino a dove arrivo,” rispose l’altro. “È tutto pagato, Becky?”

«Sì, l’altro signore ha pagato», rispose la ragazza.

“Non va bene, sapete!” disse l’uomo con gravità ubriaca.

«E perché no?» ribatté Sikes. «Ci stai ospitando e che cosa c’è di male se offro io una pinta o giù di lì, per ricambiare?»

Lo sconosciuto rifletté su questo argomento con un’espressione molto profonda; fatto ciò, afferrò la mano di Sikes e dichiarò che era un vero bravo ragazzo. A cui il signor Sikes rispose che stava scherzando; poiché, se fosse stato sobrio, ci sarebbero state forti ragioni per supporre che lo fosse.

Dopo lo scambio di qualche altro complimento, salutarono la compagnia con un buon notte e uscirono; mentre facevano così, la ragazza raccoglieva i vasetti e i bicchieri e si affacciava alla porta, le mani piene, per vedere partire il gruppo.

Il cavallo, alla cui salute era stato brindato in sua assenza, era fermo fuori: già attaccato al carro. Oliver e Sikes salirono senza ulteriori cerimonie; e l’uomo a cui apparteneva, dopo essersi trattenuto un minuto o due “per sostenerlo” e per sfidare il cocchiere e il mondo a trovare suo pari, montò anche lui. Poi al cocchiere fu detto di lasciare libero il cavallo; e, una volta liberato, questi ne fece un uso davvero spiacevole: lo scagliò in aria con grande disprezzo, e corse contro le finestre del salotto dall’altra parte della strada; dopo aver compiuto quelle prodezze e sostenendosi per breve tempo sulle zampe posteriori, partì a gran velocità, e uscì rumorosamente dalla città con grande baldanza.

La notte era molto buia. Una nebbiolina umida saliva dal fiume, e dalle paludi circostanti; e si diffondeva sui campi desolati. Faceva anche un freddo pungente; tutto era cupo e nero. Non una parola venne pronunciata; perché il conducente era diventato assonnato; e Sikes non aveva alcuna voglia di attaccare discorso con lui. Oliver stava raggomitolato in un angolo del carro; smarrito per l’allarme e la preoccupazione; e immaginava strani oggetti nei tronchi degli alberi, i cui rami si agitavano minacciosamente avanti e indietro, come se provassero una gioia fantastica alla vista della desolazione del luogo.

Mentre passavano davanti alla chiesa di Sunbury, la campana batté le sette. C’era una luce nella barca-casa finestra di fronte: che si riversava sulla strada, e gettava in ombre più cupe un cupo albero di tasso con le tombe sotto. C’era un sordo rumore d’acqua che cadeva non lontano; e le foglie del vecchio albero si muovevano dolcemente nel vento della notte. Sembrava come una musica tranquilla per il riposo dei morti.

Si attraversò Sunbury e si tornò sulla solitaria strada. Dopo altri due o tre miglia il carretto si fermò. Sikes scese, prese per mano Oliver e ripresero a camminare.

Non entrarono in nessuna casa a Shepperton, come il ragazzo stanco si aspettava; ma continuarono a camminare, nel fango e nell’oscurità, per viuzze desolate e su freddi terreni aperti, finché non arrivarono in vista delle luci di una città non molto distante. Guardando attentamente avanti, Oliver vide che l’acqua era proprio sotto di loro e che stavano arrivando alla base di un ponte.

Sikes continuò dritto finché non furono vicini al ponte; poi svoltò improvvisamente lungo un pendio sulla sinistra.

“Acqua!” pensò Oliver, sentendosi male per la paura. “Mi ha portato in questo posto solitario per uccidermi!”

Stava per gettarsi a terra e fare un ultimo tentativo di salvare la sua giovane vita quando vide che si trovavano davanti a una solitaria casa: tutta in rovina e decadente. C’era una finestra su ciascun lato dell’ingresso dilapidato; e un piano sopra, ma non si vedeva alcuna luce. La casa era buia, abbandonata: e, a prima vista, disabitata.

Sikes, con la mano di Oliver ancora nella sua, si avvicinò dolcemente al basso portico e sollevò il chiavistello. La porta cedette alla pressione e entrarono insieme.

CHAPTER XXII. THE BURGLARY

“Hallo!” cried a loud, hoarse voice, as soon as they set foot in the passage.

“Don’t make such a row,” said Sikes, bolting the door. “Show a glim, Toby.”

“Aha! my pal!” cried the same voice. “A glim, Barney, a glim! Show the gentleman in, Barney; wake up first, if convenient.”

The speaker appeared to throw a boot-jack, or some such article, at the person he addressed, to rouse him from his slumbers: for the noise of a wooden body, falling violently, was heard; and then an indistinct muttering, as of a man between sleep and awake.

“Do you hear?” cried the same voice. “There’s Bill Sikes in the passage with nobody to do the civil to him; and you sleeping there, as if you took laudanum with your meals, and nothing stronger. Are you any fresher now, or do you want the iron candlestick to wake you thoroughly?”

A pair of slipshod feet shuffled, hastily, across the bare floor of the room, as this interrogatory was put; and there issued, from a door on the right hand; first, a feeble candle: and next, the form of the same individual who has been heretofore described as labouring under the infirmity of speaking through his nose, and officiating as waiter at the public-house on Saffron Hill.

“Bister Sikes!” exclaimed Barney, with real or counterfeit joy; “cub id, sir; cub id.”

“Here! you get on first,” said Sikes, putting Oliver in front of him. “Quicker! or I shall tread upon your heels.”

Muttering a curse upon his tardiness, Sikes pushed Oliver before him; and they entered a low dark room with a smoky fire, two or three broken chairs, a table, and a very old couch: on which, with his legs much higher than his head, a man was reposing at full length, smoking a long clay pipe. He was dressed in a smartly-cut snuff-coloured coat, with large brass buttons; an orange neckerchief; a coarse, staring, shawl-pattern waistcoat; and drab breeches. Mr. Crackit (for he it was) had no very great quantity of hair, either upon his head or face; but what he had, was of a reddish dye, and tortured into long corkscrew curls, through which he occasionally thrust some very dirty fingers, ornamented with large common rings. He was a trifle above the middle size, and apparently rather weak in the legs; but this circumstance by no means detracted from his own admiration of his top-boots, which he contemplated, in their elevated situation, with lively satisfaction.

“Bill, my boy!” said this figure, turning his head towards the door, “I’m glad to see you. I was almost afraid you’d given it up: in which case I should have made a personal wentur. Hallo!”

Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as his eyes rested on Oliver, Mr. Toby Crackit brought himself into a sitting posture, and demanded who that was.

“The boy. Only the boy!” replied Sikes, drawing a chair towards the fire.

“Wud of Bister Fagid’s lads,” exclaimed Barney, with a grin.

“Fagin’s, eh!” exclaimed Toby, looking at Oliver. “Wot an inwalable boy that’ll make, for the old ladies’ pockets in chapels! His mug is a fortin’ to him.”

“There—there’s enough of that,” interposed Sikes, impatiently; and stooping over his recumbant friend, he whispered a few words in his ear: at which Mr. Crackit laughed immensely, and honoured Oliver with a long stare of astonishment.

“Now,” said Sikes, as he resumed his seat, “if you’ll give us something to eat and drink while we’re waiting, you’ll put some heart in us; or in me, at all events. Sit down by the fire, younker, and rest yourself; for you’ll have to go out with us again tonight, though not very far off.”

Oliver looked at Sikes, in mute and timid wonder; and drawing a stool to the fire, sat with his aching head upon his hands, scarcely knowing where he was, or what was passing around him.

“Here,” said Toby, as the young Jew placed some fragments of food, and a bottle upon the table, “Success to the crack!” He rose to honour the toast; and, carefully depositing his empty pipe in a corner, advanced to the table, filled a glass with spirits, and drank off its contents. Mr. Sikes did the same.

“A drain for the boy,” said Toby, half-filling a wine-glass. “Down with it, innocence.”

“Indeed,” said Oliver, looking piteously up into the man’s face; “indeed, I—”

“Down with it!” echoed Toby. “Do you think I don’t know what’s good for you? Tell him to drink it, Bill.”

“He had better!” said Sikes clapping his hand upon his pocket. “Burn my body, if he isn’t more trouble than a whole family of Dodgers. Drink it, you perwerse imp; drink it!”

Frightened by the menacing gestures of the two men, Oliver hastily swallowed the contents of the glass, and immediately fell into a violent fit of coughing: which delighted Toby Crackit and Barney, and even drew a smile from the surly Mr. Sikes.

This done, and Sikes having satisfied his appetite (Oliver could eat nothing but a small crust of bread which they made him swallow), the two men laid themselves down on chairs for a short nap. Oliver retained his stool by the fire; Barney wrapped in a blanket, stretched himself on the floor: close outside the fender.

They slept, or appeared to sleep, for some time; nobody stirring but Barney, who rose once or twice to throw coals on the fire. Oliver fell into a heavy doze: imagining himself straying along the gloomy lanes, or wandering about the dark churchyard, or retracing some one or other of the scenes of the past day: when he was roused by Toby Crackit jumping up and declaring it was half-past one.

In an instant, the other two were on their legs, and all were actively engaged in busy preparation. Sikes and his companion enveloped their necks and chins in large dark shawls, and drew on their great-coats; Barney, opening a cupboard, brought forth several articles, which he hastily crammed into the pockets.

CAPITOLO XXII. LA SCASSINAGGIO

«Ehi!», gridò una voce forte e rauca non appena misero piede nel corridoio.

“Non fare tanto rumore”, disse Sikes, chiudendo la porta a chiave. “Accendi una luce, Toby.”

«Ah ah! mio caro amico!» gridò la stessa voce. «Una luce, Barney, una luce! Fai entrare il signore, Barney; prima svegliati, se ti fa comodo».

Il relatore sembrò lanciare un cavaturaccioli o qualche altro oggetto alla persona che stava apostrofando per svegliarla dal suo sonno: perché si udì il rumore di un corpo di legno, cadendo violentemente; e poi un brontolio indistinto, come se provenisse da un uomo tra sonno e veglia.

«Mi sentite?» gridò la stessa voce. «C’è Bill Sikes nel corridoio senza che nessuno gli faccia le dovute cortesie, e voi dormite lì come se prendeste laudano insieme ai pasti, e niente di più forte. Vi sentite un po’ più sveglio ora o volete che vi svegli del tutto con il candeliere di ferro?»

Un paio di piedi trascurati si trascinarono frettolosamente sul pavimento spoglio della stanza mentre veniva posta questa domanda, e da una porta sulla destra emerse prima una candela fioca e poi la figura dello stesso individuo che in precedenza è stato descritto come affetto dall’infermità di parlare attraverso il naso e che fungeva da cameriere all’osteria pubblica su Saffron Hill.

“Bister Sikes!” esclamò Barney con gioia vera o simulata: “Cubito, signore; cubito.”

«Ecco! tu sali per primo», disse Sikes, mettendo Oliver davanti a sé. «Più svelto! o ti calpesto i piedi».

Borbottando una maledizione per la sua lentezza, Sikes spinse Oliver davanti a sé; e entrarono in una stanza bassa e buia con un focolare affumicato, due o tre sedie rotte, un tavolo e un divano molto vecchio: su cui, con le gambe molto più alte della testa, un uomo era disteso a pancia all’aria, fumando una lunga pipa di creta. Era vestito con un elegante cappotto color tabacco, con grandi bottoni di ottone; una sciarpa arancione; un gilet vistoso e appariscente, con motivi a scialle; e pantaloni marroni. Il signor Crackit (perché era lui) non aveva una grande quantità di capelli, né sulla testa né sul viso; ma quelli che aveva erano di un colore rossiccio, torturati in lunghi ricci a spirale, attraverso i quali occasionalmente infilava alcune dita molto sporche, ornate con grandi anelli comuni. Era un po’ più alto della media e apparentemente piuttosto debole alle gambe; ma questa circostanza non sminuiva affatto la sua ammirazione per gli stivali alti, che contemplava, nella loro posizione elevata, con viva soddisfazione.

«Bill, ragazzo mio!» disse questa figura, girando la testa verso la porta «sono contento di vederti. Temevo quasi che tu avessi rinunciato; nel qual caso sarei venuto io stesso. Ehi!»

Emittendo questo esclamazione con un tono di grande sorpresa mentre i suoi occhi si posavano su Oliver, il signor Toby Crackit si mise in una postura seduta e chiese chi fosse quello.

«Il ragazzo! Solo il ragazzo!» rispose Sikes, avvicinando una sedia al fuoco.

«Uno dei ragazzi di Mister Fagin», esclamò Barney con un ghigno.

“Fagin’s, eh!” esclamò Toby, guardando Oliver. “Che ragazzo insostituibile sarà per le tasche delle vecchie signore in chiesa! La sua faccia è una fortuna per lui.”

«Basta così», intervenne Sikes con impazienza e chinandosi sul suo amico disteso gli sussurrò alcune parole all’orecchio: al che il signor Crackit scoppiò in una risata immensa e onorò Oliver di uno sguardo lungo pieno di stupore.

«Ora», disse Sikes, mentre riprendeva posto, «se ci darai qualcosa da mangiare e bere mentre aspettiamo, ci metterai un po’ di coraggio; o almeno me ne metterà. Siediti vicino al fuoco, ragazzo, e riposati; perché dovrai uscire di nuovo con noi stasera, anche se non molto lontano».

Oliver guardò Sikes con muta e timida meraviglia; e avvicinando uno sgabello al fuoco, si sedette con la testa dolorante sulle mani, a malapena sapendo dove fosse o cosa stesse succedendo intorno a lui.

«Ecco», disse Toby mentre il giovane ebreo posava alcuni avanzi di cibo e una bottiglia sul tavolo, «successo alla crepa!» Si alzò per onorare il brindisi; e, deposta con cura la pipa vuota in un angolo, si avvicinò al tavolo, riempì un bicchiere di liquore e lo svuotò d’un fiato. Lo stesso fece il signor Sikes.

«Un goccetto per il ragazzo», disse Toby riempiendo a metà un bicchiere di vino. «Bevi, innocenza.»

«In effetti», disse Oliver, guardando con aria pietosa il volto dell’uomo, «in effetti, io, »

«Giù!» fece eco Toby. «Pensi che non sappia cosa ti fa bene? Digli di berlo, Bill.»

“È meglio che lo faccia!” disse Sikes mettendo la mano in tasca. “Bruci il mio corpo se non è più fastidioso di un’intera famiglia di Dodgers. Bevi, piccolo perverso; bevi!”

Spaventato dai gesti minacciosi dei due uomini, Oliver inghiottì in fretta il contenuto del bicchiere e immediatamente cadde in un violento attacco di tosse: cosa che fece divertire Toby Crackit e Barney, e strappò persino un sorriso al burbero Mr. Sikes.

Fatto ciò e Sikes avendo soddisfatto il suo appetito (Oliver non poteva mangiare altro che una piccola crosta di pane che gli fecero mangiare), i due uomini si sdraiarono sulle sedie per un breve riposino. Oliver mantenne il suo sgabello accanto al fuoco; Barney, avvolto in una coperta, si distese sul pavimento: vicino alla grata esterna.

Dormirono, o sembrarono dormire, per un po’ di tempo; nessuno si mosse tranne Barney, che si alzò una o due volte per gettare carbone sul fuoco. Oliver cadde in un pesante sonnellino: immaginandosi vagabondare lungo i viali cupi, o girovagare nel cimitero buio, o ripercorrere uno o l’altro degli scenari del giorno precedente: quando fu svegliato da Toby Crackit che balzò in piedi e dichiarò che erano le trenta passate all’una.

In un istante gli altri due erano in piedi e tutti si misero alacremente all’opera per i preparativi. Sikes e il suo compagno avvolsero colli e mento in grandi scialli scuri, indossando poi i loro cappotti; Barney aprì un armadio da cui tirò fuori diversi oggetti che infilò di corsa nelle tasche.

“Barkers for me, Barney,” said Toby Crackit.

“Here they are,” replied Barney, producing a pair of pistols. “You loaded them yourself.”

“All right!” replied Toby, stowing them away. “The persuaders?”

“I’ve got ’em,” replied Sikes.

“Crape, keys, centre-bits, darkies—nothing forgotten?” inquired Toby: fastening a small crowbar to a loop inside the skirt of his coat.

“All right,” rejoined his companion. “Bring them bits of timber, Barney. That’s the time of day.”

With these words, he took a thick stick from Barney’s hands, who, having delivered another to Toby, busied himself in fastening on Oliver’s cape.

“Now then!” said Sikes, holding out his hand.

Oliver: who was completely stupified by the unwonted exercise, and the air, and the drink which had been forced upon him: put his hand mechanically into that which Sikes extended for the purpose.

“Take his other hand, Toby,” said Sikes. “Look out, Barney.”

The man went to the door, and returned to announce that all was quiet. The two robbers issued forth with Oliver between them. Barney, having made all fast, rolled himself up as before, and was soon asleep again.

It was now intensely dark. The fog was much heavier than it had been in the early part of the night; and the atmosphere was so damp, that, although no rain fell, Oliver’s hair and eyebrows, within a few minutes after leaving the house, had become stiff with the half-frozen moisture that was floating about. They crossed the bridge, and kept on towards the lights which he had seen before. They were at no great distance off; and, as they walked pretty briskly, they soon arrived at Chertsey.

“Slap through the town,” whispered Sikes; “there’ll be nobody in the way, tonight, to see us.”

Toby acquiesced; and they hurried through the main street of the little town, which at that late hour was wholly deserted. A dim light shone at intervals from some bed-room window; and the hoarse barking of dogs occasionally broke the silence of the night. But there was nobody abroad. They had cleared the town, as the church-bell struck two.

Quickening their pace, they turned up a road upon the left hand. After walking about a quarter of a mile, they stopped before a detached house surrounded by a wall: to the top of which, Toby Crackit, scarcely pausing to take breath, climbed in a twinkling.

“The boy next,” said Toby. “Hoist him up; I’ll catch hold of him.”

Before Oliver had time to look round, Sikes had caught him under the arms; and in three or four seconds he and Toby were lying on the grass on the other side. Sikes followed directly. And they stole cautiously towards the house.

And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and terror, saw that housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the objects of the expedition. He clasped his hands together, and involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamation of horror. A mist came before his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs failed him; and he sank upon his knees.

“Get up!” murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol from his pocket; “Get up, or I’ll strew your brains upon the grass.”

“Oh! for God’s sake let me go!” cried Oliver; “let me run away and die in the fields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray have mercy on me, and do not make me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!”

The man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had cocked the pistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his hand upon the boy’s mouth, and dragged him to the house.

“Hush!” cried the man; “it won’t answer here. Say another word, and I’ll do your business myself with a crack on the head. That makes no noise, and is quite as certain, and more genteel. Here, Bill, wrench the shutter open. He’s game enough now, I’ll engage. I’ve seen older hands of his age took the same way, for a minute or two, on a cold night.”

Sikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin’s head for sending Oliver on such an errand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but with little noise. After some delay, and some assistance from Toby, the shutter to which he had referred, swung open on its hinges.

It was a little lattice window, about five feet and a half above the ground, at the back of the house: which belonged to a scullery, or small brewing-place, at the end of the passage. The aperture was so small, that the inmates had probably not thought it worth while to defend it more securely; but it was large enough to admit a boy of Oliver’s size, nevertheless. A very brief exercise of Mr. Sikes’s art, sufficed to overcome the fastening of the lattice; and it soon stood wide open also.

“Now listen, you young limb,” whispered Sikes, drawing a dark lantern from his pocket, and throwing the glare full on Oliver’s face; “I’m a going to put you through there. Take this light; go softly up the steps straight afore you, and along the little hall, to the street door; unfasten it, and let us in.”

“There’s a bolt at the top, you won’t be able to reach,” interposed Toby. “Stand upon one of the hall chairs. There are three there, Bill, with a jolly large blue unicorn and gold pitchfork on ’em: which is the old lady’s arms.”

“Keep quiet, can’t you?” replied Sikes, with a threatening look. “The room-door is open, is it?”

“Wide,” replied Toby, after peeping in to satisfy himself. “The game of that is, that they always leave it open with a catch, so that the dog, who’s got a bed in here, may walk up and down the passage when he feels wakeful. Ha! ha! Barney ’ticed him away tonight. So neat!”

Although Mr. Crackit spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, and laughed without noise, Sikes imperiously commanded him to be silent, and to get to work. Toby complied, by first producing his lantern, and placing it on the ground; then by planting himself firmly with his head against the wall beneath the window, and his hands upon his knees, so as to make a step of his back. This was no sooner done, than Sikes, mounting upon him, put Oliver gently through the window with his feet first; and, without leaving hold of his collar, planted him safely on the floor inside.

“Take this lantern,” said Sikes, looking into the room. “You see the stairs afore you?”

Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out, “Yes.” Sikes, pointing to the street-door with the pistol-barrel, briefly advised him to take notice that he was within shot all the way; and that if he faltered, he would fall dead that instant.

“It’s done in a minute,” said Sikes, in the same low whisper. “Directly I leave go of you, do your work. Hark!”

“What’s that?” whispered the other man.

They listened intently.

“Nothing,” said Sikes, releasing his hold of Oliver. “Now!”

In the short time he had had to collect his senses, the boy had firmly resolved that, whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one effort to dart upstairs from the hall, and alarm the family. Filled with this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthily.

“Come back!” suddenly cried Sikes aloud. “Back! back!”

Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and by a loud cry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew not whether to advance or fly.

The cry was repeated—a light appeared—a vision of two terrified half-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes—a flash—a loud noise—a smoke—a crash somewhere, but where he knew not,—and he staggered back.

Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again, and had him by the collar before the smoke had cleared away. He fired his own pistol after the men, who were already retreating; and dragged the boy up.

“Clasp your arm tighter,” said Sikes, as he drew him through the window. “Give me a shawl here. They’ve hit him. Quick! How the boy bleeds!”

Then came the loud ringing of a bell, mingled with the noise of fire-arms, and the shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried over uneven ground at a rapid pace. And then, the noises grew confused in the distance; and a cold deadly feeling crept over the boy’s heart; and he saw or heard no more.

«Le scarpe per me, Barney», disse Toby Crackit.

“Eccoli,” rispose Barney, tirando fuori un paio di pistole. “Li hai caricati tu stesso.”

“Va bene!” rispose Toby, riponendoli. “I convincitori?”

«Le ho», rispose Sikes.

«Crepe, chiavi, punte di trivella, negri — niente dimenticato?» chiese Toby, attaccando una piccola leva a un gancio all’interno della giacca.

“Va bene”, replicò il suo compagno. “Portagli dei pezzi di legname, Barney. È l’ora della giornata.”

Con queste parole, prese un bastone spesso dalle mani di Barney che, avendo consegnato un altro a Toby, si mise all’opera per fissare il mantello di Oliver.

«Ora allora!» disse Sikes, tendendo la mano.

Oliver, completamente stordito dall’insolita attività fisica e dall’aria e dal liquore che gli erano stati imposti, infilò meccanicamente la mano in quella che Sikes gli porgeva a tal scopo.

«Prendi l’altra mano, Toby», disse Sikes. «Attento, Barney».

L’uomo andò alla porta e tornò per annunciare che tutto era tranquillo. I due ladri uscirono con Oliver in mezzo a loro. Barney, dopo aver chiuso tutto, si arrotolò di nuovo come prima ed ebbe presto un altro sonno.

Ora era profondamente buio. La nebbia era molto più fitta di quanto non fosse nella prima parte della notte; e l’atmosfera era così umida che, sebbene non piovesse, i capelli e le sopracciglia di Oliver divennero rigidi a causa dell’umidità semigelata che galleggiava nell’aria pochi minuti dopo aver lasciato la casa. Attraversarono il ponte e continuarono verso le luci che aveva visto prima. Non erano molto lontane; e, dato che camminavano piuttosto svelti, arrivarono presto a Chertsey.

«Attraversa la città di corsa», sussurrò Sikes; «non ci sarà nessuno per strada stasera a vederci.»

Toby acconsentì; e si affrettarono lungo la strada principale del piccolo paese, che a quell’ora tarda era completamente deserto. Una luce fioca brillava a intervalli da alcune finestre di camera da letto; e il latrato rauco dei cani interrompeva occasionalmente il silenzio della notte. Ma non c’era nessuno in giro. Avevano lasciato la città, mentre la campana della chiesa batteva le due.

Accelerando il passo, svoltarono su una strada sulla sinistra. Dopo aver camminato per circa un quarto di miglio, si fermarono davanti a una casa isolata circondata da un muro: in cima al quale Toby Crackit, senza quasi prendere fiato, salì in un attimo.

“Il ragazzo dopo,” disse Toby. “Sollevalo, lo prenderò io.”

Prima che Oliver avesse tempo di guardarsi intorno, Sikes lo aveva afferrato sotto le ascelle; e in tre o quattro secondi lui e Toby erano sdraiati sull’erba dall’altra parte. Sikes li seguì subito dopo. E si avvicinarono furtivamente alla casa.

E ora, per la prima volta, Oliver, quasi pazzo di dolore e terrore, vide che l’obiettivo della spedizione era l’intrusione in casa e il furto, se non addirittura l’omicidio. Si strinse le mani e involontariamente emise un’esclamazione soffocata di orrore. Una nebbia gli offuscò la vista; il sudore freddo gli imperlava il volto pallido come cenere; gli si rifiutarono le membra, e cadde in ginocchio.

«Alzati!» mormorò Sikes, tremante di rabbia e tirando fuori la pistola dalla tasca; «Alzati o ti spargerò il cervello sull’erba.»

“Oh! per amor di Dio lasciatemi andare!” gridò Oliver; “lasciatemi scappare e morire nei campi. Non mi avvicinerò mai più a Londra; mai, mai! Oh! vi prego abbiate pietà di me e non costringetemi a rubare. Per il santissimo amore di tutti gli splendidi Angeli che riposano in Cielo, abbiate pietà di me!”

L’uomo a cui era rivolta questa richiesta pronunciò un terribile giuramento e aveva già armato la pistola quando Toby, strappandogliela di mano, mise una mano sulla bocca del ragazzo e lo trascinò verso la casa.

“Silenzio!” gridò l’uomo; “qui non serve. Se dici un’altra parola, faccio io stesso la tua faccenda con una botta in testa. Non fa rumore, è altrettanto sicuro e più gentile. Ecco, Bill, strappa lo scuratore. Ora è abbastanza coraggioso, te lo garantisco. Ho visto mani più esperte della sua età comportarsi allo stesso modo per un minuto o due, in una fredda notte.”

Sikes, lanciando terribili imprecazioni contro la testa di Fagin per aver mandato Oliver in un’impresa del genere, maneggiò vigorosamente il piede di porco, ma con poco rumore. Dopo qualche ritardo e l’aiuto di Toby, lo scuro a cui si era riferito si aprì sui cardini.

Era un piccolo finestrino a grata, alto circa cinque piedi e mezzo dal suolo, sul retro della casa, che apparteneva a una scullery o piccola birreria in fondo al corridoio. L’apertura era così piccola che gli abitanti probabilmente non l’avevano ritenuta degna di essere difesa più solidamente; ma era comunque abbastanza grande da far passare un ragazzo della stazza di Oliver. Un brevissimo esercizio dell’arte del signor Sikes fu sufficiente a superare il fissaggio della grata, che ben presto si aprì completamente.

«Ora ascolta, piccolo diavolo», sussurrò Sikes, tirando fuori dalla tasca una lanterna oscurata e proiettando la luce direttamente sul volto di Oliver; «ti farò passare da là. Prendi questa luce; sali silenziosamente i gradini davanti a te, poi lungo il piccolo corridoio fino alla porta d’ingresso; aprila e lasciaci entrare».

«C’è un paletto in alto che non riuscirai a raggiungere», intervenne Toby. «Appoggiati su una delle sedie dell’atrio. Ce ne sono tre, Bill, con un grande unicorno blu e una forca d’oro: che è lo stemma della vecchia signora».

«Stai zitto, non puoi?» rispose Sikes con uno sguardo minaccioso. «La porta della stanza è aperta, vero?»

«Larga», rispose Toby dopo aver dato un’occhiata per assicurarsi. «Il gioco è che la lasciano sempre aperta con una chiusura a scatto, così il cane, che ha qui dentro la sua cuccia, può camminare su e giù per il corridoio quando si sente sveglio. Ah! ah! Barney l’ha allontanato stasera. Che astuzia!»

Sebbene il signor Crackit parlasse a malapena sussurrando e ridesse senza far rumore, Sikes gli impose di stare zitto e mettersi al lavoro. Toby acconsentì, prima tirando fuori la sua lanterna e posandola per terra; poi piazzandosi saldamente con la testa contro il muro sotto la finestra e le mani sulle ginocchia, in modo da fare un gradino col suo dorso. Non appena fatto ciò, Sikes, montando su di lui, fece passare delicatamente Oliver attraverso la finestra con i piedi per primi; e senza lasciare il colletto del ragazzo lo mise al sicuro sul pavimento all’interno.

“Prendi questa lanterna,” disse Sikes, guardando nella stanza. “Vedi le scale davanti a te?”

Oliver, più morto che vivo, ansimò: «Sì». Sikes, indicando la porta di strada con il calcio della pistola, gli consigliò brevemente di tenere presente che era a tiro per tutto il tragitto; e che se avesse esitato, sarebbe caduto morto in quell’istante.

«È fatto in un minuto», disse Sikes con lo stesso sussurro sommesso. «Appena ti lascio andare, fai il tuo lavoro. Ascolta!»

«Che cos’è?» sussurrò l’altro uomo.

Ascoltarono con attenzione.

«Nulla», disse Sikes, lasciando la presa su Oliver. «Ora!»

Nel breve tempo che gli era stato concesso per riprendersi, il ragazzo aveva fermamente deciso che, anche se fosse morto nel tentativo o no, avrebbe fatto uno sforzo per correre di sopra dal salone e allertare la famiglia. Pieno di questa idea, si mosse subito, ma furtivamente.

“Torna indietro!” gridò improvvisamente Sikes ad alta voce. “Indietro! Indietro!”

Spaventato dalla brusca interruzione del mortale silenzio del luogo e da un forte grido che l’aveva seguita, Oliver lasciò cadere la lanterna e non sapeva se avanzare o fuggire.

Il grido fu ripetuto: apparve una luce; un’immagine di due uomini spaventati e mezzi vestiti in cima alle scale gli nuotò davanti agli occhi; un lampo, un forte rumore, del fumo, uno schianto da qualche parte, ma non sapeva dove: barcollò all’indietro.

Sikes era scomparso per un istante; ma si rialzò e lo afferrò per il colletto prima che il fumo si fosse dissipato. Sparò la propria pistola contro gli uomini, che stavano già ritirandosi, e trascinò su il ragazzo.

«Stringi più forte il braccio», disse Sikes mentre lo trascinava attraverso la finestra. «Dammi una sciarpa qui. L’hanno colpito. In fretta! Guarda come sanguina quel ragazzo!»

Poi giunse il forte suono di una campana, mescolato al rumore degli armi da fuoco e agli urli degli uomini, e la sensazione di essere trasportato sopra un terreno irregolare a gran velocità. E poi i rumori si confusero in lontananza; e una fredda sensazione mortale si diffuse nel cuore del ragazzo; e non vide o udì più nulla.

CHAPTER XXIII. WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR. BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE MAY BE SUSCEPTIBLE ON SOME POINTS

The night was bitter cold. The snow lay on the ground, frozen into a hard thick crust, so that only the heaps that had drifted into byways and corners were affected by the sharp wind that howled abroad: which, as if expending increased fury on such prey as it found, caught it savagely up in clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies, scattered it in air. Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night for the well-housed and fed to draw round the bright fire and thank God they were at home; and for the homeless, starving wretch to lay him down and die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare streets, at such times, who, let their crimes have been what they may, can hardly open them in a more bitter world.

Such was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs, when Mrs. Corney, the matron of the workhouse to which our readers have been already introduced as the birthplace of Oliver Twist, sat herself down before a cheerful fire in her own little room, and glanced, with no small degree of complacency, at a small round table: on which stood a tray of corresponding size, furnished with all necessary materials for the most grateful meal that matrons enjoy. In fact, Mrs. Corney was about to solace herself with a cup of tea. As she glanced from the table to the fireplace, where the smallest of all possible kettles was singing a small song in a small voice, her inward satisfaction evidently increased,—so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Corney smiled.

“Well!” said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and looking reflectively at the fire; “I’m sure we have all on us a great deal to be grateful for! A great deal, if we did but know it. Ah!”

Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental blindness of those paupers who did not know it; and thrusting a silver spoon (private property) into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin tea-caddy, proceeded to make the tea.

How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds! The black teapot, being very small and easily filled, ran over while Mrs. Corney was moralising; and the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney’s hand.

“Drat the pot!” said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on the hob; “a little stupid thing, that only holds a couple of cups! What use is it of, to anybody! Except,” said Mrs. Corney, pausing, “except to a poor desolate creature like me. Oh dear!”

With these words, the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more resting her elbow on the table, thought of her solitary fate. The small teapot, and the single cup, had awakened in her mind sad recollections of Mr. Corney (who had not been dead more than five-and-twenty years); and she was overpowered.

“I shall never get another!” said Mrs. Corney, pettishly; “I shall never get another—like him.”

Whether this remark bore reference to the husband, or the teapot, is uncertain. It might have been the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it as she spoke; and took it up afterwards. She had just tasted her first cup, when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room-door.

“Oh, come in with you!” said Mrs. Corney, sharply. “Some of the old women dying, I suppose. They always die when I’m at meals. Don’t stand there, letting the cold air in, don’t. What’s amiss now, eh?”

“Nothing, ma’am, nothing,” replied a man’s voice.

“Dear me!” exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, “is that Mr. Bumble?”

“At your service, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping outside to rub his shoes clean, and to shake the snow off his coat; and who now made his appearance, bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a bundle in the other. “Shall I shut the door, ma’am?”

The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any impropriety in holding an interview with Mr. Bumble, with closed doors. Mr. Bumble taking advantage of the hesitation, and being very cold himself, shut it without permission.

“Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,” said the matron.

“Hard, indeed, ma’am,” replied the beadle. “Anti-porochial weather this, ma’am. We have given away, Mrs. Corney, we have given away a matter of twenty quartern loaves and a cheese and a half, this very blessed afternoon; and yet them paupers are not contented.”

“Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?” said the matron, sipping her tea.

“When, indeed, ma’am!” rejoined Mr. Bumble. “Why here’s one man that, in consideration of his wife and large family, has a quartern loaf and a good pound of cheese, full weight. Is he grateful, ma’am? Is he grateful? Not a copper farthing’s worth of it! What does he do, ma’am, but ask for a few coals; if it’s only a pocket handkerchief full, he says! Coals! What would he do with coals? Toast his cheese with ’em and then come back for more. That’s the way with these people, ma’am; give ’em a apron full of coals today, and they’ll come back for another, the day after tomorrow, as brazen as alabaster.”

The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible simile; and the beadle went on.

“I never,” said Mr. Bumble, “see anything like the pitch it’s got to. The day afore yesterday, a man—you have been a married woman, ma’am, and I may mention it to you—a man, with hardly a rag upon his back (here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer’s door when he has got company coming to dinner; and says, he must be relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn’t go away, and shocked the company very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a pint of oatmeal. ‘My heart!’ says the ungrateful villain, ‘what’s the use of this to me? You might as well give me a pair of iron spectacles!’ ‘Very good,’ says our overseer, taking ’em away again, ‘you won’t get anything else here.’ ‘Then I’ll die in the streets!’ says the vagrant. ‘Oh no, you won’t,’ says our overseer.”

CAPITOLO XXIII. CHE CONTIENE IL SUCCHIO DI UNA GRAZIOSA CONVERSAZIONE TRA IL SIGNOR BUMBLE E UNA DAME; E MOSTRA CHE ANCHE UN BECCAMARIA PUÒ AVERE DEI PUNTI SENSIBILI

La notte era gelida. La neve giaceva sul terreno, congelata in una crosta dura e spessa, così che solo i cumuli trasportati dai venti nei vicoli e negli angoli erano colpiti dal pungente vento che ululava all’esterno: il quale, come se esercitasse un’ira crescente su prede del genere che trovava, le afferrava selvaggiamente in nuvole e, facendole vorticare in mille mulinelli nebbiosi, le disperdeva nell’aria. Desolata, buia e gelida fino alle ossa, era una notte in cui chi aveva un buon tetto sopra la testa e cibo da mangiare si stringeva intorno al caldo del fuoco e ringraziava Dio di essere a casa; mentre per il povero disgraziato senza fissa dimora era una notte in cui morire di fame. Molti emarginati, logorati dalla fame, chiudono gli occhi nelle nostre strade spoglie, in simili momenti; e qualunque siano stati i loro crimini, difficilmente potranno aprirli su un mondo più amaro.

Tale era l’aspetto degli affari esterni quando la signora Corney, la matrona del lavoro forzato che i nostri lettori hanno già conosciuto come luogo di nascita di Oliver Twist, si sedette davanti a un allegro fuoco nella sua piccola stanza e lanciò uno sguardo, non senza una certa compiacenza, verso un piccolo tavolo rotondo: su cui era posata una tavoletta di dimensioni corrispondenti, fornita di tutti i materiali necessari per il pasto più gradito che le matrone possano gustare. In effetti, la signora Corney stava per consolarsi con una tazza di tè. Mentre lanciava uno sguardo dal tavolo al caminetto, dove il più piccolo dei bollitori possibili cantava un piccolo canto con una vocina piccola, la sua soddisfazione interiore aumentò evidentemente, tanto che la signora Corney sorrise.

“Bene!” disse la matrona, appoggiando il gomito sul tavolo e guardando pensierosa il fuoco; “sono sicura che abbiamo tutti noi molto per cui essere grati! Molto, se solo lo sapessimo. Ah!”

La signora Corney scosse tristemente la testa, come se deplorasse la cecità mentale di quei poveri che non lo sapevano; e infilando un cucchiaino d’argento (proprietà privata) nel più remoto angolo di una lattina da due once per il tè, procedette a preparare il tè.

Quanto poco basta a turbare l’equanimità delle nostre fragili menti! La teiera nera, essendo molto piccola e facile da riempire, traboccò mentre la signora Corney stava moralizzando; e l’acqua scottò leggermente la mano della signora Corney.

«Maledetta pentola!» disse la degna matrona, posandola molto in fretta sul fornello; «una cosina stupida che contiene solo un paio di tazze! A cosa serve, per chiunque! Tranne», disse la signora Corney, facendo una pausa, «tranne che a una povera creatura desolata come me. Oh Signore!»

Con queste parole la matrona si lasciò cadere sulla sedia e, appoggiando di nuovo il gomito sul tavolo, pensava al suo destino solitario. La piccola teiera e la tazza singola avevano risvegliato nella sua mente tristi ricordi del signor Corney (che non era morto da più di venticinque anni); ed ella ne fu sopraffatta.

«Non ne avrò mai un altro!» disse la signora Corney con tono sgarbato «non ne avrò mai più uno come lui».

Non si sa se questa osservazione facesse riferimento al marito o alla teiera. Poteva essere quest’ultima; infatti la signora Corney la guardò mentre parlava e poi la prese in mano. Aveva appena assaggiato il suo primo caffè quando fu disturbata da un lieve bussare alla porta della stanza.

«Oh, entri!» disse la signora Corney con asprezza. «Suppongo che una di quelle vecchie stia morendo. Muoiono sempre quando io sto mangiando. Non resti lì a far entrare aria fredda, no. Cosa c’è adesso? Eh?»

«Nulla, signora, nulla», rispose una voce maschile.

“Caro mio!” esclamò la direttrice con un tono molto più dolce, “è il signor Bumble?”

«A sua disposizione, signora», disse il signor Bumble, che si era fermato fuori per strofinare le scarpe e scrollarsi di dosso la neve dal cappotto; e che ora fece il suo ingresso tenendo in una mano il tricorno e nell’altra un pacco. «Devo chiudere la porta, signora?»

La signora esitò modestamente a rispondere, temendo che potesse essere sconveniente incontrare il signor Bumble con le porte chiuse. Il signor Bumble approfittando dell’esitazione e avendo molto freddo, la chiuse senza permesso.

«Tempo rigido, signor Bumble», disse la matrona.

«Difficile davvero, signora», rispose l’ufficiale. «Un tempo antiparrocchiale, signora. Abbiamo distribuito, signora Corney, abbiamo distribuito una ventina di pani da un quarto e mezzo formaggio, proprio in questo benedetto pomeriggio; eppure quei poveri non sono contenti».

«Naturalmente no. Quando mai lo sarebbero stati, signor Bumble?» disse la matrona sorseggiando il tè.

«Quando mai, signora!» rispose il signor Bumble. «Ecco un uomo che, considerata la moglie e la numerosa famiglia, ha un pane di mezzo chilo e un bel chilo di formaggio, peso pieno. È grato, signora? È grato? Neanche per sogno! E cosa fa, signora, se non chiedere qualche pezzo di carbone; anche solo una manciata, dice! Carbone! Cosa ne farebbe del carbone? Tostare il suo formaggio e poi tornare a prenderne altro. Questa è la mentalità di queste persone, signora; se gli dai un grembiule pieno di carboni oggi, torneranno per averne ancora dopodomani, sfacciati come l’alabastro.»

La matrona esprimeva la sua piena adesione a questo simile comprensibile; e il bidello continuò.

«Non ho mai», disse il signor Bumble, «visto niente di simile al punto a cui siamo arrivati. L’altro ieri un uomo — lei è stata una donna sposata, signora, e posso parlargliene — un uomo, con appena qualche straccio addosso (a questo punto la signora Corney guardò il pavimento), andò alla porta del nostro sovrintendente mentre aveva ospiti a pranzo; e disse che doveva essere soccorso, signora Corney. Poiché non voleva andarsene, e sconvolgeva molto gli ospiti, il nostro sovrintendente mandò fuori un chilo di patate e mezzo litro di farina d’avena. «“Dio mio!” disse il canaglia ingrato, “che cosa me ne faccio di questo? Potreste anche benissimo darmi un paio di occhiali di ferro!” «“Bene”, disse il nostro sovrintendente, riprendendo tutto, “qui non otterrete altro.” «“Allora morirò per le strade!” disse il vagabondo. «“Oh no, non lo farete”, disse il nostro sovrintendente».

“Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn’t it?” interposed the matron. “Well, Mr. Bumble?”

“Well, ma’am,” rejoined the beadle, “he went away; and he did die in the streets. There’s a obstinate pauper for you!”

“It beats anything I could have believed,” observed the matron emphatically. “But don’t you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing, any way, Mr. Bumble? You’re a gentleman of experience, and ought to know. Come.”

“Mrs. Corney,” said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious of superior information, “out-of-door relief, properly managed: properly managed, ma’am: is the porochial safeguard. The great principle of out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what they don’t want; and then they get tired of coming.”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Corney. “Well, that is a good one, too!”

“Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma’am,” returned Mr. Bumble, “that’s the great principle; and that’s the reason why, if you look at any cases that get into them owdacious newspapers, you’ll always observe that sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese. That’s the rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however,” said the beadle, stopping to unpack his bundle, “these are official secrets, ma’am; not to be spoken of; except, as I may say, among the porochial officers, such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma’am, that the board ordered for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine; only out of the cask this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!”

Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to test its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of drawers; folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it carefully in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go.

“You’ll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble,” said the matron.

“It blows, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar, “enough to cut one’s ears off.”

The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was moving towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether—whether he wouldn’t take a cup of tea?

Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat and stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled.

Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she sat down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle; she coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again Mr. Bumble coughed—louder this time than he had coughed yet.

“Sweet? Mr. Bumble?” inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin.

“Very sweet, indeed, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that moment.

The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department.

“You have a cat, ma’am, I see,” said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; “and kittens too, I declare!”

“I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can’t think,” replied the matron. “They’re so happy, so frolicsome, and so cheerful, that they are quite companions for me.”

“Very nice animals, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; “so very domestic.”

“Oh, yes!” rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; “so fond of their home too, that it’s quite a pleasure, I’m sure.”

“Mrs. Corney, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, “I mean to say this, ma’am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma’am, and not be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma’am.”

“Oh, Mr. Bumble!” remonstrated Mrs. Corney.

“It’s of no use disguising facts, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; “I would drown it myself, with pleasure.”

“Then you’re a cruel man,” said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand for the beadle’s cup; “and a very hard-hearted man besides.”

“Hard-hearted, ma’am?” said Mr. Bumble. “Hard?” Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney’s little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire.

It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great heroism on Mr. Bumble’s part: he being in some sort tempted by time, place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings, which however well they may become the lips of the light and thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other great public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who (as is well known) should be the sternest and most inflexible among them all.

Whatever were Mr. Bumble’s intentions, however (and no doubt they were of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close to that in which the matron was seated.

“Ah! ah! Questo è stato davvero divertente! Così simile al signor Grannett, non è vero?” intervenne la matrona. “Bene, signor Bumble?”

«Beh, signora», replicò l’ufficiale, «se ne è andato e è morto per strada. Ecco un povero ostinato!»

«Batte qualsiasi cosa avrei potuto credere», osservò la matrona con enfasi. «Ma non pensate che l’assistenza all’aperto sia una cosa molto negativa, in ogni caso, signor Bumble? Siete un gentiluomo di esperienza e dovreste saperlo. Avanti».

«Signora Corney», disse l’impiegato parrocchiale sorridendo come sorridono gli uomini consapevoli di possedere informazioni superiori, «l’assistenza esterna, se gestita correttamente: correttamente, signora: è la salvaguardia della parrocchia. Il grande principio dell’assistenza esterna è quello di dare ai poveri esattamente ciò che non vogliono; e allora si stancano di venire».

«Bene!» esclamò la signora Corney. «Beh, anche questa è una bella trovata!»

“Sì. Tra noi due, signora”, rispose il signor Bumble, “questo è il grande principio; ed ecco perché, se si dà un’occhiata ai casi che finiscono su quei giornali sfrontati, ci si accorge sempre che alle famiglie malate vengono distribuite fette di formaggio in soccorso. Questa è la regola oggi, signora Corney, in tutto il paese. Ma comunque”, disse l’ufficiale, fermandosi per svuotare il suo pacco, “questi sono segreti ufficiali, signora; non da divulgare; se non tra gli agenti parrocchiali come noi. Questo è il vino di Porto che la giunta ha ordinato per l’infermeria; vero, fresco, genuino vino di Porto; appena tolto dalla botte questa mattina; limpido come un campanello e senza sedimenti!”

Dopo aver tenuto la prima bottiglia alla luce e scossa bene per testarne la qualità, il signor Bumble le mise entrambe sopra un cassettone; ripiegò il fazzoletto in cui erano state avvolte; lo infilò con cura in tasca; e prese il cappello, come se stesse per andarsene.

«Avrà una passeggiata molto fredda, signor Bumble», disse la matrona.

«Fa un vento tale, signora», rispose il signor Bumble alzando il bavero del cappotto, «da mozzare le orecchie».

La matrona guardò dalla piccola teiera al bidello che si stava dirigendo verso la porta; e mentre il bidello tossiva, preparandosi per augurarle una buona notte, timidamente chiese se—se non volesse prendere una tazza di tè?

Il signor Bumble istantaneamente riabbassò di nuovo il colletto; depose cappello e bastone su una sedia; e ne avvicinò un’altra al tavolo. Mentre si accomodava lentamente, guardò la signora. Lei fissò gli occhi sulla piccola teiera. Il signor Bumble tossì di nuovo e sorrise leggermente.

La signora Corney si alzò per prendere un’altra tazza e piattino dall’armadio. Mentre si sedeva, i suoi occhi incontrarono di nuovo quelli del galante becchino; arrossì e si dedicò all’operazione di preparargli il tè. Di nuovo il signor Bumble tossì—più forte questa volta che non avesse mai tossito prima.

«Dolce? Signor Bumble?» chiese la matrona prendendo il recipiente dello zucchero.

«Davvero molto dolce, signora», rispose il signor Bumble. Mentre lo diceva, fissò gli occhi sulla signora Corney e se mai un becchino ha avuto uno sguardo tenero, quello del signor Bumble in quel momento era tale.

Il tè era pronto e venne servito in silenzio. Il signor Bumble, avendo steso un fazzoletto sulle ginocchia per evitare che le briciole sporcassero lo splendore dei suoi calzoni corti, cominciò a mangiare e bere; variazioni di questi svaghi, occasionalmente, con un profondo sospiro; il quale, però, non ebbe alcun effetto dannoso sul suo appetito, ma, al contrario, sembrò piuttosto facilitare le sue operazioni nel reparto tè e toast.

“Ha un gatto, signora, vedo”, disse il signor Bumble, lanciando uno sguardo a una che, al centro della sua famiglia, stava riscaldandosi davanti al fuoco; “e anche dei gattini, dichiaro!”

«Li amo tanto, signor Bumble, non potete immaginare», rispose la matrona. «Sono così felici, così vivaci e così allegri che sono proprio dei compagni per me».

«Bellissimi animali, signora», rispose il signor Bumble con approvazione «così domestici».

«Oh, sì!» rispose la matrona con entusiasmo «sono così affezionati alla loro casa che è davvero un piacere, ve lo assicuro.»

«Signora Corney», disse il signor Bumble lentamente, scandendo le parole con la sua cucchiainiera da tè, «voglio dire questo: che qualsiasi gatto o gattino che potesse vivere con voi e non essere affezionato alla propria casa, sarebbe un asino.»

“Oh, signor Bumble!” protestò la signora Corney.

«Non serve nascondere i fatti, signora», disse il signor Bumble, agitando lentamente il cucchiaino con una sorta di dignità amorosa che lo rendeva doppiamente imponente; «lo annegherei io stesso, con piacere.»

«Allora lei è un uomo crudele», disse la matrona con vivacità, mentre tendeva la mano per prendere la tazza del becchino; «e inoltre un uomo dal cuore molto duro.»

«Cuore di pietra, signora?» disse il signor Bumble. «Di pietra?» Il signor Bumble lasciò la sua tazza senza dire altro; strinse il mignolo della signora Corney mentre lo prendeva; e infliggendo due schiaffi a mano aperta sul suo panciotto con balze, emise un sospiro profondo e spostò la sedia di un piccolissimo pezzetto più lontano dal fuoco.

Era un tavolo rotondo; e poiché la signora Corney e il signor Bumble erano seduti uno di fronte all’altra, con poco spazio tra loro, e davanti al fuoco, si capirà che il signor Bumble, allontanandosi dal fuoco e rimanendo ancora a tavola, aumentava la distanza tra sé e la signora Corney; e questa manovra, alcuni lettori prudenti non mancheranno di ammirare e considerare un atto di grande eroismo da parte del signor Bumble: essendo stato in qualche modo tentato dal tempo, luogo e occasione a dar voce a certe dolci sciocchezze, che per quanto possano bene suonare sulle labbra dei leggeri e degli sconsiderati, sembrano immensamente al di sotto della dignità dei giudici del paese, membri del parlamento, ministri dello stato, sindaci e altri grandi funzionari pubblici, ma più particolarmente al di sotto della statuaria gravità di un sagrestano: che (come è bene noto) dovrebbe essere il più severo e inflessibile tra tutti.

Qualunque fossero le intenzioni del signor Bumble (e non c’è dubbio che fossero delle migliori), purtroppo accadde, come già due volte osservato prima, che il tavolo era rotondo; di conseguenza, il signor Bumble, spostando la sedia poco alla volta, presto cominciò ad accorciare la distanza tra sé e la matrona; e continuando a muoversi lungo il bordo esterno del cerchio, portò la sua sedia, nel tempo, vicino a quella su cui era seduta la matrona.

Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble stopped.

Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have been scorched by the fire; and if to the left, she must have fallen into Mr. Bumble’s arms; so (being a discreet matron, and no doubt foreseeing these consequences at a glance) she remained where she was, and handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea.

“Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?” said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and looking up into the matron’s face; “are you hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?”

“Dear me!” exclaimed the matron, “what a very curious question from a single man. What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble?”

The beadle drank his tea to the last drop; finished a piece of toast; whisked the crumbs off his knees; wiped his lips; and deliberately kissed the matron.

“Mr. Bumble!” cried that discreet lady in a whisper; for the fright was so great, that she had quite lost her voice, “Mr. Bumble, I shall scream!” Mr. Bumble made no reply; but in a slow and dignified manner, put his arm round the matron’s waist.

As the lady had stated her intention of screaming, of course she would have screamed at this additional boldness, but that the exertion was rendered unnecessary by a hasty knocking at the door: which was no sooner heard, than Mr. Bumble darted, with much agility, to the wine bottles, and began dusting them with great violence: while the matron sharply demanded who was there.

It is worthy of remark, as a curious physical instance of the efficacy of a sudden surprise in counteracting the effects of extreme fear, that her voice had quite recovered all its official asperity.

“If you please, mistress,” said a withered old female pauper, hideously ugly: putting her head in at the door, “Old Sally is a-going fast.”

“Well, what’s that to me?” angrily demanded the matron. “I can’t keep her alive, can I?”

“No, no, mistress,” replied the old woman, “nobody can; she’s far beyond the reach of help. I’ve seen a many people die; little babes and great strong men; and I know when death’s a-coming, well enough. But she’s troubled in her mind: and when the fits are not on her,—and that’s not often, for she is dying very hard,—she says she has got something to tell, which you must hear. She’ll never die quiet till you come, mistress.”

At this intelligence, the worthy Mrs. Corney muttered a variety of invectives against old women who couldn’t even die without purposely annoying their betters; and, muffling herself in a thick shawl which she hastily caught up, briefly requested Mr. Bumble to stay till she came back, lest anything particular should occur. Bidding the messenger walk fast, and not be all night hobbling up the stairs, she followed her from the room with a very ill grace, scolding all the way.

Mr. Bumble’s conduct on being left to himself, was rather inexplicable. He opened the closet, counted the teaspoons, weighed the sugar-tongs, closely inspected a silver milk-pot to ascertain that it was of the genuine metal, and, having satisfied his curiosity on these points, put on his cocked hat corner-wise, and danced with much gravity four distinct times round the table.

Having gone through this very extraordinary performance, he took off the cocked hat again, and, spreading himself before the fire with his back towards it, seemed to be mentally engaged in taking an exact inventory of the furniture.

Infatti le due sedie si toccavano; e quando ciò accadde, il signor Bumble si fermò.

Ora, se la matrona avesse spostato la sedia verso destra, sarebbe stata bruciata dal fuoco; e se l’avesse spostata a sinistra, sarebbe caduta tra le braccia del signor Bumble; così (essendo una matrona discreta e senza alcun dubbio prevedendo queste conseguenze in un attimo) rimase dov’era e porse al signor Bumble un’altra tazza di tè.

«Cuore di pietra, signora Corney?» disse il signor Bumble mescolando il tè e guardando in faccia la direttrice. «Ha davvero un cuore di pietra, signora Corney?»

«Oh, mio Dio!» esclamò la direttrice «che domanda davvero curiosa da parte di un uomo celibe. A che le serve saperlo, signor Bumble?»

Il sagrestano bevve il tè fino all’ultima goccia, finì un pezzo di pane tostato, spazzò le briciole dalle ginocchia, si asciugò le labbra e deliberatamente baciò la matrona.

«Signor Bumble!» esclamò quella discreta signora sussurrando, perché la paura era tale che aveva completamente perso la voce «signor Bumble, griderò!». Il signor Bumble non rispose; ma in modo lento e dignitoso mise il braccio intorno alla vita della matrona.

Poiché la signora aveva dichiarato di voler urlare, naturalmente avrebbe urlato a questa ulteriore audacia, ma che lo sforzo fu reso inutile da un affrettato bussare alla porta: che non appena udito, il signor Bumble si lanciò con grande agilità verso le bottiglie di vino e cominciò a spolverarle con grande violenza: mentre la matrona chiedeva aspramente chi fosse.

Vale la pena di notare, come curioso esempio fisico dell’efficacia di una improvvisa sorpresa nel contrastare gli effetti della massima paura, che la sua voce aveva completamente riacquistato tutta la sua asprezza ufficiale.

«Se non le dispiace, signora», disse una vecchia mendicante rinsecchita e orrendamente brutta, affacciando la testa alla porta, «vecchia Sally sta morendo.»

«Beh, che importa a me?» chiese con rabbia la matrona. «Non posso tenerla in vita, no?»

“No, no, padrona,” rispose la vecchia, “nessuno può; è troppo lontana da ogni aiuto. Ho visto morire molte persone; bambini piccoli e grandi uomini forti; e so riconoscere quando morte si avvicina abbastanza bene. Ma lei ha il turbamento nella mente: e quando non è in preda alle crisi, — e questo succede di rado, perché sta morendo molto lentamente, — dice che ha qualcosa da raccontare, che voi dovete ascoltare. Non morirà mai tranquilla finché non sarete qui, padrona.”

A questa notizia, la degna signora Corney borbottò una serie di invettive contro le vecchie che non potevano neanche morire senza voler mettere apposta in imbarazzo chi era superiore a loro; e avvolgendosi in uno spesso scialle che afferrò frettolosamente, chiese brevemente al signor Bumble di restare fino al suo ritorno, nel caso fosse successo qualcosa di particolare. Dicendo al messaggero di camminare svelto e di non impiegare tutta la notte a salire le scale, lo seguì fuori dalla stanza con grande riluttanza, rimproverandolo per tutto il tragitto.

Il comportamento del signor Bumble una volta rimasto solo era piuttosto incomprensibile. Aprì l’armadietto, contò i cucchiaini da tè, pesò le pinze per lo zucchero, ispezionò attentamente un brocca del latte d’argento per accertarsi che fosse di metallo genuino e, una volta soddisfatta la sua curiosità su questi punti, si mise il tricorno all’angolo e ballò con molta gravità quattro volte intorno al tavolo.

Dopo aver eseguito questa straordinaria performance, si tolse di nuovo il cappello a tricorno e, spalancandosi davanti al fuoco con le spalle rivolte verso di esso, sembrò essere mentalmente impegnato a fare un inventario esatto dei mobili.

CHAPTER XXIV. TREATS ON A VERY POOR SUBJECT, BUT IS A SHORT ONE, AND MAY BE FOUND OF IMPORTANCE IN THIS HISTORY

It was no unfit messenger of death, who had disturbed the quiet of the matron’s room. Her body was bent by age; her limbs trembled with palsy; her face, distorted into a mumbling leer, resembled more the grotesque shaping of some wild pencil, than the work of Nature’s hand.

Alas! How few of Nature’s faces are left alone to gladden us with their beauty! The cares, and sorrows, and hungerings, of the world, change them as they change hearts; and it is only when those passions sleep, and have lost their hold for ever, that the troubled clouds pass off, and leave Heaven’s surface clear. It is a common thing for the countenances of the dead, even in that fixed and rigid state, to subside into the long-forgotten expression of sleeping infancy, and settle into the very look of early life; so calm, so peaceful, do they grow again, that those who knew them in their happy childhood, kneel by the coffin’s side in awe, and see the Angel even upon earth.

The old crone tottered along the passages, and up the stairs, muttering some indistinct answers to the chidings of her companion; being at length compelled to pause for breath, she gave the light into her hand, and remained behind to follow as she might: while the more nimble superior made her way to the room where the sick woman lay.

It was a bare garret-room, with a dim light burning at the farther end. There was another old woman watching by the bed; the parish apothecary’s apprentice was standing by the fire, making a toothpick out of a quill.

“Cold night, Mrs. Corney,” said this young gentleman, as the matron entered.

“Very cold, indeed, sir,” replied the mistress, in her most civil tones, and dropping a curtsey as she spoke.

“You should get better coals out of your contractors,” said the apothecary’s deputy, breaking a lump on the top of the fire with the rusty poker; “these are not at all the sort of thing for a cold night.”

“They’re the board’s choosing, sir,” returned the matron. “The least they could do, would be to keep us pretty warm: for our places are hard enough.”

The conversation was here interrupted by a moan from the sick woman.

“Oh!” said the young man, turning his face towards the bed, as if he had previously quite forgotten the patient, “it’s all U.P. there, Mrs. Corney.”

“It is, is it, sir?” asked the matron.

“If she lasts a couple of hours, I shall be surprised,” said the apothecary’s apprentice, intent upon the toothpick’s point. “It’s a break-up of the system altogether. Is she dozing, old lady?”

The attendant stooped over the bed, to ascertain; and nodded in the affirmative.

“Then perhaps she’ll go off in that way, if you don’t make a row,” said the young man. “Put the light on the floor. She won’t see it there.”

The attendant did as she was told: shaking her head meanwhile, to intimate that the woman would not die so easily; having done so, she resumed her seat by the side of the other nurse, who had by this time returned. The mistress, with an expression of impatience, wrapped herself in her shawl, and sat at the foot of the bed.

The apothecary’s apprentice, having completed the manufacture of the toothpick, planted himself in front of the fire and made good use of it for ten minutes or so: when apparently growing rather dull, he wished Mrs. Corney joy of her job, and took himself off on tiptoe.

When they had sat in silence for some time, the two old women rose from the bed, and crouching over the fire, held out their withered hands to catch the heat. The flame threw a ghastly light on their shrivelled faces, and made their ugliness appear terrible, as, in this position, they began to converse in a low voice.

“Did she say any more, Anny dear, while I was gone?” inquired the messenger.

“Not a word,” replied the other. “She plucked and tore at her arms for a little time; but I held her hands, and she soon dropped off. She hasn’t much strength in her, so I easily kept her quiet. I ain’t so weak for an old woman, although I am on parish allowance; no, no!”

“Did she drink the hot wine the doctor said she was to have?” demanded the first.

“I tried to get it down,” rejoined the other. “But her teeth were tight set, and she clenched the mug so hard that it was as much as I could do to get it back again. So I drank it; and it did me good!”

Looking cautiously round, to ascertain that they were not overheard, the two hags cowered nearer to the fire, and chuckled heartily.

“I mind the time,” said the first speaker, “when she would have done the same, and made rare fun of it afterwards.”

“Ay, that she would,” rejoined the other; “she had a merry heart. A many, many, beautiful corpses she laid out, as nice and neat as waxwork. My old eyes have seen them—ay, and those old hands touched them too; for I have helped her, scores of times.”

Stretching forth her trembling fingers as she spoke, the old creature shook them exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket, brought out an old time-discoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook a few grains into the outstretched palm of her companion, and a few more into her own. While they were thus employed, the matron, who had been impatiently watching until the dying woman should awaken from her stupor, joined them by the fire, and sharply asked how long she was to wait?

“Not long, mistress,” replied the second woman, looking up into her face. “We have none of us long to wait for Death. Patience, patience! He’ll be here soon enough for us all.”

“Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!” said the matron sternly. “You, Martha, tell me; has she been in this way before?”

“Often,” answered the first woman.

“But will never be again,” added the second one; “that is, she’ll never wake again but once—and mind, mistress, that won’t be for long!”

“Long or short,” said the matron, snappishly, “she won’t find me here when she does wake; take care, both of you, how you worry me again for nothing. It’s no part of my duty to see all the old women in the house die, and I won’t—that’s more. Mind that, you impudent old harridans. If you make a fool of me again, I’ll soon cure you, I warrant you!”

She was bouncing away, when a cry from the two women, who had turned towards the bed, caused her to look round. The patient had raised herself upright, and was stretching her arms towards them.

“Who’s that?” she cried, in a hollow voice.

“Hush, hush!” said one of the women, stooping over her. “Lie down, lie down!”

“I’ll never lie down again alive!” said the woman, struggling. “I will tell her! Come here! Nearer! Let me whisper in your ear.”

She clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her into a chair by the bedside, was about to speak, when looking round, she caught sight of the two old women bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners.

“Turn them away,” said the woman, drowsily; “make haste! make haste!”

The two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous lamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best friends; and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her, when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy old ladies themselves.

“Now listen to me,” said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort to revive one latent spark of energy. “In this very room—in this very bed—I once nursed a pretty young creetur’, that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think—what was the year again!”

“Never mind the year,” said the impatient auditor; “what about her?”

“Ay,” murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, “what about her?—what about—I know!” she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head—“I robbed her, so I did! She wasn’t cold—I tell you she wasn’t cold, when I stole it!”

“Stole what, for God’s sake?” cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help.

“It!” replied the woman, laying her hand over the other’s mouth. “The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!”

“Gold!” echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. “Go on, go on—yes—what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?”

“She charged me to keep it safe,” replied the woman with a groan, “and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child’s death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!”

“Known what?” asked the other. “Speak!”

“The boy grew so like his mother,” said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, “that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there’s more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?”

“No, no,” replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. “Be quick, or it may be too late!”

“The mother,” said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; “the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named. ‘And oh, kind Heaven!’ she said, folding her thin hands together, ‘whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!’”

“The boy’s name?” demanded the matron.

“They called him Oliver,” replied the woman, feebly. “The gold I stole was—”

“Yes, yes—what?” cried the other.

She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed.

“Stone dead!” said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened.

“And nothing to tell, after all,” rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away.

The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body.

CAPITOLO VENTIQUATTRO. TRATTA DI UN ARGOMENTO MOLTO MISERABILE, MA È BREVE E POTREBBE RIVESTIRE IMPORTANZA IN QUESTA STORIA

Non era un messaggero inadatto alla morte quello che aveva turbato la quiete della stanza della matrona. Il suo corpo era curvo per l’età; i suoi arti tremavano di paralisi; il suo volto, contorto in un ghigno balbettante, assomigliava più alla forma grottesca di qualche matita selvaggia che all’opera della mano della Natura.

Ahimè! Quanti volti della Natura sono rimasti solitari a rallegrarci con la loro bellezza! Le preoccupazioni, le sofferenze e le privazioni del mondo li cambiano come cambiano i cuori; ed è solo quando queste passioni dormono, e hanno perso per sempre il loro potere, che le nuvole turbolente si dissipano e lasciano la superficie del Cielo limpida. È una cosa comune che i volti dei morti, anche in quello stato fisso e rigido, si trasformino nell’espressione da tempo dimenticata dell’infanzia addormentata, e assumano proprio l’aspetto della vita precoce; così calmi, così pacifici, diventano di nuovo, che coloro che li conobbero nella loro felice infanzia, si inginocchiano accanto al feretro con riverenza, e vedono l’Angelo anche sulla terra.

La vecchia strega vacillava lungo i corridoi e su per le scale, borbottando qualche risposta indistinta alle rimproveri della sua compagna; essendo alla fine costretta a fermarsi per riprendere fiato, consegnò la luce nelle sue mani, e rimase indietro per seguire come poteva: mentre la superiore più agile si faceva strada verso la stanza dove giaceva la donna malata.

Era una soffitta spoglia, con una luce fioca che ardeva all’estremità più lontana. C’era un’altra vecchia che vegliava accanto al letto; l’apprendista del farmacista della parrocchia stava in piedi vicino al fuoco, intagliando uno stuzzicadenti da una penna.

«Notte fredda, signora Corney», disse il giovane gentiluomo quando la matrona entrò.

«Molto freddo davvero, signore», rispose la padrona di casa con i toni più cortesi e facendo una riverenza mentre parlava.

“Dovreste procurarvi carbone migliore dai vostri fornitori”, disse il sostituto del farmacista, rompendo un pezzo di carbone sulla cima della fiamma con il poker arrugginito; “questi non sono affatto adatti per una fredda serata.”

«Sono le scelte del consiglio, signore», rispose la matrona. «Il minimo che potrebbero fare sarebbe di tenerci ben al caldo: perché i nostri posti sono già abbastanza duri».

La conversazione fu qui interrotta da un gemito della donna malata.

«Oh!» disse il giovane, girando la faccia verso il letto come se fino a quel momento avesse completamente dimenticato il malato «tutto è in pessime condizioni lassù, signora Corney».

«È così, vero, signore?» chiese la matrona.

«Se resiste un paio d’ore, ne sarò sorpreso», disse l’apprendista farmacista, concentrato sulla punta dello stuzzicadenti. «È una totale crisi del sistema. Sta sonnecchiando, vecchia signora?»

L’assistente si chinò sul letto per accertarsene e annuì affermativamente.

«Allora forse se ne andrà così, se non fate storie», disse il giovane. «Mettete la luce per terra. Lì non la vedrà».

La domestica fece come le era stato detto: scuotendo intanto la testa per far intendere che la donna non sarebbe morta così facilmente; fatto ciò, riprese posto accanto all’altra infermiera, che nel frattempo era tornata. La padrona di casa, con un’espressione d’impazienza, si avvolse nello scialle e sedette ai piedi del letto.

L’apprendista farmacista, avendo completato la fabbricazione dello stuzzicadenti, si piantò davanti al fuoco e ne fece buon uso per una decina di minuti: quando sembrava diventare piuttosto annoiato, augurò alla signora Corney buona fortuna nel suo lavoro e se ne andò in punta di piedi.

Quando ebbero seduto nel silenzio per qualche tempo, le due vecchie donne si levarono dal letto e accovacciandosi sul fuoco, tendevano le loro mani raggrinzite a catturare il calore. La fiamma gettava una luce spettrale sui loro volti raggrinziti, rendendo la loro bruttezza terribile mentre in quella posizione cominciavano a conversare sottovoce.

«Ha detto altro, cara Any, mentre ero via?» chiese il messaggero.

«Niente da dire», rispose l’altra. «Si è strappata e tirata le braccia per un po’ di tempo; ma io ho tenuto ferme le sue mani e ben presto si è calmata. Non ha molta forza, quindi non mi è stato difficile tenerla tranquilla. Non sono così debole per una vecchia donna, anche se ricevo un sussidio parrocchiale; no, no!»

«Ha bevuto il vino caldo che il dottore le aveva ordinato?» chiese la prima.

«Ho cercato di farla bere», replicò l’altro, «ma aveva i denti serrati e stringeva la tazza così forte che ho fatto fatica a riprendermela. Così l’ho bevuta io; e mi ha fatto bene!»

Guardandosi cautamente intorno per assicurarsi di non essere ascoltate, le due streghe si accovacciarono più vicino al fuoco e risero di gusto.

«Mi ricordo il tempo», disse il primo interlocutore, «in cui avrebbe fatto la stessa cosa e se ne sarebbe poi fatta una gran risata.»

«Sì, lo faceva», replicò l’altro; «aveva un cuore allegro. Ha preparato molti, molti bellissimi cadaveri, ordinati e puliti come manichini di cera. I miei vecchi occhi li hanno visti - sì, e quelle vecchie mani li hanno toccati anche loro; perché l’ho aiutata, decine di volte».

Stendendo in avanti le sue tremolanti dita mentre parlava, la vecchia creatura le agitò trionfalmente davanti al suo viso e frugando nella sua tasca, tirò fuori una vecchia scatola per tabacco da fiuto di latta ingiallita dal tempo tempo, dalla quale fece cadere alcuni granelli nel palmo teso della sua compagna, e qualche altro nel suo. Mentre erano così impegnate, la matrona, che aveva osservato con impazienza in attesa che la morente si svegliasse dal suo stupore, le raggiunse accanto al fuoco e chiese bruscamente quanto tempo ancora avrebbe dovuto aspettare?

«Non molto tempo, padrona», rispose la seconda donna, alzando lo sguardo verso il suo viso. «Nessuna di noi ha molto tempo da aspettare per morte. Pazienza, pazienza! Sarà qui abbastanza presto per tutte noi».

«Tieni a freno la lingua, stupida sentimentale!» disse severamente la matrona. «Dimmi tu, Marta: è già stata così prima d’ora?»

«Spesso», rispose la prima donna.

«Ma non succederà mai più», aggiunse il secondo; «cioè, lei non si sveglierà più se non una volta sola — e ricordi, padrona, che non durerà a lungo!»

«Che sia lunga o breve», disse la matrona con tono brusco, «non mi troverà qui quando si sveglierà; fate attenzione entrambe a non darmi più pensieri per nulla. Non è compito mio assistere tutte le vecchie donne della casa fino alla morte e non lo farò — questo è certo. Ricordatevelo, voi sfacciate streghe decrepite. Se ancora una volta vi permettete di fare la scema con me, ve ne farò pentire presto, ve lo assicuro!»

Stava per uscire quando un grido delle due donne che si erano voltate verso il letto la fece girare. La paziente si era rizzata a sedere e stava tendendo le braccia verso di loro.

«Chi è?» gridò con voce cavernosa.

“Silenzio, silenzio!” disse una delle donne, chinandosi su di lei. “Riposa, riposa!”

«Non mi sdraierò mai più viva!» disse la donna, lottando. «Glielo dirò! Vieni qui! Più vicino! Lascia che ti sussurri all’orecchio».

Lei afferrò la matrona per il braccio e costringendola ad accomodarsi su una sedia accanto al letto stava per parlare quando guardandosi intorno si accorse delle due vecchiette che si erano protese in avanti nell’atteggiamento di ascoltatori attenti.

“Rinviai loro,” disse la donna, assonnata; “sbrigati! sbrigati!”

Le due vecchie streghe, unendosi all’unisono, cominciarono a riversare molte pietose lamentazioni sul fatto che la povera cara fosse troppo malata per riconoscere i suoi migliori amici; e stavano pronunciando varie proteste che non l’avrebbero mai abbandonata, quando la superiora le spinse fuori dalla stanza, chiuse la porta e tornò al capezzale. Dopo essere state escluse, le vecchie signore cambiarono tono e gridarono attraverso la serratura che la vecchia Sally era ubriaca; il che, in effetti, non era improbabile; dato che, oltre a una dose moderata di oppio prescritta dal farmacista, stava subendo gli effetti di un ultimo sorso di gin e acqua che le era stato somministrato privatamente, nella sincerità dei loro cuori, dalle rispettabili vecchie signore stesse.

«Ora ascoltami», disse la donna morente ad alta voce, come se stesse facendo un grande sforzo per ravvivare una scintilla di energia latente. «In questa stessa stanza — in questo stesso letto — ho curato una volta una giovane creatura graziosa, che fu portata nella casa con i piedi tagliati e contusi dal camminare, e tutta sporca di polvere e sangue. Diede alla luce un bambino e morì. Lascia che pensi — qual era di nuovo l’anno!»

“Non importa l’anno”, disse il lettore impaziente, “e lei?”

«Sì», mormorò la donna malata, ricadendo nello stato di torpore precedente, «che ne è di lei?—che ne è—lo so!» gridò, balzando su con violenza: il viso arrossato e gli occhi che le uscivano dalla testa—«l’ho derubata, l’ho fatto! Non era fredda—vi dico che non era fredda quando ho rubato!»

«Ha rubato cosa, per l’amor di Dio?» gridò la matrona con un gesto come se volesse chiamare aiuto.

«Lui!» rispose la donna, mettendo una mano sulla bocca dell’altra. «L’unica cosa che aveva. Voleva vestiti per tenersi calda e cibo da mangiare; ma l’aveva conservato al sicuro, portandolo sul petto. Era oro, ve lo dico io! Oro pregiato, che avrebbe potuto salvarle la vita!»

«Oro!» fece eco la matrona, chinandosi con impazienza sulla donna che cadeva all’indietro. «Continui, continui — sì — e poi? Chi era la madre? Quando è successo?»

«Mi ha incaricato di custodirla al sicuro», rispose la donna con un gemito, «e mi ha dato fiducia come l’unica donna che le stava vicino. L’ho rubata nel mio cuore quando me l’ha mostrata per la prima volta appesa al suo collo; e forse anche la morte del bambino è su di me! Avrebbero trattato lui meglio, se avessero saputo tutto!»

“Cosa sai?” chiese l’altro. “Parla!”

«Il ragazzo somigliava così tanto alla madre», disse la donna, continuando a parlare senza badare alla domanda, «che non potevo mai dimenticarlo quando vedevo il suo viso. Povera ragazza! Povera ragazza! Era anche così giovane! Una agnellina così dolce! Aspetti; c’è di più da dire. Non le ho detto tutto, vero?»

«No, no», rispose la matrona, inclinando il capo per cogliere le parole, che giungevano più debolmente dalla donna morente. «Sii rapida, o potrebbe essere troppo tardi!»

«La madre», disse la donna facendo uno sforzo più violento di prima, «la madre, quando le sofferenze della morte si abbatterono su di lei per la prima volta, mi sussurrò all’orecchio che se il suo bambino fosse nato vivo e in salute, sarebbe potuto arrivare un giorno in cui non si sarebbe sentito così umiliato nell’udire pronunciato il nome della sua povera giovane madre. ‘E oh, buon Cielo!’, disse, giungendo le sue mani esili, ‘sia maschio o femmina, fagli trovare degli amici in questo mondo travagliato e abbi pietà di un bambino solo e desolato bambino, abbandonato alla sua pietà!’»

«Il nome del ragazzo?» chiese la direttrice.

“Lo chiamavano Oliver”, rispose la donna con voce debole. “L’oro che ho rubato era, ”

«Sì, sì — cosa?» gridò l’altro.

Si chinò con impazienza sulla donna per ascoltare la sua risposta; ma si ritrasse istintivamente quando questa, ancora una volta, si alzò, lentamente e rigidamente, in posizione seduta; poi, afferrando il copriletto con entrambe le mani, mormorò alcuni suoni indistinti nella gola e cadde senza vita sul letto.

«Morto come una pietra!» disse una delle vecchie donne, precipitandosi dentro non appena la porta fu aperta.

«E non c’è nulla da raccontare, dopotutto», replicò la matrona, allontanandosi con disinvoltura.

Le due vecchie, apparentemente troppo impegnate nei preparativi per i loro terribili doveri per rispondere, furono lasciate sole, a fluttuare attorno al corpo.

CHAPTER XXV. WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY

While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den—the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl—brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars.

At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and Mr. Chitling: all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy against Master Bates and Mr. Chitling. The countenance of the first-named gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired great additional interest from his close observance of the game, and his attentive perusal of Mr. Chitling’s hand; upon which, from time to time, as occasion served, he bestowed a variety of earnest glances: wisely regulating his own play by the result of his observations upon his neighbour’s cards. It being a cold night, the Dodger wore his hat, as, indeed, was often his custom within doors. He also sustained a clay pipe between his teeth, which he only removed for a brief space when he deemed it necessary to apply for refreshment to a quart pot upon the table, which stood ready filled with gin-and-water for the accommodation of the company.

Master Bates was also attentive to the play; but being of a more excitable nature than his accomplished friend, it was observable that he more frequently applied himself to the gin-and-water, and moreover indulged in many jests and irrelevant remarks, all highly unbecoming a scientific rubber. Indeed, the Artful, presuming upon their close attachment, more than once took occasion to reason gravely with his companion upon these improprieties; all of which remonstrances, Master Bates received in extremely good part; merely requesting his friend to be “blowed,” or to insert his head in a sack, or replying with some other neatly-turned witticism of a similar kind, the happy application of which, excited considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling. It was remarkable that the latter gentleman and his partner invariably lost; and that the circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates, appeared to afford him the highest amusement, inasmuch as he laughed most uproariously at the end of every deal, and protested that he had never seen such a jolly game in all his born days.

“That’s two doubles and the rub,” said Mr. Chitling, with a very long face, as he drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket. “I never see such a feller as you, Jack; you win everything. Even when we’ve good cards, Charley and I can’t make nothing of ’em.”

Either the matter or the manner of this remark, which was made very ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that his consequent shout of laughter roused the Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire what was the matter.

“Matter, Fagin!” cried Charley. “I wish you had watched the play. Tommy Chitling hasn’t won a point; and I went partners with him against the Artful and dumb.”

“Ay, ay!” said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated that he was at no loss to understand the reason. “Try ’em again, Tom; try ’em again.”

“No more of it for me, thank ’ee, Fagin,” replied Mr. Chitling; “I’ve had enough. That ’ere Dodger has such a run of luck that there’s no standing again’ him.”

“Ha! ha! my dear,” replied the Jew, “you must get up very early in the morning, to win against the Dodger.”

“Morning!” said Charley Bates; “you must put your boots on over-night, and have a telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass between your shoulders, if you want to come over him.”

Mr. Dawkins received these handsome compliments with much philosophy, and offered to cut any gentleman in company, for the first picture-card, at a shilling at a time. Nobody accepting the challenge, and his pipe being by this time smoked out, he proceeded to amuse himself by sketching a ground-plan of Newgate on the table with the piece of chalk which had served him in lieu of counters; whistling, meantime, with peculiar shrillness.

“How precious dull you are, Tommy!” said the Dodger, stopping short when there had been a long silence; and addressing Mr. Chitling. “What do you think he’s thinking of, Fagin?”

“How should I know, my dear?” replied the Jew, looking round as he plied the bellows. “About his losses, maybe; or the little retirement in the country that he’s just left, eh? Ha! ha! Is that it, my dear?”

“Not a bit of it,” replied the Dodger, stopping the subject of discourse as Mr. Chitling was about to reply. “What do you say, Charley?”

“I should say,” replied Master Bates, with a grin, “that he was uncommon sweet upon Betsy. See how he’s a-blushing! Oh, my eye! here’s a merry-go-rounder! Tommy Chitling’s in love! Oh, Fagin, Fagin! what a spree!”

Thoroughly overpowered with the notion of Mr. Chitling being the victim of the tender passion, Master Bates threw himself back in his chair with such violence, that he lost his balance, and pitched over upon the floor; where (the accident abating nothing of his merriment) he lay at full length until his laugh was over, when he resumed his former position, and began another laugh.

“Never mind him, my dear,” said the Jew, winking at Mr. Dawkins, and giving Master Bates a reproving tap with the nozzle of the bellows. “Betsy’s a fine girl. Stick up to her, Tom. Stick up to her.”

“What I mean to say, Fagin,” replied Mr. Chitling, very red in the face, “is, that that isn’t anything to anybody here.”

“No more it is,” replied the Jew; “Charley will talk. Don’t mind him, my dear; don’t mind him. Betsy’s a fine girl. Do as she bids you, Tom, and you will make your fortune.”

CAPITOLO XXV. DOVE QUESTA STORIA TORNA A PARLARE DEL SIGNOR FAGIN E DEI SUOI COMPAGNI

Mentre queste cose accadevano nel lavoro di campagna, il signor Fagin sedeva nella vecchia tana - la stessa da cui Oliver era stato portato via dalla ragazza - rimuginando su un triste e fumoso fuoco. Teneva in grembo una paletta con cui aveva apparentemente cercato di ravvivare il fuoco; ma era caduto in profondi pensieri; e con le braccia incrociate su di esse, e il mento appoggiato ai pollici, fissava gli occhi, distrattamente, sulle sbarre arrugginite.

A un tavolo dietro di lui sedevano il Dodger Astuto, il padroncino Charles Bates e il signor Chitling: tutti intenti a una partita di whist; l’Astuto giocava da solo contro il padroncino Bates e il signor Chitling. Il volto del primo dei gentiluomini, particolarmente intelligente in ogni momento, acquistò grande interesse aggiuntivo dalla sua attenta osservazione della partita e dalla sua attenta lettura delle carte del signor Chitling; su cui, di tempo in tempo, quando l’occasione lo permetteva, rivolgeva una varietà di sguardi intensi: regolando saggiamente la propria giocabilità dai risultati delle sue osservazioni sulle carte del vicino. Essendo una fredda serata, il Dodger indossava il cappello, come spesso era sua abitudine anche in casa. Teneva anche tra i denti una pipa di creta, che rimuoveva solo per un breve istante quando riteneva necessario attingere a un boccale da un quarto sul tavolo, che stava pronto riempito di gin e acqua per il comfort degli ospiti.

Il signorino Bates era anch’egli attento al gioco; ma essendo di una natura più irrequieta del suo colto amico, si notava che ricorreva più frequentemente alla gin-and-water, e inoltre si abbandonava a molti scherzi e osservazioni fuori luogo, tutti altamente indegni di un giocatore scientifico. Infatti l’Artful, facendo leva sulla loro stretta amicizia, più di una volta ebbe occasione di ragionare seriamente con il suo compagno su queste inappropriazioni; tutte queste rimostranze furono accolte dal signorino Bates con estrema cortesia; limitandosi a chiedere al suo amico di farsi “fottere”, o di infilare la testa in un sacco, o rispondendo con qualche altro arguto epigramma dello stesso genere, il cui felice adattamento suscitò notevole ammirazione nella mente del signor Chitling. Era degno di nota che quest’ultimo gentiluomo e il suo partner perdessero invariabilmente; e che tale circostanza, lungi dall’infuriare il signorino Bates, sembrava procurargli il massimo divertimento, tanto da ridere fragorosamente alla fine di ogni mano, protestando di non aver mai visto un gioco così allegra in tutta la sua vita.

«Questo fa due doppie e il rub», disse Mr Chitling con una faccia molto lunga mentre tirava fuori mezzo scellino dal taschino del panciotto. «Non ho mai visto un tipo come te, Jack; vinci tutto. Anche quando abbiamo buone carte, Charley ed io non riusciamo a farne niente».

O il contenuto o la maniera di questo commento, fatto con grande rammarico, divertì così tanto Charley Bates che le sue risate successive svegliarono l’ebreo dai suoi pensieri e lo indussero a chiedere cosa stesse succedendo.

«Suvvia, Fagin!» esclamò Charley «Avrei voluto che aveste visto la partita. Tommy Chitling non ha vinto un punto; e io ero in società con lui contro l’Artful e il muto».

«Sì, sì!» disse l’ebreo con un ghigno che dimostrava sufficientemente di non aver difficoltà a comprendere il motivo. «Prova ancora, Tom; prova ancora.»

“Non ne voglio più, grazie, Fagin”, rispose il signor Chitling; “ne ho avuto abbastanza. Quel maledetto Dodger ha una tale fortuna che non c’è verso di tenergli testa.”

«Ah! ah! mia cara», rispose l’ebreo, «dovresti alzarti molto presto la mattina per battere il Dodger.»

«Mattina!» disse Charley Bates «dovrai metterti gli stivali addosso durante la notte e tenere un telescopio per ogni occhio e un binocolo tra le spalle, se vuoi riuscire a sorprenderlo.»

Il signor Dawkins accolse questi lusinghieri complimenti con molta filosofia, e si offrì di tagliare qualsiasi gentiluomo presente per la prima carta da gioco, a un scellino alla volta. Nessuno accettò la sfida, e la sua pipa era ormai spenta da questo tempo, così si mise a divertirsi disegnando una pianta di Newgate sul tavolo con il pezzo di gessetto che gli aveva servito al posto dei gettoni; intanto fischiava, con un’acuta particolarità.

«Com’è preziosamente ottuso che sei, Tommy!» disse il Dodger, fermandosi di colpo dopo un lungo silenzio, e rivolgendosi a Mr. Chitling. «Cosa credi stia pensando, Fagin?»

«Come faccio a saperlo, mia cara?» rispose l’ebreo, guardandosi intorno mentre soffiava nel mantice. «Forse riguardo alle sue perdite; o al piccolo ritiro in campagna che ha appena lasciato, eh? Ha! ha! È questo il motivo, mia cara?»

«Niente affatto», rispose il Dodger, interrompendo l’argomento di conversazione mentre il signor Chitling stava per replicare. «Che ne dici tu, Charley?»

«Io direi», rispose il signorino Bates con una smorfia, «che fosse straordinariamente affezionato a Betsy. Guardate come sta arrossendo! Oh, mio Dio! ecco un vero e proprio falco pellegrino! Tommy Chitling è innamorato! Oh, Fagin, Fagin! che festa!»

Completamente sopraffatto dall’idea che il signor Chitling fosse la vittima della tenera passione, il giovane Bates si lasciò cadere all’indietro sulla sedia con tale violenza da perdere l’equilibrio e finire a terra; dove (l’incidente non attenuando affatto il suo divertimento) rimase disteso in tutto il suo lungo fino alla fine della risata, dopodiché riprese la posizione precedente e scoppiò di nuovo a ridere.

«Non badargli, mia cara», disse l’ebreo, strizzando l’occhio al signor Dawkins e dando un colpetto ammonitore con il beccuccio del mantice al giovane Bates. «Betsy è una ragazza in gamba. Stai dalla sua parte, Tom. Stai dalla sua parte».

«Quello che voglio dire, Fagin», rispose il signor Chitling, molto rosso in faccia, «è che questo non riguarda nessuno qui.»

«Non lo è più», rispose l’ebreo; «Charley parlerà. Non badargli, mia cara; non badargli. Betsy è una brava ragazza. Fa’ come ti dice lei, Tom, e farai fortuna».

“So I do do as she bids me,” replied Mr. Chitling; “I shouldn’t have been milled, if it hadn’t been for her advice. But it turned out a good job for you; didn’t it, Fagin! And what’s six weeks of it? It must come, some time or another, and why not in the winter time when you don’t want to go out a-walking so much; eh, Fagin?”

“Ah, to be sure, my dear,” replied the Jew.

“You wouldn’t mind it again, Tom, would you,” asked the Dodger, winking upon Charley and the Jew, “if Bet was all right?”

“I mean to say that I shouldn’t,” replied Tom, angrily. “There, now. Ah! Who’ll say as much as that, I should like to know; eh, Fagin?”

“Nobody, my dear,” replied the Jew; “not a soul, Tom. I don’t know one of ’em that would do it besides you; not one of ’em, my dear.”

“I might have got clear off, if I’d split upon her; mightn’t I, Fagin?” angrily pursued the poor half-witted dupe. “A word from me would have done it; wouldn’t it, Fagin?”

“To be sure it would, my dear,” replied the Jew.

“But I didn’t blab it; did I, Fagin?” demanded Tom, pouring question upon question with great volubility.

“No, no, to be sure,” replied the Jew; “you were too stout-hearted for that. A deal too stout, my dear!”

“Perhaps I was,” rejoined Tom, looking round; “and if I was, what’s to laugh at, in that; eh, Fagin?”

The Jew, perceiving that Mr. Chitling was considerably roused, hastened to assure him that nobody was laughing; and to prove the gravity of the company, appealed to Master Bates, the principal offender. But, unfortunately, Charley, in opening his mouth to reply that he was never more serious in his life, was unable to prevent the escape of such a violent roar, that the abused Mr. Chitling, without any preliminary ceremonies, rushed across the room and aimed a blow at the offender; who, being skilful in evading pursuit, ducked to avoid it, and chose his time so well that it lighted on the chest of the merry old gentleman, and caused him to stagger to the wall, where he stood panting for breath, while Mr. Chitling looked on in intense dismay.

“Hark!” cried the Dodger at this moment, “I heard the tinkler.” Catching up the light, he crept softly upstairs.

The bell was rung again, with some impatience, while the party were in darkness. After a short pause, the Dodger reappeared, and whispered Fagin mysteriously.

“What!” cried the Jew, “alone?”

The Dodger nodded in the affirmative, and, shading the flame of the candle with his hand, gave Charley Bates a private intimation, in dumb show, that he had better not be funny just then. Having performed this friendly office, he fixed his eyes on the Jew’s face, and awaited his directions.

The old man bit his yellow fingers, and meditated for some seconds; his face working with agitation the while, as if he dreaded something, and feared to know the worst. At length he raised his head.

“Where is he?” he asked.

The Dodger pointed to the floor above, and made a gesture, as if to leave the room.

“Yes,” said the Jew, answering the mute inquiry; “bring him down. Hush! Quiet, Charley! Gently, Tom! Scarce, scarce!”

This brief direction to Charley Bates, and his recent antagonist, was softly and immediately obeyed. There was no sound of their whereabout, when the Dodger descended the stairs, bearing the light in his hand, and followed by a man in a coarse smock-frock; who, after casting a hurried glance round the room, pulled off a large wrapper which had concealed the lower portion of his face, and disclosed: all haggard, unwashed, and unshorn: the features of flash Toby Crackit.

“How are you, Faguey?” said this worthy, nodding to the Jew. “Pop that shawl away in my castor, Dodger, so that I may know where to find it when I cut; that’s the time of day! You’ll be a fine young cracksman afore the old file now.”

With these words he pulled up the smock-frock; and, winding it round his middle, drew a chair to the fire, and placed his feet upon the hob.

“See there, Faguey,” he said, pointing disconsolately to his top boots; “not a drop of Day and Martin since you know when; not a bubble of blacking, by Jove! But don’t look at me in that way, man. All in good time. I can’t talk about business till I’ve eat and drank; so produce the sustainance, and let’s have a quiet fill-out for the first time these three days!”

The Jew motioned to the Dodger to place what eatables there were, upon the table; and, seating himself opposite the housebreaker, waited his leisure.

To judge from appearances, Toby was by no means in a hurry to open the conversation. At first, the Jew contented himself with patiently watching his countenance, as if to gain from its expression some clue to the intelligence he brought; but in vain.

He looked tired and worn, but there was the same complacent repose upon his features that they always wore: and through dirt, and beard, and whisker, there still shone, unimpaired, the self-satisfied smirk of flash Toby Crackit. Then the Jew, in an agony of impatience, watched every morsel he put into his mouth; pacing up and down the room, meanwhile, in irrepressible excitement. It was all of no use. Toby continued to eat with the utmost outward indifference, until he could eat no more; then, ordering the Dodger out, he closed the door, mixed a glass of spirits and water, and composed himself for talking.

“First and foremost, Faguey,” said Toby.

“Yes, yes!” interposed the Jew, drawing up his chair.

Mr. Crackit stopped to take a draught of spirits and water, and to declare that the gin was excellent; then placing his feet against the low mantelpiece, so as to bring his boots to about the level of his eye, he quietly resumed.

“First and foremost, Faguey,” said the housebreaker, “how’s Bill?”

“What!” screamed the Jew, starting from his seat.

“Why, you don’t mean to say—” began Toby, turning pale.

“Mean!” cried the Jew, stamping furiously on the ground. “Where are they? Sikes and the boy! Where are they? Where have they been? Where are they hiding? Why have they not been here?”

“The crack failed,” said Toby faintly.

“I know it,” replied the Jew, tearing a newspaper from his pocket and pointing to it. “What more?”

“They fired and hit the boy. We cut over the fields at the back, with him between us—straight as the crow flies—through hedge and ditch. They gave chase. Damme! the whole country was awake, and the dogs upon us.”

“The boy!”

“Bill had him on his back, and scudded like the wind. We stopped to take him between us; his head hung down, and he was cold. They were close upon our heels; every man for himself, and each from the gallows! We parted company, and left the youngster lying in a ditch. Alive or dead, that’s all I know about him.”

The Jew stopped to hear no more; but uttering a loud yell, and twining his hands in his hair, rushed from the room, and from the house.

«E allora io faccio come mi dice lei», rispose il signor Chitling; «non sarei stato frustato se non fosse stato per i suoi consigli. Ma alla fine è andata bene per te, no Fagin! E che importa di sei settimane? Prima o poi doveva succedere e perché non in inverno quando non hai voglia di uscire a fare una passeggiata; eh, Fagin?»

«Ah, certo, mia cara», rispose l’ebreo.

«Non ti dispiacerebbe rifarlo, Tom, vero», chiese il Dodger, strizzando l’occhio a Charley e al vecchio Ebreo, «se tutto fosse in regola con Bet?»

“Volevo dire che non dovrei”, rispose Tom, arrabbiato. “Ecco fatto. Ah! Chi dirà mai una cosa del genere, mi piacerebbe saperlo; eh, Fagin?”

«Nessuno, mio caro», rispose l’ebreo; «neanche una persona, Tom. Non ne conosco uno solo che lo farebbe oltre a te; non uno solo di loro, mio caro».

“Avrei potuto cavarmela se l’avessi tradita; non è vero, Fagin?” proseguì con rabbia il povero imbecille. “Una parola da parte mia avrebbe risolto tutto; non è così, Fagin?”

«Certo che lo farebbe, mia cara», rispose l’ebreo.

«Ma non l’ho detto in giro; vero, Fagin?» chiese Tom, riversando domanda su domanda con grande loquacità.

«No, no, certo», rispose l’ebreo; «tu eri troppo coraggioso per questo. Troppo coraggioso, mio caro!»

«Forse lo ero», rispose Tom guardandosi intorno; «e se lo ero, che c’è da ridere? Eh, Fagin?»

Il vecchio ebreo, accorgendosi che il signor Chitling era notevolmente irritato, si affrettò ad assicurargli che nessuno stava ridendo; e per provare la serietà della compagnia, fece appello al giovane Bates, il principale colpevole. Ma, sfortunatamente, Charley, aprendo la bocca per rispondere che non era mai stato più serio in vita sua, non riuscì a impedire l’uscita di un tale fragoroso urlo da far sì che il signor Chitling, senza alcuna cerimonia preliminare, attraversasse la stanza e sferrasse un pugno contro l’autore dell’affronto; che, essendo abile nell’eludere i colpi, si abbassò per evitarlo, scegliendo il momento così bene che il pugno andò a finire sul petto del vecchio signore allegra, facendolo barcollare fino alla parete, dove rimase ansimante mentre il signor Chitling lo guardava con grande costernazione.

«Ascolta!» gridò in quel momento il Dodger «ho sentito il suonatore di campanelli». Afferrando la luce, salì silenziosamente le scale.

La campana fu suonata di nuovo con un certo impazienza mentre il gruppo era al buio. Dopo una breve pausa, il Dodger riapparve e sussurrò qualcosa misteriosamente a Fagin.

“Che cosa!” esclamò l’ebreo, “solo?”

Il Dodger annuì e, schermando la fiamma della candela con una mano, fece a Charley Bates un cenno discreto, muto, che gli consigliava di non fare il furbo in quel momento. Dopo aver reso questo amichevole servigio, si mise a fissare il volto dell’ebreo e attese i suoi ordini.

Il vecchio si morse le dita gialle e rimase a riflettere per alcuni secondi; il suo volto era agitato come se temesse qualcosa e avesse paura di sapere la verità. Alla fine alzò il capo.

«Dov’è?» chiese.

Il Dodger indicò il piano di sopra e fece un gesto come se volesse lasciare la stanza.

«Sì», disse l’ebreo in risposta alla muta domanda, «portatelo giù. Zitto, tranquillo, Charley! Piano, Tom! Poco, poco!»

Questo breve ordine rivolto a Charley Bates e al suo recente antagonista fu eseguito dolcemente e immediatamente. Non si sentiva alcun rumore da parte loro quando il Dodger scese le scale, tenendo la luce in mano, seguito da un uomo con una rozza giacca di tela; che, dopo aver dato uno sguardo affrettato alla stanza, si tolse un grande mantello che aveva nascosto la parte inferiore del suo volto e rivelò: tutto smunto, non lavato e non rasato: i lineamenti di Toby Crackit.

“Come va, Faguey?” disse questo degno personaggio, facendo un cenno al vecchio ebreo. “Metti quel scialle nel mio cappello di castoro, Dodger, così saprò dove trovarlo quando scapperò; è proprio l’ora giusta! Sarai un giovane ladro esperto prima che il vecchio lima ancora.”

Con queste parole tirò su il camiciotto e, avvolgendoselo intorno alla vita, trascinò una sedia verso la stufa e appoggiò i piedi sul focolare.

«Vedi lì, Faguey», disse indicando con aria sconsolata i suoi stivali; «non una goccia di Day e Martin da quando sai; neanche un po’ di lucido per scarpe, accidenti! Ma non guardarmi in quel modo, uomo. Tutto a suo tempo. Non posso parlare di affari finché non ho mangiato e bevuto; quindi prepara il sostentamento e facciamo un buon pasto per la prima volta da tre giorni!»

Il vecchio ebreo fece cenno a Charley di mettere sulla tavola le poche cose da mangiare che c’erano, e sedendosi di fronte al ladro d’appartamenti aspettò che avesse finito.

A giudicare dalle apparenze, Toby non aveva alcuna fretta di aprire la conversazione. All’inizio l’ebreo si accontentò di osservare pazientemente il suo volto, come se volesse ricavare dalla sua espressione qualche indizio sulle informazioni che portava; ma invano.

Aveva un’aria stanca e provata, ma sul suo volto c’era la stessa compiaciuta tranquillità che vi si leggeva sempre: e attraverso lo sporco, la barba e i baffi, risplendeva ancora intatto il sorrisetto soddisfatto di Toby Crackit. Poi l’Ebreo, in preda a un’agonia d’impatienza, osservava ogni boccone che metteva in bocca; nel frattempo camminava su e giù per la stanza, in uno stato d’eccitazione irrefrenabile. Non serviva a nulla. Toby continuò a mangiare con la massima indifferenza esteriore, finché non poté più mangiare; poi, cacciando fuori il Dodger, chiuse la porta, preparò un bicchiere di acqua e liquore, e si dispose a parlare.

«Prima di tutto, Faguey», disse Toby.

«Sì, sì!» intervenne l’ebreo, avvicinando la sua sedia.

Mr. Crackit si fermò per bere un sorso di acqua e liquore e dichiarare che il gin era eccellente; poi appoggiò i piedi sul basso caminetto in modo da portare gli stivali all’altezza degli occhi, e riprese tranquillamente.

“Prima di tutto, Faguey,” disse il ladro, “come sta Bill?”

«Che cosa!» gridò l’ebreo balzando in piedi.

«Ma non vorrete dire —» cominciò Toby, impallidendo.

«Miserabili!» gridò l’ebreo, pestando furiosamente i piedi per terra. «Dov’erano? Sikes e il ragazzo! Dov’erano? Dove sono stati? Dove si nascondono? Perché non sono qui?»

«Il colpo è andato a vuoto», disse Toby con voce flebile.

«Lo so», rispose l’ebreo, tirando fuori un giornale dalla tasca e indicandolo. «E poi?»

“Hanno sparato e colpito il ragazzo. Siamo corsi attraverso i campi sul retro, con lui tra noi — dritti come un corvo in volo — attraverso siepi e fosse. Ci hanno dato la caccia. Dannazione! tutto il paese era sveglio, e i cani erano addosso a noi.”

“Il ragazzo!”

«Bill lo aveva sulle spalle e correva come il vento. Ci fermammo per prenderlo tra noi; la sua testa penzolava ed era freddo. Erano alle nostre calcagna; ognuno per sé, e tutti lontani dalla forca! Ci separammo, lasciando il giovane disteso in una fossa. Vivo o morto, questo è tutto ciò che so di lui».

Il vecchio ebreo non volle ascoltare altro; ma emettendo un urlo assordante e torcendosi le mani tra i capelli, fuggì dalla stanza e dalla casa.

CHAPTER XXVI. IN WHICH A MYSTERIOUS CHARACTER APPEARS UPON THE SCENE; AND MANY THINGS, INSEPARABLE FROM THIS HISTORY, ARE DONE AND PERFORMED

The old man had gained the street corner, before he began to recover the effect of Toby Crackit’s intelligence. He had relaxed nothing of his unusual speed; but was still pressing onward, in the same wild and disordered manner, when the sudden dashing past of a carriage: and a boisterous cry from the foot passengers, who saw his danger: drove him back upon the pavement. Avoiding, as much as was possible, all the main streets, and skulking only through the by-ways and alleys, he at length emerged on Snow Hill. Here he walked even faster than before; nor did he linger until he had again turned into a court; when, as if conscious that he was now in his proper element, he fell into his usual shuffling pace, and seemed to breathe more freely.

Near to the spot on which Snow Hill and Holborn Hill meet, opens, upon the right hand as you come out of the City, a narrow and dismal alley, leading to Saffron Hill. In its filthy shops are exposed for sale huge bunches of second-hand silk handkerchiefs, of all sizes and patterns; for here reside the traders who purchase them from pick-pockets. Hundreds of these handkerchiefs hang dangling from pegs outside the windows or flaunting from the door-posts; and the shelves, within, are piled with them. Confined as the limits of Field Lane are, it has its barber, its coffee-shop, its beer-shop, and its fried-fish warehouse. It is a commercial colony of itself: the emporium of petty larceny: visited at early morning, and setting-in of dusk, by silent merchants, who traffic in dark back-parlours, and who go as strangely as they come. Here, the clothesman, the shoe-vamper, and the rag-merchant, display their goods, as sign-boards to the petty thief; here, stores of old iron and bones, and heaps of mildewy fragments of woollen-stuff and linen, rust and rot in the grimy cellars.

It was into this place that the Jew turned. He was well known to the sallow denizens of the lane; for such of them as were on the look-out to buy or sell, nodded, familiarly, as he passed along. He replied to their salutations in the same way; but bestowed no closer recognition until he reached the further end of the alley; when he stopped, to address a salesman of small stature, who had squeezed as much of his person into a child’s chair as the chair would hold, and was smoking a pipe at his warehouse door.

“Why, the sight of you, Mr. Fagin, would cure the hoptalmy!” said this respectable trader, in acknowledgment of the Jew’s inquiry after his health.

“The neighbourhood was a little too hot, Lively,” said Fagin, elevating his eyebrows, and crossing his hands upon his shoulders.

“Well, I’ve heerd that complaint of it, once or twice before,” replied the trader; “but it soon cools down again; don’t you find it so?”

Fagin nodded in the affirmative. Pointing in the direction of Saffron Hill, he inquired whether any one was up yonder tonight.

“At the Cripples?” inquired the man.

The Jew nodded.

“Let me see,” pursued the merchant, reflecting. “Yes, there’s some half-dozen of ’em gone in, that I knows. I don’t think your friend’s there.”

“Sikes is not, I suppose?” inquired the Jew, with a disappointed countenance.

“Non istwentus, as the lawyers say,” replied the little man, shaking his head, and looking amazingly sly. “Have you got anything in my line tonight?”

“Nothing tonight,” said the Jew, turning away.

“Are you going up to the Cripples, Fagin?” cried the little man, calling after him. “Stop! I don’t mind if I have a drop there with you!”

But as the Jew, looking back, waved his hand to intimate that he preferred being alone; and, moreover, as the little man could not very easily disengage himself from the chair; the sign of the Cripples was, for a time, bereft of the advantage of Mr. Lively’s presence. By the time he had got upon his legs, the Jew had disappeared; so Mr. Lively, after ineffectually standing on tiptoe, in the hope of catching sight of him, again forced himself into the little chair, and, exchanging a shake of the head with a lady in the opposite shop, in which doubt and mistrust were plainly mingled, resumed his pipe with a grave demeanour.

The Three Cripples, or rather the Cripples; which was the sign by which the establishment was familiarly known to its patrons: was the public-house in which Mr. Sikes and his dog have already figured. Merely making a sign to a man at the bar, Fagin walked straight upstairs, and opening the door of a room, and softly insinuating himself into the chamber, looked anxiously about: shading his eyes with his hand, as if in search of some particular person.

The room was illuminated by two gas-lights; the glare of which was prevented by the barred shutters, and closely-drawn curtains of faded red, from being visible outside. The ceiling was blackened, to prevent its colour from being injured by the flaring of the lamps; and the place was so full of dense tobacco smoke, that at first it was scarcely possible to discern anything more. By degrees, however, as some of it cleared away through the open door, an assemblage of heads, as confused as the noises that greeted the ear, might be made out; and as the eye grew more accustomed to the scene, the spectator gradually became aware of the presence of a numerous company, male and female, crowded round a long table: at the upper end of which, sat a chairman with a hammer of office in his hand; while a professional gentleman with a bluish nose, and his face tied up for the benefit of a toothache, presided at a jingling piano in a remote corner.

As Fagin stepped softly in, the professional gentleman, running over the keys by way of prelude, occasioned a general cry of order for a song; which having subsided, a young lady proceeded to entertain the company with a ballad in four verses, between each of which the accompanyist played the melody all through, as loud as he could. When this was over, the chairman gave a sentiment, after which, the professional gentleman on the chairman’s right and left volunteered a duet, and sang it, with great applause.

CAPITOLO XXVI.
NEL QUALE UN PERSONAGGIO MISTERIOSO ENTRA IN SCENA E SI COMPIONO DIVERSE COSE INDIVISIBILI DA QUESTA STORIA

Il vecchio aveva raggiunto l’angolo della strada prima di cominciare a riprendersi dall’effetto dell’intelligenza di Toby Crackit. Non aveva diminuito per nulla la sua insolita velocità; ma continuava ad avanzare, nello stesso modo selvaggio e disordinato, quando il passaggio improvviso di una carrozza: e un grido fragoroso dei pedoni, che videro il suo pericolo: lo spinsero indietro sul marciapiede. Evitando, quanto più era possibile, tutte le strade principali, e nascondendosi solo nei vicoli e nelle stradine laterali, alla fine emerse su Snow Hill. Qui camminò ancora più velocemente di prima; né si fermò finché non ebbe di nuovo svoltato in un vicolo; quando, come se fosse consapevole che ora era nel suo elemento, cadde nel suo solito passo strascicato e sembrò respirare più liberamente.

Vicino al punto in cui Snow Hill e Holborn Hill si incontrano, sulla destra uscendo dalla City, si apre un vicolo stretto e squallido che porta a Saffron Hill. Nei suoi negozi sudici sono esposte in vendita enormi mazzi di fazzoletti di seta usati, di tutte le dimensioni e i modelli; perché qui risiedono i commercianti che li acquistano dai borseggiatori. Centinaia di questi fazzoletti pendono da chiodi fuori dalle finestre o sventolano dai pali delle porte; e gli scaffali, all’interno, sono stipati di essi. Nonostante i limiti ristretti di Field Lane, ha il suo barbiere, la sua caffetteria, la sua birreria e il suo magazzino di pesce fritto. È una colonia commerciale a sé stante: l’emporio del piccolo furto; visitata al mattino presto e all’inizio del crepuscolo da mercanti silenziosi, che trafficano in bui retrobotteggi e che vanno via stranamente come sono venuti. Qui, il rigattiere, il riparatore di scarpe e il commerciante di stracci espongono le loro merci come insegne per i piccoli ladri; qui, negozi di vecchio ferro e ossa, e mucchi di frammenti muffosi di stoffe di lana e lino, arrugginiscono e marciscono nelle cantine luride.

Fu in quel luogo che l’ebreo si diresse. Era ben noto agli abitanti giallastri del vicolo; infatti quelli tra loro che erano alla ricerca di qualcosa da comprare o vendere gli fecero un cenno familiare mentre passava. Lui rispose ai loro saluti allo stesso modo; ma non concesse alcun riconoscimento più stretto finché non raggiunse l’estremità opposta del vicolo; a quel punto si fermò per rivolgersi a un venditore di piccola statura, che aveva infilato nella sedia da bambino la massima parte della sua persona che la sedia poteva contenere e fumava una pipa sulla porta del suo magazzino.

«Perbacco, la vista di voi, signor Fagin, guarirebbe l’occhio storto!» disse questo rispettabile commerciante, in risposta alla domanda del vecchio ebreo sulla sua salute.

“Il quartiere era un po’ troppo caldo, Lively”, disse Fagin, alzando le sopracciglia e incrociando le mani sulle spalle.

«Beh, ho già sentito questa lamentela una o due volte prima», rispose il commerciante; «ma presto si placa di nuovo; non vi sembra?»

Fagin annuì affermativamente. Indicando la direzione di Saffron Hill, chiese se qualcuno fosse lassù quella sera.

«Ai Cripples?» chiese l’uomo.

L’ebreo annuì.

«Fammi pensare», continuò il mercante, riflettendo. «Sì, ne sono entrati una mezza dozzina che conosco. Non credo che ci sia anche tuo amico».

«Immagino che Sikes non ci sia?», chiese l’ebreo con aria delusa.

«Non istwentus, come dicono i legali», rispose l’omino scuotendo la testa e assumendo un’espressione stranamente furba. «Avete qualcosa nel mio campo stasera?»

«Niente stasera», disse l’ebreo, voltandosi dall’altra parte.

«Stai andando dai Cripples, Fagin?» gridò il piccolo uomo, chiamandolo dietro di sé. «Aspetta! Non mi dispiace se prendo un goccetto con te!»

Ma poiché l’ebreo, guardandosi alle spalle, agitò la mano per far capire che preferiva rimanere solo; e inoltre poiché il piccolo uomo non poteva liberarsi facilmente dalla sedia; il segno dei Cripples fu, per un po’, privato del vantaggio della presenza di Mr. Lively. Al momento in cui si alzò in piedi, l’ebreo era già sparito; così Mr. Lively, dopo essersi messo inutilmente sulle punte dei piedi nella speranza di vederlo, si infilò nuovamente nella piccola sedia e, scambiando un cenno del capo con una signora nel negozio di fronte, in cui il dubbio e la sfiducia erano chiaramente mescolati, riprese la pipa con un contegno grave.

I Tre Zoppi, o meglio gli Zoppi; che era il nome con cui l’osteria era comunemente nota ai suoi clienti: era la taverna dove erano già apparsi il signor Sikes e il suo cane. Fatto un cenno a un uomo al bancone, Fagin salì dritto di sopra, aprì la porta di una stanza ed entrò furtivamente nella camera, guardandosi intorno con ansia: si riparava gli occhi con la mano, come se cercasse qualcuno in particolare.

La stanza era illuminata da due lumi a gas; la cui luce veniva impedita di trapelare all’esterno dalle persiane a sbarre e dalle tende rosse sbiadite tirate strettamente. Il soffitto era annerito per evitare che il suo colore ne risentisse dell’abbagliamento delle lampade; e la stanza era così piena di denso fumo di tabacco, che all’inizio non si riusciva quasi a distinguere altro. Tuttavia, man mano che parte del fumo veniva portato via dalla porta aperta, si poteva scorgere un insieme di teste, confuso quanto i rumori che giungevano alle orecchie; e mentre l’occhio si abituava alla scena, lo spettatore gradualmente prendeva coscienza della presenza di numerosi commensali, uomini e donne, ammassati intorno a un lungo tavolo: all’estremità superiore del quale sedeva il presidente con in mano un martelletto d’ufficio; mentre un gentiluomo professionista dal naso bluastra e la faccia bendata per un mal di denti, presiedeva su un pianoforte tintinnante in un angolo remoto.

Mentre Fagin entrava silenziosamente, il gentiluomo professionista, sfiorando i tasti come preludio, provocò un coro generale di richieste per una canzone; che si placò, e una giovane signora intrattenne la compagnia con una ballata in quattro strofe, tra le quali l’accompagnatore suonava la melodia tutta intera, il più forte possibile. Quando questo fu finito, il presidente propose un brindisi, dopo di che i gentiluomini professionisti alla destra e alla sinistra del presidente proposero un duetto e lo cantarono, con grande applauso.

It was curious to observe some faces which stood out prominently from among the group. There was the chairman himself, (the landlord of the house,) a coarse, rough, heavy built fellow, who, while the songs were proceeding, rolled his eyes hither and thither, and, seeming to give himself up to joviality, had an eye for everything that was done, and an ear for everything that was said—and sharp ones, too. Near him were the singers: receiving, with professional indifference, the compliments of the company, and applying themselves, in turn, to a dozen proffered glasses of spirits and water, tendered by their more boisterous admirers; whose countenances, expressive of almost every vice in almost every grade, irresistibly attracted the attention, by their very repulsiveness. Cunning, ferocity, and drunkeness in all its stages, were there, in their strongest aspect; and women: some with the last lingering tinge of their early freshness almost fading as you looked: others with every mark and stamp of their sex utterly beaten out, and presenting but one loathsome blank of profligacy and crime; some mere girls, others but young women, and none past the prime of life; formed the darkest and saddest portion of this dreary picture.

Fagin, troubled by no grave emotions, looked eagerly from face to face while these proceedings were in progress; but apparently without meeting that of which he was in search. Succeeding, at length, in catching the eye of the man who occupied the chair, he beckoned to him slightly, and left the room, as quietly as he had entered it.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Fagin?” inquired the man, as he followed him out to the landing. “Won’t you join us? They’ll be delighted, every one of ’em.”

The Jew shook his head impatiently, and said in a whisper, “Is he here?”

“No,” replied the man.

“And no news of Barney?” inquired Fagin.

“None,” replied the landlord of the Cripples; for it was he. “He won’t stir till it’s all safe. Depend on it, they’re on the scent down there; and that if he moved, he’d blow upon the thing at once. He’s all right enough, Barney is, else I should have heard of him. I’ll pound it, that Barney’s managing properly. Let him alone for that.”

“Will he be here tonight?” asked the Jew, laying the same emphasis on the pronoun as before.

“Monks, do you mean?” inquired the landlord, hesitating.

“Hush!” said the Jew. “Yes.”

“Certain,” replied the man, drawing a gold watch from his fob; “I expected him here before now. If you’ll wait ten minutes, he’ll be—”

“No, no,” said the Jew, hastily; as though, however desirous he might be to see the person in question, he was nevertheless relieved by his absence. “Tell him I came here to see him; and that he must come to me tonight. No, say tomorrow. As he is not here, tomorrow will be time enough.”

“Good!” said the man. “Nothing more?”

“Not a word now,” said the Jew, descending the stairs.

“I say,” said the other, looking over the rails, and speaking in a hoarse whisper; “what a time this would be for a sell! I’ve got Phil Barker here: so drunk, that a boy might take him!”

“Ah! But it’s not Phil Barker’s time,” said the Jew, looking up. “Phil has something more to do, before we can afford to part with him; so go back to the company, my dear, and tell them to lead merry lives—while they last. Ha! ha! ha!”

The landlord reciprocated the old man’s laugh; and returned to his guests. The Jew was no sooner alone, than his countenance resumed its former expression of anxiety and thought. After a brief reflection, he called a hack-cabriolet, and bade the man drive towards Bethnal Green. He dismissed him within some quarter of a mile of Mr. Sikes’s residence, and performed the short remainder of the distance on foot.

“Now,” muttered the Jew, as he knocked at the door, “if there is any deep play here, I shall have it out of you, my girl, cunning as you are.”

She was in her room, the woman said. Fagin crept softly upstairs, and entered it without any previous ceremony. The girl was alone; lying with her head upon the table, and her hair straggling over it.

“She has been drinking,” thought the Jew, cooly, “or perhaps she is only miserable.”

The old man turned to close the door, as he made this reflection; the noise thus occasioned, roused the girl. She eyed his crafty face narrowly, as she inquired to his recital of Toby Crackit’s story. When it was concluded, she sank into her former attitude, but spoke not a word. She pushed the candle impatiently away; and once or twice as she feverishly changed her position, shuffled her feet upon the ground; but this was all.

During the silence, the Jew looked restlessly about the room, as if to assure himself that there were no appearances of Sikes having covertly returned. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he coughed twice or thrice, and made as many efforts to open a conversation; but the girl heeded him no more than if he had been made of stone. At length he made another attempt; and rubbing his hands together, said, in his most conciliatory tone,

“And where should you think Bill was now, my dear?”

The girl moaned out some half intelligible reply, that she could not tell; and seemed, from the smothered noise that escaped her, to be crying.

“And the boy, too,” said the Jew, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of her face. “Poor leetle child! Left in a ditch, Nance; only think!”

“The child,” said the girl, suddenly looking up, “is better where he is, than among us; and if no harm comes to Bill from it, I hope he lies dead in the ditch and that his young bones may rot there.”

“What!” cried the Jew, in amazement.

“Ay, I do,” returned the girl, meeting his gaze. “I shall be glad to have him away from my eyes, and to know that the worst is over. I can’t bear to have him about me. The sight of him turns me against myself, and all of you.”

Era curioso osservare alcuni volti che spiccavano nettamente tra il gruppo. C’era lo stesso presidente (il proprietario della casa), un tizio grossolano, rude e di corporatura massiccia, che mentre le canzoni proseguivano, faceva rotolare gli occhi da una parte all’altra, sembrando abbandonarsi alla gioialità ma tenendo d’occhio tutto ciò che veniva fatto e ascoltando ogni cosa che veniva detta - e con grande acutezza. Vicino a lui c’erano i cantanti: ricevevano con indifferenza professionale i complimenti degli ospiti, e si dedicavano a turno a una dozzina di bicchieri offerti di liquore e acqua, presentati dai loro ammiratori più chiassosi; i cui volti, espressivi di quasi ogni vizio in quasi ogni grado, attiravano irresistibilmente l’attenzione proprio per la loro repulsività. L’astuzia, la ferocia e l’ubriachezza in tutte le sue fasi erano presenti nella loro forma più accentuata; e c’erano anche donne: alcune con l’ultima traccia di freschezza che quasi svaniva mentre si guardava, altre con ogni segno e caratteristica del loro sesso completamente cancellati, presentando solo un disgustoso vuoto di dissolutezza e crimine; alcune erano ragazze, altre giovani donne, e nessuna era oltre il fiore degli anni; formavano la parte più oscura e triste di questo tetto quadro.

Fagin, non turbato da alcuna emozione grave, scrutava con ansia i volti uno dopo l’altro mentre si svolgevano questi eventi; ma apparentemente senza trovare ciò che cercava. Alla fine, riuscendo a catturare lo sguardo dell’uomo seduto sulla sedia, gli fece un cenno e lasciò la stanza con la stessa discrezione con cui vi era entrato.

“Cosa posso fare per lei, signor Fagin?” chiese l’uomo mentre lo seguiva fino al pianerottolo. “Non vuole unirsi a noi? Saranno tutti felicissimi.”

L’ebreo scosse impazientemente la testa e sussurrò: “È qui?”

«No», rispose l’uomo.

“E nessuna notizia di Barney?”, chiese Fagin.

«Nessuno», rispose il padrone del Cripples; perché era lui. «Non si muoverà finché non sarà tutto sicuro. State certo che là sotto sono sulle sue tracce, e se si movesse, subito farebbe scoprire la cosa. Barney è a posto, altrimenti ne avrei sentito parlare. Lo giuro, Barney sta facendo le cose per bene. Lasciatelo fare da solo in questo».

«Sarà lui qui stasera?» chiese l’ebreo, ponendo la stessa enfasi sul pronome come prima.

«Monaci, volete dire?» chiese l’oste, esitando.

“Silenzio!” disse l’ebreo. “Sì.”

«Certo», rispose l’uomo tirando fuori un orologio d’oro dalla tasca dei pantaloni; «mi aspettavo che fosse già qui. Se vuole attendere dieci minuti, sarà, »

“No, no”, disse l’ebreo in fretta, come se, per quanto desideroso di vedere la persona in questione, fosse nondimeno sollevato dalla sua assenza. “Digli che sono venuto qui per vederlo; e che deve venire da me stasera. No, digli domani. Poiché non è qui, domani sarà tempo sufficiente.”

“Benissimo!” disse l’uomo. “Nient’altro?”

«Niente parole ora», disse l’ebreo scendendo le scale.

«Dico» disse l’altro guardando oltre il parapetto e parlando con un sussurro rauco «che momento sarebbe questo per una vendita! Ho qui Phil Barker: così ubriaco che anche un ragazzo potrebbe portarselo dietro!»

«Ah! Ma non è ancora il momento di Phil Barker», disse l’ebreo, alzando lo sguardo. «Phil deve fare qualcos’altro, prima che ci possiamo permettere di separarcene; quindi torna dalla compagnia, mia cara, e digli di vivere allegramente — finché dura. Ah! ah! ah!»

Il locandiere ricambiò la risata del vecchio e tornò dai suoi ospiti. Non appena il ebreo si trovò solo, il suo volto riprese l’espressione di ansia e preoccupazione di prima. Dopo una breve riflessione, chiamò un cabriolet pubblico e ordinò all’uomo di dirigersi verso Bethnal Green. Lo congedò a circa mezzo miglio dalla residenza del signor Sikes e percorse il breve tratto rimanente a piedi.

«Ora», borbottò l’ebreo mentre bussava alla porta, «se qui c’è qualche intrigo, te lo farò pagare, ragazza mia, per quanto tu sia astuta.»

Era nella sua stanza, disse la donna. Fagin salì silenziosamente le scale e vi entrò senza alcuna cerimonia preliminare. La ragazza era sola; giaceva con la testa sul tavolo e i capelli che le ricadevano disordinatamente sopra.

“Ha bevuto,” pensò l’ebreo con freddezza, “o forse è solo infelice.”

Mentre faceva questa riflessione, il vecchio si voltò per chiudere la porta; il rumore che ne derivò svegliò la ragazza. Lei osservò attentamente il suo volto astuto mentre gli chiedeva di raccontare la storia di Toby Crackit. Quando ebbe finito, lei tornò alla sua posizione precedente, ma non disse una parola. Allontanò impazientemente la candela; e una o due volte, mentre cambiava febbrilmente posizione, si mosse a terra con i piedi; ma questo fu tutto.

Durante il silenzio, l’ebreo guardò irrequieto intorno alla stanza, come se volesse assicurarsi che non ci fossero segni del ritorno nascosto di Sikes. Apparentemente soddisfatto della sua ispezione, tossì due o tre volte e fece altrettanti tentativi per iniziare una conversazione; ma la ragazza non gli prestò più attenzione che se lui fosse stato fatto di pietra. Alla fine fece un altro tentativo; strofinandosi le mani insieme, disse nel tono più conciliante:

“E dove credi che fosse ora Bill, mia cara?”

La ragazza emise un gemito in risposta, a malapena comprensibile, che non sapeva dirlo; e sembrava, dal rumore soffocato che le sfuggiva, stesse piangendo.

“E anche il ragazzo”, disse l’ebreo, sforzando gli occhi per cogliere un barlume del suo volto. “Povero piccolo bambino! Lasciato in una fossa, Nance; solo pensaci!”

«Il bambino,» disse la ragazza, alzando improvvisamente lo sguardo, «è meglio dove è che tra noi; e se non succede niente di male a Bill per questo, io spero che sia morto nella fossa e che le sue giovani ossa marciscano lì.»

«Che cosa!» esclamò l’ebreo, stupito.

«Sì, lo faccio», rispose la ragazza, incontrando il suo sguardo. «Sarò felice di vederlo lontano dai miei occhi e sapere che il peggio è passato. Non riesco a sopportare di averlo vicino. La vista di lui mi fa ribellare contro me stessa, e contro tutti voi».

“Pooh!” said the Jew, scornfully. “You’re drunk.”

“Am I?” cried the girl bitterly. “It’s no fault of yours, if I am not! You’d never have me anything else, if you had your will, except now;—the humour doesn’t suit you, doesn’t it?”

“No!” rejoined the Jew, furiously. “It does not.”

“Change it, then!” responded the girl, with a laugh.

“Change it!” exclaimed the Jew, exasperated beyond all bounds by his companion’s unexpected obstinacy, and the vexation of the night, “I will change it! Listen to me, you drab. Listen to me, who with six words, can strangle Sikes as surely as if I had his bull’s throat between my fingers now. If he comes back, and leaves the boy behind him; if he gets off free, and dead or alive, fails to restore him to me; murder him yourself if you would have him escape Jack Ketch. And do it the moment he sets foot in this room, or mind me, it will be too late!”

“What is all this?” cried the girl involuntarily.

“What is it?” pursued Fagin, mad with rage. “When the boy’s worth hundreds of pounds to me, am I to lose what chance threw me in the way of getting safely, through the whims of a drunken gang that I could whistle away the lives of! And me bound, too, to a born devil that only wants the will, and has the power to, to—”

Panting for breath, the old man stammered for a word; and in that instant checked the torrent of his wrath, and changed his whole demeanour. A moment before, his clenched hands had grasped the air; his eyes had dilated; and his face grown livid with passion; but now, he shrunk into a chair, and, cowering together, trembled with the apprehension of having himself disclosed some hidden villainy. After a short silence, he ventured to look round at his companion. He appeared somewhat reassured, on beholding her in the same listless attitude from which he had first roused her.

“Nancy, dear!” croaked the Jew, in his usual voice. “Did you mind me, dear?”

“Don’t worry me now, Fagin!” replied the girl, raising her head languidly. “If Bill has not done it this time, he will another. He has done many a good job for you, and will do many more when he can; and when he can’t he won’t; so no more about that.”

“Regarding this boy, my dear?” said the Jew, rubbing the palms of his hands nervously together.

“The boy must take his chance with the rest,” interrupted Nancy, hastily; “and I say again, I hope he is dead, and out of harm’s way, and out of yours,—that is, if Bill comes to no harm. And if Toby got clear off, Bill’s pretty sure to be safe; for Bill’s worth two of Toby any time.”

“And about what I was saying, my dear?” observed the Jew, keeping his glistening eye steadily upon her.

“You must say it all over again, if it’s anything you want me to do,” rejoined Nancy; “and if it is, you had better wait till tomorrow. You put me up for a minute; but now I’m stupid again.”

Fagin put several other questions: all with the same drift of ascertaining whether the girl had profited by his unguarded hints; but, she answered them so readily, and was withal so utterly unmoved by his searching looks, that his original impression of her being more than a trifle in liquor, was confirmed. Nancy, indeed, was not exempt from a failing which was very common among the Jew’s female pupils; and in which, in their tenderer years, they were rather encouraged than checked. Her disordered appearance, and a wholesale perfume of Geneva which pervaded the apartment, afforded strong confirmatory evidence of the justice of the Jew’s supposition; and when, after indulging in the temporary display of violence above described, she subsided, first into dullness, and afterwards into a compound of feelings: under the influence of which she shed tears one minute, and in the next gave utterance to various exclamations of “Never say die!” and divers calculations as to what might be the amount of the odds so long as a lady or gentleman was happy, Mr. Fagin, who had had considerable experience of such matters in his time, saw, with great satisfaction, that she was very far gone indeed.

Having eased his mind by this discovery; and having accomplished his twofold object of imparting to the girl what he had, that night, heard, and of ascertaining, with his own eyes, that Sikes had not returned, Mr. Fagin again turned his face homeward: leaving his young friend asleep, with her head upon the table.

It was within an hour of midnight. The weather being dark, and piercing cold, he had no great temptation to loiter. The sharp wind that scoured the streets, seemed to have cleared them of passengers, as of dust and mud, for few people were abroad, and they were to all appearance hastening fast home. It blew from the right quarter for the Jew, however, and straight before it he went: trembling, and shivering, as every fresh gust drove him rudely on his way.

He had reached the corner of his own street, and was already fumbling in his pocket for the door-key, when a dark figure emerged from a projecting entrance which lay in deep shadow, and, crossing the road, glided up to him unperceived.

“Fagin!” whispered a voice close to his ear.

“Ah!” said the Jew, turning quickly round, “is that—”

“Yes!” interrupted the stranger. “I have been lingering here these two hours. Where the devil have you been?”

“On your business, my dear,” replied the Jew, glancing uneasily at his companion, and slackening his pace as he spoke. “On your business all night.”

“Oh, of course!” said the stranger, with a sneer. “Well; and what’s come of it?”

“Nothing good,” said the Jew.

“Nothing bad, I hope?” said the stranger, stopping short, and turning a startled look on his companion.

The Jew shook his head, and was about to reply, when the stranger, interrupting him, motioned to the house, before which they had by this time arrived: remarking, that he had better say what he had got to say, under cover: for his blood was chilled with standing about so long, and the wind blew through him.

“Uffa!” disse l’ebreo con disprezzo. “Sei ubriaco.”

«Lo sono?» gridò la ragazza con amarezza. «Non è colpa tua se non lo sono! Non mi avresti mai voluta diversa da come sono, se avessi potuto decidere tu, tranne adesso;—il umore non ti piace, vero?»

“No!” ribatté l’ebreo con furore. “Non lo è.”

«Allora cambialo!» rispose la ragazza ridendo.

«Cambia idea!» esclamò l’ebreo, esasperato oltre ogni limite dall’imprevista ostinazione del suo compagno e dalla preoccupazione per la notte, «Io devo cambiare idea! Ascoltami, tu sgualdrina. Ascoltami, che con sei parole posso strangolare Sikes tanto sicuramente come se avessi ora tra le dita la gola di toro di lui. Se torna indietro e lascia il ragazzo qui; se riesce a scappare libero e, morto o vivo che sia, non riesce a restituirmelo; uccidilo tu stessa se vuoi che sfugga alla forca di Jack Ketch. E fallo nel momento in cui mette piede in questa stanza, altrimenti credimi sarà troppo tardi!»

«Che cosa è tutto questo?» esclamò la ragazza senza volerlo.

“Che cos’è?” incalzò Fagin, fuori di sé dalla rabbia. “Quando quel ragazzo vale centinaia di sterline per me, dovrei perdere l’occasione che il caso mi ha messo davanti agli occhi e che avrebbe potuto procurarmi un guadagno sicuro, a causa dei capricci di una banda di ubriaconi la cui vita potrei stroncare con un fischio! E io sono legato anche a un demonio nato che non aspetta altro che il momento giusto e ha il potere di, ”

Ansando per riprendere fiato, il vecchio balbettò una parola; e in quell’istante frenò la furia che lo aveva invaso e cambiò completamente atteggiamento. Un attimo prima le sue mani strette a pugno afferravano l’aria, i suoi occhi si erano dilatati e il suo volto era diventato livido di rabbia; ma ora si accasciò su una sedia, tremando per la paura di aver rivelato qualche infamia nascosta. Dopo un breve silenzio, osò guardare la sua compagna. Si sentì un po’ più tranquillo nel vederla nella stessa posizione apatica da cui l’aveva svegliata.

«Nancy, cara!» gracchiò l’ebreo con la sua solita voce «Mi hai sentito, cara?»

«Non mi preoccupare adesso, Fagin!» rispose la ragazza, sollevando il capo con languore. «Se Bill non l’ha fatto questa volta, lo farà un’altra. Ha già fatto per te molti buoni lavori e ne farà ancora molti altri quando potrà; e quando non potrà, non li farà; quindi basta parlare di questo.»

«Riguardo a questo ragazzo, mia cara?» disse l’ebreo strofinandosi nervosamente le palme delle mani.

«Il ragazzo deve correre il rischio insieme agli altri», interruppe Nancy, affrettatamente; «e ripeto, spero che sia morto e fuori dai guai, e lontano da te, — cioè, se Bill non si fa niente. E se Toby è riuscito a scappare, Bill ha buone probabilità di essere al sicuro; perché Bill vale due volte più di Toby in qualsiasi momento».

«E riguardo a ciò che dicevo, mia cara?» osservò l’ebreo, tenendo il suo occhio lucente fissato su di lei.

«Devi ripeterlo tutto da capo se è qualcosa che vuoi che faccia», replicò Nancy; «e se lo è, faresti meglio ad aspettare fino a domani. Mi hai distratta per un minuto; ma ora sono di nuovo stupida».

Fagin fece altre domande: tutte con lo stesso intento di accertarsi se la ragazza avesse approfittato dei suoi indizi involontari; ma lei rispose così prontamente e, per giunta, rimase così completamente impassibile davanti ai suoi sguardi scrutatori, che la sua impressione iniziale che fosse più che un po’ ubriaca si rafforzò. Nancy, infatti, non era immune da una debolezza molto comune tra le allieve ebree del vecchio ebraico; e in cui, nei loro teneri anni, venivano piuttosto incoraggiate che frenate. Il suo aspetto disordinato e un profumo di gin che pervadeva l’intera stanza fornirono forti prove a sostegno della giustezza del sospetto dell’ebreo; e quando, dopo essersi abbandonata alla temporanea manifestazione di violenza sopra descritta, si calmò, dapprima in uno stato di apatia e poi in un miscuglio di sentimenti: sotto l’influenza dei quali versò lacrime un minuto e nel successivo diede voce a varie esclamazioni del tipo “Non mollare mai!” e diversi calcoli su quale potesse essere la quantità delle probabilità fintanto che una signora o un gentiluomo fossero felici, il signor Fagin, che aveva avuto notevole esperienza di tali questioni nel suo tempo, vide con grande soddisfazione che lei era davvero molto ubriaca.

Avendo lenito la sua mente con questa scoperta; e avendo raggiunto il suo duplice obiettivo di comunicare alla ragazza ciò che aveva sentito quella notte e di accertarsi personalmente che Sikes non fosse tornato, il signor Fagin si voltò nuovamente verso casa: lasciando la sua giovane amica addormentata con la testa sul tavolo.

Mancava meno di un’ora a mezzanotte. Il tempo era buio e gelido fino al midollo; non aveva grande tentazione di indugiare. La tagliente brezza che spazzava le strade sembrava averle svuotate dei viandanti, come della polvere e del fango; poche persone erano in giro, e a quanto pareva si affrettavano verso la propria casa. Tuttavia il vento soffiava dalla direzione giusta per l’ebreo, che lo seguì dritto davanti: tremante e rabbrividendo ad ogni raffica che lo spingeva brutalmente avanti.

Era arrivato all’angolo della sua strada e stava già frugando nella tasca per trovare la chiave di casa quando una figura scura emerse da un ingresso sporgente che si trovava in profonda ombra e, attraversata la strada, gli si avvicinò senza farsi notare.

«Fagin!» sussurrò una voce vicino al suo orecchio.

“Ah!” disse l’ebreo, girandosi rapidamente, “è questo—”

«Sì!» lo interruppe lo sconosciuto «sono qui da due ore. Dove diavolo sei stato?»

«Per i tuoi affari, mia cara», rispose l’ebreo, lanciando uno sguardo inquieto al suo compagno e rallentando il passo mentre parlava. «Per i tuoi affari tutta la notte.»

“Ah, certo!”, disse lo sconosciuto con un ghigno. Bene; e che ne è venuto fuori?

«Niente di buono», disse l’ebreo.

“Niente di brutto, lo spero?” disse lo sconosciuto fermandosi e rivolgendo uno sguardo allarmato al suo compagno.

Il vecchio ebreo scosse la testa ed era sul punto di rispondere quando lo sconosciuto, interrompendolo, gli fece cenno verso la casa, davanti alla quale erano ormai giunti in quel momento: osservando che sarebbe stato meglio dire ciò che aveva da dire al riparo: perché il suo sangue era gelato dal trovarsi lì fuori così a lungo e la brezza gli trapassava le ossa.

Fagin looked as if he could have willingly excused himself from taking home a visitor at that unseasonable hour; and, indeed, muttered something about having no fire; but his companion repeating his request in a peremptory manner, he unlocked the door, and requested him to close it softly, while he got a light.

“It’s as dark as the grave,” said the man, groping forward a few steps. “Make haste!”

“Shut the door,” whispered Fagin from the end of the passage. As he spoke, it closed with a loud noise.

“That wasn’t my doing,” said the other man, feeling his way. “The wind blew it to, or it shut of its own accord: one or the other. Look sharp with the light, or I shall knock my brains out against something in this confounded hole.”

Fagin stealthily descended the kitchen stairs. After a short absence, he returned with a lighted candle, and the intelligence that Toby Crackit was asleep in the back room below, and that the boys were in the front one. Beckoning the man to follow him, he led the way upstairs.

“We can say the few words we’ve got to say in here, my dear,” said the Jew, throwing open a door on the first floor; “and as there are holes in the shutters, and we never show lights to our neighbours, we’ll set the candle on the stairs. There!”

With those words, the Jew, stooping down, placed the candle on an upper flight of stairs, exactly opposite to the room door. This done, he led the way into the apartment; which was destitute of all movables save a broken arm-chair, and an old couch or sofa without covering, which stood behind the door. Upon this piece of furniture, the stranger sat himself with the air of a weary man; and the Jew, drawing up the arm-chair opposite, they sat face to face. It was not quite dark; the door was partially open; and the candle outside, threw a feeble reflection on the opposite wall.

They conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the conversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that the latter was in a state of considerable irritation. They might have been talking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or more, when Monks—by which name the Jew had designated the strange man several times in the course of their colloquy—said, raising his voice a little,

“I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?”

“Only hear him!” exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders.

“Why, do you mean to say you couldn’t have done it, if you had chosen?” demanded Monks, sternly. “Haven’t you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn’t you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?”

“Whose turn would that have served, my dear?” inquired the Jew humbly.

“Mine,” replied Monks.

“But not mine,” said the Jew, submissively. “He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?”

“What then?” demanded Monks.

“I saw it was not easy to train him to the business,” replied the Jew; “he was not like other boys in the same circumstances.”

“Curse him, no!” muttered the man, “or he would have been a thief, long ago.”

“I had no hold upon him to make him worse,” pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. “His hand was not in. I had nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have in the beginning, or we labour in vain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all.”

“That was not my doing,” observed Monks.

“No, no, my dear!” renewed the Jew. “And I don’t quarrel with it now; because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you were looking for. Well! I got him back for you by means of the girl; and then she begins to favour him.”

“Throttle the girl!” said Monks, impatiently.

“Why, we can’t afford to do that just now, my dear,” replied the Jew, smiling; “and, besides, that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one of these days, I might be glad to have it done. I know what these girls are, Monks, well. As soon as the boy begins to harden, she’ll care no more for him, than for a block of wood. You want him made a thief. If he is alive, I can make him one from this time; and, if—if—” said the Jew, drawing nearer to the other,—“it’s not likely, mind,—but if the worst comes to the worst, and he is dead—”

“It’s no fault of mine if he is!” interposed the other man, with a look of terror, and clasping the Jew’s arm with trembling hands. “Mind that. Fagin! I had no hand in it. Anything but his death, I told you from the first. I won’t shed blood; it’s always found out, and haunts a man besides. If they shot him dead, I was not the cause; do you hear me? Fire this infernal den! What’s that?”

“What!” cried the Jew, grasping the coward round the body, with both arms, as he sprung to his feet. “Where?”

“Yonder!” replied the man, glaring at the opposite wall. “The shadow! I saw the shadow of a woman, in a cloak and bonnet, pass along the wainscot like a breath!”

The Jew released his hold, and they rushed tumultuously from the room. The candle, wasted by the draught, was standing where it had been placed. It showed them only the empty staircase, and their own white faces. They listened intently: a profound silence reigned throughout the house.

“It’s your fancy,” said the Jew, taking up the light and turning to his companion.

“I’ll swear I saw it!” replied Monks, trembling. “It was bending forward when I saw it first; and when I spoke, it darted away.”

The Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate, and, telling him he could follow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs. They looked into all the rooms; they were cold, bare, and empty. They descended into the passage, and thence into the cellars below. The green damp hung upon the low walls; the tracks of the snail and slug glistened in the light of the candle; but all was still as death.

“What do you think now?” said the Jew, when they had regained the passage. “Besides ourselves, there’s not a creature in the house except Toby and the boys; and they’re safe enough. See here!”

As a proof of the fact, the Jew drew forth two keys from his pocket; and explained, that when he first went downstairs, he had locked them in, to prevent any intrusion on the conference.

This accumulated testimony effectually staggered Mr. Monks. His protestations had gradually become less and less vehement as they proceeded in their search without making any discovery; and, now, he gave vent to several very grim laughs, and confessed it could only have been his excited imagination. He declined any renewal of the conversation, however, for that night: suddenly remembering that it was past one o’clock. And so the amiable couple parted.

Fagin sembrava che avrebbe volentieri evitato di portare un visitatore a casa in quell’ora così poco adatta; e infatti borbottò qualcosa sul fatto che non aveva il fuoco; ma dato che il suo compagno ripeté la richiesta in modo perentorio, sbloccò la porta e gli chiese di chiuderla delicatamente mentre lui andava a prendere una luce.

«È buio come la tomba», disse l’uomo avanzando tastoni di qualche passo. «Sbrigati!»

«Chiudi la porta», sussurrò Fagin dall’estremità del corridoio. Mentre parlava, essa si chiuse con un forte rumore.

“Non è stato colpa mia”, disse l’altro uomo, tastando il terreno. “Il vento lo ha spinto o si è chiuso da solo: uno dei due. Fai attenzione con la luce, altrimenti mi romperò il cranio contro qualcosa in questa maledetta buca.”

Fagin scese furtivamente le scale della cucina. Dopo una breve assenza, tornò con una candela accesa e la notizia che Toby Crackit dormiva nella stanza sul retro al piano di sotto, mentre i ragazzi erano in quella anteriore. Facendo cenno all’uomo di seguirlo, lo condusse al piano superiore.

«Possiamo dire le poche parole che dobbiamo dirci qui dentro, mia cara», disse l’ebreo aprendo una porta al primo piano; «e dato che ci sono delle fessure nelle persiane e non mostriamo mai la luce ai nostri vicini, metteremo la candela sulle scale. Ecco fatto!»

Detto questo, l’ebreo si chinò e posò la candela su un gradino più in alto delle scale, esattamente di fronte alla porta della stanza. Fatto ciò, li condusse nell’appartamento; che era privo di mobili se non per una sedia a sdraio rotta e un vecchio divano senza fodera, che si trovava dietro la porta. Su questo mobile lo straniero si sedette con l’aria di un uomo stanco; e l’ebreo, avvicinando la poltrona di fronte, rimasero così faccia a faccia. Non era ancora buio del tutto; la porta era parzialmente aperta; e la candela all’esterno proiettava una debole luce sulla parete opposta.

Conversarono per qualche tempo sussurrando. Sebbene non si riuscisse a distinguere nulla della conversazione oltre alcune parole disgiunte qua e là, un ascoltatore avrebbe potuto facilmente percepire che Fagin sembrava difendersi contro alcuni commenti dello sconosciuto; e che quest’ultimo era in uno stato di notevole irritazione. Potrebbero aver parlato così per un quarto d’ora o più, quando Monks—nome con cui l’ebreo aveva designato l’uomo strano diverse volte nel corso del loro colloquio—disse, alzando un po’ la voce:

«Ve lo ripeto, è stato pianificato male. Perché non tenerlo qui con gli altri e farne subito un piccolo furfantello piagnucoloso?»

«Solo ascoltatelo!» esclamò l’ebreo alzando le spalle.

«Volete dire che non avreste potuto farlo se lo aveste voluto?» chiese Monks, severamente. «Non l’avete fatto con altri ragazzi decine di volte? Se aveste avuto pazienza per un anno, al massimo, non sareste riuscito a fargli condannare e mandarlo fuori dal regno in tutta sicurezza; forse per sempre?»

«A chi sarebbe stato utile questo, mia cara?» chiese l’ebreo umilmente.

«Mia», rispose Monks.

«Ma non il mio», disse l’ebreo in tono umile. «Avrebbe potuto essermi utile. Quando ci sono due parti in un affare, è solo ragionevole che gli interessi di entrambe vengano presi in considerazione; non trova, mio buon amico?»

“E allora?” chiese Monks.

«Vidi che non era facile addestrarlo al mestiere», rispose l’ebreo, «non era come gli altri ragazzi nelle stesse circostanze.»

“Maledizione, no!” mormorò l’uomo, “altrimenti sarebbe stato un ladro da tempo.”

«Non avevo alcun potere su di lui per renderlo peggiore», continuò l’ebreo, osservando con ansia il volto del suo compagno. «La sua mano non era nel gioco. Non avevo nulla con cui spaventarlo; e questo è sempre necessario all’inizio, altrimenti lavoriamo invano. Cosa potevo fare? Mandarlo fuori con lo Sgambetto e Charley? Abbiamo già avuto abbastanza di quello, in principio, mio caro; tremavo per tutti noi».

«Non sono stato io a fare quello», osservò Monks.

“No, no, mia cara!” riprese l’ebreo. “E non ci litigo adesso; perché se non fosse mai successo, potresti non averlo mai visto e quindi non avresti notato che era lui quello che cercavi. Bene! L’ho riportato a te grazie alla ragazza; e poi lei ha cominciato ad aiutarlo.”

«Fate tacere la ragazza!» disse Monks, impaziente.

«Perché non possiamo permetterci di farlo proprio adesso, mia cara», rispose l’ebreo, sorridendo; «e poi, quel genere di cose non è nel nostro stile; o, un giorno di questi, potrei essere felice di vederlo fatto. So cosa sono queste ragazze, Monks, bene. Non appena il ragazzo inizia a indurirsi, lei non gliene importerà più niente, come se fosse un pezzo di legno. Voi volete che diventi un ladro. Se è vivo, posso farne uno da questo momento; e, se—se—» disse l’ebreo, avvicinandosi all’altro,—«non è probabile, badate bene,—ma se dovesse andare al peggio, e lui fosse morto—»

«Non è colpa mia se lo è!» intervenne l’altro uomo con uno sguardo di terrore e stringendo il braccio dell’ebreo con mani tremanti. «Ricordati questo, Fagin! Non ho avuto parte in questa faccenda. Qualsiasi cosa tranne la sua morte, te l’ho detto fin dall’inizio. Non voglio versare sangue; viene sempre scoperto e poi perseguita un uomo. Se lo hanno fucilato, non sono stato io a causarlo; mi senti? Distruggi questo infernale covo! Che cos’è quello?»

“Che cosa!” gridò l’ebreo, afferrando il codardo intorno al corpo con entrambe le braccia mentre balzava in piedi. “Dove?”

«Laggiù!» rispose l’uomo, fissando la parete opposta. «La ombra! Ho visto l’ombra di una donna con un mantello e un cappellino passare lungo il rivestimento come un soffio!»

Il vecchio ebreo allentò la presa e tutti si precipitarono tumultuosamente fuori dalla stanza. La candela, consumata dall’aria, era ancora al suo posto. Mostrava loro solo le scale vuote e i propri volti pallidi. Ascoltarono attentamente: un profondo silenzio regnava in tutta la casa.

«È la tua fantasia», disse l’ebreo, prendendo la candela e rivolgendosi al suo compagno.

«Giuro di averlo visto!» rispose Monks, tremando. «Era chino in avanti quando l’ho visto per la prima volta; e quando ho parlato, è scappato via.»

L’ebreo lanciò uno sguardo di disprezzo al pallido volto del suo compagno e, dicendogli che poteva seguirlo se voleva, salì le scale. Esaminarono tutte le stanze; erano fredde, spoglie e vuote. Scesero nel corridoio e da lì nelle cantine sottostanti. L’umidità verde si attaccava alle basse pareti; le tracce di lumaca e chiocciole brillavano alla luce della candela; ma tutto era immobile come morte.

“E adesso che cosa ne pensi?” disse l’ebreo quando furono di nuovo nel passaggio. “A parte noi, non c’è anima viva in casa se non Toby e i ragazzi; ma quelli sono al sicuro. Guarda qui!”

A dimostrazione del fatto, l’ebreo estrasse due chiavi dalla tasca e spiegò che quando era sceso per la prima volta al piano terra le aveva chiuse a chiave per impedire qualsiasi intrusione nella riunione.

Questa testimonianza accumulata mise efficacemente in difficoltà il signor Monks. Le sue protestazioni erano diventate gradualmente sempre meno veementi man mano che procedevano nella loro ricerca senza fare alcuna scoperta; e, ora, diede sfogo a diverse risate molto amare, e confessò che poteva essere stata solo la sua immaginazione eccitata. Rifiutò comunque qualsiasi rinnovamento della conversazione per quella notte: ricordando improvvisamente che era passato l’una di notte. E così la coppia amabile si separò.

CHAPTER XXVII. ATONES FOR THE UNPOLITENESS OF A FORMER CHAPTER; WHICH DESERTED A LADY, MOST UNCEREMONIOUSLY

As it would be, by no means, seemly in a humble author to keep so mighty a personage as a beadle waiting, with his back to the fire, and the skirts of his coat gathered up under his arms, until such time as it might suit his pleasure to relieve him; and as it would still less become his station, or his gallantry to involve in the same neglect a lady on whom that beadle had looked with an eye of tenderness and affection, and in whose ear he had whispered sweet words, which, coming from such a quarter, might well thrill the bosom of maid or matron of whatsoever degree; the historian whose pen traces these words—trusting that he knows his place, and that he entertains a becoming reverence for those upon earth to whom high and important authority is delegated—hastens to pay them that respect which their position demands, and to treat them with all that duteous ceremony which their exalted rank, and (by consequence) great virtues, imperatively claim at his hands. Towards this end, indeed, he had purposed to introduce, in this place, a dissertation touching the divine right of beadles, and elucidative of the position, that a beadle can do no wrong: which could not fail to have been both pleasurable and profitable to the right-minded reader but which he is unfortunately compelled, by want of time and space, to postpone to some more convenient and fitting opportunity; on the arrival of which, he will be prepared to show, that a beadle properly constituted: that is to say, a parochial beadle, attached to a parochial workhouse, and attending in his official capacity the parochial church: is, in right and virtue of his office, possessed of all the excellences and best qualities of humanity; and that to none of those excellences, can mere companies’ beadles, or court-of-law beadles, or even chapel-of-ease beadles (save the last, and they in a very lowly and inferior degree), lay the remotest sustainable claim.

Mr. Bumble had re-counted the teaspoons, re-weighed the sugar-tongs, made a closer inspection of the milk-pot, and ascertained to a nicety the exact condition of the furniture, down to the very horse-hair seats of the chairs; and had repeated each process full half a dozen times; before he began to think that it was time for Mrs. Corney to return. Thinking begets thinking; as there were no sounds of Mrs. Corney’s approach, it occured to Mr. Bumble that it would be an innocent and virtuous way of spending the time, if he were further to allay his curiousity by a cursory glance at the interior of Mrs. Corney’s chest of drawers.

Having listened at the keyhole, to assure himself that nobody was approaching the chamber, Mr. Bumble, beginning at the bottom, proceeded to make himself acquainted with the contents of the three long drawers: which, being filled with various garments of good fashion and texture, carefully preserved between two layers of old newspapers, speckled with dried lavender: seemed to yield him exceeding satisfaction. Arriving, in course of time, at the right-hand corner drawer (in which was the key), and beholding therein a small padlocked box, which, being shaken, gave forth a pleasant sound, as of the chinking of coin, Mr. Bumble returned with a stately walk to the fireplace; and, resuming his old attitude, said, with a grave and determined air, “I’ll do it!” He followed up this remarkable declaration, by shaking his head in a waggish manner for ten minutes, as though he were remonstrating with himself for being such a pleasant dog; and then, he took a view of his legs in profile, with much seeming pleasure and interest.

He was still placidly engaged in this latter survey, when Mrs. Corney, hurrying into the room, threw herself, in a breathless state, on a chair by the fireside, and covering her eyes with one hand, placed the other over her heart, and gasped for breath.

“Mrs. Corney,” said Mr. Bumble, stooping over the matron, “what is this, ma’am? Has anything happened, ma’am? Pray answer me: I’m on—on—” Mr. Bumble, in his alarm, could not immediately think of the word “tenterhooks,” so he said “broken bottles.”

“Oh, Mr. Bumble!” cried the lady, “I have been so dreadfully put out!”

“Put out, ma’am!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble; “who has dared to—? I know!” said Mr. Bumble, checking himself, with native majesty, “this is them wicious paupers!”

“It’s dreadful to think of!” said the lady, shuddering.

“Then don’t think of it, ma’am,” rejoined Mr. Bumble.

“I can’t help it,” whimpered the lady.

“Then take something, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble soothingly. “A little of the wine?”

“Not for the world!” replied Mrs. Corney. “I couldn’t,—oh! The top shelf in the right-hand corner—oh!” Uttering these words, the good lady pointed, distractedly, to the cupboard, and underwent a convulsion from internal spasms. Mr. Bumble rushed to the closet; and, snatching a pint green-glass bottle from the shelf thus incoherently indicated, filled a tea-cup with its contents, and held it to the lady’s lips.

“I’m better now,” said Mrs. Corney, falling back, after drinking half of it.

Mr. Bumble raised his eyes piously to the ceiling in thankfulness; and, bringing them down again to the brim of the cup, lifted it to his nose.

“Peppermint,” exclaimed Mrs. Corney, in a faint voice, smiling gently on the beadle as she spoke. “Try it! There’s a little—a little something else in it.”

Mr. Bumble tasted the medicine with a doubtful look; smacked his lips; took another taste; and put the cup down empty.

“It’s very comforting,” said Mrs. Corney.

“Very much so indeed, ma’am,” said the beadle. As he spoke, he drew a chair beside the matron, and tenderly inquired what had happened to distress her.

“Nothing,” replied Mrs. Corney. “I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur.”

“Not weak, ma’am,” retorted Mr. Bumble, drawing his chair a little closer. “Are you a weak creetur, Mrs. Corney?”

CAPITOLO XXVII
FA ESPPIAZIONE PER LA MANCANZA DI CORTESIA DI UN CAPITOLO PRECEDENTE,
CHE ABANDONÒ UNA SIGNORA IN MODO TUTT’ALTRO CHE CERIMONIOSO

Non sarebbe affatto decoroso per un umile autore tenere in attesa una persona così importante come un becchino, con le spalle al fuoco e l’orlo del cappotto raccolto sotto le braccia, fino a quando non gli piacesse di liberarlo; e sarebbe ancora meno degno della sua posizione o della sua galanteria coinvolgere nel medesimo disdegno una signora su cui quel becchino aveva posato uno sguardo tenero e affettuoso, e all’orecchio della quale aveva sussurrato parole dolci che, provenendo da un simile personaggio, avrebbero potuto ben emozionare il cuore di fanciulla o matrona di qualsiasi rango; per cui lo storico la cui penna traccia queste parole — confidando di conoscere il proprio posto e di nutrire un rispetto adeguato per coloro che sulla terra detengono alta e importante autorità delegata — si affretta a rendere loro quel rispetto che la loro posizione richiede, e a trattarli con tutta quella cerimonia dovuta che il loro rango elevato, e (di conseguenza) grandi virtù, gli impongono imperiosamente. A tal fine, infatti, aveva inteso introdurre in questo punto una dissertazione sul diritto divino dei becchini, edificativa della tesi che un becchino non può fare nulla di male: la quale non avrebbe potuto che essere piacevole e proficua per il lettore retto nel pensiero, ma che purtroppo è costretto a rimandare ad un’occasione più conveniente e appropriata per mancanza di tempo e spazio; alla cui venuta sarà pronto a dimostrare che un becchino debitamente costituito: vale a dire, un becchino parrocchiale, addetto a una casa di lavoro parrocchiale e che svolge le sue funzioni ufficiali nella chiesa parrocchiale: è, in virtù del suo incarico, dotato di tutte le eccellenze e le migliori qualità dell’umanità; e che nessuna di queste eccellenze può essere rivendicata da semplici becchini delle compagnie, o becchini di tribunale, o anche becchini delle cappelle facoltative (salvo gli ultimi, e questi in un grado molto umile e inferiore).

Il signor Bumble aveva ricontato i cucchiaini, ripesato le pinze per lo zucchero, fatto un’ispezione più attenta del brocca del latte e accertato con precisione le condizioni esatte dei mobili, fino alle sedie di crine di cavallo; e aveva ripetuto ogni procedura almeno una mezza dozzina di volte; prima di cominciare a pensare che fosse ora per la signora Corney di tornare. Pensare genera pensiero; poiché non si sentivano rumori dell’arrivo della signora Corney, al signor Bumble venne in mente che sarebbe stato un modo innocente e virtuoso di trascorrere il tempo, se avesse ulteriormente placato la sua curiosità con uno sguardo superficiale all’interno del cassettone della signora Corney.

Dopo aver ascoltato alla serratura per assicurarsi che nessuno si avvicinasse alla camera, il signor Bumble, cominciando dal basso, procedette a familiarizzare con i contenuti dei tre lunghi cassetti: i quali, essendo pieni di vari indumenti di buona fattura e tessuto, accuratamente conservati tra due strati di vecchi giornali, costellati di lavanda secca, sembravano dargli un’immensa soddisfazione. Giunto, nel corso del tempo, al cassetto dell’angolo destro (in cui era la chiave), e scorgendovi una piccola scatola chiusa con lucchetto, che, essendo stata scossa, emetteva un suono piacevole, come il tintinnio di monete, il signor Bumble tornò con un’andatura maestosa al caminetto; e, riprendendo la sua vecchia posizione, disse, con aria grave e determinata: «Lo farò!». Seguì a questa notevole dichiarazione scuotendo la testa in modo scherzoso per dieci minuti, come se si rimproverasse di essere un cane così piacevole; e poi, diede uno sguardo alle sue gambe di profilo, con molto apparente piacere e interesse.

Egli era ancora tranquillamente intento in quest’ultima ispezione quando la signora Corney, precipitandosi nella stanza, si lasciò cadere senza fiato su una sedia accanto al caminetto e coprendosi gli occhi con una mano, posò l’altra sul cuore e ansimò per riprendere fiato.

«Signora Corney», disse il signor Bumble, chinandosi sulla matrona, «che cosa è successo, signora? È accaduto qualcosa, signora? La prego di rispondermi: sono su, su, » Il signor Bumble, nel suo allarme, non riusciva a pensare immediatamente alla parola giusta e così disse «bottiglie rotte».

“Oh, signor Bumble!” esclamò la signora, “sono stata così terribilmente turbata!”

«Fuori, signora!» esclamò il signor Bumble; «chi ha osato di,? Lo so!», disse il signor Bumble, frenandosi con la sua innata maestà, «sono quei vili mendicanti!»

«È terribile anche solo pensarci!» disse la signora rabbrividendo.

«Allora non ci pensi, signora», replicò il signor Bumble.

«Non posso farci niente», singhiozzò la signora.

“Prenda qualcosa, signora,” disse il signor Bumble con dolcezza. “Un po’ di vino?”

«Per niente al mondo!» rispose la signora Corney. «Non potrei, oh! Lo scaffale superiore nell’angolo destro, oh!» Pronunciando queste parole, la buona donna indicò distrattamente l’armadio e fu scossa da una convulsione per spasmi interni. Il signor Bumble corse all’armadio; e, afferrando una bottiglia di un litro di vetro verde dallo scaffale così incoerentemente indicato, riempì una tazza da tè con il suo contenuto e la portò alle labbra della signora.

«Mi sento meglio ora», disse la signora Corney, appoggiandosi indietro dopo averne bevuto metà.

Il signor Bumble alzò gli occhi verso il soffitto con devozione per ringraziare e, riportandoli sul bordo della tazza, la portò al naso.

«Menta piperita», esclamò la signora Corney con voce flebile, sorridendo dolcemente al bidello mentre parlava. «Provatela! C’è un po’—un po’ di qualcos’altro dentro».

Il signor Bumble assaggiò la medicina con un’aria dubbiosa, si leccò le labbra, ne prese un altro sorso e posò il bicchiere vuoto.

«È molto confortante», disse la signora Corney.

«Molto, signora», disse l’usciere. Mentre parlava, tirò una sedia accanto alla matrona e le chiese con dolcezza cosa fosse successo a turbare la sua serenità.

“Niente”, rispose la signora Corney. “Sono una creatura sciocca, nervosa e debole.”

«Non debole, signora», ribatté il signor Bumble avvicinando un po’ la sedia. «È una creatura debole lei, signora Corney?»

“We are all weak creeturs,” said Mrs. Corney, laying down a general principle.

“So we are,” said the beadle.

Nothing was said on either side, for a minute or two afterwards. By the expiration of that time, Mr. Bumble had illustrated the position by removing his left arm from the back of Mrs. Corney’s chair, where it had previously rested, to Mrs. Corney’s apron-string, round which it gradually became entwined.

“We are all weak creeturs,” said Mr. Bumble.

Mrs. Corney sighed.

“Don’t sigh, Mrs. Corney,” said Mr. Bumble.

“I can’t help it,” said Mrs. Corney. And she sighed again.

“This is a very comfortable room, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble looking round. “Another room, and this, ma’am, would be a complete thing.”

“It would be too much for one,” murmured the lady.

“But not for two, ma’am,” rejoined Mr. Bumble, in soft accents. “Eh, Mrs. Corney?”

Mrs. Corney drooped her head, when the beadle said this; the beadle drooped his, to get a view of Mrs. Corney’s face. Mrs. Corney, with great propriety, turned her head away, and released her hand to get at her pocket-handkerchief; but insensibly replaced it in that of Mr. Bumble.

“The board allows you coals, don’t they, Mrs. Corney?” inquired the beadle, affectionately pressing her hand.

“And candles,” replied Mrs. Corney, slightly returning the pressure.

“Coals, candles, and house-rent free,” said Mr. Bumble. “Oh, Mrs. Corney, what an Angel you are!”

The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She sank into Mr. Bumble’s arms; and that gentleman in his agitation, imprinted a passionate kiss upon her chaste nose.

“Such porochial perfection!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, rapturously. “You know that Mr. Slout is worse tonight, my fascinator?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Corney, bashfully.

“He can’t live a week, the doctor says,” pursued Mr. Bumble. “He is the master of this establishment; his death will cause a wacancy; that wacancy must be filled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this opens! What a opportunity for a jining of hearts and housekeepings!”

Mrs. Corney sobbed.

“The little word?” said Mr. Bumble, bending over the bashful beauty. “The one little, little, little word, my blessed Corney?”

“Ye—ye—yes!” sighed out the matron.

“One more,” pursued the beadle; “compose your darling feelings for only one more. When is it to come off?”

Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak: and twice failed. At length summoning up courage, she threw her arms around Mr. Bumble’s neck, and said, it might be as soon as ever he pleased, and that he was “a irresistible duck.”

Matters being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged, the contract was solemnly ratified in another teacupful of the peppermint mixture; which was rendered the more necessary, by the flutter and agitation of the lady’s spirits. While it was being disposed of, she acquainted Mr. Bumble with the old woman’s decease.

“Very good,” said that gentleman, sipping his peppermint; “I’ll call at Sowerberry’s as I go home, and tell him to send tomorrow morning. Was it that as frightened you, love?”

“It wasn’t anything particular, dear,” said the lady evasively.

“It must have been something, love,” urged Mr. Bumble. “Won’t you tell your own B.?”

“Not now,” rejoined the lady; “one of these days. After we’re married, dear.”

“After we’re married!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble. “It wasn’t any impudence from any of them male paupers as—”

“No, no, love!” interposed the lady, hastily.

“If I thought it was,” continued Mr. Bumble; “if I thought as any one of ’em had dared to lift his wulgar eyes to that lovely countenance—”

“They wouldn’t have dared to do it, love,” responded the lady.

“They had better not!” said Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist. “Let me see any man, porochial or extra-porochial, as would presume to do it; and I can tell him that he wouldn’t do it a second time!”

Unembellished by any violence of gesticulation, this might have seemed no very high compliment to the lady’s charms; but, as Mr. Bumble accompanied the threat with many warlike gestures, she was much touched with this proof of his devotion, and protested, with great admiration, that he was indeed a dove.

The dove then turned up his coat-collar, and put on his cocked hat; and, having exchanged a long and affectionate embrace with his future partner, once again braved the cold wind of the night: merely pausing, for a few minutes, in the male paupers’ ward, to abuse them a little, with the view of satisfying himself that he could fill the office of workhouse-master with needful acerbity. Assured of his qualifications, Mr. Bumble left the building with a light heart, and bright visions of his future promotion: which served to occupy his mind until he reached the shop of the undertaker.

Now, Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry having gone out to tea and supper: and Noah Claypole not being at any time disposed to take upon himself a greater amount of physical exertion than is necessary to a convenient performance of the two functions of eating and drinking, the shop was not closed, although it was past the usual hour of shutting-up. Mr. Bumble tapped with his cane on the counter several times; but, attracting no attention, and beholding a light shining through the glass-window of the little parlour at the back of the shop, he made bold to peep in and see what was going forward; and when he saw what was going forward, he was not a little surprised.

The cloth was laid for supper; the table was covered with bread and butter, plates and glasses; a porter-pot and a wine-bottle. At the upper end of the table, Mr. Noah Claypole lolled negligently in an easy-chair, with his legs thrown over one of the arms: an open clasp-knife in one hand, and a mass of buttered bread in the other. Close beside him stood Charlotte, opening oysters from a barrel: which Mr. Claypole condescended to swallow, with remarkable avidity. A more than ordinary redness in the region of the young gentleman’s nose, and a kind of fixed wink in his right eye, denoted that he was in a slight degree intoxicated; these symptoms were confirmed by the intense relish with which he took his oysters, for which nothing but a strong appreciation of their cooling properties, in cases of internal fever, could have sufficiently accounted.

«Siamo tutti poveri esseri deboli», disse la signora Corney, enunciando un principio generale.

«Così siamo», disse l’ufficiale.

Nessuno parlò per un minuto o due da ambo le parti. Allo scadere di quel tempo, il signor Bumble aveva illustrato la situazione rimuovendo il braccio sinistro dallo schienale della sedia della signora Corney, dove era appoggiato in precedenza, per avvolgerlo gradualmente intorno al fiocco del grembiule della signora Corney.

«Siamo tutti poveri peccatori», disse il signor Bumble.

La signora Corney sospirò.

«Non sospiri, signora Corney», disse il signor Bumble.

«Non posso farci niente», disse la signora Corney. E sospirò di nuovo.

«Questa è una stanza molto confortevole, signora», disse il signor Bumble guardandosi intorno. «Con un’altra stanza, questa sarebbe davvero perfetta».

«Sarebbe troppo per una sola persona», mormorò la signora.

“Ma non per due, signora,” rispose il signor Bumble con voce dolce. “Eh, signora Corney?”

Quando l’usciere disse questo la signora Corney abbassò il capo; l’usciere abbassò il suo per poter vedere il volto della signora Corney. Con grande decoro, la signora Corney girò la testa dall’altra parte e liberò la mano per prendere il fazzoletto; ma senza accorgersene la rimise in quella del signor Bumble.

«Il consiglio vi concede il carbone, non è così, signora Corney?» chiese l’impiegato comunale stringendole affettuosamente la mano.

«E le candele», rispose la signora Corney restituendo leggermente la pressione.

«Carbone, candele e affitto della casa gratis», disse il signor Bumble. «Oh, signora Corney, che Angelo è lei!»

La signora non resistette a questa esplosione di sentimento. Si abbandonò tra le braccia del signor Bumble e quest’ultimo, nella sua agitazione, stampò un appassionato bacio sul suo casto nasino.

«Tale perfezione parrocchiale!» esclamò rapito il signor Bumble. «Sapete che il signor Slout è peggiorato questa sera, mia cara?»

«Sì», rispose la signora Corney con timidezza.

«Non può vivere una settimana, dice il dottore», proseguì il signor Bumble. «È il padrone di questo istituto; la sua morte causerà una vacanza; quella vacanza deve essere colmata. Oh, signora Corney, quale prospettiva si apre! Quale opportunità per un’unione di cuori e di economie domestiche!»

La signora Corney singhiozzò.

«La parolina?» disse il signor Bumble, chinandosi sulla timida bellezza. «Quella piccola, piccolissima parolina, mio benedetto Corney?»

«Sì-sì-sì!» sospirò la matrona.

«Un altro», proseguì l’impiegato della parrocchia «dominate i vostri cari sentimenti per un solo altro. Quando avverrà?»

La signora Corney tentò due volte di parlare: e due volte fallì. Alla fine, facendo appello al coraggio, gli gettò le braccia al collo e disse che poteva essere presto come voleva lui, e che era “un’anatra irresistibile”.

Le cose essendo così amichevolmente e soddisfacentemente disposte, il contratto fu solennemente ratificato in un’altra tazza di tè col miscuglio alla menta piperita; che divenne tanto più necessario, per il tremito e l’agitazione degli spiriti della signora. Mentre veniva consumato, ella informò il signor Bumble del decesso della vecchia.

«Molto bene», disse il signore, sorseggiando la sua menta piperita; «farò un salto da Sowerberry mentre torno a casa, e gli dirò di mandarla domattina. È stato quello che l’ha spaventata, tesoro?»

«Non era niente di particolare, caro», disse la signora in modo vago.

“Dov’essere qualcosa, amore”, insistette il signor Bumble, “non vuoi dirlo al tuo B.?”.

“Non ora,” replicò la signora; “uno di questi giorni. Dopo che saremo sposati, caro.”

«Dopo che ci saremo sposati!» esclamò il signor Bumble. «Non era una presunzione di nessuno di quei poveri maschi, come, »

“Niente affatto, niente affatto, amore!”, intervenne la signora in tutta fretta.

«Se lo pensassi», continuò il signor Bumble, «se pensassi che uno di loro abbia osato alzare i suoi occhi volgari su quel viso incantevole, »

“Non avrebbero osato farlo, amore”, rispose la signora.

«Farebbero meglio di no!» disse il signor Bumble serrando il pugno. «Che io veda un uomo, parrocchiale o extra-parrocchiale che sia, che osi farlo; e posso dirgli che non lo rifarà una seconda volta!»

Senza l’accompagnamento di alcun gesto violento, ciò avrebbe potuto sembrare un complimento non molto entusiasta per i fascino della signora; ma poiché il signor Bumble accompagnò la minaccia con molti gesti guerreschi, ella ne fu profondamente commossa da questa prova del suo affetto e protestò, ammirata, che egli era davvero una colomba.

La colomba si alzò allora il bavero del cappotto e mise su il suo tricorno; e, dopo essersi scambiato un lungo e affettuoso abbraccio con la sua futura sposa, una volta di più sfidò il freddo vento della notte: fermandosi solo, per qualche minuto, nel reparto dei poveri maschi, per insultarli un po’, con l’intento di assicurarsi che potesse ricoprire la carica di direttore del lavoro con la necessaria asprezza. Assicuratasi delle sue qualifiche, il signor Bumble lasciò l’edificio con il cuore leggero e luminose visioni della sua futura promozione: che servirono a occupare la sua mente fino a quando non raggiunse la bottega del becchino.

Ora che il signor e la signora Sowerberry erano usciti per prendere il tè e cenare, e Noah Claypole non era mai disposto ad affaticarsi più del necessario per svolgere in modo comodo le due funzioni di mangiare e bere, il negozio non fu chiuso, sebbene fosse passata l’ora solita di chiusura. Il signor Bumble batté con il suo bastone sul banco diverse volte; ma, non attirando alcuna attenzione e vedendo una luce che brillava attraverso la finestra di vetro del piccolo salotto sul retro del negozio, si permise di dare un’occhiata per vedere cosa stesse succedendo; e quando vide cosa stava succedendo, rimase non poco sorpreso.

La tovaglia era stata apparecchiata per la cena; il tavolo era coperto di pane e burro, piatti e bicchieri; una brocca di birra scura e una bottiglia di vino. All’estremità superiore del tavolo, il signor Noah Claypole si abbandonava con noncuranza in una poltrona, con le gambe appoggiate su uno dei braccioli: un coltellino a serramanico aperto in una mano e una massa di pane imburrato nell’altra. Accanto a lui c’era Charlotte che stava aprendo ostriche da un barile: il signor Claypole si degnò di inghiottirle, con notevole avidità. Una rossore più che ordinario nella zona del naso del giovane gentiluomo e una specie di strizzatina d’occhio fissa nel suo occhio destro, denotavano che era leggermente ubriaco; questi sintomi furono confermati dal gusto intenso con cui mangiava le ostriche, per il quale nulla se non un forte apprezzamento delle loro proprietà rinfrescanti in caso di febbre interna avrebbe potuto essere sufficientemente spiegato.

“Here’s a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!” said Charlotte; “try him, do; only this one.”

“What a delicious thing is a oyster!” remarked Mr. Claypole, after he had swallowed it. “What a pity it is, a number of ’em should ever make you feel uncomfortable; isn’t it, Charlotte?”

“It’s quite a cruelty,” said Charlotte.

“So it is,” acquiesced Mr. Claypole. “An’t yer fond of oysters?”

“Not overmuch,” replied Charlotte. “I like to see you eat ’em, Noah dear, better than eating ’em myself.”

“Lor!” said Noah, reflectively; “how queer!”

“Have another,” said Charlotte. “Here’s one with such a beautiful, delicate beard!”

“I can’t manage any more,” said Noah. “I’m very sorry. Come here, Charlotte, and I’ll kiss yer.”

“What!” said Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room. “Say that again, sir.”

Charlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face in her apron. Mr. Claypole, without making any further change in his position than suffering his legs to reach the ground, gazed at the beadle in drunken terror.

“Say it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!” said Mr. Bumble. “How dare you mention such a thing, sir? And how dare you encourage him, you insolent minx? Kiss her!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, in strong indignation. “Faugh!”

“I didn’t mean to do it!” said Noah, blubbering. “She’s always a-kissing of me, whether I like it, or not.”

“Oh, Noah,” cried Charlotte, reproachfully.

“Yer are; yer know yer are!” retorted Noah. “She’s always a-doin’ of it, Mr. Bumble, sir; she chucks me under the chin, please, sir; and makes all manner of love!”

“Silence!” cried Mr. Bumble, sternly. “Take yourself downstairs, ma’am. Noah, you shut up the shop; say another word till your master comes home, at your peril; and, when he does come home, tell him that Mr. Bumble said he was to send a old woman’s shell after breakfast tomorrow morning. Do you hear sir? Kissing!” cried Mr. Bumble, holding up his hands. “The sin and wickedness of the lower orders in this porochial district is frightful! If Parliament don’t take their abominable courses under consideration, this country’s ruined, and the character of the peasantry gone for ever!” With these words, the beadle strode, with a lofty and gloomy air, from the undertaker’s premises.

And now that we have accompanied him so far on his road home, and have made all necessary preparations for the old woman’s funeral, let us set on foot a few inquires after young Oliver Twist, and ascertain whether he be still lying in the ditch where Toby Crackit left him.

“Ecco un delizioso grassone, caro Noah!” disse Charlotte; “provalo, dai; solo questo.”

«Che cosa deliziosa è un’ ostrica!» osservò il signor Claypole dopo averla inghiottita. «Peccato che una certa quantità di esse ti faccia poi sentire a disagio; non trovi, Charlotte?»

«È una vera crudeltà», disse Carlotta.

“E così è,” acconsentì il signor Claypole. “Non ti piacciono le ostriche?”

«Non troppo», rispose Carlotta. «Mi piace vederti mangiarle, caro Noè, più che mangiarle io stessa».

“Lor!” disse Noah, pensieroso; “che strano!”

“Ne prenda un altro”, disse Carlotta, “questo ha una barba così bella e delicata!”

«Non ce la faccio più», disse Noah. «Mi dispiace molto. Vieni qui, Charlotte, e ti bacerò».

“Che cosa?” disse il signor Bumble, irrompendo nella stanza. “Ripeta, per favore.”

Charlotte lanciò un urlo e si nascose il viso nell’grembiule. Il signor Claypole, senza cambiare ulteriormente la sua posizione se non lasciando che le sue gambe toccassero terra, guardò il becchino con terrore ubriaco.

«Ripetilo, canaglia sfacciata!» disse il signor Bumble. «Come osi accennare a una cosa del genere, signore? E come osi incoraggiarlo, tu, sgualdrina insolente? Baciarla!», esclamò il signor Bumble con forte indignazione. «Bah!»

«Non volevo farlo!» disse Noah, piagnucolando. «Mi sta sempre a baciare, che mi piaccia o no».

«Oh, Noè», esclamò Charlotte rimproverandolo.

«Lo sei; lo sai che lo sei!» ribatté Noah. «Fa sempre così, signor Bumble; mi dà delle pacche sotto il mento, per favore, signore; e fa di tutto per dimostrare affetto!»

«Silenzio!», gridò il signor Bumble con severità. «Scenda di sotto, signora. Noè, tu chiudi la bottega; se dici un’altra parola prima che arrivi tuo padrone a casa, sulla tua testa ricada l’onta; e quando verrà a casa, digli che il signor Bumble ha detto di mandare una conchiglia da vecchia dopo colazione domani mattina. Mi hai sentito, giovanotto? Baciarsi!», gridò il signor Bumble alzando le mani. «Il peccato e la malvagità dei ceti inferiori in questo distretto parrocchiale sono spaventosi! Se il Parlamento non prende in considerazione i loro abominevoli comportamenti, questo paese è rovinato, e il carattere dei contadini sarà perduto per sempre!» Con queste parole, l’ufficiale si allontanò con aria altezzosa e cupa dagli uffici del becchino.

E ora che lo abbiamo accompagnato fin qui sulla sua strada verso casa, e abbiamo fatto tutti i preparativi necessari per il funerale della vecchia, facciamo qualche indagine su giovane Oliver Twist e scopriamo se è ancora sdraiato nel fosso dove Toby Crackit lo ha lasciato.

CHAPTER XXVIII. LOOKS AFTER OLIVER, AND PROCEEDS WITH HIS ADVENTURES

“Wolves tear your throats!” muttered Sikes, grinding his teeth. “I wish I was among some of you; you’d howl the hoarser for it.”

As Sikes growled forth this imprecation, with the most desperate ferocity that his desperate nature was capable of, he rested the body of the wounded boy across his bended knee; and turned his head, for an instant, to look back at his pursuers.

There was little to be made out, in the mist and darkness; but the loud shouting of men vibrated through the air, and the barking of the neighbouring dogs, roused by the sound of the alarm bell, resounded in every direction.

“Stop, you white-livered hound!” cried the robber, shouting after Toby Crackit, who, making the best use of his long legs, was already ahead. “Stop!”

The repetition of the word, brought Toby to a dead stand-still. For he was not quite satisfied that he was beyond the range of pistol-shot; and Sikes was in no mood to be played with.

“Bear a hand with the boy,” cried Sikes, beckoning furiously to his confederate. “Come back!”

Toby made a show of returning; but ventured, in a low voice, broken for want of breath, to intimate considerable reluctance as he came slowly along.

“Quicker!” cried Sikes, laying the boy in a dry ditch at his feet, and drawing a pistol from his pocket. “Don’t play booty with me.”

At this moment the noise grew louder. Sikes, again looking round, could discern that the men who had given chase were already climbing the gate of the field in which he stood; and that a couple of dogs were some paces in advance of them.

“It’s all up, Bill!” cried Toby; “drop the kid, and show ’em your heels.” With this parting advice, Mr. Crackit, preferring the chance of being shot by his friend, to the certainty of being taken by his enemies, fairly turned tail, and darted off at full speed. Sikes clenched his teeth; took one look around; threw over the prostrate form of Oliver, the cape in which he had been hurriedly muffled; ran along the front of the hedge, as if to distract the attention of those behind, from the spot where the boy lay; paused, for a second, before another hedge which met it at right angles; and whirling his pistol high into the air, cleared it at a bound, and was gone.

“Ho, ho, there!” cried a tremulous voice in the rear. “Pincher! Neptune! Come here, come here!”

The dogs, who, in common with their masters, seemed to have no particular relish for the sport in which they were engaged, readily answered to the command. Three men, who had by this time advanced some distance into the field, stopped to take counsel together.

“My advice, or, leastways, I should say, my orders, is,” said the fattest man of the party, “that we ’mediately go home again.”

“I am agreeable to anything which is agreeable to Mr. Giles,” said a shorter man; who was by no means of a slim figure, and who was very pale in the face, and very polite: as frightened men frequently are.

“I shouldn’t wish to appear ill-mannered, gentlemen,” said the third, who had called the dogs back, “Mr. Giles ought to know.”

“Certainly,” replied the shorter man; “and whatever Mr. Giles says, it isn’t our place to contradict him. No, no, I know my sitiwation! Thank my stars, I know my sitiwation.” To tell the truth, the little man did seem to know his situation, and to know perfectly well that it was by no means a desirable one; for his teeth chattered in his head as he spoke.

“You are afraid, Brittles,” said Mr. Giles.

“I an’t,” said Brittles.

“You are,” said Giles.

“You’re a falsehood, Mr. Giles,” said Brittles.

“You’re a lie, Brittles,” said Mr. Giles.

Now, these four retorts arose from Mr. Giles’s taunt; and Mr. Giles’s taunt had arisen from his indignation at having the responsibility of going home again, imposed upon himself under cover of a compliment. The third man brought the dispute to a close, most philosophically.

“I’ll tell you what it is, gentlemen,” said he, “we’re all afraid.”

“Speak for yourself, sir,” said Mr. Giles, who was the palest of the party.

“So I do,” replied the man. “It’s natural and proper to be afraid, under such circumstances. I am.”

“So am I,” said Brittles; “only there’s no call to tell a man he is, so bounceably.”

These frank admissions softened Mr. Giles, who at once owned that he was afraid; upon which, they all three faced about, and ran back again with the completest unanimity, until Mr. Giles (who had the shortest wind of the party, as was encumbered with a pitchfork) most handsomely insisted on stopping, to make an apology for his hastiness of speech.

“But it’s wonderful,” said Mr. Giles, when he had explained, “what a man will do, when his blood is up. I should have committed murder—I know I should—if we’d caught one of them rascals.”

As the other two were impressed with a similar presentiment; and as their blood, like his, had all gone down again; some speculation ensued upon the cause of this sudden change in their temperament.

“I know what it was,” said Mr. Giles; “it was the gate.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if it was,” exclaimed Brittles, catching at the idea.

“You may depend upon it,” said Giles, “that that gate stopped the flow of the excitement. I felt all mine suddenly going away, as I was climbing over it.”

By a remarkable coincidence, the other two had been visited with the same unpleasant sensation at that precise moment. It was quite obvious, therefore, that it was the gate; especially as there was no doubt regarding the time at which the change had taken place, because all three remembered that they had come in sight of the robbers at the instant of its occurance.

This dialogue was held between the two men who had surprised the burglars, and a travelling tinker who had been sleeping in an outhouse, and who had been roused, together with his two mongrel curs, to join in the pursuit. Mr. Giles acted in the double capacity of butler and steward to the old lady of the mansion; Brittles was a lad of all-work: who, having entered her service a mere child, was treated as a promising young boy still, though he was something past thirty.

CAPITOLO VENTOTTESIMO. SI PREOCCUPA DI OLIVER E PROSEGUE LE SUE AVventure

«Che i lupi vi strappino la gola!» borbottò Sikes digrignando i denti. «Vorrei essere tra voi, e allora sì che ululereste più forte».

Mentre Sikes ringhiava questa imprecazione con la più disperata ferocia di cui fosse capace la sua disperata natura, appoggiò il corpo del ragazzo ferito sul suo ginocchio piegato e, per un istante, girò la testa per guardare indietro verso i suoi inseguitori.

Nella nebbia e nell’oscurità c’era poco da vedere; ma le forti grida degli uomini vibravano nell’aria, e l’abbaiare dei cani vicini, svegliati dal suono della campana d’allarme, risuonava in ogni direzione.

«Fermati, cane codardo!» gridò il bandito, inseguendo Toby Crackit che, sfruttando al meglio le sue lunghe gambe, era già in vantaggio. «Fermati!»

La ripetizione della parola fece fermare Toby di colpo. Perché non era del tutto sicuro che fosse al sicuro dalla portata dello sparo di una pistola; e Sikes non aveva alcuna intenzione di farsi prendere in giro.

«Aiutami con quel ragazzo», gridò Sikes, facendo segni frenetici al suo complice. «Torna indietro!»

Toby fece mostra di tornare indietro, ma si permise, con voce bassa e spezzata per la mancanza di fiato, di esprimere una notevole riluttanza mentre avanzava lentamente.

«Più veloce!» gridò Sikes, deposto il ragazzo in un fosso asciutto ai suoi piedi e estratto un pistole dalla tasca. «Non fare lo scemo con me.»

In quel momento il rumore si fece più forte. Sikes, guardandosi di nuovo intorno, poté vedere che gli uomini che lo avevano inseguìto stavano già arrampicandosi sul cancello del campo in cui si trovava; e che un paio di cani erano qualche passo davanti a loro.

«È finita, Bill!» gridò Toby «lascia il ragazzo e mostragli i talloni». Con questo consiglio di addio, Mr. Crackit, preferendo la possibilità di essere ucciso dal suo amico alla certezza di essere catturato dai suoi nemici, girò le spalle e scappò a tutta velocità. Sikes strinse i denti; diede un’occhiata intorno; gettò via la forma prostrata di Oliver, il cappotto in cui era stato affrettatamente avvolto; corse lungo il fronte della siepe, come se volesse distrarre l’attenzione di chi lo inseguiva dal punto dove giaceva il ragazzo; si fermò per un secondo davanti a un’altra siepe che la incontrava ad angolo retto; e facendo roteare in alto il suo pistola, la superò con un balzo ed era sparito.

«Oh, oh, là!» gridò una voce tremula dal fondo. «Pincher! Nettuno! Venite qui, venite qui!»

I cani, che, come i loro padroni, sembravano non avere un particolare gusto per lo sport in cui erano impegnati, risposero prontamente al comando. Tre uomini, che entro quel momento si erano già spinti a una certa distanza nel campo, si fermarono per consultarsi insieme.

“Il mio consiglio, o meglio ancora, direi i miei ordini è”, disse l’uomo più grasso del gruppo, “che ce ne torniamo immediatamente a casa.”

«Sono d’accordo con tutto ciò che è gradito al signor Giles», disse un uomo più basso; che non aveva affatto una figura snella e che era molto pallido in volto e molto cortese: come spesso sono gli uomini spaventati.

“Non vorrei sembrare scortese, signori”, disse il terzo, che aveva richiamato i cani, “dovrebbe saperlo il signor Giles”.

«Certamente», rispose l’uomo più basso; «e qualunque cosa dica il signor Giles, non sta a noi contraddirlo. No, no, conosco la mia situazione! Ringrazio le mie stelle, conosco la mia situazione». A dire la verità, il piccolo uomo sembrava conoscere la sua situazione e sapere perfettamente bene che non era affatto una desiderabile; perché i suoi denti gli battevano in testa mentre parlava.

«Lei ha paura, Brittles», disse il signor Giles.

«Io non sono», disse Brittles.

«Siete», disse Giles.

«È un impostore, signor Giles», disse Brittles.

«Siete una bugia, Brittles», disse il signor Giles.

Ora, queste quattro repliche erano nate dal sarcasmo del signor Giles; e il sarcasmo del signor Giles era nato dalla sua indignazione per essersi visto imporre la responsabilità di tornare a casa nuovamente sotto copertura di un complimento. Il terzo uomo pose fine alla disputa in modo assai filosofico.

“Vi dirò cosa è, signori,” disse lui, “abbiamo tutti paura.”

«Parli per sé stesso, signore», disse il signor Giles, che era il più pallido del gruppo.

«E così è», rispose l’uomo. «È naturale e giusto aver paura, in circostanze simili. Io ho paura».

“Anch’io lo sono”, disse Brittles; “solo che non c’è bisogno di dirlo a un uomo in modo così, esplosivo.”

Queste sincere ammissioni addolcirono il signor Giles, che subito confessò di essere lui ad avere paura; e allora tutti e tre si girarono e corsero indietro con la più completa unanimità, finché il signor Giles (che aveva il fiato più corto del gruppo, essendo impedito da una forca) insistette con grande eleganza per fermarsi e scusarsi per l’impulsività delle sue parole.

«Ma è meraviglioso», disse il signor Giles quando ebbe spiegato, «ciò che un uomo farà, quando il suo sangue gli monta. Avrei commesso un omicidio - lo so che l’avrei fatto - se avessimo catturato uno di quei furfanti».

Poiché anche gli altri due erano stati colpiti da un simile presagio e poiché il loro sangue, come il suo, era tornato a scorrere normalmente, si cominciò a discutere sulle cause di questo improvviso cambiamento nel loro umore.

“So’ quello che era”, disse il signor Giles, “era il cancello”.

“Non mi sorprenderei se lo fosse”, esclamò Brittles, afferrando l’idea.

«Potete starne certo», disse Giles, «che quel cancello ha fermato il flusso dell’agitazione. Ho sentito che la mia se ne andava tutta d’un tratto mentre lo stavo scavalcando».

Per una straordinaria coincidenza, gli altri due avevano provato la stessa spiacevole sensazione proprio in quel preciso momento. Era quindi evidente che si trattava del cancello; specialmente perché non c’era alcun dubbio riguardo al tempo in cui era avvenuto il cambiamento, dato che tutti e tre ricordavano di aver intravisto i ladri nel momento stesso della sua occorrenza.

Questo dialogo ebbe luogo tra i due uomini che avevano sorpreso i ladri e un fabbro ambulante che dormiva in una dependance e che era stato svegliato insieme ai suoi due cani bastardi per partecipare all’inseguimento. Il signor Giles svolgeva la doppia funzione di maggiordomo e intendente della vecchia signora del maniero; Brittles era un ragazzo tuttofare che, essendo entrato al suo servizio ancora bambino, veniva trattato come un giovane promettente nonostante avesse superato i trent’anni.

Encouraging each other with such converse as this; but, keeping very close together, notwithstanding, and looking apprehensively round, whenever a fresh gust rattled through the boughs; the three men hurried back to a tree, behind which they had left their lantern, lest its light should inform the thieves in what direction to fire. Catching up the light, they made the best of their way home, at a good round trot; and long after their dusky forms had ceased to be discernible, the light might have been seen twinkling and dancing in the distance, like some exhalation of the damp and gloomy atmosphere through which it was swiftly borne.

The air grew colder, as day came slowly on; and the mist rolled along the ground like a dense cloud of smoke. The grass was wet; the pathways, and low places, were all mire and water; the damp breath of an unwholesome wind went languidly by, with a hollow moaning. Still, Oliver lay motionless and insensible on the spot where Sikes had left him.

Morning drew on apace. The air became more sharp and piercing, as its first dull hue—the death of night, rather than the birth of day—glimmered faintly in the sky. The objects which had looked dim and terrible in the darkness, grew more and more defined, and gradually resolved into their familiar shapes. The rain came down, thick and fast, and pattered noisily among the leafless bushes. But, Oliver felt it not, as it beat against him; for he still lay stretched, helpless and unconscious, on his bed of clay.

At length, a low cry of pain broke the stillness that prevailed; and uttering it, the boy awoke. His left arm, rudely bandaged in a shawl, hung heavy and useless at his side; the bandage was saturated with blood. He was so weak, that he could scarcely raise himself into a sitting posture; when he had done so, he looked feebly round for help, and groaned with pain. Trembling in every joint, from cold and exhaustion, he made an effort to stand upright; but, shuddering from head to foot, fell prostrate on the ground.

After a short return of the stupor in which he had been so long plunged, Oliver: urged by a creeping sickness at his heart, which seemed to warn him that if he lay there, he must surely die: got upon his feet, and essayed to walk. His head was dizzy, and he staggered to and fro like a drunken man. But he kept up, nevertheless, and, with his head drooping languidly on his breast, went stumbling onward, he knew not whither.

And now, hosts of bewildering and confused ideas came crowding on his mind. He seemed to be still walking between Sikes and Crackit, who were angrily disputing—for the very words they said, sounded in his ears; and when he caught his own attention, as it were, by making some violent effort to save himself from falling, he found that he was talking to them. Then, he was alone with Sikes, plodding on as on the previous day; and as shadowy people passed them, he felt the robber’s grasp upon his wrist. Suddenly, he started back at the report of firearms; there rose into the air, loud cries and shouts; lights gleamed before his eyes; all was noise and tumult, as some unseen hand bore him hurriedly away. Through all these rapid visions, there ran an undefined, uneasy consciousness of pain, which wearied and tormented him incessantly.

Thus he staggered on, creeping, almost mechanically, between the bars of gates, or through hedge-gaps as they came in his way, until he reached a road. Here the rain began to fall so heavily, that it roused him.

He looked about, and saw that at no great distance there was a house, which perhaps he could reach. Pitying his condition, they might have compassion on him; and if they did not, it would be better, he thought, to die near human beings, than in the lonely open fields. He summoned up all his strength for one last trial, and bent his faltering steps towards it.

As he drew nearer to this house, a feeling come over him that he had seen it before. He remembered nothing of its details; but the shape and aspect of the building seemed familiar to him.

That garden wall! On the grass inside, he had fallen on his knees last night, and prayed the two men’s mercy. It was the very house they had attempted to rob.

Oliver felt such fear come over him when he recognised the place, that, for the instant, he forgot the agony of his wound, and thought only of flight. Flight! He could scarcely stand: and if he were in full possession of all the best powers of his slight and youthful frame, whither could he fly? He pushed against the garden-gate; it was unlocked, and swung open on its hinges. He tottered across the lawn; climbed the steps; knocked faintly at the door; and, his whole strength failing him, sunk down against one of the pillars of the little portico.

It happened that about this time, Mr. Giles, Brittles, and the tinker, were recruiting themselves, after the fatigues and terrors of the night, with tea and sundries, in the kitchen. Not that it was Mr. Giles’s habit to admit to too great familiarity the humbler servants: towards whom it was rather his wont to deport himself with a lofty affability, which, while it gratified, could not fail to remind them of his superior position in society. But, death, fires, and burglary, make all men equals; so Mr. Giles sat with his legs stretched out before the kitchen fender, leaning his left arm on the table, while, with his right, he illustrated a circumstantial and minute account of the robbery, to which his hearers (but especially the cook and housemaid, who were of the party) listened with breathless interest.

“It was about half-past two,” said Mr. Giles, “or I wouldn’t swear that it mightn’t have been a little nearer three, when I woke up, and, turning round in my bed, as it might be so, (here Mr. Giles turned round in his chair, and pulled the corner of the table-cloth over him to imitate bed-clothes,) I fancied I heerd a noise.”

Incoraggiandosi a vicenda con conversazioni come questa; ma rimanendo molto uniti e guardandosi intorno con apprensione ogni volta che una nuova raffica faceva tremare i rami, i tre uomini si affrettarono verso un albero dietro il quale avevano lasciato la loro lanterna, per evitare che la sua luce potesse indicare ai ladri in quale direzione sparare. Afferrata la luce, si misero a correre verso casa con un buon trotto; e molto tempo dopo che le loro forme scure non furono più visibili, la luce poteva ancora essere vista lampeggiare e danzare in lontananza, come qualche esalazione dell’atmosfera umida e tetra attraverso cui si muoveva rapidamente.

L’aria si fece più fredda man mano che il giorno sorgeva lentamente; e la nebbia rotolava lungo il terreno come una densa nuvola di fumo. L’erba era bagnata; i sentieri, e le zone basse, erano tutti fango e acqua; il respiro umido di un vento malsano passò languidamente accanto a lui con un lamento vuoto. Tuttavia, Oliver giaceva immobile e insensibile nel punto in cui Sikes lo aveva lasciato.

La mattina avanzava rapidamente. L’aria diventava più pungente e penetrante, mentre il suo primo colore opaco — la morte della notte, piuttosto che la nascita del giorno — brillava debolmente nel cielo. Gli oggetti che avevano un aspetto scuro e spaventoso nell’oscurità, diventavano sempre più definiti e gradualmente si trasformavano nelle loro forme familiari. La pioggia cadeva fitta e veloce, tamburellando rumorosamente tra i cespugli senza foglie. Ma Oliver non la sentiva mentre lo colpiva; perché giaceva ancora disteso, impotente e incosciente, sul suo letto di argilla.

Alla fine un debole grido di dolore ruppe il silenzio che regnava; e mentre lo emetteva, il ragazzo si svegliò. Il suo braccio sinistro, rudemente bendato con uno scialle, pendeva pesante e inutile lungo il fianco; la benda era intrisa di sangue. Era così debole che a malapena riusciva ad alzarsi fino alla posizione seduta; fatto ciò, guardò debolmente intorno in cerca d’aiuto e gemette per il dolore. Tremante in ogni articolazione, per il freddo e la stanchezza, fece uno sforzo per rimettersi in piedi; ma, rabbrividendo dalla testa ai piedi, cadde a terra esanime.

Dopo un breve ritorno allo stupore in cui era stato immerso per tanto tempo, Oliver, spinto da una sensazione di malessere che gli strisciava nel cuore e sembrava avvertirlo che se fosse rimasto lì sarebbe morto, si alzò in piedi e tentò di camminare. Aveva la testa che girava ed oscillava avanti e indietro come un ubriaco. Nonostante ciò, continuò a muoversi, con il capo che gli pendeva languidamente sul petto, inciampando in avanti senza sapere dove andasse.

E ora una moltitudine di idee sconcertanti e confuse si affollava nella sua mente. Gli sembrava ancora di camminare tra Sikes e Crackit, che stavano discutendo animatamente, perché le parole stesse che dicevano gli risuonavano nelle orecchie; e quando catturava la propria attenzione, come se fosse, facendo uno sforzo violento per evitare di cadere, scopriva che stava parlando con loro. Poi era solo con Sikes, procedendo a fatica come il giorno precedente; e mentre persone ombrose li superavano, sentiva la presa del bandito sul suo polso. All’improvviso, si ritrasse al suono di colpi d’arma da fuoco; là si levarono nell’aria grida e acclamazioni forti; luci gli lampeggiarono davanti agli occhi; tutto era rumore e tumulto, mentre una mano invisibile lo portava via di corsa. Attraverso tutte queste rapide visioni, correva una coscienza indefinita e inquieta del dolore, che lo affaticava e tormentava incessantemente.

Così barcollò avanti, strisciando quasi meccanicamente tra le sbarre dei cancelli o attraverso i varchi nelle siepi che incontrava sul suo cammino, finché non raggiunse una strada. Qui la pioggia cominciò a cadere così fitta da svegliarlo.

Guardò intorno e vide che a poca distanza c’era una casa alla quale forse avrebbe potuto arrivare. Forse, compatendolo per il suo stato, gli avrebbero mostrato compassione; e se non l’avessero fatto, pensava che sarebbe stato meglio morire vicino ad altri esseri umani piuttosto che nei solitari campi aperti. Radunò tutte le sue forze per un ultimo tentativo e diresse i suoi passi vacillanti verso la casa.

Mentre si avvicinava a questa casa, gli venne una sensazione di averla già vista prima. Non ricordava nulla dei suoi dettagli, ma la forma e l’aspetto dell’edificio gli sembravano familiari.

Quel muro del giardino! Sull’erba all’interno, si era inginocchiato la scorsa notte, e aveva pregato per la misericordia dei due uomini. Era proprio quella la casa che avevano tentato di derubare.

Oliver sentì un tale terrore assalirlo quando riconobbe il luogo che, per un istante, dimenticò l’agonia della sua ferita e pensò solo alla fuga. Fuga! A malapena poteva reggersi in piedi: e se fosse stato in pieno possesso di tutte le migliori forze del suo fragile corpo giovanile, dove avrebbe potuto fuggire? Spinse contro il cancello del giardino; era sbloccato e si aprì sui cardini. Vacillò attraverso il prato; salì i gradini; bussò debolmente alla porta; e, con tutte le sue forze che lo abbandonavano, cadde contro uno dei pilastri del piccolo portico.

Accadde che circa in questo periodo, il signor Giles, Brittles e il maniscalco si stavano riprendendo dalle fatiche e dalle paure della notte con tè e altre cose nella cucina. Non che fosse abitudine del signor Giles di ammettere troppa familiarità coi servitori più umili: verso i quali era piuttosto solito comportarsi con una affabilità altezzosa, che li gratificava ma non poteva mancare di ricordare loro la sua posizione superiore nella società. Ma morte, incendi e furti rendono tutti uguali; così il signor Giles sedeva con le gambe distese davanti al parafuoco della cucina, appoggiando il braccio sinistro sul tavolo mentre con quello destro illustrava un resoconto circostanziato e minuzioso del furto, a cui i suoi ascoltatori (ma specialmente la cuoca e la cameriera, che facevano parte della comitiva) ascoltavano con interesse senza fiato.

«Erano circa le due e mezza», disse il signor Giles, «o forse anche un po’ più vicino alle tre, non saprei giurarlo, quando mi svegliai e, girandomi nel letto così (qui il signor Giles si voltò sulla sedia e tirò l’angolo della tovaglia su di sé per imitare le coperte), mi parve di sentire un rumore.»

At this point of the narrative the cook turned pale, and asked the housemaid to shut the door: who asked Brittles, who asked the tinker, who pretended not to hear.

“—Heerd a noise,” continued Mr. Giles. “I says, at first, ‘This is illusion’; and was composing myself off to sleep, when I heerd the noise again, distinct.”

“What sort of a noise?” asked the cook.

“A kind of a busting noise,” replied Mr. Giles, looking round him.

“More like the noise of powdering a iron bar on a nutmeg-grater,” suggested Brittles.

“It was, when you heerd it, sir,” rejoined Mr. Giles; “but, at this time, it had a busting sound. I turned down the clothes”; continued Giles, rolling back the table-cloth, “sat up in bed; and listened.”

The cook and housemaid simultaneously ejaculated “Lor!” and drew their chairs closer together.

“I heerd it now, quite apparent,” resumed Mr. Giles. “‘Somebody,’ I says, ‘is forcing of a door, or window; what’s to be done? I’ll call up that poor lad, Brittles, and save him from being murdered in his bed; or his throat,’ I says, ‘may be cut from his right ear to his left, without his ever knowing it.’”

Here, all eyes were turned upon Brittles, who fixed his upon the speaker, and stared at him, with his mouth wide open, and his face expressive of the most unmitigated horror.

“I tossed off the clothes,” said Giles, throwing away the table-cloth, and looking very hard at the cook and housemaid, “got softly out of bed; drew on a pair of—”

“Ladies present, Mr. Giles,” murmured the tinker.

“—Of shoes, sir,” said Giles, turning upon him, and laying great emphasis on the word; “seized the loaded pistol that always goes upstairs with the plate-basket; and walked on tiptoes to his room. ‘Brittles,’ I says, when I had woke him, ‘don’t be frightened!’”

“So you did,” observed Brittles, in a low voice.

“‘We’re dead men, I think, Brittles,’ I says,” continued Giles; “‘but don’t be frightened.’”

“Was he frightened?” asked the cook.

“Not a bit of it,” replied Mr. Giles. “He was as firm—ah! pretty near as firm as I was.”

“I should have died at once, I’m sure, if it had been me,” observed the housemaid.

“You’re a woman,” retorted Brittles, plucking up a little.

“Brittles is right,” said Mr. Giles, nodding his head, approvingly; “from a woman, nothing else was to be expected. We, being men, took a dark lantern that was standing on Brittle’s hob, and groped our way downstairs in the pitch dark,—as it might be so.”

Mr. Giles had risen from his seat, and taken two steps with his eyes shut, to accompany his description with appropriate action, when he started violently, in common with the rest of the company, and hurried back to his chair. The cook and housemaid screamed.

“It was a knock,” said Mr. Giles, assuming perfect serenity. “Open the door, somebody.”

Nobody moved.

“It seems a strange sort of a thing, a knock coming at such a time in the morning,” said Mr. Giles, surveying the pale faces which surrounded him, and looking very blank himself; “but the door must be opened. Do you hear, somebody?”

Mr. Giles, as he spoke, looked at Brittles; but that young man, being naturally modest, probably considered himself nobody, and so held that the inquiry could not have any application to him; at all events, he tendered no reply. Mr. Giles directed an appealing glance at the tinker; but he had suddenly fallen asleep. The women were out of the question.

“If Brittles would rather open the door, in the presence of witnesses,” said Mr. Giles, after a short silence, “I am ready to make one.”

“So am I,” said the tinker, waking up, as suddenly as he had fallen asleep.

Brittles capitulated on these terms; and the party being somewhat re-assured by the discovery (made on throwing open the shutters) that it was now broad day, took their way upstairs; with the dogs in front. The two women, who were afraid to stay below, brought up the rear. By the advice of Mr. Giles, they all talked very loud, to warn any evil-disposed person outside, that they were strong in numbers; and by a master-stoke of policy, originating in the brain of the same ingenious gentleman, the dogs’ tails were well pinched, in the hall, to make them bark savagely.

These precautions having been taken, Mr. Giles held on fast by the tinker’s arm (to prevent his running away, as he pleasantly said), and gave the word of command to open the door. Brittles obeyed; the group, peeping timorously over each other’s shoulders, beheld no more formidable object than poor little Oliver Twist, speechless and exhausted, who raised his heavy eyes, and mutely solicited their compassion.

“A boy!” exclaimed Mr. Giles, valiantly, pushing the tinker into the background. “What’s the matter with the—eh?—Why—Brittles—look here—don’t you know?”

Brittles, who had got behind the door to open it, no sooner saw Oliver, than he uttered a loud cry. Mr. Giles, seizing the boy by one leg and one arm (fortunately not the broken limb) lugged him straight into the hall, and deposited him at full length on the floor thereof.

“Here he is!” bawled Giles, calling in a state of great excitement, up the staircase; “here’s one of the thieves, ma’am! Here’s a thief, miss! Wounded, miss! I shot him, miss; and Brittles held the light.”

“—In a lantern, miss,” cried Brittles, applying one hand to the side of his mouth, so that his voice might travel the better.

The two women-servants ran upstairs to carry the intelligence that Mr. Giles had captured a robber; and the tinker busied himself in endeavouring to restore Oliver, lest he should die before he could be hanged. In the midst of all this noise and commotion, there was heard a sweet female voice, which quelled it in an instant.

“Giles!” whispered the voice from the stair-head.

“I’m here, miss,” replied Mr. Giles. “Don’t be frightened, miss; I ain’t much injured. He didn’t make a very desperate resistance, miss! I was soon too many for him.”

“Hush!” replied the young lady; “you frighten my aunt as much as the thieves did. Is the poor creature much hurt?”

“Wounded desperate, miss,” replied Giles, with indescribable complacency.

“He looks as if he was a-going, miss,” bawled Brittles, in the same manner as before. “Wouldn’t you like to come and look at him, miss, in case he should?”

“Hush, pray; there’s a good man!” rejoined the lady. “Wait quietly only one instant, while I speak to aunt.”

With a footstep as soft and gentle as the voice, the speaker tripped away. She soon returned, with the direction that the wounded person was to be carried, carefully, upstairs to Mr. Giles’s room; and that Brittles was to saddle the pony and betake himself instantly to Chertsey: from which place, he was to despatch, with all speed, a constable and doctor.

“But won’t you take one look at him, first, miss?” asked Mr. Giles, with as much pride as if Oliver were some bird of rare plumage, that he had skilfully brought down. “Not one little peep, miss?”

“Not now, for the world,” replied the young lady. “Poor fellow! Oh! treat him kindly, Giles for my sake!”

The old servant looked up at the speaker, as she turned away, with a glance as proud and admiring as if she had been his own child. Then, bending over Oliver, he helped to carry him upstairs, with the care and solicitude of a woman.

A questo punto della narrazione la cuoca impallidì e chiese alla domestica di chiudere la porta; che a sua volta lo chiese a Brittles, che lo chiese al maniscalco, il quale fece finta di non sentire.

«Ho sentito un rumore», continuò il signor Giles. «All’inizio ho detto: ‘È solo un’illusione’; e stavo per addormentarmi quando ho sentito di nuovo quel rumore, distintamente».

“Che tipo di rumore?”, chiese la cuoca.

«Una specie di rumore di esplosione», rispose il signor Giles guardandosi intorno.

«Più simile al rumore di polverizzare una sbarra di ferro su un grattugia per noce moscata», suggerì Brittles.

«Era così quando voi l’avete sentito, signore», replicò il signor Giles; «ma a questa ora, aveva un suono di esplosione. Ho tirato giù le coperte»; continuò Giles, arrotolando la tovaglia, «mi sono seduto sul letto e ho ascoltato».

La cuoca e la cameriera esclamarono simultaneamente «Oh!» e avvicinarono le sedie l’una all’altra.

«L’ho sentito adesso, chiaro e tondo», riprese il signor Giles. «“Qualcuno”, dico io, “sta forzando una porta o finestra; che cosa dobbiamo fare? Chiamerò quel povero ragazzo, Brittles, e lo salverò dall’essere assassinato nel suo letto; oppure la sua gola”, dico io, “potrebbe essere tagliata da un orecchio all’altro senza che se ne accorga mai.”»

Qui tutti gli occhi si rivolsero a Brittles che fissò lo sguardo sullo parlatore e lo guardò con la bocca spalancata e il volto espressivo del più sfrenato orrore.

«Mi sono tolto i vestiti», disse Giles buttando via la tovaglia e guardando con molta attenzione la cuoca e la cameriera, «sono sceso piano dal letto; mi sono messo un paio di, »

«Signore presenti, signor Giles», mormorò il maniscalco.

«—Di scarpe, signore», disse Giles, voltandosi verso di lui e ponendo grande enfasi sulla parola; «afferrò la pistola carica che sale sempre le scale insieme al cestino delle posate; e si avviò in punta di piedi verso la sua stanza. ‘Brittles’, gli dissi, dopo averlo svegliato, ‘non avere paura!’»

«E così è stato», osservò Brittles con voce bassa.

«“Siamo uomini morti, credo, Brittles,” dissi io», continuò Giles «ma non aver paura.»

«Era _spaventato?» chiese la cuoca.

“Niente affatto,” rispose il signor Giles. “Era altrettanto fermo, quasi quanto me.”

«Sono sicura che sarei morta subito se fossi stata io», osservò la domestica.

«Lei è una donna», ribatté Brittles riprendendosi un po’.

«Brittles ha ragione», disse il signor Giles, annuendo con approvazione; «da una donna non ci si poteva aspettare altro. Noi, essendo uomini, abbiamo preso la lanterna spenta che era sul focolare di Brittles e ci siamo tastati l’oscurità più nera per scendere al piano terra — come se fosse stato così».

Il signor Giles si era alzato dalla sua sedia e aveva fatto due passi a occhi chiusi per accompagnare la sua descrizione con un’azione appropriata, quando ebbe un sobbalzo violento insieme agli altri presenti e tornò di corsa alla sua sedia. La cuoca e la cameriera urlarono.

“È stato un colpo alla porta”, disse il signor Giles con aria di perfetta tranquillità. “Aprite la porta, qualcuno.”

Nessuno si mosse.

«Sembra una cosa strana, un colpo alla porta a quest’ora del mattino», disse il signor Giles, osservando i volti pallidi che lo circondavano e assumendo lui stesso un’espressione molto perplessa; «ma la porta deve essere aperta. Mi sentite, qualcuno?»

Il signor Giles, mentre parlava, guardò Brittles; ma quel giovane, essendo naturalmente modesto, probabilmente si considerava un nessuno e quindi riteneva che l’indagine non potesse avere alcuna applicazione a lui; in ogni caso, non offrì risposta. Il signor Giles rivolse uno sguardo di appello al maniscalco; ma questi era improvvisamente addormentato. Le donne erano fuori questione.

«Se Brittles preferisce aprire la porta, alla presenza di testimoni», disse il signor Giles dopo un breve silenzio, «sono pronto a farne uno».

«E io pure», disse il maniscalco svegliandosi, all’improvviso come si era addormentato.

Brittles accettò queste condizioni; e il gruppo, rassicurato dalla scoperta (fatta aprendo gli scuri) che era ormai pieno giorno, si diresse al piano superiore con i cani in testa. Le due donne, che avevano paura di rimanere al pianterreno, chiudevano la fila. Su consiglio del signor Giles, tutti parlavano a voce molto alta per avvertire eventuali persone male intenzionate all’esterno che erano numerosi; e con un colpo di genio politico, nato nella mente dello stesso ingegnoso gentiluomo, le code dei cani furono pizzicate ben bene nell’atrio per farli abbaiare ferocemente.

Prese queste precauzioni, il signor Giles tenne saldamente il braccio del maniscalco (per impedirgli di scappare, come disse con piacevolezza) e diede l’ordine di aprire la porta. Brittles obbedì; il gruppo, sbirciando timorosamente sopra le spalle degli altri, non vide altro oggetto temibile se non il povero piccolo Oliver Twist, senza parole e esausto, che alzò i suoi occhi pesanti e mutamente sollecitò la loro compassione.

«Un ragazzo!» esclamò il signor Giles con coraggio, spingendo l’artigiano in secondo piano. «Che cosa c’è che non va con, eh?. Perché. Brittles, guardate qui, non lo sapete?»

Brittles, che si era messo dietro la porta per aprirla, non appena vide Oliver, emise un forte grido. Il signor Giles, afferrando il ragazzo per una gamba e un braccio (per fortuna non quello rotto) lo trascinò dritto nella sala e lo depositò a tutta lunghezza sul pavimento di essa.

«Eccolo qui!» gridò Giles, chiamando in uno stato di grande eccitazione su per le scale; «ecco uno dei ladri, signora! Ecco un ladro, signorina! Ferito, signorina! L’ho sparato io, signorina; e Brittles ha tenuto la luce.»

«In una lanterna, signorina», gridò Brittles, portando una mano alla bocca per far risuonare meglio la voce.

Le due donne di servizio corsero al piano superiore per portare la notizia che il signor Giles aveva catturato un ladro; e il maniscalco si mise all’opera nel tentativo di rianimare Oliver, affinché non morisse prima di poter essere impiccato. In mezzo a tutto questo rumore e trambusto, si udì una dolce voce femminile che lo soffocò in un istante.

«Giles!» sussurrò la voce dalla sommità delle scale.

«Sono qui, signorina», rispose il signor Giles. «Non abbia paura, signorina; non sono molto ferito. Non ha opposto una resistenza disperata, signorina! Ben presto l’ho sopraffatto».

«Ssst!» rispose la giovane signora «la spaventate tanto quanto hanno fatto i ladri. La poveretta è molto ferita?»

«Ferito disperatamente, signorina», rispose Giles con un’indescrivibile compiacenza.

«Ha l’aria di voler partire, signorina», gridò Brittles nello stesso modo del precedente «Non vorrebbe venire a dargli un’occhiata, nel caso che ci fosse?»

«Zitto, per favore; sii gentile!» rispose la signora. «Aspetta tranquillo solo un istante mentre parlo con zia.»

Con un passo altrettanto soave e gentile della voce, la parlante si allontanò di corsa. Tornò presto con l’ordine che il ferito fosse trasportato con cura al piano superiore nella stanza del signor Giles; e che Brittles sellasse immediatamente il pony e si recasse senza indugio a Chertsey: da dove avrebbe dovuto inviare, con tutta celerità, un agente di polizia e un medico.

“Ma non vuole prima dargli un’occhiata, signorina?”, chiese il signor Giles, con altrettanto orgoglio come se Oliver fosse qualche uccello di rara piumatura che lui avesse sapientemente abbattuto. “Nemmeno un piccolo sguardo, signorina?”

«Non ora, per nessun motivo», rispose la giovane signora. «Poveretto! Oh, trattatelo bene, Giles, per amor mio!»

La vecchia serva alzò lo sguardo verso chi parlava mentre si allontanava, con uno sguardo orgoglioso e ammirato come se fosse stata la sua stessa figlia. Poi, chinandosi su Oliver, lo aiutò a salire le scale con la cura e l’attenzione di una donna.

CHAPTER XXIX. HAS AN INTRODUCTORY ACCOUNT OF THE INMATES OF THE HOUSE, TO WHICH OLIVER RESORTED

In a handsome room: though its furniture had rather the air of old-fashioned comfort, than of modern elegance: there sat two ladies at a well-spread breakfast-table. Mr. Giles, dressed with scrupulous care in a full suit of black, was in attendance upon them. He had taken his station some half-way between the side-board and the breakfast-table; and, with his body drawn up to its full height, his head thrown back, and inclined the merest trifle on one side, his left leg advanced, and his right hand thrust into his waist-coat, while his left hung down by his side, grasping a waiter, looked like one who laboured under a very agreeable sense of his own merits and importance.

Of the two ladies, one was well advanced in years; but the high-backed oaken chair in which she sat, was not more upright than she. Dressed with the utmost nicety and precision, in a quaint mixture of by-gone costume, with some slight concessions to the prevailing taste, which rather served to point the old style pleasantly than to impair its effect, she sat, in a stately manner, with her hands folded on the table before her. Her eyes (and age had dimmed but little of their brightness) were attentively upon her young companion.

The younger lady was in the lovely bloom and spring-time of womanhood; at that age, when, if ever angels be for God’s good purposes enthroned in mortal forms, they may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in such as hers.

She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould; so mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, nor its rough creatures her fit companions. The very intelligence that shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon her noble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of the world; and yet the changing expression of sweetness and good humour, the thousand lights that played about the face, and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside peace and happiness.

She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her.

“And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?” asked the old lady, after a pause.

“An hour and twelve minutes, ma’am,” replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon.

“He is always slow,” remarked the old lady.

“Brittles always was a slow boy, ma’am,” replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one.

“He gets worse instead of better, I think,” said the elder lady.

“It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys,” said the young lady, smiling.

Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a respectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate: out of which there jumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door: and who, getting quickly into the house by some mysterious process, burst into the room, and nearly overturned Mr. Giles and the breakfast-table together.

“I never heard of such a thing!” exclaimed the fat gentleman. “My dear Mrs. Maylie—bless my soul—in the silence of the night, too—I never heard of such a thing!”

With these expressions of condolence, the fat gentleman shook hands with both ladies, and drawing up a chair, inquired how they found themselves.

“You ought to be dead; positively dead with the fright,” said the fat gentleman. “Why didn’t you send? Bless me, my man should have come in a minute; and so would I; and my assistant would have been delighted; or anybody, I’m sure, under such circumstances. Dear, dear! So unexpected! In the silence of the night, too!”

The doctor seemed especially troubled by the fact of the robbery having been unexpected, and attempted in the night-time; as if it were the established custom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact business at noon, and to make an appointment, by post, a day or two previous.

“And you, Miss Rose,” said the doctor, turning to the young lady, “I—”

“Oh! very much so, indeed,” said Rose, interrupting him; “but there is a poor creature upstairs, whom aunt wishes you to see.”

“Ah! to be sure,” replied the doctor, “so there is. That was your handiwork, Giles, I understand.”

Mr. Giles, who had been feverishly putting the tea-cups to rights, blushed very red, and said that he had had that honour.

“Honour, eh?” said the doctor; “well, I don’t know; perhaps it’s as honourable to hit a thief in a back kitchen, as to hit your man at twelve paces. Fancy that he fired in the air, and you’ve fought a duel, Giles.”

Mr. Giles, who thought this light treatment of the matter an unjust attempt at diminishing his glory, answered respectfully, that it was not for the like of him to judge about that; but he rather thought it was no joke to the opposite party.

“Gad, that’s true!” said the doctor. “Where is he? Show me the way. I’ll look in again, as I come down, Mrs. Maylie. That’s the little window that he got in at, eh? Well, I couldn’t have believed it!”

Talking all the way, he followed Mr. Giles upstairs; and while he is going upstairs, the reader may be informed, that Mr. Losberne, a surgeon in the neighbourhood, known through a circuit of ten miles round as “the doctor,” had grown fat, more from good-humour than from good living: and was as kind and hearty, and withal as eccentric an old bachelor, as will be found in five times that space, by any explorer alive.

The doctor was absent, much longer than either he or the ladies had anticipated. A large flat box was fetched out of the gig; and a bedroom bell was rung very often; and the servants ran up and down stairs perpetually; from which tokens it was justly concluded that something important was going on above. At length he returned; and in reply to an anxious inquiry after his patient; looked very mysterious, and closed the door, carefully.

“This is a very extraordinary thing, Mrs. Maylie,” said the doctor, standing with his back to the door, as if to keep it shut.

“He is not in danger, I hope?” said the old lady.

“Why, that would not be an extraordinary thing, under the circumstances,” replied the doctor; “though I don’t think he is. Have you seen the thief?”

“No,” rejoined the old lady.

“Nor heard anything about him?”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” interposed Mr. Giles; “but I was going to tell you about him when Doctor Losberne came in.”

The fact was, that Mr. Giles had not, at first, been able to bring his mind to the avowal, that he had only shot a boy. Such commendations had been bestowed upon his bravery, that he could not, for the life of him, help postponing the explanation for a few delicious minutes; during which he had flourished, in the very zenith of a brief reputation for undaunted courage.

“Rose wished to see the man,” said Mrs. Maylie, “but I wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Humph!” rejoined the doctor. “There is nothing very alarming in his appearance. Have you any objection to see him in my presence?”

“If it be necessary,” replied the old lady, “certainly not.”

“Then I think it is necessary,” said the doctor; “at all events, I am quite sure that you would deeply regret not having done so, if you postponed it. He is perfectly quiet and comfortable now. Allow me—Miss Rose, will you permit me? Not the slightest fear, I pledge you my honour!”

CAPITOLO XXIX. CONTIENE UNA PRESENTAZIONE DEGLI ABITANTI DELLA CASA A CUI FAVA RIFUGIO OLIVER

In una bella stanza: sebbene i suoi mobili avessero piuttosto l’aria di un comfort all’antica che non di eleganza moderna: sedevano due signore a un tavolo da colazione ben apparecchiato. Il signor Giles, vestito con cura scrupolosa in un completo nero, era al loro servizio. Si era posizionato a metà strada tra la credenza e il tavolo della colazione; e, con il suo corpo tirato su fino alla sua altezza massima, la testa gettata all’indietro e inclinata di un minimo verso un lato, la gamba sinistra in avanti e la mano destra infilata nel panciotto, mentre la sinistra gli pendeva lungo il fianco, stringendo un vassoio, sembrava uno che faticasse sotto una sensazione molto piacevole dei propri meriti e della propria importanza.

Delle due signore, una era ben avanti negli anni; ma la sedia di quercia a schienale alto su cui sedeva non era più eretta di lei. Vestita con la massima cura e precisione, in un singolare miscuglio di costume passato, con qualche piccola concessione al gusto prevalente, che serviva piuttosto a sottolineare gradevolmente lo stile antico che a diminuirne l’effetto, sedeva in modo maestoso, con le mani incrociate sul tavolo davanti a sé. I suoi occhi (e l’età aveva offuscato ben poco della loro luminosità) erano attentamente fissi sulla sua giovane compagna.

La signora più giovane era nel fiore e nella primavera-tempo della donna; a quell’età, quando, se mai gli angeli sono per i buoni propositi di Dio assisi in forme mortali, si può supporre senza empietà che dimorino in una come lei.

Non aveva ancora diciassette anni. Era modellata in una forma così delicata ed esquisita; così mite e gentile; così pura e bella; che la terra non sembrava il suo elemento, né le sue rozze creature i suoi compagni adatti. L’intelligenza stessa che brillava nel suo profondo occhio azzurro, e che era impressa sulla sua nobile testa, sembrava appena del suo età, o del mondo; eppure l’espressione mutevole di dolcezza e buon umore, i mille luci che giocavano sul viso, e non lasciavano alcuna ombra là; soprattutto il sorriso, il sorriso allegro e felice, erano fatti per la Casa, e la pace e la felicità del caminetto.

Ella era intenta nelle piccole faccende della tavola. Per caso alzando gli occhi mentre la signora più anziana la stava osservando, giocò con i suoi capelli semplicemente intrecciati sulla fronte; e gettò nel suo sguardo radioso un’espressione di affetto e ingenua bellezza tale che anche le anime beate avrebbero sorriso a guardarla.

«E Brittles è andato via da più di un’ora, vero?» chiese la vecchia signora dopo una pausa.

«Un’ora e dodici minuti, signora», rispose il signor Giles consultando un orologio d’argento che estrasse da un nastro nero.

«È sempre lento», osservò la vecchia signora.

«Brittles è sempre stato un ragazzo lento, signora», rispose il custode. E dato che, tra l’altro, Brittles era stato un ragazzo lento per oltre trent’anni, non sembrava ci fossero grandi probabilità che diventasse mai un ragazzo svelto.

«Peggiora invece di migliorare, credo», disse la signora più anziana.

«È davvero imperdonabile da parte sua se si ferma a giocare con altri ragazzi», disse la giovane signora sorridendo.

Il signor Giles stava evidentemente considerando la convenienza di concedersi un sorriso rispettoso quando una carrozza si fermò al cancello del giardino: da cui balzò fuori un uomo grasso che corse dritto fino alla porta e, entrato in casa con estrema rapidità attraverso qualche misterioso procedimento, irruppe nella stanza rovesciando quasi il signor Giles insieme al tavolo della colazione.

“Non ho mai sentito niente del genere!” esclamò il signore grasso. “Mia cara signora Maylie, benedica la mia anima — nel silenzio della notte, per giunta! Non ho mai sentito niente del genere!”

Con queste espressioni di cordoglio, il signore grasso strinse la mano ad entrambe le signore e, tirando su una sedia, chiese come si trovassero.

“Dovreste essere morto; positivamente morto per lo spavento”, disse il signore grasso. “Perché non avete mandato a chiamare? Dio mio, il mio domestico sarebbe venuto in un attimo; e così avrei fatto io; e il mio assistente ne sarebbe stato felice; o chiunque altro, sono sicuro, in circostanze simili. Oh, oh! Così imprevisto! Nel silenzio della notte, per giunta!”

Il dottore sembrava particolarmente turbato dal fatto che il furto fosse stato imprevisto e tentato nel notturno-tempo; come se fosse l’usanza consolidata dei gentiluomini nel campo dell’effrazione di svolgere le loro attività a mezzogiorno, e di fissare un appuntamento, per posta, uno o due giorni prima.

“E lei, signorina Rose”, disse il dottore rivolgendosi alla giovane donna, “io, ”

“Sì, davvero!” disse Rosa, interrompendolo; “ma c’è una poveretta di sopra che zia vorrebbe farvi vedere”.

«Ah! certo», rispose il dottore, «è così che stanno le cose. Quel lavoro è stato fatto da te, Giles, se ho capito bene».

Il signor Giles, che era stato febbrilmente a sistemare le tazze da tè, arrossì molto e disse di aver avuto quell’onore.

«Onore, eh?» disse il dottore; «beh, non lo so; forse è altrettanto onorevole colpire un ladro in una cucina di servizio, come colpire qualcuno a dodici passi. Immaginate che abbia sparato in aria e avete combattuto un duello, Giles».

Il signor Giles, che considerava questo trattamento leggero della faccenda un tentativo ingiusto di diminuire la sua gloria, rispose con rispetto che non era per uno come lui giudicare a tale proposito; ma pensava piuttosto che non fosse una barzelletta per l’altra parte.

«Gad, è vero!» disse il dottore. «Dov’è? Mostratemi la strada. Ripasserò a trovarvi quando scendo, signora Maylie. Quella è la piccola finestra da cui è entrato, eh? Beh, non avrei mai creduto una cosa del genere!»

Parlando senza sosta, seguì il signor Giles al piano di sopra; e mentre sta salendo le scale, il lettore può essere informato che il signor Losberne, un chirurgo del vicinato noto in un raggio di dieci miglia intorno come “il dottore”, era diventato grasso più per buonumore che per una buona alimentazione: ed era un vecchio scapolo tanto gentile e cordiale, e al tempo stesso così eccentrico, quanto se ne possa trovare in uno spazio cinque volte maggiore, da parte di qualsiasi esploratore in vita.

Il dottore era assente molto più a lungo di quanto lui o le signore avessero previsto. Una grande scatola piatta fu tirata fuori dalla carrozza; e il campanello della camera da letto suonò spesso; e i domestici correvano continuamente su e giù per le scale; da questi segni si concluse giustamente che qualcosa di importante stava succedendo al piano di sopra. Alla fine tornò; e in risposta a un’ansiosa domanda sul suo paziente, assunse un’espressione molto misteriosa e chiuse la porta con cura.

«Questa è una cosa molto straordinaria, signora Maylie», disse il dottore, fermandosi con la schiena contro la porta, come per tenerla chiusa.

“Non è in pericolo, lo spero?” disse la vecchia signora.

«Perché, in queste circostanze, non sarebbe una cosa straordinaria», rispose il dottore; «anche se non credo che lo sia. Avete visto il ladro?»

«No», ribatté la vecchia signora.

“Né sentito nulla di lui?”

“No.”

«Chiedo scusa, signora», intervenne il signor Giles «ma stavo per parlarvi di lui quando è entrato il dottor Losberne».

Il fatto era che il signor Giles non era stato capace di ammettere subito di aver sparato solo a un ragazzo. Gli erano state rivolte tante lodi per la sua bravura, che proprio non riusciva, per quanto ci provasse, a rinunciare al piacere di rimandare le spiegazioni per qualche delizioso minuto; durante il quale aveva trionfato, nel pieno apogeo di una breve fama di indomito coraggio.

«La signorina Rose desiderava vedere l’uomo», disse la signora Maylie, «ma non ho voluto sentirne parlare».

«Hm!» replicò il dottore. «Non c’è nulla di molto allarmante nel suo aspetto. Avete qualche obiezione a vederlo in mia presenza?»

“Se è necessario,” rispose la vecchia signora, “certamente no.”

«Allora penso che sia necessario», disse il dottore; «in ogni caso, sono sicuro che ne rimarrebbe profondamente pentito se lo rimandasse. Ora è perfettamente tranquillo e a suo agio. Mi permetta — signorina Rose, me lo consente? Nessun timore, glielo assicuro sulla mia parola!»

CHAPTER XXX. 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.”

CAPITOLO XXX. RACCONTA COSA NE PENSARONO I NUOVI VISITATORI DI OLIVER

Con molte assicurazioni loquaci che sarebbero stati piacevolmente sorpresi dall’aspetto del criminale, il dottore passò il braccio della giovane signora sotto uno dei suoi; e offrendo la mano libera alla signora Maylie, li condusse al piano di sopra con molta cerimonia e solennità.

«Ora», disse il dottore sussurrando mentre girava delicatamente la maniglia della porta di una camera da letto, «sentiamo cosa ne pensate di lui. Non si è rasato molto recentemente, ma non ha un aspetto affatto feroce per questo. Aspettate però! Prima lasciate che mi assicuri che sia in condizioni adatte a ricevere visite».

Si fece avanti e guardò nella stanza. Fece cenno di entrare agli uomini che lo accompagnavano, chiuse la porta quando furono dentro; e con delicatezza scostò le tende del letto. Su di esso, al posto dello spietato malvivente dal volto nero che si aspettavano di trovare, giaceva un semplice bambino: provato dal dolore e dall’affaticamento, ed immerso in un profondo sonno. Il suo braccio ferito, bendato e ingessato, era incrociato sul petto; la testa poggiava sull’altro braccio, che a sua volta era parzialmente nascosto dai lunghi capelli che gli cadevano sul cuscino.

Il gentiluomo onesto teneva la tenda in mano e osservava per un minuto o giù di lì, nel silenzio. Mentre stava guardando il paziente così, la giovane signora si avvicinò silenziosamente e sedendosi su una sedia accanto al letto, scostò i capelli dal viso di Oliver. Mentre si chinava su di lui, le sue lacrime caddero sulla sua fronte.

Il ragazzo si mosse e sorrise nel suo sonno, come se quei segni di pietà e compassione avessero risvegliato qualche piacevole sogno d’un amore e affetto che non aveva mai conosciuto. Così, una melodia di musica gentile, o il mormorio dell’acqua in un luogo silenzioso, o l’odore di un fiore, o la menzione d’una parola familiare, talvolta evocano improvvisi e vaghi ricordi di scene che non sono mai esistite, in questa vita; che svaniscono come un soffio; a cui sembra aver dato origine qualche breve ricordo d’un’esistenza più felice, ormai lontana nel tempo; e che nessuno sforzo volontario della mente può mai richiamare.

“Che cosa può significare tutto questo?” esclamò la signora più anziana. “Questa povera bambina non può mai essere stata allieva di ladri!”

«La Vice», disse il chirurgo, riabbassando la tenda, «ha preso dimora in molti templi; e chi può dire che un’apparenza gentile non possa nasconderla?»

«Ma a un’età così tenera!» insistette Rose.

“Mia cara giovane signora,” rispose il chirurgo scuotendo tristemente la testa, “il crimine, come morte, non è prerogativa esclusiva dei vecchi e degli avvizziti soli. Le vittime più spesso scelte sono le più giovani e le più belle.”

“Ma voi potete — oh! potete davvero credere che questo ragazzo delicato sia stato il compagno volontario dei peggiori fuorilegge della società?”, disse Rose.

Il chirurgo scosse la testa, con un gesto che lasciava intendere che temeva fosse molto probabile; e osservando che avrebbero potuto disturbare il paziente, li condusse in una stanza attigua.

«Ma anche se è stato cattivo», continuò Rosa, «pensate a quanto sia giovane; pensate che forse non ha mai conosciuto l’amore di una madre, o il conforto di una casa; che maltrattamenti e percosse, o la mancanza di pane, possono averlo spinto a vivere in mezzo a uomini che lo hanno costretto alla colpa. Zia, cara zia, per l’amor di Dio, pensateci prima di lasciare che trascinino questo povero ragazzo malato in una prigione, che comunque sarebbe la tomba di ogni sua possibilità di emendamento. Oh! se mi amate e sapete che non ho mai sentito la mancanza dei genitori grazie alla vostra bontà e affetto, ma che avrei potuto farlo, e sarei stata altrettanto indifesa e senza protezione come questo povero ragazzo, abbiate pietà di lui prima che sia troppo tardi!»

“Mia cara amore”, disse la signora più anziana mentre stringeva al seno la ragazza in lacrime, “pensi che io gli farei del male anche solo a un capello della sua testa?”

“Oh, no!”, rispose Rose con vivacità.

“No, certamente”, disse la vecchia signora; “i miei giorni stanno volgendo al termine: e possa essere mostrata a me misericordia come io la mostro agli altri! Cosa posso fare per salvarlo, signore?”

“Permettetemi di riflettere, signora,” disse il dottore; “permettetemi di riflettere.”

Il signor Losberne si mise le mani in tasca e fece parecchi giri su e giù per la stanza; spesso si fermava, bilanciandosi sulle punte dei piedi e aggrottando terribilmente la fronte. Dopo varie esclamazioni di “Ora l’ho trovata” e “no, non è così”, e altrettanti ripetuti giri a testa bassa, alla fine si fermò del tutto e parlò come segue:

«Penso che se mi date pieni e illimitati poteri per fare il prepotente con Giles, e quel ragazzino, Brittles, posso cavarmela. So che Giles è un uomo fedele e un vecchio servitore; ma gli potete compensare in mille modi, e ricompensarlo anche per essere stato così bravo a sparare. Non ci sono obiezioni?»

«A meno che non ci sia un altro modo di salvare il bambino», rispose la signora Maylie.

“Non ce n’è un altro,” disse il dottore. “Nessun altro, credetemi.”

«Allora mia zia vi conferisce pieni poteri», disse Rose, sorridendo tra le lacrime; «ma per favore non siate più duri con i poveretti di quanto sia indispensabilmente necessario.»

«Sembra che tu pensi», ribatté il dottore, «che tutti oggi siano disposti ad avere un cuore di pietra, tranne te, signorina Rose. Spero solo, per il bene del sesso maschile in generale, che tu possa trovarti in uno stato d’animo altrettanto vulnerabile e tenero con il primo giovane idoneo che faccia appello alla tua compassione; e vorrei essere un giovane anch’io, così potrei approfittare immediatamente di una simile opportunità favorevole per farlo.»

«Sei un ragazzo altrettanto grande del povero Brittles», rispose Rose, arrossendo.

«Bene,» disse il dottore ridendo di gusto «non è una questione molto difficile. Ma torniamo a questo ragazzo. Il punto cruciale del nostro accordo deve ancora venire. Si sveglierà tra un’ora circa, direi; e sebbene io abbia detto a quel tizio ottuso giù in basso che non deve essere spostato o rivoltagli la parola, pena la vita, credo che possiamo conversare con lui senza pericolo. Ora faccio questa condizione: lo esaminerò in tua presenza e se, da quello che dice, noi giudichiamo, e io posso dimostrare a soddisfazione della tua ragione fredda, che è un vero e proprio cattivo (il che è più che possibile), sarà lasciato al suo destino senza ulteriori interferenze da parte mia, in ogni caso.»

“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.

“Ah, no, zia!” implorò Rosa.

“Oh sì, zia!” disse il dottore. “È un affare?”

«Non può essere indurito nel vizio», disse Rose; «È impossibile».

«Molto bene», ribatté il dottore; «allora tanto più ragione per accettare la mia proposta.»

Finalmente il trattato fu stipulato e le parti coinvolte si sedettero ad aspettare con qualche impazienza che Oliver si svegliasse.

La pazienza delle due signore era destinata a subire una prova più lunga di quella che il signor Losberne aveva fatto loro prevedere; poiché ora dopo ora passava, e ancora Oliver dormiva pesantemente. Fu davvero la sera prima che il buon dottore portasse loro la notizia che era finalmente sufficientemente ristabilito per poter essere interrogato. Il ragazzo era molto malato, disse, e debole a causa della perdita di sangue; ma la sua mente era così turbata dall’ansia di svelare qualcosa, che riteneva fosse meglio dargli l’opportunità, piuttosto che insistere affinché rimanesse tranquillo fino alla mattina successiva: cosa che altrimenti avrebbe fatto.

La conferenza fu lunga. Oliver raccontò loro tutta la sua semplice storia, e spesso dovette fermarsi per il dolore e la mancanza di forze. Era una cosa solenne, nell’oscurità della stanza, ascoltare la debole voce del bambino malato che raccontava un lungo elenco di mali e calamità che uomini duri gli avevano inflitto. Oh! se quando opprimiamo e sfruttiamo i nostri simili, dedicassimo anche solo un pensiero alle oscure prove dell’errore umano, che come dense e pesanti nuvole si alzano lentamente, è vero, ma non meno sicuramente verso il Cielo per riversare la loro vendetta su di noi; se ascoltassimo anche solo per un istante, nella immaginazione, la profonda testimonianza delle voci dei morti, che nessun potere può soffocare e nessuna superbia escludere; dove sarebbero le offese e le ingiustizie, il dolore, la miseria, la crudeltà e l’ingiustizia che ogni giorno di vita porta con sé!

Il cuscino di Oliver fu lisciato da mani gentili quella notte; e bellezza e virtù vegliarono su di lui mentre dormiva. Si sentì calmo e felice, e avrebbe potuto morire senza un lamento.

L’intervista così importante appena conclusa e Oliver rimessosi a riposare, il dottore si asciugò gli occhi, li sgridò per essere diventati improvvisamente deboli, e scese al piano terra per affrontare il signor Giles. Non trovando nessuno nei salotti, gli venne in mente che forse avrebbe potuto dare inizio alle procedure con maggiore efficacia in cucina; così andò in cucina.

Nella camera bassa del parlamento domestico si erano riuniti le donne di servizio, il signor Brittles, il signor Giles, il maniscalco (che aveva ricevuto un invito speciale per concedersi una festa per il resto della giornata in considerazione dei suoi servizi) e l’agente. Quest’ultimo gentiluomo aveva uno scettro grande, una testa grossa, tratti somatici pronunciati e stivali alti; e sembrava che avesse consumato una quantità proporzionata di birra - come infatti era stato.

Le avventure della serata precedente erano ancora oggetto di discussione; infatti il signor Giles stava dilungandosi sulla sua presenza di spirito, quando entrò il dottore; il signor Brittles, con una brocca di birra in mano, stava confermando tutto ciò prima che il suo superiore lo dicesse.

«Resti seduta!» disse il dottore agitando la mano.

«Grazie, signore», disse il signor Giles. «La padrona ha chiesto che si distribuisse un po’ di birra, signore; e dato che non avevo alcuna voglia di stare nella mia stanzetta, signore, e mi andava invece di fare compagnia a qualcuno, sto bevendo la mia insieme agli altri qui».

Brittles guidò un mormorio sommesso, col quale le signore e i signori in generale esprimevano la gratificazione che traevano dalla condescendenza del signor Giles. Il signor Giles guardò intorno con aria patronizzante, come per dire che finché si comportavano correttamente, non li avrebbe mai abbandonati.

«Come sta il paziente stasera, signore?» chiese Giles.

«Così così», rispose il dottore. «Temo che vi siate messo nei guai, signor Giles».

“Spero che non voglia dire, signore”, disse il signor Giles tremando, “che stia per morire. Se lo pensassi, non sarei mai più felice. Non toglierei la vita a un ragazzo: no, nemmeno a Brittles qui; non per tutto l’argento della contea, signore.”

“Non è questo il punto”, disse il dottore in modo misterioso. “Signor Giles, lei è un protestante?”

«Sì, signore, lo spero,» balbettò il signor Giles, che era diventato molto pallido.

«E lei chi è, ragazzo?» disse il dottore, voltandosi bruscamente verso Brittles.

«Signore Iddio mi benedica!» esclamò Brittles con un sussulto «Sono proprio come il signor Giles».

«Allora ditemi questo», disse il medico, «entrambi voi, entrambi voi! Avete intenzione di giurare che quel ragazzo al piano di sopra è lo stesso che è stato infilato attraverso la piccola finestra ieri notte? Fuori con quello! Su, siamo pronti per voi!»

Il dottore, che era universalmente considerato una delle creature più buone della terra, fece questa richiesta con un tono così terribile di rabbia, che Giles e Brittles, che erano notevolmente confusi a causa dell’ale e dell’eccitazione, si guardarono l’un l’altro in uno stato di stupore.

«Presti attenzione alla risposta, agente», disse il dottore, agitando l’indice con grande solennità e battendoselo sul ponte del naso per invitare quell’uomo onesto a fare appello alla massima acutezza. «Ne potrebbe derivare qualcosa già presto».

L’agente si sforzò di assumere un’espressione il più possibile saputa e prese il suo bastone da ufficiale che fino a quel momento era stato adagiato pigramente nell’angolo del camino.

«È una semplice questione di identità, come vedrete», disse il dottore.

«È proprio così, signore», rispose l’agente, tossendo con grande violenza; perché aveva finito la sua birra di fretta e parte di essa gli era andata di traverso.

«Ecco la casa violata», disse il dottore, «e un paio di uomini scorgono per un attimo un ragazzo nel mezzo del fumo della polvere da sparo e in tutta l’agitazione dell’allarme e dell’oscurità. Ecco che questo stesso ragazzo si presenta alla stessa casa la mattina dopo, e perché gli capita di avere il braccio fasciato, questi uomini lo aggrediscono — mettendo così in grave pericolo la sua vita — e giurano che è lui il ladro. Ora, la domanda è: questi uomini sono giustificati dai fatti? Se no, in quale situazione si pongono?»

L’agente annuì profondamente. Disse che se quello non era diritto, sarebbe stato felice di sapere cos’era.

«Leelo chiedo di nuovo», tuonò il dottore, «in base al suo solenne giuramento è in grado di identificare quel ragazzo?»

Brittles guardò con aria dubbiosa il signor Giles; il signor Giles guardò con aria dubbiosa Brittles; l’agente si mise una mano dietro all’orecchio per sentire meglio la risposta; le due donne e il ciabattino si spesero in avanti per ascoltare; il medico lanciò uno sguardo attento intorno, quando si udì un campanello alla porta e nello stesso istante il rumore di ruote.

«Sono i runner!» gridò Brittles, che sembrava molto sollevato.

«Il che cosa?» esclamò il dottore, questa volta sconvolto.

«Gli agenti di Bow Street, signore», rispose Brittles, prendendo una candela, «io e il signor Giles li abbiamo mandati a chiamare questa mattina».

«Cosa?» esclamò il dottore.

“Sì,” rispose Brittles; “ho mandato un messaggio tramite il cocchiere e mi meraviglio che non fossero già qui prima, signore.”

«L’avete fatto, eh? Allora dannazione a voi e ai vostri mezzi di trasporto lenti qui sotto; questo è tutto», disse il dottore allontanandosi.

CHAPTER XXXI. INVOLVES A CRITICAL POSITION

“Who’s that?” inquired Brittles, opening the door a little way, with the chain up, and peeping out, shading the candle with his hand.

“Open the door,” replied a man outside; “it’s the officers from Bow Street, as was sent to today.”

Much comforted by this assurance, Brittles opened the door to its full width, and confronted a portly man in a great-coat; who walked in, without saying anything more, and wiped his shoes on the mat, as coolly as if he lived there.

“Just send somebody out to relieve my mate, will you, young man?” said the officer; “he’s in the gig, a-minding the prad. Have you got a coach ’us here, that you could put it up in, for five or ten minutes?”

Brittles replying in the affirmative, and pointing out the building, the portly man stepped back to the garden-gate, and helped his companion to put up the gig: while Brittles lighted them, in a state of great admiration. This done, they returned to the house, and, being shown into a parlour, took off their great-coats and hats, and showed like what they were.

The man who had knocked at the door, was a stout personage of middle height, aged about fifty: with shiny black hair, cropped pretty close; half-whiskers, a round face, and sharp eyes. The other was a red-headed, bony man, in top-boots; with a rather ill-favoured countenance, and a turned-up sinister-looking nose.

“Tell your governor that Blathers and Duff is here, will you?” said the stouter man, smoothing down his hair, and laying a pair of handcuffs on the table. “Oh! Good-evening, master. Can I have a word or two with you in private, if you please?”

This was addressed to Mr. Losberne, who now made his appearance; that gentleman, motioning Brittles to retire, brought in the two ladies, and shut the door.

“This is the lady of the house,” said Mr. Losberne, motioning towards Mrs. Maylie.

Mr. Blathers made a bow. Being desired to sit down, he put his hat on the floor, and taking a chair, motioned to Duff to do the same. The latter gentleman, who did not appear quite so much accustomed to good society, or quite so much at his ease in it—one of the two—seated himself, after undergoing several muscular affections of the limbs, and the head of his stick into his mouth, with some embarrassment.

“Now, with regard to this here robbery, master,” said Blathers. “What are the circumstances?”

Mr. Losberne, who appeared desirous of gaining time, recounted them at great length, and with much circumlocution. Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked very knowing meanwhile, and occasionally exchanged a nod.

“I can’t say, for certain, till I see the work, of course,” said Blathers; “but my opinion at once is,—I don’t mind committing myself to that extent,—that this wasn’t done by a yokel; eh, Duff?”

“Certainly not,” replied Duff.

“And, translating the word yokel for the benefit of the ladies, I apprehend your meaning to be, that this attempt was not made by a countryman?” said Mr. Losberne, with a smile.

“That’s it, master,” replied Blathers. “This is all about the robbery, is it?”

“All,” replied the doctor.

“Now, what is this, about this here boy that the servants are a-talking on?” said Blathers.

“Nothing at all,” replied the doctor. “One of the frightened servants chose to take it into his head, that he had something to do with this attempt to break into the house; but it’s nonsense: sheer absurdity.”

“Wery easy disposed of, if it is,” remarked Duff.

“What he says is quite correct,” observed Blathers, nodding his head in a confirmatory way, and playing carelessly with the handcuffs, as if they were a pair of castanets. “Who is the boy? What account does he give of himself? Where did he come from? He didn’t drop out of the clouds, did he, master?”

“Of course not,” replied the doctor, with a nervous glance at the two ladies. “I know his whole history: but we can talk about that presently. You would like, first, to see the place where the thieves made their attempt, I suppose?”

“Certainly,” rejoined Mr. Blathers. “We had better inspect the premises first, and examine the servants afterwards. That’s the usual way of doing business.”

Lights were then procured; and Messrs. Blathers and Duff, attended by the native constable, Brittles, Giles, and everybody else in short, went into the little room at the end of the passage and looked out at the window; and afterwards went round by way of the lawn, and looked in at the window; and after that, had a candle handed out to inspect the shutter with; and after that, a lantern to trace the footsteps with; and after that, a pitchfork to poke the bushes with. This done, amidst the breathless interest of all beholders, they came in again; and Mr. Giles and Brittles were put through a melodramatic representation of their share in the previous night’s adventures: which they performed some six times over: contradicting each other, in not more than one important respect, the first time, and in not more than a dozen the last. This consummation being arrived at, Blathers and Duff cleared the room, and held a long council together, compared with which, for secrecy and solemnity, a consultation of great doctors on the knottiest point in medicine, would be mere child’s play.

Meanwhile, the doctor walked up and down the next room in a very uneasy state; and Mrs. Maylie and Rose looked on, with anxious faces.

“Upon my word,” he said, making a halt, after a great number of very rapid turns, “I hardly know what to do.”

“Surely,” said Rose, “the poor child’s story, faithfully repeated to these men, will be sufficient to exonerate him.”

“I doubt it, my dear young lady,” said the doctor, shaking his head. “I don’t think it would exonerate him, either with them, or with legal functionaries of a higher grade. What is he, after all, they would say? A runaway. Judged by mere worldly considerations and probabilities, his story is a very doubtful one.”

CAPITOLO XXXI. IMPLICA UNA SITUAZIONE CRITICA

«Chi è?» chiese Brittles aprendo la porta di poco, con la catena alzata e sbirciando fuori, schermendo la candela con la mano.

«Aprite la porta», rispose un uomo fuori; «sono gli agenti di Bow Street che sono stati mandati oggi.»

Molto confortato da questa assicurazione, Brittles aprì la porta fino in fondo e si trovò davanti un uomo corpulento con un lungo cappotto; che entrò senza dire altro e si pulì le scarpe sullo zerbino, con la massima tranquillità come se vivesse lì.

«Manderà qualcuno a rilievo del mio compagno, vero, giovane?» disse l’ufficiale; «è nella scialuppa, a badare al cavallo. Ha una stalla qui dove potremmo metterlo per cinque o dieci minuti?»

Brittles rispose di sì e indicò l’edificio; l’uomo corpulento fece un passo indietro verso il cancello del giardino e aiutò la sua compagna a sistemare il calesse, mentre Brittles li illuminava con grande ammirazione. Fatto ciò, tornarono alla casa, e, fatti accomodare in un salotto, si tolsero i cappotti e i cappelli, rivelando così chi erano veramente.

L’uomo che aveva bussato alla porta era un individuo robusto di statura media, di circa cinquant’anni: con capelli neri lucidi, tagliati piuttosto corti; baffetti, una faccia rotonda e occhi acuti. L’altro era un uomo dai capelli rossi, magro, con gli stivaloni; dal viso piuttosto sgradevole, e con il naso rivolto all’insù che aveva un aspetto sinistro.

«Dite al vostro padrone che Blathers e Duff sono qui, per favore», disse l’uomo più robusto, sistemando i capelli e posando un paio di manette sul tavolo. «Oh! Buonasera, signorino. Posso scambiare due parole con voi in privato, se non vi dispiace?»

Questo era rivolto al signor Losberne che ora fece la sua comparsa; quel gentiluomo, facendo cenno a Brittles di ritirarsi, introdusse le due signore e chiuse la porta.

«Questa è la signora della casa», disse il signor Losberne facendo un gesto verso la signora Maylie.

Il signor Blathers fece un inchino. Avendo ricevuto l’invito a sedersi, mise il cappello sul pavimento e prendendo una sedia, fece cenno a Duff di fare altrettanto. Quest’ultimo gentiluomo, che non sembrava abituato alla buona società o del tutto a suo agio in essa — uno dei due — si sedette dopo aver subito diverse contrazioni muscolari agli arti e aver messo la testa del bastone in bocca, con un certo imbarazzo.

«Ora, riguardo a questo furto qui, signore», disse Blathers «quali sono le circostanze?»

Il signor Losberne, che sembrava desideroso di guadagnare tempo, li raccontò per filo e per segno, con molte circonlocuzioni. I signori Blathers e Duff nel frattempo apparivano molto sapienti e occasionalmente si scambiavano un cenno del capo.

«Non posso dirlo con certezza finché non vedrò il lavoro», disse Blathers, «ma la mia opinione è subito questa: non mi dispiace impegnarmi fino a questo punto: questo non è stato fatto da un bifolco; eh, Duff?»

«Certamente no», rispose Duff.

«E traducendo la parola “yokel” per gentilezza verso le signore, comprendo che il suo pensiero sia che questo tentativo non è stato fatto da un uomo di campagna?», disse il signor Losberne con un sorriso.

“È tutto qui, signore,” rispose Blathers. “Si tratta del furto, giusto?”

«Tutto», rispose il dottore.

«Ora, di che si tratta, riguardo questo ragazzo qui, di cui i domestici stanno parlando?» disse Blathers.

«Niente affatto», rispose il dottore. «Uno dei domestici spaventati ha voluto mettersi in testa di avere qualcosa a che fare con questo tentativo di irruzione nella casa; ma è una sciocchezza: pura assurdità».

«Facilissimo da smaltire, se lo è», osservò Duff.

«Quello che dice è del tutto corretto», osservò Blathers, annuendo in modo confermativo e maneggiando con disinvoltura le manette, come se fossero un paio di castagnette. «Chi è il ragazzo? Quali informazioni dà su di sé? Da dove viene? Non sarà mica caduto dalle nuvole, vero, padrone?»

«Certo che no», rispose il dottore con uno sguardo nervoso alle due signore. «Conosco tutta la sua storia: ma possiamo parlarne più tardi. Immagino che vorrete prima vedere il luogo dove i ladri hanno fatto il loro tentativo, vero?»

«Certamente», rispose il signor Blathers. «È meglio ispezionare i locali per primi e interrogare i domestici dopo. È la solita procedura».

Si procurarono quindi delle luci; e i signori Blathers e Duff, accompagnati dal guardia locale, Brittles, Giles e tutti gli altri insomma, entrarono nella piccola stanza in fondo al corridoio e guardarono fuori dalla finestra; poi fecero il giro passando per il prato e guardarono dentro la finestra; dopo di che, si fece portare una candela per ispezionare lo scurto; quindi una lanterna per rintracciare le impronte dei piedi; infine un forcone per frugare i cespugli. Fatto ciò, tra l’interesse senza fiato di tutti gli spettatori, tornarono dentro; e il signor Giles e Brittles furono costretti a una rappresentazione melodrammatica della loro parte nelle avventure della precedente notte: che eseguirono per ben sei volte: contraddicendosi l’un l’altro, non più di un punto importante la prima volta, e non più di una dozzina l’ultima. Giunti a questo epilogo, Blathers e Duff sgombrarono la stanza e tennero un lungo consiglio insieme, al confronto del quale, per segretezza e solennità, una consultazione dei grandi medici sul punto più spinoso della medicina sarebbe stato un gioco da bambino.

Nel frattempo il dottore camminava su e giù nella stanza accanto in uno stato di grande agitazione; e la signora Maylie e Rose osservavano con volti preoccupati.

«Sul mio onore», disse, fermandosi dopo un gran numero di giri molto rapidi, «non so proprio cosa fare.»

«Sicuramente», disse Rosa, «la storia del povero bambino, ripetuta fedelmente a questi uomini, sarà sufficiente per scagionarlo.»

“Dubito, mia cara giovane signorina”, disse il dottore scuotendo la testa. “Non credo che lo assolverebbe né davanti a loro né davanti ai funzionari legali di grado superiore. Chi è, dopotutto? Direbbero: un fuggitivo. Giudicata secondo semplici considerazioni e probabilità mondane, la sua storia è molto dubbia.”

“You believe it, surely?” interrupted Rose.

“I believe it, strange as it is; and perhaps I may be an old fool for doing so,” rejoined the doctor; “but I don’t think it is exactly the tale for a practical police-officer, nevertheless.”

“Why not?” demanded Rose.

“Because, my pretty cross-examiner,” replied the doctor: “because, viewed with their eyes, there are many ugly points about it; he can only prove the parts that look ill, and none of those that look well. Confound the fellows, they will have the why and the wherefore, and will take nothing for granted. On his own showing, you see, he has been the companion of thieves for some time past; he has been carried to a police-officer, on a charge of picking a gentleman’s pocket; he has been taken away, forcibly, from that gentleman’s house, to a place which he cannot describe or point out, and of the situation of which he has not the remotest idea. He is brought down to Chertsey, by men who seem to have taken a violent fancy to him, whether he will or no; and is put through a window to rob a house; and then, just at the very moment when he is going to alarm the inmates, and so do the very thing that would set him all to rights, there rushes into the way, a blundering dog of a half-bred butler, and shoots him! As if on purpose to prevent his doing any good for himself! Don’t you see all this?”

“I see it, of course,” replied Rose, smiling at the doctor’s impetuosity; “but still I do not see anything in it, to criminate the poor child.”

“No,” replied the doctor; “of course not! Bless the bright eyes of your sex! They never see, whether for good or bad, more than one side of any question; and that is, always, the one which first presents itself to them.”

Having given vent to this result of experience, the doctor put his hands into his pockets, and walked up and down the room with even greater rapidity than before.

“The more I think of it,” said the doctor, “the more I see that it will occasion endless trouble and difficulty if we put these men in possession of the boy’s real story. I am certain it will not be believed; and even if they can do nothing to him in the end, still the dragging it forward, and giving publicity to all the doubts that will be cast upon it, must interfere, materially, with your benevolent plan of rescuing him from misery.”

“Oh! what is to be done?” cried Rose. “Dear, dear! why did they send for these people?”

“Why, indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Maylie. “I would not have had them here, for the world.”

“All I know is,” said Mr. Losberne, at last: sitting down with a kind of desperate calmness, “that we must try and carry it off with a bold face. The object is a good one, and that must be our excuse. The boy has strong symptoms of fever upon him, and is in no condition to be talked to any more; that’s one comfort. We must make the best of it; and if bad be the best, it is no fault of ours. Come in!”

“Well, master,” said Blathers, entering the room followed by his colleague, and making the door fast, before he said any more. “This warn’t a put-up thing.”

“And what the devil’s a put-up thing?” demanded the doctor, impatiently.

“We call it a put-up robbery, ladies,” said Blathers, turning to them, as if he pitied their ignorance, but had a contempt for the doctor’s, “when the servants is in it.”

“Nobody suspected them, in this case,” said Mrs. Maylie.

“Wery likely not, ma’am,” replied Blathers; “but they might have been in it, for all that.”

“More likely on that wery account,” said Duff.

“We find it was a town hand,” said Blathers, continuing his report; “for the style of work is first-rate.”

“Wery pretty indeed it is,” remarked Duff, in an undertone.

“There was two of ’em in it,” continued Blathers; “and they had a boy with ’em; that’s plain from the size of the window. That’s all to be said at present. We’ll see this lad that you’ve got upstairs at once, if you please.”

“Perhaps they will take something to drink first, Mrs. Maylie?” said the doctor: his face brightening, as if some new thought had occurred to him.

“Oh! to be sure!” exclaimed Rose, eagerly. “You shall have it immediately, if you will.”

“Why, thank you, miss!” said Blathers, drawing his coat-sleeve across his mouth; “it’s dry work, this sort of duty. Anythink that’s handy, miss; don’t put yourself out of the way, on our accounts.”

“What shall it be?” asked the doctor, following the young lady to the sideboard.

“A little drop of spirits, master, if it’s all the same,” replied Blathers. “It’s a cold ride from London, ma’am; and I always find that spirits comes home warmer to the feelings.”

This interesting communication was addressed to Mrs. Maylie, who received it very graciously. While it was being conveyed to her, the doctor slipped out of the room.

“Ah!” said Mr. Blathers: not holding his wine-glass by the stem, but grasping the bottom between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand: and placing it in front of his chest; “I have seen a good many pieces of business like this, in my time, ladies.”

“That crack down in the back lane at Edmonton, Blathers,” said Mr. Duff, assisting his colleague’s memory.

“That was something in this way, warn’t it?” rejoined Mr. Blathers; “that was done by Conkey Chickweed, that was.”

“You always gave that to him” replied Duff. “It was the Family Pet, I tell you. Conkey hadn’t any more to do with it than I had.”

“Get out!” retorted Mr. Blathers; “I know better. Do you mind that time when Conkey was robbed of his money, though? What a start that was! Better than any novel-book I ever see!”

“What was that?” inquired Rose: anxious to encourage any symptoms of good-humour in the unwelcome visitors.

“It was a robbery, miss, that hardly anybody would have been down upon,” said Blathers. “This here Conkey Chickweed—”

“Conkey means Nosey, ma’am,” interposed Duff.

“Lo crede, di certo?” l’interruppe Rose.

«Io ci credo, per quanto sia strano; e forse potrei essere un vecchio pazzo per averlo fatto», replicò il dottore; «ma non penso che sia esattamente la storia adatta a un agente di polizia pratico, comunque.»

«Perché no?» chiese Rose.

«Perché, mio caro interrogatore,» rispose il dottore: «perché, visto con i loro occhi, ci sono molti aspetti brutti; può provare solo le parti che sembrano cattive e nessuna di quelle che sembra buona. Maledetti quei tipi, vogliono sapere il perché e il percome, e non prendono nulla per buono. Come si vede dalla sua stessa testimonianza, è stato compagno di ladri per qualche tempo; è stato portato da un agente di polizia con l’accusa di aver derubato un gentiluomo; è stato portato via, con la forza, dalla casa di quel gentiluomo, in un posto che non può descrivere né indicare e della cui posizione non ha la più pallida idea. È stato condotto a Chertsey da uomini che sembrano aver preso una violenta simpatia per lui, che lo voglia o no; e viene fatto passare attraverso una finestra per derubare una casa; e poi, proprio nel momento in cui sta per allarmare gli abitanti, e quindi fare l’unica cosa che lo riabiliterebbe completamente, si mette di mezzo un goffo bastardo di maggiordomo e lo spara! Come se volesse impedirgli di fare qualcosa di buono per sé stesso! Non vede tutto questo?»

«Naturalmente lo vedo», rispose Rose, sorridendo all’impetuosità del dottore; «ma non riesco comunque a vedere nulla che possa incriminare il povero bambino.»

«No», rispose il dottore; «certamente no! Benedetti gli occhi luminosi del vostro sesso! Non vedono mai, che sia per bene o per male, più di un lato della questione; e quello è sempre il primo che si presenta loro.»

Avendo dato sfogo a questo risultato dell’esperienza, il dottore mise le mani in tasca e si mise a camminare su e giù per la stanza con ancora maggiore velocità di prima.

«Più ci penso», disse il dottore, «più mi rendo conto che non faremmo altro che procurarci infiniti guai e difficoltà se mettessimo questi uomini a conoscenza della vera storia del ragazzo. Sono certo che non gli crederebbero; e anche se alla fine non potrebbero fargli nulla, tuttavia il fatto di tirare fuori la questione e dare pubblicità a tutti i dubbi che verrebbero sollevati interferirebbe in modo sostanziale col vostro benevolo progetto di liberarlo dalla miseria.»

“Ahimè! che cosa si può fare?”, esclamò Rose. “Oh, oh! perché hanno mandato a chiamare queste persone?”

“Perché, davvero!” esclamò la signora Maylie. “Non li avrei voluti qui per niente al mondo.”

«Tutto ciò che so», disse alla fine il signor Losberne, sedendosi con una specie di calma disperata, «è che dobbiamo cercare di portarla a termine con coraggio. L’obiettivo è buono e questo deve essere la nostra scusa. Il ragazzo ha forti sintomi di febbre e non è in condizioni di parlare ancora; questo è un conforto. Dobbiamo fare del nostro meglio; e se il peggio è il massimo, non è colpa nostra. Avanti!»

«Beh, padrone», disse Blathers entrando nella stanza seguito dal suo collega e chiudendo la porta prima di continuare. «Questa non era una cosa combinata».

«E che diavolo è una cosa combinata?» chiese il dottore con impazienza.

«Lo chiamiamo un furto combinato, signore», disse Blathers rivolgendosi alle donne, come se compatisse la loro ignoranza ma disprezzasse quella del dottore, «quando i domestici sono coinvolti.»

«Nessuno li sospettava, in questo caso», disse la signora Maylie.

«Molto probabilmente no, signora», rispose Blathers; «ma potrebbero essere stati coinvolti, nonostante tutto.»

«Più probabile proprio per questo motivo», disse Duff.

«Abbiamo scoperto che era un lavoro da mani esperte», disse Blathers, continuando il suo rapporto, «perché la qualità del lavoro è di prim’ordine.»

«È davvero molto grazioso», osservò Duff a bassa voce.

«Ce n’erano due», continuò Blathers, «e avevano un ragazzo con loro; è chiaro dalla dimensione della finestra. Questo è tutto ciò che si può dire al momento. Vedremo subito questo ragazzo che avete di sopra, se non vi dispiace».

«Forse vorranno prima prendere qualcosa da bere, signora Maylie?» disse il dottore; il suo volto si illuminò come se gli fosse venuto in mente un nuovo pensiero.

“Ah! certo!” esclamò Rose, con entusiasmo. “Ve la darò subito, se volete.”

«Perché, grazie, signorina!» disse Blathers, passandosi la manica della giacca sulla bocca; «è un lavoro che disseta, questo tipo di dovere. Qualsiasi cosa a portata di mano, signorina; non disturbatevi per colpa nostra».

«Che cosa desidera?» chiese il dottore seguendo la giovane signora fino al buffet.

«Un goccetto di liquore, signore, se non le dispiace», rispose Blathers. «È una passeggiata fredda da Londra, signora; e io trovo sempre che il liquore torni a casa più caldo ai sentimenti».

Questa interessante comunicazione era indirizzata alla signora Maylie, che la ricevette con grande gentilezza. Mentre le veniva consegnata, il dottore sgattaiolò fuori dalla stanza.

“Ah!” disse il signor Blathers: non tenendo il bicchiere di vino per lo stelo, ma afferrando la base tra il pollice e l’indice della mano sinistra; e mettendolo davanti al petto; “Ho visto parecchie faccende come questa, in tutta la mia vita, signore.”

«Quella rissa nel vicolo dietro a Edmonton, Blathers», disse il signor Duff, aiutando la memoria del collega.

«Era qualcosa del genere, vero?» riprese il signor Blathers; «era stato fatto da Conkey Chickweed, era così.»

«Gliel’hai sempre dato» rispose Duff. «Era il beniamino della famiglia, te lo dico io. Conkey non c’entrava più di me».

«Vattene!» ribatté il signor Blathers; «lo so meglio io. Ti ricordi però di quel momento quando a Conkey rubarono i soldi? Che spavento fu quello! Migliore di qualsiasi libro di romanzi che io abbia mai visto!»

“Cos’era quello?”, chiese Rose, desiderosa di incoraggiare qualsiasi sintomo di buon umore nei visitatori indesiderati.

«Fu una rapina, signorina, che quasi nessuno avrebbe biasimato», disse Blathers. «Questo qui, Conkey Chickweed, »

«Conkey significa ficcanaso, signora», intervenne Duff.

“Of course the lady knows that, don’t she?” demanded Mr. Blathers. “Always interrupting, you are, partner! This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept a public-house over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar, where a good many young lords went to see cock-fighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a wery intellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I’ve seen ’em off’en. He warn’t one of the family, at that time; and one night he was robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag, that was stole out of his bedroom in the dead of night, by a tall man with a black patch over his eye, who had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the robbery, jumped slap out of window: which was only a story high. He was wery quick about it. But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a blunderbuss arter him, and roused the neighbourhood. They set up a hue-and-cry, directly, and when they came to look about ’em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there was traces of blood, all the way to some palings a good distance off; and there they lost ’em. However, he had made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrupts; and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don’t know what all, was got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind about his loss, and went up and down the streets, for three or four days, a pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be going to make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house. ‘I see him, Spyers,’ said Chickweed, ‘pass my house yesterday morning,’ ‘Why didn’t you up, and collar him!’ says Spyers. ‘I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,’ says the poor man; ‘but we’re sure to have him; for between ten and eleven o’clock at night he passed again.’ Spyers no sooner heard this, than he put some clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he should have to stop a day or two; and away he goes, and sets himself down at one of the public-house windows behind the little red curtain, with his hat on, all ready to bolt out, at a moment’s notice. He was smoking his pipe here, late at night, when all of a sudden Chickweed roars out, ‘Here he is! Stop thief! Murder!’ Jem Spyers dashes out; and there he sees Chickweed, a-tearing down the street full cry. Away goes Spyers; on goes Chickweed; round turns the people; everybody roars out, ‘Thieves!’ and Chickweed himself keeps on shouting, all the time, like mad. Spyers loses sight of him a minute as he turns a corner; shoots round; sees a little crowd; dives in; ‘Which is the man?’ ‘D—me!’ says Chickweed, ‘I’ve lost him again!’ It was a remarkable occurrence, but he warn’t to be seen nowhere, so they went back to the public-house. Next morning, Spyers took his old place, and looked out, from behind the curtain, for a tall man with a black patch over his eye, till his own two eyes ached again. At last, he couldn’t help shutting ’em, to ease ’em a minute; and the very moment he did so, he hears Chickweed a-roaring out, ‘Here he is!’ Off he starts once more, with Chickweed half-way down the street ahead of him; and after twice as long a run as the yesterday’s one, the man’s lost again! This was done, once or twice more, till one-half the neighbours gave out that Mr. Chickweed had been robbed by the devil, who was playing tricks with him arterwards; and the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweed had gone mad with grief.”

“What did Jem Spyers say?” inquired the doctor; who had returned to the room shortly after the commencement of the story.

“Jem Spyers,” resumed the officer, “for a long time said nothing at all, and listened to everything without seeming to, which showed he understood his business. But, one morning, he walked into the bar, and taking out his snuffbox, says ‘Chickweed, I’ve found out who done this here robbery.’ ‘Have you?’ said Chickweed. ‘Oh, my dear Spyers, only let me have wengeance, and I shall die contented! Oh, my dear Spyers, where is the villain!’ ‘Come!’ said Spyers, offering him a pinch of snuff, ‘none of that gammon! You did it yourself.’ So he had; and a good bit of money he had made by it, too; and nobody would never have found it out, if he hadn’t been so precious anxious to keep up appearances!” said Mr. Blathers, putting down his wine-glass, and clinking the handcuffs together.

“Very curious, indeed,” observed the doctor. “Now, if you please, you can walk upstairs.”

“If you please, sir,” returned Mr. Blathers. Closely following Mr. Losberne, the two officers ascended to Oliver’s bedroom; Mr. Giles preceding the party, with a lighted candle.

Oliver had been dozing; but looked worse, and was more feverish than he had appeared yet. Being assisted by the doctor, he managed to sit up in bed for a minute or so; and looked at the strangers without at all understanding what was going forward—in fact, without seeming to recollect where he was, or what had been passing.

“This,” said Mr. Losberne, speaking softly, but with great vehemence notwithstanding, “this is the lad, who, being accidently wounded by a spring-gun in some boyish trespass on Mr. What-d’ ye-call-him’s grounds, at the back here, comes to the house for assistance this morning, and is immediately laid hold of and maltreated, by that ingenious gentleman with the candle in his hand: who has placed his life in considerable danger, as I can professionally certify.”

Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr. Giles, as he was thus recommended to their notice. The bewildered butler gazed from them towards Oliver, and from Oliver towards Mr. Losberne, with a most ludicrous mixture of fear and perplexity.

«Naturalmente la signora lo sa, no?» chiese il signor Blathers. «Continui sempre a interrompere, compagno! Questo qui Conkey Chickweed, signorina, gestiva un pub nei pressi di Battlebridge e aveva una cantina dove molti giovani lord andavano ad assistere a combattimenti di galli e di tassi, e altre cose del genere; e gli sport venivano condotti in modo molto intellettuale, perché li ho visti spesso. Non faceva parte della famiglia, a quel tempo; e una notte fu derubato di trecentoventisette ghinee in un sacco di tela, che gli furono rubate dalla sua camera nel cuore della notte, da un uomo alto con una benda nera sull’occhio, che si era nascosto sotto il letto e, dopo aver commesso il furto, saltò fuori dalla finestra: che era alta solo un piano. Fu molto rapido. Ma anche Conkey fu veloce; perché sparò con una balestra dietro di lui e svegliò i vicini. Fecero subito un’acclamazione, e quando si guardarono intorno, scoprirono che Conkey aveva colpito il ladro; perché c’erano tracce di sangue, fino a una recinzione lontana; e lì le persero. Comunque, se n’era andato con i soldi; e, di conseguenza, il nome del signor Chickweed, locandiere autorizzato, apparve sulla Gazzetta tra gli altri falliti; e furono organizzati ogni sorta di benefici e sottoscrizioni, e non so che altro, per il poveretto, che era in uno stato d’animo molto basso per la sua perdita, e girava su e giù per le strade, per tre o quattro giorni, strappandosi i capelli in modo così disperato che molte persone temevano che potesse suicidarsi. Un giorno venne all’ufficio di corsa, e ebbe un colloquio privato con il magistrato, che, dopo aver parlato molto, suonò il campanello e ordinò a Jem Spyers di entrare (Jem era un agente attivo), e gli disse di andare ad aiutare il signor Chickweed nell’arresto dell’uomo che aveva derubato la sua casa. «L’ho visto, Spyers», disse Chickweed, «passare davanti alla mia casa ieri mattina.» «Perché non ti sei alzato e gli hai messo le mani addosso!» disse Spyers. «Ero così sconvolto che avresti potuto fratturarmi il cranio con uno stuzzicadenti», disse il poveretto; «ma lo prenderemo di sicuro; perché tra le dieci e le undici di sera è passato di nuovo.» Non appena Spyers sentì questo, mise un po’ di biancheria pulita e un pettine in tasca, nel caso dovesse fermarsi un giorno o due; e se ne andò, sedendosi a una delle finestre del pub dietro la piccola tenda rossa, con il cappello in testa, pronto a scattare in qualsiasi momento. Stava fumando la pipa lì, tardi di sera, quando all’improvviso Chickweed urlò: «Eccolo! Fermatelo! Omicidio!» Jem Spyers si precipitò fuori; e lì vide Chickweed, che correva per la strada a tutta velocità. Spyers partì; Chickweed continuò; la gente girava intorno; tutti urlavano: «Ladri!» e Chickweed stesso continuava a gridare, tutto il tempo, come un pazzo. Spyers lo perse di vista per un minuto mentre svoltava l’angolo; corse intorno; vide una piccola folla; si tuffò dentro; «Quale è l’uomo?» «D—mi!», disse Chickweed, «l’ho perso di nuovo!» Fu un evento notevole, ma non lo si vedeva da nessuna parte, quindi tornarono al pub. La mattina seguente, Spyers riprese il suo vecchio posto e guardò fuori, da dietro la tenda, per un uomo alto con una benda nera sull’occhio, fino a quando i suoi due occhi non gli fecero male. Alla fine, non poté fare a meno di chiuderli, per dargli un po’ di sollievo; e nel momento stesso in cui lo fece, sentì Chickweed che urlava: «Eccolo!» Partì di nuovo, con Chickweed già a metà strada davanti a lui; e dopo una corsa il doppio di quella del giorno prima, l’uomo fu perso di nuovo! Questo fu fatto un paio di volte ancora, finché la metà dei vicini disse che il signor Chickweed era stato derubato dal diavolo, che poi gli stava facendo scherzi; e l’altra metà, che il povero signor Chickweed era impazzito per il dolore.»

«Che cosa ha detto Jem Spyers?» chiese il dottore, che era rientrato nella stanza poco dopo l’inizio della storia.

«Jem Spyers», riprese l’ufficiale, «per un lungo periodo non disse assolutamente nulla e ascoltò tutto senza sembrare farlo, il che dimostrava che conosceva bene la sua attività. Ma una mattina entrò al bar, tirò fuori il tabacchiera e disse: «Chickweed, ho scoperto chi ha commesso questo furto». «Davvero?», disse Chickweed. «Oh, caro Spyers, lascia che io abbia la mia vendetta e morirò contento! Oh, mio caro Spyers, dov’è il malvagio?» «Su!», disse Spyers offrendogli una presa di tabacco da fiuto, «nessuna di queste fandonie! L’hai fatto tu». E così era stato; e aveva anche guadagnato un bel po’ di soldi con quella storia, e nessuno l’avrebbe mai scoperto se non fosse stato così ansioso di mantenere le apparenze!», disse il signor Blathers posando il bicchiere di vino e facendo tintinnare i ferri.

“Curiosissimo”, osservò il dottore. “Ora, se vuole, può salire le scale.”

“Se lo desidera lei, signore,” rispose il signor Blathers. Seguendo da vicino il signor Losberne, i due agenti salirono nella camera di Oliver; il signor Giles precedeva il gruppo con una candela accesa.

Oliver aveva dormicchiato; ma appariva peggio e più febbricitante di quanto fosse mai sembrato prima. Con l’aiuto del dottore riuscì a sedersi sul letto per un minuto o giù di lì, e guardò gli sconosciuti senza capire affatto cosa stesse succedendo — in effetti, senza sembrare ricordare dove si trovasse né cosa fosse accaduto.

«Questo», disse il signor Losberne, parlando a bassa voce ma con grande veemenza nonostante ciò, «questo è il ragazzo che, essendo stato accidentalmente ferito da una fucile-automatico in qualche trasgressione giovanile sul terreno del signor Come-si-chiama qui dietro, viene alla casa per chiedere aiuto questa mattina e viene immediatamente afferrato e maltrattato da quel geniale gentiluomo con la candela in mano: che ha messo la sua vita in notevole pericolo, come posso certificare professionalmente.»

I signori Blathers e Duff guardarono il signor Giles, che era stato così raccomandato alla loro attenzione. Il maggiordomo disorientato guardò da loro verso Oliver, e da Oliver verso il signor Losberne, con un misto davvero ridicolo di paura e perplessità.

“You don’t mean to deny that, I suppose?” said the doctor, laying Oliver gently down again.

“It was all done for the—for the best, sir,” answered Giles. “I am sure I thought it was the boy, or I wouldn’t have meddled with him. I am not of an inhuman disposition, sir.”

“Thought it was what boy?” inquired the senior officer.

“The housebreaker’s boy, sir!” replied Giles. “They—they certainly had a boy.”

“Well? Do you think so now?” inquired Blathers.

“Think what, now?” replied Giles, looking vacantly at his questioner.

“Think it’s the same boy, Stupid-head?” rejoined Blathers, impatiently.

“I don’t know; I really don’t know,” said Giles, with a rueful countenance. “I couldn’t swear to him.”

“What do you think?” asked Mr. Blathers.

“I don’t know what to think,” replied poor Giles. “I don’t think it is the boy; indeed, I’m almost certain that it isn’t. You know it can’t be.”

“Has this man been a-drinking, sir?” inquired Blathers, turning to the doctor.

“What a precious muddle-headed chap you are!” said Duff, addressing Mr. Giles, with supreme contempt.

Mr. Losberne had been feeling the patient’s pulse during this short dialogue; but he now rose from the chair by the bedside, and remarked, that if the officers had any doubts upon the subject, they would perhaps like to step into the next room, and have Brittles before them.

Acting upon this suggestion, they adjourned to a neighbouring apartment, where Mr. Brittles, being called in, involved himself and his respected superior in such a wonderful maze of fresh contradictions and impossibilities, as tended to throw no particular light on anything, but the fact of his own strong mystification; except, indeed, his declarations that he shouldn’t know the real boy, if he were put before him that instant; that he had only taken Oliver to be he, because Mr. Giles had said he was; and that Mr. Giles had, five minutes previously, admitted in the kitchen, that he began to be very much afraid he had been a little too hasty.

Among other ingenious surmises, the question was then raised, whether Mr. Giles had really hit anybody; and upon examination of the fellow pistol to that which he had fired, it turned out to have no more destructive loading than gunpowder and brown paper: a discovery which made a considerable impression on everybody but the doctor, who had drawn the ball about ten minutes before. Upon no one, however, did it make a greater impression than on Mr. Giles himself; who, after labouring, for some hours, under the fear of having mortally wounded a fellow-creature, eagerly caught at this new idea, and favoured it to the utmost. Finally, the officers, without troubling themselves very much about Oliver, left the Chertsey constable in the house, and took up their rest for that night in the town; promising to return the next morning.

With the next morning, there came a rumour, that two men and a boy were in the cage at Kingston, who had been apprehended over night under suspicious circumstances; and to Kingston Messrs. Blathers and Duff journeyed accordingly. The suspicious circumstances, however, resolving themselves, on investigation, into the one fact, that they had been discovered sleeping under a haystack; which, although a great crime, is only punishable by imprisonment, and is, in the merciful eye of the English law, and its comprehensive love of all the King’s subjects, held to be no satisfactory proof, in the absence of all other evidence, that the sleeper, or sleepers, have committed burglary accompanied with violence, and have therefore rendered themselves liable to the punishment of death; Messrs. Blathers and Duff came back again, as wise as they went.

In short, after some more examination, and a great deal more conversation, a neighbouring magistrate was readily induced to take the joint bail of Mrs. Maylie and Mr. Losberne for Oliver’s appearance if he should ever be called upon; and Blathers and Duff, being rewarded with a couple of guineas, returned to town with divided opinions on the subject of their expedition: the latter gentleman on a mature consideration of all the circumstances, inclining to the belief that the burglarious attempt had originated with the Family Pet; and the former being equally disposed to concede the full merit of it to the great Mr. Conkey Chickweed.

Meanwhile, Oliver gradually throve and prospered under the united care of Mrs. Maylie, Rose, and the kind-hearted Mr. Losberne. If fervent prayers, gushing from hearts overcharged with gratitude, be heard in heaven—and if they be not, what prayers are!—the blessings which the orphan child called down upon them, sunk into their souls, diffusing peace and happiness.

“Non vorrete negarlo, immagino,” disse il dottore, adagiando di nuovo dolcemente Oliver.

«È stato fatto tutto per il—per il meglio, signore», rispose Giles. «Sono sicuro di aver pensato che fosse quel ragazzo, altrimenti non mi sarei intromesso. Non ho un carattere disumano, signore».

«Pensava che fosse cosa, ragazzo?» chiese l’ufficiale più anziano.

“Il ragazzo del scassinatore, signore!” rispose Giles. “Hanno avuto un ragazzo.”

«Bene? Lo pensa adesso?» chiese Blathers.

«Cosa dovrei pensare?» rispose Giles guardando svogliatamente chi gli aveva posto la domanda.

«Pensi che sia lo stesso ragazzo, Testa di legno?» ribatté Blathers con impazienza.

«Non lo so; davvero non lo so», disse Giles con un’espressione afflitta. «Non potrei giurare su di lui».

«Che cosa ne pensa?» chiese il signor Blathers.

«Non so cosa pensare», rispose il povero Giles. «Non credo che sia quel ragazzo; anzi, sono quasi certo che non lo sia. Sapete bene che è impossibile».

«Quest’uomo ha bevuto, signore?» chiese Blathers, rivolgendosi al dottore.

«Che caro e prezioso confuso ragazzo sei!» disse Duff, rivolgendosi al signor Giles con un disprezzo supremo.

Il signor Losberne aveva tastato il polso del paziente durante questo breve dialogo; ma ora si alzò dalla sedia accanto al letto e osservò che se gli agenti avessero avuto dei dubbi in proposito, forse vorrebbero passare nella stanza accanto e avere Brittles davanti a loro.

Agendo su questo suggerimento, si trasferirono in un appartamento vicino, dove venne chiamato il signor Brittles, che coinvolse se stesso e il suo stimato superiore in una meravigliosa ragnatela di nuove contraddizioni e impossibilità, che non gettarono alcuna luce particolare su nulla, tranne sul fatto della sua stessa forte confusione; a parte, naturalmente, le sue dichiarazioni secondo cui non avrebbe riconosciuto il ragazzo vero se gli fosse stato presentato in quel momento; che aveva solo preso per buono che si trattasse di Oliver perché il signor Giles lo aveva detto; e che il signor Giles, cinque minuti prima, aveva ammesso in cucina di cominciare a temere molto di essere stato un po’ troppo precipitoso.

Tra le altre acute ipotesi, si sollevò la questione se il signor Giles avesse davvero colpito qualcuno; e dopo l’esame della pistola gemella a quella che aveva sparato, risultò che non conteneva altro carico distruttivo oltre alla polvere da sparo e carta marrone: una scoperta che fece notevole impressione su tutti tranne che sul dottore, il quale aveva estratto la palla circa dieci minuti prima. Tuttavia, nessuno ne fu più colpito del signor Giles stesso; il quale, dopo aver sofferto per alcune ore sotto la paura di aver mortalmente ferito un suo simile, afferrò con entusiasmo questa nuova idea e la favorì al massimo. Infine, gli agenti, senza preoccuparsi troppo di Oliver, lasciarono il guardiano di Chertsey in casa e si fermarono per quella notte in città; promettendo di tornare la mattina successiva.

Con il mattino seguente arrivò la voce che due uomini e un ragazzo erano nella gabbia a Kingston, perché erano stati arrestati durante la notte in circostanze sospette; e così i signori Blathers e Duff si recarono a Kingston. Le circostanze sospette, tuttavia, si risolsero, dopo un’indagine, nel solo fatto che erano stati scoperti mentre dormivano sotto un fienile; il quale, sebbene sia un grave crimine, è punibile solo con la reclusione, e viene considerato, nell’occhio misericordioso della legge inglese e nel suo comprensivo amore per tutti i sudditi del Re, una prova insufficiente, in assenza di altre prove, che il/i i abbiano commesso un furto con scasso accompagnato da violenza e si siano quindi resi passibili della pena di morte; i signori Blathers e Duff tornarono indietro altrettanto saggi quanto erano partiti.

Insomma, dopo ulteriori indagini e molte altre conversazioni, un magistrato del vicinato fu facilmente persuaso a prendere in garanzia congiunta la signora Maylie e il dottor Losberne per l’apparizione di Oliver qualora fosse stato chiamato; e Blathers e Duff, premiati con una coppia di ghinee, tornarono in città con opinioni contrastanti sull’argomento della loro spedizione: quest’ultimo gentiluomo, dopo matura considerazione di tutte le circostanze, inclinava a credere che il tentativo di furto fosse partito dal Micio di Famiglia; e l’altro era ugualmente disposto ad attribuire pienamente il merito al grande signor Conkey Chickweed.

Nel frattempo, Oliver prosperò e crebbe gradualmente sotto la cura unita della signora Maylie, di Rose e del buon cuore del dottor Losberne. Se le ferventi preghiere che sgorgano da cuori sovraccarichi di gratitudine sono ascoltate in cielo - e se non lo fossero, allora quali preghiere sarebbero! - le benedizioni che l’orfano bambino invocava su di loro si insinuarono nelle loro anime, diffondendo pace e felicità.

CHAPTER XXXII. OF THE HAPPY LIFE OLIVER BEGAN TO LEAD WITH HIS KIND FRIENDS

Oliver’s ailings were neither slight nor few. In addition to the pain and delay attendant on a broken limb, his exposure to the wet and cold had brought on fever and ague: which hung about him for many weeks, and reduced him sadly. But, at length, he began, by slow degrees, to get better, and to be able to say sometimes, in a few tearful words, how deeply he felt the goodness of the two sweet ladies, and how ardently he hoped that when he grew strong and well again, he could do something to show his gratitude; only something, which would let them see the love and duty with which his breast was full; something, however slight, which would prove to them that their gentle kindness had not been cast away; but that the poor boy whom their charity had rescued from misery, or death, was eager to serve them with his whole heart and soul.

“Poor fellow!” said Rose, when Oliver had been one day feebly endeavouring to utter the words of thankfulness that rose to his pale lips; “you shall have many opportunities of serving us, if you will. We are going into the country, and my aunt intends that you shall accompany us. The quiet place, the pure air, and all the pleasure and beauties of spring, will restore you in a few days. We will employ you in a hundred ways, when you can bear the trouble.”

“The trouble!” cried Oliver. “Oh! dear lady, if I could but work for you; if I could only give you pleasure by watering your flowers, or watching your birds, or running up and down the whole day long, to make you happy; what would I give to do it!”

“You shall give nothing at all,” said Miss Maylie, smiling; “for, as I told you before, we shall employ you in a hundred ways; and if you only take half the trouble to please us, that you promise now, you will make me very happy indeed.”

“Happy, ma’am!” cried Oliver; “how kind of you to say so!”

“You will make me happier than I can tell you,” replied the young lady. “To think that my dear good aunt should have been the means of rescuing any one from such sad misery as you have described to us, would be an unspeakable pleasure to me; but to know that the object of her goodness and compassion was sincerely grateful and attached, in consequence, would delight me, more than you can well imagine. Do you understand me?” she inquired, watching Oliver’s thoughtful face.

“Oh yes, ma’am, yes!” replied Oliver eagerly; “but I was thinking that I am ungrateful now.”

“To whom?” inquired the young lady.

“To the kind gentleman, and the dear old nurse, who took so much care of me before,” rejoined Oliver. “If they knew how happy I am, they would be pleased, I am sure.”

“I am sure they would,” rejoined Oliver’s benefactress; “and Mr. Losberne has already been kind enough to promise that when you are well enough to bear the journey, he will carry you to see them.”

“Has he, ma’am?” cried Oliver, his face brightening with pleasure. “I don’t know what I shall do for joy when I see their kind faces once again!”

In a short time Oliver was sufficiently recovered to undergo the fatigue of this expedition. One morning he and Mr. Losberne set out, accordingly, in a little carriage which belonged to Mrs. Maylie. When they came to Chertsey Bridge, Oliver turned very pale, and uttered a loud exclamation.

“What’s the matter with the boy?” cried the doctor, as usual, all in a bustle. “Do you see anything—hear anything—feel anything—eh?”

“That, sir,” cried Oliver, pointing out of the carriage window. “That house!”

“Yes; well, what of it? Stop coachman. Pull up here,” cried the doctor. “What of the house, my man; eh?”

“The thieves—the house they took me to!” whispered Oliver.

“The devil it is!” cried the doctor. “Hallo, there! let me out!”

But, before the coachman could dismount from his box, he had tumbled out of the coach, by some means or other; and, running down to the deserted tenement, began kicking at the door like a madman.

“Halloa?” said a little ugly hump-backed man: opening the door so suddenly, that the doctor, from the very impetus of his last kick, nearly fell forward into the passage. “What’s the matter here?”

“Matter!” exclaimed the other, collaring him, without a moment’s reflection. “A good deal. Robbery is the matter.”

“There’ll be Murder the matter, too,” replied the hump-backed man, coolly, “if you don’t take your hands off. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” said the doctor, giving his captive a hearty shake.

“Where’s—confound the fellow, what’s his rascally name—Sikes; that’s it. Where’s Sikes, you thief?”

The hump-backed man stared, as if in excess of amazement and indignation; then, twisting himself, dexterously, from the doctor’s grasp, growled forth a volley of horrid oaths, and retired into the house. Before he could shut the door, however, the doctor had passed into the parlour, without a word of parley.

He looked anxiously round; not an article of furniture; not a vestige of anything, animate or inanimate; not even the position of the cupboards; answered Oliver’s description!

“Now!” said the hump-backed man, who had watched him keenly, “what do you mean by coming into my house, in this violent way? Do you want to rob me, or to murder me? Which is it?”

“Did you ever know a man come out to do either, in a chariot and pair, you ridiculous old vampire?” said the irritable doctor.

“What do you want, then?” demanded the hunchback. “Will you take yourself off, before I do you a mischief? Curse you!”

“As soon as I think proper,” said Mr. Losberne, looking into the other parlour; which, like the first, bore no resemblance whatever to Oliver’s account of it. “I shall find you out, some day, my friend.”

“Will you?” sneered the ill-favoured cripple. “If you ever want me, I’m here. I haven’t lived here mad and all alone, for five-and-twenty years, to be scared by you. You shall pay for this; you shall pay for this.” And so saying, the mis-shapen little demon set up a yell, and danced upon the ground, as if wild with rage.

CAPITOLO XXXII. DELLA FELICE VITA CHE OLIVER INIZIÒ A CONDURRE CON I SUOI GENTILI AMICI

Le sofferenze di Oliver non erano né lievi né poche. Oltre al dolore e ai ritardi dovuti a un arto fratturato, l’esposizione all’umidità e al freddo aveva provocato febbre e malaria: che lo affliggevano per molte settimane e lo ridussero in pessime condizioni. Ma alla fine cominciò, a poco a poco, a stare meglio, e talvolta riusciva persino a dire qualche lacrimosa parola su quanto apprezzasse la bontà delle due dolci signore e su quanto ardentemente sperasse che quando fosse tornato forte e sano, avrebbe potuto fare qualcosa per dimostrare la sua gratitudine; solo qualcosa, che permettesse loro di vedere l’amore e il senso del dovere che lo animavano; qualcosa, anche minima, che provasse loro che la loro gentile bontà non era stata sprecata; ma che il povero ragazzo che la loro carità aveva salvato dalla miseria o dalla morte, era ansioso di servirle con tutto il suo cuore e la sua anima.

“Poveretto!” disse Rosa quando Oliver aveva cercato debolmente per un giorno di pronunciare le parole di gratitudine che gli salivano alle labbra pallide; “avrai molte occasioni di servirci, se vorrai. Andremo in campagna e mia zia intende che tu ci accompagni. Il luogo tranquillo, l’aria pura e tutte le gioie e le bellezze della primavera ti rimetteranno in pochi giorni. Ti daremo mille occupazioni quando sarai in grado di sopportare la fatica.”

“La disgrazia!” esclamò Oliver. “Oh! cara signora, se potessi solo lavorare per lei; se potessi soltanto darle piacere innaffiando i suoi fiori, o prendendomi cura dei suoi uccelli, o correndo su e giù tutto il giorno, per farla felice; cosa darei per poterlo fare!”

«Non dovrai darci nulla», disse Miss Maylie sorridendo; «perché, come ti ho già detto prima, troveremo mille modi per impiegarti; e se solo metterai a frutto la metà dello sforzo che ci prometti ora per accontentarci, mi renderai davvero molto felice».

«Felice, signora!» esclamò Oliver; «che gentile da parte sua dirlo!»

«Mi renderete più felice di quanto io possa dirvi», rispose la giovane signora. «Pensare che mia cara e buona zia sia stata il mezzo per salvare qualcuno da una tristezza così profonda come quella che ci avete descritto, sarebbe per me un piacere indicibile; ma sapere che l’oggetto della sua bontà e compassione fosse sinceramente grato e affezionato in conseguenza di ciò, mi delizierebbe più di quanto voi possiate bene immaginare. Mi capite?», chiese, osservando il volto pensieroso di Oliver.

«Oh sì, signora, sì!» rispose Oliver con impeto; «ma pensavo che ora sono ingrato.»

«A chi?» chiese la giovane signora.

«Al gentile signore e alla cara vecchia infermiera che si sono presi tanta cura di me prima», riprese Oliver. «Se sapessero quanto sono felice, ne sarebbero certamente contenti.»

«Ne sono certa», replicò la benefattrice di Oliver; «e il signor Losberne ha già avuto la gentilezza di promettere che, quando sarai abbastanza guarito da sopportare il viaggio, ti porterà a trovarli.»

«Lo ha fatto, signora?», esclamò Oliver, illuminandosi in volto per la gioia. «Non so cosa farò dalla felicità quando rivedrò i loro cari volti!»

In poco tempo, Oliver si riprese abbastanza da sopportare la fatica di questo viaggio. Una mattina lui e il signor Losberne partirono quindi in una piccola carrozza che apparteneva alla signora Maylie. Quando arrivarono al ponte di Chertsey, Oliver impallidì molto ed emise un’esclamazione forte.

«Che cosa ha quel ragazzo?» gridò il dottore, come al solito tutto agitato. «Vedi qualcosa, senti qualcosa, provi qualcosa, eh?»

«Quella, signore», gridò Oliver, indicando fuori dallo sportello della carrozza. «Quella casa!»

“Sì; bene, e allora? Ferma, cocchiere. Fermati qui”, gridò il dottore. “E la casa, amico mio; eh?”

“I ladri, la casa dove mi hanno portato!” sussurrò Oliver.

“Diavolo!” esclamò il dottore. “Ehi, là! Fatemi uscire!”

Ma prima che il cocchiere potesse scendere dal suo posto, era riuscito in qualche modo a cadere dalla carrozza e, correndo verso l’abitazione abbandonata, aveva cominciato a dare calci alla porta come un pazzo.

«Eh?» disse un brutto omino gobbo e deforme aprendo la porta così all’improvviso che il dottore, per lo slancio dell’ultimo calcio, rischiò di cadere in avanti nel corridoio. «Che succede qui?»

«Fatto!» esclamò l’altro, afferrandolo per il colletto senza riflettere un attimo. «Una cosa seria. Si tratta di furto.»

«Ci sarà anche un Omicidio», rispose l’uomo gobbo con freddezza, «se non togliete le mani di dosso. Mi sentite?»

«Vi sento», disse il dottore, dando al suo prigioniero una vigorosa scossa.

«Dov’è, maledetto il tipo, qual è quel nome di birbante. Sikes; ecco. Dov’è Sikes, ladro?»

L’uomo gobbo fissò lo sguardo come se fosse eccessivamente stupito ed indignato; poi si liberò abilmente dalla presa del dottore, emise una raffica di terribili imprecazioni e si ritirò nella casa. Prima che potesse chiudere la porta, però, il dottore era entrato nel salotto senza dire una parola.

Guardò ansiosamente intorno: non un mobile; neppure un segno di qualcosa, animato o inanimato; nemmeno la posizione degli armadietti; corrispondeva alla descrizione di Oliver!

«Ora!», disse l’uomo gobbo che lo aveva osservato attentamente, «che cosa intendi venendo nella mia casa in questo modo violento? Vuoi derubarmi o uccidermi? Quale delle due?»

«Avete mai visto un uomo uscire per fare una di queste cose su un carro trainato da due cavalli, voi ridicolo vecchio vampiro?» disse il dottore irritabile.

«E allora cosa vuoi?» chiese il gobbo. «Ti toglierai di mezzo prima che ti faccia del male? Maledetto!»

«Appena lo riterrò opportuno», disse il signor Losberne guardando nell’altro salotto; che, come il primo, non aveva alcuna somiglianza con la descrizione fornita da Oliver. «Un giorno ti troverò, amico mio.»

«Lo farai?» sogghignò il deforme storpio. «Se mai mi cercherai, sono qui. Non ho vissuto qui da solo e pazzo per venticinque anni per farmi spaventare da te. Ne pagherai le conseguenze; ne pagherai le conseguenze». E così dicendo, il piccolo demone deforme emise un urlo e danzò sul terreno, come se fosse fuori di sé dalla rabbia.

“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 eyed 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.

«Abbastanza stupido», borbottò il dottore tra sé e sé; «il ragazzo deve essersi sbagliato. Ecco! Metti questo in tasca, e rinchiuditi di nuovo». Con queste parole lanciò al gobbo un pezzo di moneta e tornò alla carrozza.

L’uomo seguì fino alla porta del carro, lanciando le imprecazioni e maledizioni più selvagge per tutto il tragitto; ma mentre il signor Losberne si voltava a parlare con l’autista, guardò dentro la carrozza e osservò Oliver per un istante con uno sguardo così acuto e feroce e allo stesso tempo così furioso e vendicativo che, sveglio o addormentato, non riuscì a dimenticarlo per mesi dopo. Continuò a lanciare le imprecazioni più terribili finché l’autista non si fu rimesso al suo posto; e quando ripresero il viaggio, lo videro un po’ indietro: che batteva i piedi a terra e si strappava i capelli in accessi di rabbia vera o simulata.

“Sono un asino!” disse il dottore dopo un lungo silenzio. “Lo sapevi prima, Oliver?”

“No, signore.”

«Allora non dimenticarlo un altro volta.»

«Un asino», ripeté il dottore dopo un ulteriore silenzio di alcuni minuti. «Anche se fosse stato il posto giusto e ci fossero stati i tipi adatti, cosa avrei potuto fare da solo? E anche se fossi stato aiutato, non vedo che bene avrei fatto, a parte mettermi nei guai e dover rivelare ineluttabilmente come ho insabbiato questa faccenda. Mi sarebbe servito, però. Mi ritrovo sempre coinvolto in qualche pasticcio agendo d’impulso. Forse mi avrebbe fatto bene».

Ora il fatto era che l’eccellente dottore non aveva mai agito in tutta la sua vita se non per istinto, e non era un cattivo complimento alla natura degli istinti che lo governavano, che lungi dall’essere coinvolto in particolari guai o disgrazie, godeva del più caldo rispetto e stima di tutti coloro che lo conoscevano. Se si deve dire la verità, fu un po’ irritato per qualche minuto perché rimase deluso nel procurarsi prove a sostegno della storia di Oliver proprio nella prima occasione in cui ebbe modo di ottenerle. Tuttavia, si riprese presto; e constatando che le risposte di Oliver alle sue domande erano ancora altrettanto sincere e coerenti, e venivano date con la stessa apparente sincerità e verità, come sempre, decise di credervi pienamente da quel momento in poi.

Poiché Oliver conosceva il nome della strada in cui risiedeva il signor Brownlow, poterono dirigersi direttamente lì. Quando la carrozza svoltò in quella via, il suo cuore batteva così violentemente che a malapena riusciva a respirare.

«Ora, ragazzo mio, quale è la casa?» chiese il signor Losberne.

“Quella! Quella!” rispose Oliver, indicando con impazienza fuori dalla finestra. “La casa bianca. Oh, si sbrighi! La prego, si sbrighi! Mi sento come se dovessi morire: mi fa tremare così tanto.”

«Dai, dai!» disse il buon dottore, dandogli una pacca sulla spalla. «Li vedrai tra poco e saranno felicissimi di trovarti sano e salvo.»

“Ah! Spero di sì!” esclamò Oliver. “Sono stati così buoni con me; così tanto, tanto buoni con me.”

La carrozza proseguì. Si fermò. No; quella era la casa sbagliata; la porta successiva. Avanzò di qualche passo e si fermò nuovamente. Oliver alzò lo sguardo verso le finestre, con lacrime di felice aspettativa che gli scorrevano lungo il viso.

Ahimè! la bianca casa era vuota e c’era un cartello nella finestra. «Da affittare.»

«Bussate alla porta accanto», gridò il signor Losberne, prendendo per un braccio Oliver. «Sapete che fine abbia fatto il signor Brownlow, che viveva nella casa attigua?»

La serva non sapeva nulla; ma sarebbe andata a informarsi. Tornò poco dopo e disse che il signor Brownlow aveva venduto i suoi beni e si era trasferito nelle Indie Occidentali sei settimane prima. Oliver si strinse le mani e cadde all’indietro, senza forze.

«Anche la governante se n’è andata?» chiese il signor Losberne dopo una breve pausa.

«Sì, signore», rispose il domestico. «Il vecchio gentiluomo, la governante e un signore che era amico del signor Brownlow sono andati tutti insieme».

«Poi tornate verso casa», disse il signor Losberne al vetturino «e non fermatevi a far riposare i cavalli finché non sarete uscito da questa maledetta Londra!»

«Il venditore di libri, signore?» disse Oliver. «Conosco la strada per andare da lui. La prego, signore, veda lei stesso! Veda davvero lui!»

«Povero ragazzo mio, questa è una delusione più che sufficiente per un giorno», disse il dottore. «Più che sufficiente per entrambi. Se andiamo dal libraio, troveremo sicuramente che è morto o ha dato alle fiamme la sua casa, oppure è scappato. No; torniamo dritti a casa!» E obbedendo all’impulso del dottore, andarono a casa.

Questa amara delusione causò molto dolore e tristezza a Oliver, anche nel mezzo della sua felicità; perché si era compiaciuto molte volte durante la malattia, pensando a tutto ciò che il signor Brownlow e la signora Bedwin gli avrebbero detto: e quale delizia sarebbe stata raccontare loro quanti lunghi giorni e notti aveva trascorso riflettendo su quanto avevano fatto per lui, e piangendo la sua crudele separazione da loro. Anche la speranza di potersi un giorno giustificare con loro, e spiegare come fosse stato costretto a partire, lo aveva sostenuto in molte delle sue recenti prove; e ora l’idea che fossero andati così lontano, portando con sé la convinzione che lui fosse un impostore e un ladro - una convinzione che potrebbe rimanere incontestata fino al giorno della sua morte - era quasi più di quanto potesse sopportare.

La circostanza non provocò tuttavia alcun cambiamento nel comportamento dei suoi benefattori. Dopo un’altra quindicina di giorni, quando il bel tempo caldo era ormai iniziato e ogni albero e fiore stava mettendo fuori i suoi giovani foglie e ricchi fiori, essi si prepararono a lasciare la casa di Chertsey per alcuni mesi.

Spedirono il piatto, che aveva così eccitato l’avidità di Fagin, alla banca; e lasciando Giles e un altro domestico a custodia della casa, partirono per una casetta in campagna, portando con sé Oliver.

Who can describe the pleasure and delight, the peace of mind and soft tranquillity, 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 almost 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 the 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, but full of humble mounds, covered with fresh turf and moss: beneath 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.

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 good-will, until Miss Rose made her appearance: when there were a thousand commendations 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; it is 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.

Chi può descrivere il piacere e la gioia, la pace mentale e la dolce tranquillità che quel ragazzo malaticcio provava nell’aria tiepida e tra le verdi colline e i ricchi boschi di un villaggio dell’entroterra! Chi può dire come scene di pace e quiete si imprimano nella mente degli abitanti delle città affollate e rumorose, logorati dal dolore, portando con sé la loro freschezza fino al cuore stanco di questi ultimi! Gli uomini che hanno vissuto in strade affollate e soffocanti per tutta una vita di fatica, senza mai desiderare un cambiamento; gli uomini a cui l’abitudine è diventata la loro seconda natura, tanto da arrivare quasi ad amare ogni mattone e pietra che formavano i confini ristretti delle loro passeggiate quotidiane; anche questi, con la mano della morte su di loro, hanno desiderato infine uno sguardo fugace sul volto della Natura; e, portati lontano dalle scene dei loro vecchi dolori e piaceri, sono sembrati passare in un attimo a uno stato d’essere nuovo. Strisciando fuori giorno dopo giorno verso qualche posto verde e soleggiato, hanno avuto tali ricordi risvegliati dentro di loro dalla vista del cielo, della collina e della pianura, e dell’acqua luccicante che un assaggio del paradiso stesso ha lenito il loro rapido declino, e sono affondati nelle loro tombe con la stessa pace con cui il sole, il tramonto del quale hanno osservato dalla finestra solitaria della loro camera solo poche ore prima, è svanito dalla loro vista offuscata e debole! I ricordi che le pacifiche scene di campagna evocano non sono di questo mondo, né dei suoi pensieri e speranze. La loro dolce influenza può insegnarci come intrecciare nuovi ghirlande per le tombe di coloro che abbiamo amato: può purificare i nostri pensieri e abbattere vecchi rancori e odio; ma sotto tutto questo, anche nella mente meno riflessiva, persiste una vaga e appena formata consapevolezza di aver provato tali sentimenti molto tempo prima, in un tempo remoto e lontano, che evoca pensieri solenni su tempi futuri distanti e piega l’orgoglio e il materialismo sotto di sé.

Era un luogo incantevole dove si rifugiarono. Oliver, che aveva trascorso i suoi giorni tra folle squallide e in mezzo al rumore e alle risse, sembrava entrare lì in una nuova esistenza. La rosa e il glicine si aggrappavano ai muri della casetta; l’edera strisciava intorno ai tronchi degli alberi; e i fiori del giardino profumavano l’aria con deliziosi odori. Nelle vicinanze c’era un piccolo cimitero, non affollato di alte lapidi sgradevoli, ma pieno di umili tumuli coperti di fresco prato e muschio: sotto i quali giacevano a riposo gli anziani del villaggio. Oliver spesso vagava lì; e, pensando alla misera tomba in cui giaceva sua madre, a volte si sedeva e piangeva senza essere visto; ma quando alzava gli occhi verso il cielo profondo sopra di lui, smetteva di pensarla come se fosse lì nel terreno, e piangeva per lei, tristemente, ma senza dolore.

Era un felice periodo. Le giornate erano tranquille e serene; le notti non portavano con sé né paura né preoccupazioni; nessuna languida attesa in una miserabile prigione, o frequentazione di uomini miserevoli; solo pensieri piacevoli e felici. Ogni mattina andava da un vecchio signore dai capelli bianchi, che viveva vicino alla piccola chiesa: lo insegnava a leggere meglio e a scrivere; e parlava con tanta gentilezza e si dava tanto da fare, che Oliver non poteva mai sforzarsi abbastanza per compiacerlo. Poi passeggiava con la signora Maylie e Rose, ascoltandole parlare di libri; o forse sedeva vicino a loro, in un luogo ombreggiato, e ascoltava mentre la giovane signorina leggeva: cosa che avrebbe potuto fare fino a quando non diventava troppo buio per vedere le lettere. Poi aveva la sua lezione per il giorno dopo da preparare; e a questo lavorava sodo, in una piccola stanza che dava sul giardino, finché la sera arrivava lentamente, quando le signore uscivano di nuovo, e lui con loro: ascoltando con tanto piacere tutto ciò che dicevano: e così felice se volevano un fiore che poteva arrampicarsi per raggiungere, o avevano dimenticato qualcosa che poteva correre a prendere: che non poteva mai essere abbastanza veloce. Quando diventava completamente buio e tornavano a casa, la giovane signorina si sedeva al pianoforte, suonava qualche aria piacevole o cantava, con una voce bassa e gentile, qualche vecchia canzone che faceva piacere alla sua zia ascoltare. In momenti come questi non venivano accese candele; e Oliver si sedeva vicino a una delle finestre, ascoltando la dolce musica in un perfetto rapimento.

E quando arrivò la domenica, come fu diverso il modo di trascorrere quella giornata rispetto a qualsiasi altro giorno della sua vita! E quanto fu felice; proprio come tutti gli altri giorni in quel periodo così felice! C’era la piccola chiesa, al mattino, con le foglie verdi che svolazzavano alle finestre: gli uccelli che cantavano fuori e l’aria profumata che entrava dal basso portico riempiendo di fragranza l’edificio semplice. La gente povera era così pulita e ordinata, e si inginocchiava con tanta devozione nella preghiera, che sembrava un piacere, non un dovere noioso, il loro radunarsi insieme; e anche se il canto poteva essere rozzo, era sincero e suonava più melodioso (almeno alle orecchie di Oliver) di qualsiasi cosa avesse mai sentito in chiesa prima. Poi, come al solito, ci furono le passeggiate e molte visite nelle case pulite degli operai; e alla sera, Oliver lesse uno o due capitoli dalla Bibbia, che aveva studiato tutta la settimana, e nell’espletare questo dovere si sentiva più orgoglioso e contento di quanto non sarebbe stato se fosse stato lui stesso il sacerdote.

La mattina, Oliver era in piedi alle sei di pomeriggio, vagabondando per i campi e saccheggiando le siepi lontano e vicino, alla ricerca di mazzi di fiori selvatici con cui tornava carico a casa; e ci volevano molta cura e attenzione per disporli al meglio possibile per abbellire il tavolo della colazione. C’era anche del tarassaco fresco, per gli uccelli della signorina Maylie, con cui Oliver, che aveva studiato l’argomento sotto la competente guida del cancelliere del villaggio, decorava le gabbie nel gusto più approvato. Quando gli uccelli erano ben pettinati e in ordine per la giornata, c’era di solito qualche piccola commissione di beneficenza da eseguire nel villaggio; o, se non c’era, si giocava a cricket sul prato; o, se anche questo mancava, c’era sempre qualcosa da fare in giardino, o intorno alle piante, a cui Oliver (che aveva studiato anche questa scienza sotto lo stesso maestro, che era giardiniere di mestiere) si dedicava con grande buona volontà, fino all’apparizione della signorina Rose: quando c’erano mille lodi da elargire per tutto ciò che aveva fatto.

Così trascorsero tre mesi; tre mesi che, nella vita del più beato e fortunato dei mortali, avrebbero potuto essere una felicità senza ombre, e che per Oliver furono vera beatitudine. Con la massima generosità pura e amabile da un lato; e la gratitudine più sincera, calda e sentita dal profondo dell’anima dall’altro; non è meraviglia che, alla fine di quel breve periodo, Oliver Twist si fosse completamente addomesticato con la vecchia signora e sua nipote, e che il fervido attaccamento del suo giovane e sensibile cuore venisse ricambiato dal loro orgoglio in lui e dall’affetto per lui.

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 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, when 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 over 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 well.

“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 corner 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 years: 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 shall 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.”

CAPITOLO XXXIII. IN CUI LA FELICITÀ DI OLIVER E DEI SUOI AMICI SUBISCE UN IMPROVVISO ARRESTO

La primavera passò in fretta e arrivò l’estate. Se il villaggio era stato bello fin dall’inizio, ora si trovava nel pieno splendore e rigoglio della sua ricchezza. I grandi alberi, che nei mesi precedenti apparivano spogli e nudi, erano ora esplosi in una forte vita e salute; e allungando i loro verdi rami sulla terra assetata, trasformavano le aree aperte e nude in luoghi pregiati, dove c’era un ombra profonda e piacevole da cui ammirare l’ampio panorama, immerso nella luce del sole, che si stendeva oltre. La terra aveva indossato il suo manto di verde più luminoso; e diffondeva i suoi profumi più ricchi. Era il fiore e la forza dell’anno; tutto era felice e rigoglioso.

Tuttavia, la stessa vita tranquilla continuava nella piccola casetta e lo stesso sereno ottimismo regnava tra i suoi abitanti. Oliver era ormai diventato robusto e in salute; ma né il benessere né la malattia facevano alcuna differenza nei suoi caldi sentimenti verso molte persone. Era ancora lo stesso essere gentile, affezionato e amorevole che era stato quando dolore e sofferenza avevano consumato le sue forze, e quando dipendeva per ogni minima attenzione e conforto da coloro che lo curavano.

Una bella notte, quando avevano fatto una passeggiata più lunga del solito: perché la giornata era stata insolitamente calda e c’era una splendida luna e si era levato un leggero vento che era insolitamente rinfrescante. Anche Rose era di ottimo umore, e avevano continuato a camminare, in una allegra conversazione, fino a superare di molto i loro soliti limiti. La signora Maylie essendo stanca, tornarono più lentamente a casa. La giovane signorina si tolse semplicemente il suo semplice cappello e si sedette al pianoforte come al solito. Dopo aver suonato distrattamente sui tasti per alcuni minuti, cadde in un’aria bassa e molto solenne; e mentre la suonava, sentirono un rumore come se stesse piangendo.

«Rosa, mia cara!» disse la signora più anziana.

Rosa non rispose nulla, ma suonò un po’ più in fretta, come se le parole l’avessero strappata da qualche pensiero doloroso.

«Rosa, mia cara!» esclamò la signora Maylie, alzandosi in fretta e chinandosi su di lei. «Che cosa succede? In lacrime! Mia cara bambina, che cosa ti turba?»

«Nulla, zia; nulla», rispose la giovane signora. «Non so cosa sia; non riesco a descriverlo; ma sento, »

«Non ti senti bene, mio amore?» intervenne la signora Maylie.

“No, no! Oh, non sono malata!” rispose Rose: rabbrividendo come se un gelo mortale la stesse attraversando mentre parlava; “mi sentirò meglio tra poco. Chiuda per favore la finestra!”

Oliver si affrettò ad esaudire la sua richiesta. La giovane signora, facendo uno sforzo per ritrovare il buon umore, cercò di suonare un brano più allegro; ma le sue dita caddero impotenti sui tasti. Coprendosi il viso con le mani, si abbandonò sul divano e diede sfogo alle lacrime che ora non riusciva a trattenere.

“Mio figlio!” disse la signora anziana, stringendosela tra le braccia, “non ti ho mai visto così prima d’ora”.

«Non vorrei allarmarti se potessi evitarlo», rispose Rosa; «ma in verità ho fatto del mio meglio e non riesco a farne a meno. Temo di essere davvero malata, zia».

Era proprio così; infatti, quando portarono le candele, videro che nel brevissimo tempo trascorso dal loro ritorno a casa, il colore del suo volto si era trasformato in un pallore marmoreo. La sua espressione non aveva perso nulla della sua bellezza; ma era cambiata; e sul viso gentile appariva uno sguardo ansioso e smunto, che non vi era mai stato prima. Un minuto dopo, fu pervaso da un rossore cremisi: e una selvaggia intensità si diffuse negli occhi dolci e azzurri. Anche questa scomparve, come l’ombra proiettata da una nuvola che passa; ed ella fu di nuovo mortalmente pallida.

Oliver, che osservava la vecchia signora con ansia, notò che era allarmata da quei fenomeni; e così, in effetti, lo era anche lui; ma vedendo che lei faceva finta di non dargli peso, cercò di fare altrettanto, e ci riuscirono a tal punto che quando Rose fu persuasa dalla zia ad andare a riposarsi per la notte, era più allegra; e sembrava anche in migliore salute: assicurandoli che si sentiva certa di alzarsi il mattino dopo, del tutto bene.

“Spero,” disse Oliver quando la signora Maylie tornò, “che non ci sia qualcosa che non va. Non ha un’aria bene stasera, ma—”

La vecchia signora gli fece cenno di non parlare e sedendosi lei stessa in un angolo buio della stanza rimase silenziosa per qualche tempo. Alla fine disse con voce tremante:

“Spero di no, Oliver. Sono stato molto felice con lei per alcuni anni: troppo felice, forse. Potrebbe essere ora che io debba incontrare qualche sfortuna; ma spero non sia questa.”

“Cosa?” chiese Oliver.

«Il duro colpo», disse la vecchia signora, «di perdere la cara ragazza che è stata per tanto tempo il mio conforto e la mia felicità.»

“Oh! Dio ce ne scampi!” esclamò Oliver, in fretta.

“Amen a questo, mio bambino!” disse la vecchia signora, torcendosi le mani.

«Sicuramente non c’è pericolo di qualcosa di così terribile?» disse Oliver. «Due ore fa stava benissimo.»

“È molto malata ora”, riprese la signora Maylie; “e starà peggio, ne sono sicura. Mia cara, cara Rose! Oh, cosa farò senza di lei!”

Lei si abbandonò a un tale dolore che Oliver, reprimendo la propria emozione, osò farle delle rimostranze e le chiese con insistenza di essere più calma per il bene della cara giovane signora.

«E pensi, signora», disse Oliver, mentre le lacrime gli sgorgavano dagli occhi nonostante i suoi sforzi per trattenerle. «Oh! pensa a quanto è giovane e buona, e quale piacere e conforto doni a tutti quelli che la circondano. Sono sicuro - certo - assolutamente certo - che, per il tuo bene, tu sei così buona; e per il suo; e per il bene di tutti coloro che rende felici; non morirà. Il Cielo non permetterà mai che muoia così giovane».

“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 had devolved upon her, steadily, and, to all external appearances, 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?

An anxious night ensued. When morning came, Mrs. Maylie’s predictions were but too well verified. Rose was in the first stage of a high and dangerous fever.

“We must be active, Oliver, and not give way to useless grief,” said Mrs. Maylie, laying her finger on her lip, as she looked steadily into his face; “this letter must be sent, with all possible expedition, to Mr. Losberne. It must be carried to the market-town: which is not more than four miles off, by the footpath across the field: and thence dispatched, by an express on horseback, straight to Chertsey. The people at the inn will undertake to do this: and I can trust to you to see it done, I know.”

Oliver could make no reply, but looked his anxiety to be gone at once.

“Here is another letter,” said Mrs. Maylie, pausing to reflect; “but whether to send it now, or wait until I see how Rose goes on, I scarcely know. I would not forward it, unless I feared the worst.”

“Is it for Chertsey, too, ma’am?” inquired Oliver; impatient to execute his commission, and holding out his trembling hand for the letter.

“No,” replied the old lady, giving it to him mechanically. Oliver glanced at it, and saw that it was directed to Harry Maylie, Esquire, at some great lord’s house in the country; where, he could not make out.

“Shall it go, ma’am?” asked Oliver, looking up, impatiently.

“I think not,” replied Mrs. Maylie, taking it back. “I will wait until tomorrow.”

With these words, she gave Oliver her purse, and he started off, without more delay, at the greatest speed he could muster.

Swiftly he ran across the fields, and down the little lanes which sometimes divided them: now almost hidden by the high corn on either side, and now emerging on an open field, where the mowers and haymakers were busy at their work: nor did he stop once, save now and then, for a few seconds, to recover breath, until he came, in a great heat, and covered with dust, on the little market-place of the market-town.

Here he paused, and looked about for the inn. There were a white bank, and a red brewery, and a yellow town-hall; and in one corner there was a large house, with all the wood about it painted green: before which was the sign of “The George.” To this he hastened, as soon as it caught his eye.

He spoke to a postboy who was dozing under the gateway; and who, after hearing what he wanted, referred him to the ostler; who after hearing all he had to say again, referred him to the landlord; who was a tall gentleman in a blue neckcloth, a white hat, drab breeches, and boots with tops to match, leaning against a pump by the stable-door, picking his teeth with a silver toothpick.

This gentleman walked with much deliberation into the bar to make out the bill: which took a long time making out: and after it was ready, and paid, a horse had to be saddled, and a man to be dressed, which took up ten good minutes more. Meanwhile Oliver was in such a desperate state of impatience and anxiety, that he felt as if he could have jumped upon the horse himself, and galloped away, full tear, to the next stage. At length, all was ready; and the little parcel having been handed up, with many injunctions and entreaties for its speedy delivery, the man set spurs to his horse, and rattling over the uneven paving of the market-place, was out of the town, and galloping along the turnpike-road, in a couple of minutes.

As it was something to feel certain that assistance was sent for, and that no time had been lost, Oliver hurried up the inn-yard, with a somewhat lighter heart. He was turning out of the gateway when he accidently stumbled against a tall man wrapped in a cloak, who was at that moment coming out of the inn door.

“Hah!” cried the man, fixing his eyes on Oliver, and suddenly recoiling. “What the devil’s this?”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Oliver; “I was in a great hurry to get home, and didn’t see you were coming.”

“Death!” muttered the man to himself, glaring at the boy with his large dark eyes. “Who would have thought it! Grind him to ashes! He’d start up from a stone coffin, to come in my way!”

“I am sorry,” stammered Oliver, confused by the strange man’s wild look. “I hope I have not hurt you!”

“Rot you!” murmured the man, in a horrible passion; between his clenched teeth; “if I had only had the courage to say the word, I might have been free of you in a night. Curses on your head, and black death on your heart, you imp! What are you doing here?”

“Silenzio!” disse la signora Maylie, posando la mano sulla testa di Oliver. “Pensi come un bambino, povero ragazzo. Ma mi insegni il mio dovere, nonostante tutto. L’avevo dimenticato per un momento, Oliver, ma spero di essere perdonata, perché sono vecchia e ho visto abbastanza malattia e morte da conoscere l’agonia della separazione dagli oggetti del nostro amore. Ho visto anche abbastanza da sapere che non è sempre il più giovane e il migliore a essere risparmiato a coloro che lo amano; ma questo dovrebbe darci conforto nel nostro dolore; perché il Cielo è giusto; e tali cose ci insegnano, in modo impressionante, che esiste un mondo più luminoso di questo; e che il passaggio verso di esso è rapido. Sia fatta la volontà di Dio! Io lo amo; e Lui sa quanto bene!”

Oliver fu sorpreso nel vedere che mentre la signora Maylie pronunciava queste parole, si trattenne dai lamenti come se lo facesse con uno sforzo; e raddrizzandosi mentre parlava, divenne calma e risoluta. Fu ancora più stupito di scoprire che questa fermezza durò; e che, sotto tutte le cure e la vigilanza che ne seguirono, la signora Maylie era sempre pronta e composta: svolgendo tutti i doveri che le erano toccati in sorte con costanza e, a quanto appariva esternamente, anche con allegria. Ma lui era giovane e non sapeva di cosa sono capaci menti forti in circostanze difficili. Come avrebbe potuto saperlo, quando i loro possessori così raramente lo sanno?

Seguì una notte di ansia. Quando arrivò il mattino, le previsioni della signora Maylie si verificarono fin troppo bene. Rose era nella prima fase di una febbre alta e pericolosa.

“Dobbiamo essere attivi, Oliver, e non cedere a un dolore inutile”, disse la signora Maylie, posando il dito sulle labbra mentre lo guardava fisso negli occhi; “questa lettera deve essere spedita con tutta l’urgenza possibile al signor Losberne. Deve essere portata alla città di mercato: che non è più lontana di quattro miglia, per il sentiero attraverso i campi: e da lì inviata, tramite un corriere a cavallo, direttamente a Chertsey. Le persone all’osteria si occuperanno di questo: e so di poter contare su di te perché veda che sia fatto.”

Oliver non poté rispondere nulla, ma il suo sguardo esprimeva l’ansia di andarsene subito.

«Ecco un’altra lettera», disse la signora Maylie, fermandosi a riflettere; «ma se inviarla subito o aspettare di vedere come va Rose, non saprei. Non l’invierò, a meno che non temessi il peggio».

«È anche per Chertsey, signora?» chiese Oliver, impaziente di eseguire la sua commissione e tendendo la mano tremante per prendere la lettera.

“No,” rispose la vecchia signora, consegnandogliela meccanicamente. Oliver diede un’occhiata e vide che era indirizzata a Harry Maylie, Esquire, in una grande casa di qualche nobile nel paese; dove, non riusciva a capire.

«Lo butto via, signora?» chiese Oliver, alzando lo sguardo con impazienza.

«Non credo», rispose la signora Maylie riprendendolo. «Aspetterò fino a domani».

Con queste parole, ella diede a Oliver il suo portamonete e lui partì senza ulteriori indugi alla massima velocità che poteva raggiungere.

Correva velocemente attraverso i campi e lungo i piccoli sentieri che talvolta li dividevano: ora quasi nascosto tra l’alto grano da entrambi i lati, ora emergendo in un campo aperto dove mietitori e falciatori erano intenti al loro lavoro; non si fermò neppure una volta, se non di tanto in tanto per qualche secondo a riprendere fiato, finché arrivò, tutto accaldato e coperto di polvere, sulla piccola piazza del mercato della cittadina.

Qui si fermò e guardò intorno alla ricerca della locanda. C’era una banca bianca, una birreria rossa e un municipio giallo; in un angolo c’era poi una grande casa, con tutta la parte lignea dipinta di verde: davanti a questa c’era l’insegna del “George”. Non appena la vide, vi si diresse di corsa.

Si rivolse a un postiglione che dormicchiava sotto il portone; e questi, dopo aver ascoltato ciò che voleva sapere, lo indirizzò al maniscalco; che dopo averlo nuovamente ascoltato, lo indirizzò all’albergatore; un signore alto con una cravatta blu, un cappello bianco, calzoni color topo e stivali con gambali a tinta, appoggiato contro la pompa vicino alla porta della scuderia, che si puliva i denti con uno stuzzicadenti d’argento.

Questo signore si diresse con molta calma al bar per compilare il conto: che richiese un bel po’ di tempo da compilare; e dopo che fu pronto, e pagato, bisognò sellare un cavallo e vestire un uomo, cosa che richiese altri dieci buoni minuti. Nel frattempo Oliver era in uno stato così disperato di impazienza e ansia da sentirsi come se avrebbe potuto saltare sul cavallo lui stesso e galoppare via, a tutta velocità, fino alla prossima tappa. Alla fine tutto fu pronto; e il piccolo pacco essendo stato consegnato con molte raccomandazioni ed esortazioni per la sua pronta consegna, l’uomo spronò il suo cavallo e sfrecciando sul selciato irregolare della piazza del mercato, fu fuori dalla città e galoppava lungo la strada maestra in un paio di minuti.

Era un sollievo sapere che era stata inviata assistenza e che non si era perso tempo, così Oliver corse nel cortile della locanda con il cuore più leggero. Stava uscendo dal cancello quando accidentalmente inciampò in un uomo alto avvolto in un mantello, che in quel momento stava uscendo dalla porta della locanda.

«Ah!» esclamò l’uomo, fissando gli occhi su Oliver e ritraendosi improvvisamente. «Che diavolo è questo?»

“Mi scusi, signore”, disse Oliver; “ero di gran fretta per tornare a casa e non l’ho vista arrivare”.

«Morte!» mormorò l’uomo tra sé e sé, fissando il ragazzo con i suoi grandi occhi scuri. «Chi l’avrebbe mai detto! Ridurlo in cenere! Si rialzerebbe da una bara di pietra per mettersi sulla mia strada!»

“Mi dispiace”, balbettò Oliver, confuso dallo sguardo selvaggio dello strano uomo. “Spero di non averla ferita!”.

«Marcisci!» mormorò l’uomo, con una terribile passione; tra i denti stretti; «se avessi solo avuto il coraggio di dire la parola, potrei avermi liberato di te in una notte. Maledizioni sulla tua testa e morte nera sul tuo cuore, moccioso! Cosa ci fai qui?»

The man shook his fist, as he uttered these words incoherently. He advanced towards Oliver, as if with the intention of aiming a blow at him, but fell violently on the ground: writhing and foaming, in a fit.

Oliver gazed, for a moment, at the struggles of the madman (for such he supposed him to be); and then darted into the house for help. Having seen him safely carried into the hotel, he turned his face homewards, running as fast as he could, to make up for lost time: and recalling with a great deal of astonishment and some fear, the extraordinary behaviour of the person from whom he had just parted.

The circumstance did not dwell in his recollection long, however: for when he reached the cottage, there was enough to occupy his mind, and to drive all considerations of self completely from his memory.

Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse; before mid-night she was delirious. A medical practitioner, who resided on the spot, was in constant attendance upon her; and after first seeing the patient, he had taken Mrs. Maylie aside, and pronounced her disorder to be one of a most alarming nature. “In fact,” he said, “it would be little short of a miracle, if she recovered.”

How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and stealing out, with noiseless footstep, to the staircase, listen for the slightest sound from the sick chamber! How often did a tremble shake his frame, and cold drops of terror start upon his brow, when a sudden trampling of feet caused him to fear that something too dreadful to think of, had even then occurred! And what had been the fervency of all the prayers he had ever muttered, compared with those he poured forth, now, in the agony and passion of his supplication for the life and health of the gentle creature, who was tottering on the deep grave’s verge!

Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance! Oh! the racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat violently, and the breath come thick, by the force of the images they conjure up before it; the desperate anxiety to be doing something to relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to alleviate; the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what reflections or endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of the time, allay them!

Morning came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke in whispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to time; women and children went away in tears. All the livelong day, and for hours after it had grown dark, Oliver paced softly up and down the garden, raising his eyes every instant to the sick chamber, and shuddering to see the darkened window, looking as if death lay stretched inside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived. “It is hard,” said the good doctor, turning away as he spoke; “so young; so much beloved; but there is very little hope.”

Another morning. The sun shone brightly; as brightly as if it looked upon no misery or care; and, with every leaf and flower in full bloom about her; with life, and health, and sounds and sights of joy, surrounding her on every side: the fair young creature lay, wasting fast. Oliver crept away to the old churchyard, and sitting down on one of the green mounds, wept and prayed for her, in silence.

There was such peace and beauty in the scene; so much of brightness and mirth in the sunny landscape; such blithesome music in the songs of the summer birds; such freedom in the rapid flight of the rook, careering overhead; so much of life and joyousness in all; that, when the boy raised his aching eyes, and looked about, the thought instinctively occurred to him, that this was not a time for death; that Rose could surely never die when humbler things were all so glad and gay; that graves were for cold and cheerless winter: not for sunlight and fragrance. He almost thought that shrouds were for the old and shrunken; and that they never wrapped the young and graceful form in their ghastly folds.

A knell from the church bell broke harshly on these youthful thoughts. Another! Again! It was tolling for the funeral service. A group of humble mourners entered the gate: wearing white favours; for the corpse was young. They stood uncovered by a grave; and there was a mother—a mother once—among the weeping train. But the sun shone brightly, and the birds sang on.

Oliver turned homeward, thinking on the many kindnesses he had received from the young lady, and wishing that the time could come again, that he might never cease showing her how grateful and attached he was. He had no cause for self-reproach on the score of neglect, or want of thought, for he had been devoted to her service; and yet a hundred little occasions rose up before him, on which he fancied he might have been more zealous, and more earnest, and wished he had been. We need be careful how we deal with those about us, when every death carries to some small circle of survivors, thoughts of so much omitted, and so little done—of so many things forgotten, and so many more which might have been repaired! There is no remorse so deep as that which is unavailing; if we would be spared its tortures, let us remember this, in time.

When he reached home Mrs. Maylie was sitting in the little parlour. Oliver’s heart sank at sight of her; for she had never left the bedside of her niece; and he trembled to think what change could have driven her away. He learnt that she had fallen into a deep sleep, from which she would waken, either to recovery and life, or to bid them farewell, and die.

They sat, listening, and afraid to speak, for hours. The untasted meal was removed, with looks which showed that their thoughts were elsewhere, they watched the sun as he sank lower and lower, and, at length, cast over sky and earth those brilliant hues which herald his departure. Their quick ears caught the sound of an approaching footstep. They both involuntarily darted to the door, as Mr. Losberne entered.

“What of Rose?” cried the old lady. “Tell me at once! I can bear it; anything but suspense! Oh, tell me! in the name of Heaven!”

“You must compose yourself,” said the doctor supporting her. “Be calm, my dear ma’am, pray.”

“Let me go, in God’s name! My dear child! She is dead! She is dying!”

“No!” cried the doctor, passionately. “As He is good and merciful, she will live to bless us all, for years to come.”

The lady fell upon her knees, and tried to fold her hands together; but the energy which had supported her so long, fled up to Heaven with her first thanksgiving; and she sank into the friendly arms which were extended to receive her.

L’uomo agitò il pugno mentre pronunciava queste parole in modo incoerente. Si avvicinò a Oliver, come se volesse colpirlo, ma cadde violentemente a terra: contorcendosi e schiumando, in preda a un attacco.

Oliver osservò per un momento le convulsioni del pazzo (perché tale lo riteneva); e poi si precipitò in casa a cercare aiuto. Dopo averlo visto trasportato al sicuro all’hotel, si diresse verso casa, correndo più veloce che poteva per recuperare il tempo perso: e ricordando con grande stupore e un po’ di paura, il comportamento straordinario della persona da cui aveva appena preso congedo.

La circostanza non rimase a lungo nella sua memoria, tuttavia: quando raggiunse la casetta, c’era abbastanza da occupare la sua mente, e per allontanare completamente dalla sua memoria tutte le considerazioni di sé.

Rosa Maylie era rapidamente peggiorata; prima di mezz’notte delirava. Un medico che risiedeva sul posto la assisteva costantemente e dopo aver visitato per la prima volta la paziente, aveva preso da parte la signora Maylie e le aveva detto che il suo disturbo era di una natura molto allarmante. «In effetti», disse, «sarebbe quasi un miracolo se guarisse».

Quante volte Oliver si alzò dal letto quella notte, e uscì in silenzio, con passo furtivo, per le scale, ascoltando il minimo rumore proveniente dalla stanza del malato! Quante volte un tremito lo scosse tutto, e fredde gocce di terrore gli apparvero sulla fronte, quando improvvisi passi affrettati lo fecero temere che qualcosa di troppo spaventoso da pensare fosse accaduto in quel momento! E quale era stata l’intensità di tutte le preghiere che aveva mai mormorato, paragonata a quelle che ora riversava, nella disperazione e passione della sua supplica per la vita e la salute della gentile creatura, che vacillava sull’orlo del profondo tomba!

Oh! la suspense, la terribile, acuta suspense di stare oziosamente a guardare mentre la vita di chi amiamo teneramente è sospesa tra due fuochi! Oh! i pensieri strazianti che si affollano nella mente e fanno battere il cuore violentemente, e respirare con difficoltà per l’intensità delle immagini che evocano; l’ansia disperata di fare qualcosa per alleviare il dolore o diminuire il pericolo, cosa che non abbiamo potere di fare; lo sconforto dell’anima e dello spirito prodotto dal triste ricordo della nostra impotenza; quali torture possono eguagliare queste? Quali riflessioni o tentativi possono, nel pieno fervore del momento, placarle!

Venuta la mattina, il piccolo cottage era deserto e silenzioso. La gente parlava a bassa voce; volti ansiosi apparivano al cancello di tanto in tanto; donne e bambini se ne andavano in lacrime. Per tutta la lunga giornata, e per ore dopo che era calato il buio, Oliver camminava dolcemente su e giù per il giardino, alzando gli occhi ogni istante verso la camera della malata, e rabbrividendo nel vedere l’finestra oscurata, che sembrava guardare come se dentro ci fosse disteso lo spettro. Tardi quella notte, arrivò il signor Losberne. “È difficile,” disse il buon dottore, voltandosi mentre parlava; “così giovane; così amata; ma c’è ben poca speranza.”

Un’altra mattina. Il sole splendeva luminoso; tanto luminoso come se non vedesse nessuna miseria o preoccupazione; e, con ogni foglia e fiore in piena fioritura intorno a lei; con la vita, la salute, i suoni e le immagini della gioia che la circondavano da ogni parte: la giovane creatura giaceva, consumandosi rapidamente. Oliver si allontanò di soppiatto verso il vecchio cimitero, e sedendosi su uno dei tumuli verdi, pianse e pregò per lei in silenzio.

C’era una tale pace e bellezza nella scena, tanta luminosità e allegria nel paesaggio soleggiato, una musica così gioiosa nelle canzoni degli uccelli d’estate, una tale libertà nel rapido volo della cornacchia che volteggiava sopra di lui, tanta vita e allegria in tutto ciò, che quando il ragazzo alzò i suoi occhi stanchi e guardò intorno a sé, gli venne istintivamente in mente che non era un momento per la morte; che Rose non poteva certo morire quando creature più umili erano tutte così felici e allegre; che le tombe erano per il freddo e triste inverno, non per la luce del sole e il profumo. Pensò quasi che i sudari fossero per gli anziani e gli emaciati, e che mai avvolgessero nella loro spettrale piega la giovane e graziosa forma.

Un rintocco della campana della chiesa interruppe bruscamente quei pensieri giovanili. Ancora! Di nuovo! Suonava per il servizio funebre. Un gruppo di umili addolorati entrò dal cancello: portavano favori bianchi; perché la salma era giovane. Si fermarono a capo scoperto accanto a una tomba; e c’era una madre—una madre un tempo—tra il treno di pianto. Ma il sole splendeva luminoso, e gli uccelli continuavano a cantare.

Oliver si diresse verso casa, pensando alle tante gentilezze che aveva ricevuto dalla giovane signora e desiderando che il tempo potesse tornare indietro affinché non smettesse mai di dimostrarle quanto fosse grato e affezionato. Non aveva motivo di auto-rimproverarsi per negligenza o mancanza di attenzione, poiché si era dedicato al suo servizio; eppure centinaia di piccole occasioni gli si presentarono davanti agli occhi, in cui immaginava di poter essere stato più zelante e più sollecito, e desiderò di esserlo stato. Dobbiamo stare attenti a come trattiamo chi ci sta intorno, quando ogni morte porta a un piccolo circolo di sopravvissuti pensieri di tante cose trascurate e così poco fatto - di tante cose dimenticate e ancora più che avrebbero potuto essere riparate! Non c’è rimorso così profondo come quello inutile; se vogliamo evitare le sue torture, ricordiamocene in tempo.

Quando raggiunse casa la signora Maylie era seduta nel salottino. Il cuore di Oliver affondò alla vista di lei; perché non aveva mai lasciato il capezzale della nipote; e tremava al pensiero di quale cambiamento potesse averla allontanata. Scoprì che era caduta in un profondo sonno, da cui si sarebbe svegliata, o per recuperare e vivere, o per salutarli, e morire.

Sedettero ad ascoltare per ore, senza osare parlare. Il pasto non assaggiato fu portato via; con lo sguardo perso altrove, osservarono il sole che scendeva sempre più in basso e infine gettò su cielo e terra quei vivaci colori che annunciano la sua partenza. Le loro orecchie acute colsero il rumore di un passo che si avvicinava. Entrambi, involontariamente, balzarono verso la porta quando entrò il signor Losberne.

“E di Rosa?” esclamò la vecchia signora. “Dimmi subito! Posso sopportarlo, qualsiasi cosa tranne l’incertezza! Oh, dimmelo! In nome del cielo!”

«Dovete riprendervi», disse il dottore sostenendola. «State calma, mia cara signora, ve ne prego».

«Lasciatemi andare, per amor di Dio! Mio caro bambino! È morta! Sta morendo!»

«No!» esclamò il dottore con passione «come Egli è buono e misericordioso, lei vivrà per benedirci tutti ancora per anni a venire.»

La signora cadde in ginocchio e cercò di giungere le mani insieme; ma l’energia che l’aveva sostenuta così a lungo, salì al cielo con la sua prima preghiera di ringraziamento; e lei si abbandonò nelle braccia amichevoli che furono tese per riceverla.

CHAPTER XXXIV. CONTAINS SOME INTRODUCTORY PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO NOW ARRIVES UPON THE SCENE; AND A NEW ADVENTURE WHICH HAPPENED TO OLIVER

It was almost too much happiness to bear. Oliver felt stunned and stupefied by the unexpected intelligence; he could not weep, or speak, or rest. He had scarcely the power of understanding anything that had passed, until, after a long ramble in the quiet evening air, a burst of tears came to his relief, and he seemed to awaken, all at once, to a full sense of the joyful change that had occurred, and the almost insupportable load of anguish which had been taken from his breast.

The night was fast closing in, when he returned homeward: laden with flowers which he had culled, with peculiar care, for the adornment of the sick chamber. As he walked briskly along the road, he heard behind him, the noise of some vehicle, approaching at a furious pace. Looking round, he saw that it was a post-chaise, driven at great speed; and as the horses were galloping, and the road was narrow, he stood leaning against a gate until it should have passed him.

As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white nightcap, whose face seemed familiar to him, although his view was so brief that he could not identify the person. In another second or two, the nightcap was thrust out of the chaise-window, and a stentorian voice bellowed to the driver to stop: which he did, as soon as he could pull up his horses. Then, the nightcap once again appeared: and the same voice called Oliver by his name.

“Here!” cried the voice. “Oliver, what’s the news? Miss Rose! Master O-li-ver!”

“Is it you, Giles?” cried Oliver, running up to the chaise-door.

Giles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some reply, when he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the other corner of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the news.

“In a word!” cried the gentleman, “Better or worse?”

“Better—much better!” replied Oliver, hastily.

“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed the gentleman. “You are sure?”

“Quite, sir,” replied Oliver. “The change took place only a few hours ago; and Mr. Losberne says, that all danger is at an end.”

The gentleman said not another word, but, opening the chaise-door, leaped out, and taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside.

“You are quite certain? There is no possibility of any mistake on your part, my boy, is there?” demanded the gentleman in a tremulous voice. “Do not deceive me, by awakening hopes that are not to be fulfilled.”

“I would not for the world, sir,” replied Oliver. “Indeed you may believe me. Mr. Losberne’s words were, that she would live to bless us all for many years to come. I heard him say so.”

The tears stood in Oliver’s eyes as he recalled the scene which was the beginning of so much happiness; and the gentleman turned his face away, and remained silent, for some minutes. Oliver thought he heard him sob, more than once; but he feared to interrupt him by any fresh remark—for he could well guess what his feelings were—and so stood apart, feigning to be occupied with his nosegay.

All this time, Mr. Giles, with the white nightcap on, had been sitting on the steps of the chaise, supporting an elbow on each knee, and wiping his eyes with a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief dotted with white spots. That the honest fellow had not been feigning emotion, was abundantly demonstrated by the very red eyes with which he regarded the young gentleman, when he turned round and addressed him.

“I think you had better go on to my mother’s in the chaise, Giles,” said he. “I would rather walk slowly on, so as to gain a little time before I see her. You can say I am coming.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Harry,” said Giles: giving a final polish to his ruffled countenance with the handkerchief; “but if you would leave the postboy to say that, I should be very much obliged to you. It wouldn’t be proper for the maids to see me in this state, sir; I should never have any more authority with them if they did.”

“Well,” rejoined Harry Maylie, smiling, “you can do as you like. Let him go on with the luggage, if you wish it, and do you follow with us. Only first exchange that nightcap for some more appropriate covering, or we shall be taken for madmen.”

Mr. Giles, reminded of his unbecoming costume, snatched off and pocketed his nightcap; and substituted a hat, of grave and sober shape, which he took out of the chaise. This done, the postboy drove off; Giles, Mr. Maylie, and Oliver, followed at their leisure.

As they walked along, Oliver glanced from time to time with much interest and curiosity at the new comer. He seemed about five-and-twenty years of age, and was of the middle height; his countenance was frank and handsome; and his demeanor easy and prepossessing. Notwithstanding the difference between youth and age, he bore so strong a likeness to the old lady, that Oliver would have had no great difficulty in imagining their relationship, if he had not already spoken of her as his mother.

Mrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to receive her son when he reached the cottage. The meeting did not take place without great emotion on both sides.

“Mother!” whispered the young man; “why did you not write before?”

“I did,” replied Mrs. Maylie; “but, on reflection, I determined to keep back the letter until I had heard Mr. Losberne’s opinion.”

“But why,” said the young man, “why run the chance of that occurring which so nearly happened? If Rose had—I cannot utter that word now—if this illness had terminated differently, how could you ever have forgiven yourself! How could I ever have know happiness again!”

“If that had been the case, Harry,” said Mrs. Maylie, “I fear your happiness would have been effectually blighted, and that your arrival here, a day sooner or a day later, would have been of very, very little import.”

CAPITOLO XXXIV.
CONTIENE ALTRI PARTICOLARI INTRODOTTIVI RELATIVI A UN GIOVANE SIGNORE
CHE ORA ENTRA IN SCENA; E UN NUOVO AVVENTURO CHE CAPITÓ A OLIVER

Era quasi troppa felicità da sopportare. Oliver si sentiva stordito e sbalordito dalla notizia inaspettata; non riusciva a piangere, né a parlare, né a riposarsi. Aveva appena la forza di capire tutto ciò che era accaduto, finché, dopo una lunga passeggiata nell’aria tranquilla della sera, un’ondata di lacrime gli portò sollievo e sembrò svegliarsi all’improvviso a piena consapevolezza del lieto cambiamento avvenuto e del quasi insopportabile peso d’angoscia che era stato tolto dal suo petto.

La notte stava calando rapidamente quando egli tornò verso casa, carico di fiori che aveva raccolto con particolare cura per adornare la camera della malata. Mentre camminava svelto lungo la strada, udì alle sue spalle il rumore di un veicolo che si avvicinava a gran velocità. Voltandosi, vide che era una carrozza postale trainata da cavalli al galoppo, e poiché la strada era stretta, egli si fermò appoggiato a un cancello finché non lo avesse superato.

Mentre procedeva a tutta velocità, Oliver intravide un uomo con un berretto da notte bianco, il cui volto gli sembrava familiare, sebbene la sua visione fosse così breve che non riuscì a identificare la persona. Un secondo o due dopo, il berretto fu spinto fuori dal finestrino della carrozza e una voce stentorea ordinò all’autista di fermarsi: cosa che fece non appena poté tirare le redini dei cavalli. Poi, il berretto riapparve e la stessa voce chiamò Oliver per nome.

«Ecco!» gridò la voce. «Oliver, che novità ci sono? Signorina Rose! Maestro O-li-ver!»

«Sei tu, Giles?» gridò Oliver, correndo verso la porta del calesse.

Giles si tirò fuori di nuovo il berretto da notte, pronto a rispondere, quando venne trascinato indietro da un giovane signore che occupava l’altro angolo della carrozza e che chiedeva con impazienza quali fossero le novità.

“In breve!” esclamò il signore, “Migliore o peggiore?”

«Meglio — molto meglio!» rispose Oliver, in fretta.

“Grazie al cielo!” esclamò il signore. “Ne è sicuro?”

«Proprio così, signore», rispose Oliver. «Il cambiamento è avvenuto solo poche ore fa e il signor Losberne dice che ogni pericolo è finito.»

Il signore non disse un’altra parola, ma aprendo la portiera del calesse saltò fuori e prendendo Oliver frettolosamente per il braccio lo condusse da parte.

«Ne sei proprio sicuro? Non c’è la possibilità di un errore da parte tua, ragazzo mio, vero?» chiese il signore con voce tremante. «Non ingannarmi facendomi nutrire speranze che non si realizzeranno».

“Non lo farei per tutto l’oro del mondo, signore”, rispose Oliver. “Mi creda sulla parola. Le parole di Mr. Losberne erano che lei sarebbe vissuta per benedirci tutti ancora per molti anni a venire. L’ho sentito dire.”

Gli occhi di Oliver si riempirono di lacrime mentre ricordava la scena che era stata l’inizio di tanta felicità; e il gentiluomo distolse lo sguardo, rimanendo in silenzio per alcuni minuti. Oliver pensò di averlo sentito singhiozzare più volte; ma temeva di interromperlo con qualche nuova osservazione — perché poteva facilmente indovinare quali fossero i suoi sentimenti — e così rimase in disparte, fingendo di essere occupato col suo mazzolino.

Tutto questo tempo, il signor Giles, con il berretto da notte bianco in testa, era rimasto seduto sui gradini del calesse, appoggiando un gomito su ogni ginocchio e asciugandosi gli occhi con un fazzoletto di cotone blu a puntini bianchi. Che il buon uomo non stesse fingendo emozione fu ampiamente dimostrato dagli occhi molto arrossati con cui guardò il giovane signore quando questi si voltò e gli parlò.

«Penso che sia meglio che tu vada avanti alla carrozza di mia madre, Giles», disse lui. «Preferisco camminare lentamente per guadagnare un po’ di tempo prima di vederla. Puoi dire che sto arrivando».

«Chiedo scusa, signor Harry», disse Giles: dando un ultimo ritocco al suo volto sconvolto con il fazzoletto; «ma se lasciasse dire questo al postiglione, le ne sarei molto grato. Non sarebbe decoroso che le cameriere mi vedessero in queste condizioni, signore; non avrei più alcuna autorità su di loro se lo facessero».

«Bene,» replicò Harry Maylie sorridendo «fai come preferisci. Lascia che continui con i bagagli, se lo desideri, e tu seguici pure. Ma prima sostituisci quel berretto da notte con un copricapo più appropriato, altrimenti ci prenderanno per pazzi.»

Il signor Giles, ricordatosi del suo costume poco decoroso, si strappò di dosso e mise in tasca il berretto da notte; e lo sostituì con un cappello di forma grave e sobria, che prese dalla carrozza. Fatto ciò, il postiglione partì; Giles, il signor Maylie e Oliver, li seguirono a loro agio.

Mentre camminavano, Oliver lanciava sguardi di tanto in tanto al nuovo arrivato con grande interesse e curiosità. Sembrava avesse circa venticinque anni ed era di statura media; il suo volto era aperto e bello; e il suo comportamento era disinvolto e gradevole. Nonostante la differenza tra giovinezza e vecchiaia, somigliava così tanto alla vecchietta che Oliver non avrebbe avuto grandi difficoltà a immaginare un loro legame di parentela, se prima non l’avesse già chiamata sua madre.

La signora Maylie stava aspettando con ansia di ricevere suo figlio quando arrivò alla casetta. L’incontro non avvenne senza grande emozione da entrambe le parti.

“Madre!” sussurrò il giovane uomo; “perché non hai scritto prima?”

«L’ho fatto», rispose la signora Maylie; «ma, riflettendoci meglio, decisi di tenere indietro la lettera fino a quando non avessi ascoltato il parere del dottor Losberne.»

«Ma perché», disse il giovane, «perché correre il rischio che accada quello che è mancato poco dal verificarsi? Se Rose avesse—non riesco a pronunciare quella parola adesso—se questa malattia fosse finita diversamente, come avresti mai potuto perdonarti! Come avrei mai più potuto conoscere la felicità!»

«Se fosse stato così, Harry», disse la signora Maylie, «temo che la tua felicità sarebbe stata irrimediabilmente rovinata e che il tuo arrivo qui, un giorno prima o un giorno dopo, non avrebbe fatto molta differenza.»

“And who can wonder if it be so, mother?” rejoined the young man; “or why should I say, if?—It is—it is—you know it, mother—you must know it!”

“I know that she deserves the best and purest love the heart of man can offer,” said Mrs. Maylie; “I know that the devotion and affection of her nature require no ordinary return, but one that shall be deep and lasting. If I did not feel this, and know, besides, that a changed behaviour in one she loved would break her heart, I should not feel my task so difficult of performance, or have to encounter so many struggles in my own bosom, when I take what seems to me to be the strict line of duty.”

“This is unkind, mother,” said Harry. “Do you still suppose that I am a boy ignorant of my own mind, and mistaking the impulses of my own soul?”

“I think, my dear son,” returned Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand upon his shoulder, “that youth has many generous impulses which do not last; and that among them are some, which, being gratified, become only the more fleeting. Above all, I think” said the lady, fixing her eyes on her son’s face, “that if an enthusiastic, ardent, and ambitious man marry a wife on whose name there is a stain, which, though it originate in no fault of hers, may be visited by cold and sordid people upon her, and upon his children also: and, in exact proportion to his success in the world, be cast in his teeth, and made the subject of sneers against him: he may, no matter how generous and good his nature, one day repent of the connection he formed in early life. And she may have the pain of knowing that he does so.”

“Mother,” said the young man, impatiently, “he would be a selfish brute, unworthy alike of the name of man and of the woman you describe, who acted thus.”

“You think so now, Harry,” replied his mother.

“And ever will!” said the young man. “The mental agony I have suffered, during the last two days, wrings from me the avowal to you of a passion which, as you well know, is not one of yesterday, nor one I have lightly formed. On Rose, sweet, gentle girl! my heart is set, as firmly as ever heart of man was set on woman. I have no thought, no view, no hope in life, beyond her; and if you oppose me in this great stake, you take my peace and happiness in your hands, and cast them to the wind. Mother, think better of this, and of me, and do not disregard the happiness of which you seem to think so little.”

“Harry,” said Mrs. Maylie, “it is because I think so much of warm and sensitive hearts, that I would spare them from being wounded. But we have said enough, and more than enough, on this matter, just now.”

“Let it rest with Rose, then,” interposed Harry. “You will not press these overstrained opinions of yours, so far, as to throw any obstacle in my way?”

“I will not,” rejoined Mrs. Maylie; “but I would have you consider—”

“I have considered!” was the impatient reply; “Mother, I have considered, years and years. I have considered, ever since I have been capable of serious reflection. My feelings remain unchanged, as they ever will; and why should I suffer the pain of a delay in giving them vent, which can be productive of no earthly good? No! Before I leave this place, Rose shall hear me.”

“She shall,” said Mrs. Maylie.

“There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she will hear me coldly, mother,” said the young man.

“Not coldly,” rejoined the old lady; “far from it.”

“How then?” urged the young man. “She has formed no other attachment?”

“No, indeed,” replied his mother; “you have, or I mistake, too strong a hold on her affections already. What I would say,” resumed the old lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, “is this. Before you stake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried to the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my dear child, on Rose’s history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision: devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic.”

“What do you mean?”

“That I leave you to discover,” replied Mrs. Maylie. “I must go back to her. God bless you!”

“I shall see you again tonight?” said the young man, eagerly.

“By and by,” replied the lady; “when I leave Rose.”

“You will tell her I am here?” said Harry.

“Of course,” replied Mrs. Maylie.

“And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?”

“No,” said the old lady; “I will tell her all.” And pressing her son’s hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room.

Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient’s situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver’s statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears.

“Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?” inquired the doctor, when he had concluded.

“Nothing particular, sir,” replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.

“Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?” said the doctor.

“None at all, sir,” replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity.

“Well,” said the doctor, “I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?”

“The boy is very well, sir,” said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; “and sends his respectful duty, sir.”

“E chi può meravigliarsi se è così, madre?” ribatté il giovane; “o perché dovrei dire, se? — È — è — lo sai, madre — devi saperlo!”

“Sono consapevole che lei merita il più puro e profondo amore che un cuore umano possa offrire”, disse la signora Maylie; “so che la devozione e l’affetto della sua natura non richiedono una ricompensa ordinaria, ma qualcosa di profondo e duraturo. Se non ne fossi consapevole, e se non sapessi inoltre che un cambiamento nel comportamento di chi lei ama le spezzerebbe il cuore, non troverei il mio compito così difficile da portare a termine, né dovrei affrontare tante lotte dentro di me quando intraprendo ciò che mi sembra essere la rigida linea del dovere.”

«Questo è crudele, mamma», disse Harry. «Pensi ancora che io sia un ragazzo ignaro dei propri pensieri e incapace di riconoscere gli impulsi della propria anima?»

«Penso, mio caro figlio», rispose la signora Maylie posandogli una mano sulla spalla, «che i giovani abbiano molti impulsi generosi che non durano; e che tra questi ce ne siano alcuni che, appagati, diventano ancora più effimeri. Soprattutto penso», disse la signora fissando gli occhi sul volto del figlio, «che se un uomo entusiasta, ardente e ambizioso sposa una moglie il cui nome porta una macchia che, pur non derivando da alcuna sua colpa, può essere additata da persone fredde e meschine contro di lei e anche contro i suoi figli; e, in proporzione esatta al suo successo nel mondo, gli viene rinfacciata e usata come argomento per schernirlo: egli potrebbe, non importa quanto generosa e buona sia la sua natura, un giorno pentirsi della relazione che ha formato nella prima giovinezza. E lei potrebbe avere il dolore di sapere che lo fa».

«Madre», disse il giovane con impazienza, «sarebbe un egoista bruto, indegno tanto del nome di uomo che della donna da lei descritta, chi agisse così.»

«Lo pensi ora, Harry», rispose sua madre.

«E sempre lo sarà!» disse il giovane. «La tortura mentale che ho patito, negli ultimi due giorni, mi strappa la confessione di una passione che, come bene sapete, non è nata ieri né l’ho coltivata con leggerezza. Su Rosa, dolce e gentile fanciulla! il mio cuore è fermo, così fermamente come mai cuore d’uomo fu posto su donna. Non ho pensiero, non ho proposito, non ho speranza nella vita oltre lei; e se mi opponete in questa grande scommessa, prendete la mia pace e felicità nelle vostre mani e le gettate al vento. Madre, pensateci meglio su questo, e su di me, e non trascurate la felicità della quale sembrate far così poco conto.»

«Harry», disse la signora Maylie, «è proprio perché penso tanto ai cuori caldi e sensibili che vorrei risparmiarli dalle ferite. Ma abbiamo già detto abbastanza, anzi più che abbastanza, su questo argomento in questo momento».

«Allora lasciamo che sia deciso da Rosa», intervenne Harry. «Non vorrete insistere con queste vostre opinioni esagerate fino al punto di mettere ostacoli sul mio cammino?»

“Non lo farò,” ribatté la signora Maylie; “ma vorrei che tu considerassi—”

“Ci ho pensato!” fu la risposta impaziente; “Madre, ci ho pensato, anni e anni. Ci ho pensato da quando sono stato capace di riflettere seriamente. I miei sentimenti rimangono immutati, come sempre saranno; e perché dovrei soffrire il dolore di un ritardo nel dar loro sfogo, che non può produrre alcun bene terreno? No! Prima di lasciare questo posto, la Rosa mi ascolterà.”

«Lo farà», disse la signora Maylie.

«C’è qualcosa nel tuo modo di fare che quasi implica che lei mi ascolterà con freddezza, madre», disse il giovane.

“Non freddamente”, ribatté la vecchia signora, “tutt’altro.”

“Come allora?” insistette il giovane. “Non ha formato altri legami?”

“No, davvero”, rispose sua madre; “hai già, o mi sbaglio, troppo forte presa sui suoi affetti. Quello che volevo dire”, riprese la vecchia signora, fermando il figlio mentre stava per parlare, “è questo: prima di puntare tutto su questa possibilità; prima di lasciarti trasportare al punto più alto della speranza; rifletti per qualche istante, mio caro figlio, sulla storia di Rose e considera quale effetto la conoscenza della sua nascita dubbia possa avere sulla sua decisione: devota come è a noi, con tutta l’intensità del suo nobile spirito, e con quel perfetto sacrificio dell’io che, in tutte le cose, grandi o piccole, è sempre stato il suo tratto caratteristico.”

“Cosa intendi?”

«Che scoprirete da soli», rispose la signora Maylie. «Devo tornare da lei. Dio vi benedica!»

«La rivedrò stasera?» disse il giovane con impazienza.

«Presto», rispose la signora; «quando lascerò Rosa.»

«Le dirai che sono qui?» disse Harry.

«Naturalmente», rispose la signora Maylie.

«E ditele quanto sono stato ansioso e quanto ho sofferto, e come desidero vederla. Non rifiuterete di farlo, madre?»

«No», disse la vecchia signora; «le dirò tutto». E stringendo affettuosamente la mano del figlio, si affrettò a uscire dalla stanza.

Il signor Losberne e Oliver erano rimasti all’altra estremità della stanza mentre quella concitata conversazione proseguiva. Ora il primo tendeva la mano a Harry Maylie; e tra loro si scambiarono calorose salutazioni. Il dottore quindi comunicò, in risposta alle molteplici domande del suo giovane amico, un preciso resoconto della situazione del paziente; che era altrettanto consolatorio e pieno di promesse quanto la dichiarazione di Oliver aveva incoraggiato lui a sperare; e al quale tutto il signor Giles, che fingeva di essere occupato con i bagagli, ascoltava con orecchie golose.

«Avete sparato a qualcosa di particolare ultimamente, Giles?» chiese il dottore quando ebbe finito.

«Nulla di particolare, signore», rispose il signor Giles arrossendo fino agli occhi.

«Né catturare ladri né identificare scassinatori?» disse il dottore.

«Nessuno affatto, signore», rispose il signor Giles con molta gravità.

«Beh», disse il dottore, «mi dispiace sentirlo, perché fate quel genere di cose in modo ammirevole. Ditemi, come sta Brittles?»

«Il ragazzo sta molto bene, signore», disse il signor Giles, riprendendo il suo tono abituale di protezione; «e manda i suoi rispettosi saluti, signore.»

“That’s well,” said the doctor. “Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will you?”

Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attempted robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, “No, no”; and that if they observed that he was at all haughty to his inferiors, he would thank them to tell him so. And then he made a great many other remarks, no less illustrative of his humility, which were received with equal favour and applause, and were, withal, as original and as much to the purpose, as the remarks of great men commonly are.

Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away; for the doctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or thoughtful Harry Maylie might have been at first, he was not proof against the worthy gentleman’s good humour, which displayed itself in a great variety of sallies and professional recollections, and an abundance of small jokes, which struck Oliver as being the drollest things he had ever heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately; to the evident satisfaction of the doctor, who laughed immoderately at himself, and made Harry laugh almost as heartily, by the very force of sympathy. So, they were as pleasant a party as, under the circumstances, they could well have been; and it was late before they retired, with light and thankful hearts, to take that rest of which, after the doubt and suspense they had recently undergone, they stood much in need.

Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his usual occupations, with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many days. The birds were once more hung out, to sing, in their old places; and the sweetest wild flowers that could be found, were once more gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. The melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for days past, over every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic. The dew seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves; the air to rustle among them with a sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue and bright. Such is the influence which the condition of our own thoughts, exercise, even over the appearance of external objects. Men who look on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and gloomy, are in the right; but the sombre colours are reflections from their own jaundiced eyes and hearts. The real hues are delicate, and need a clearer vision.

It is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it at the time, that his morning expeditions were no longer made alone. Harry Maylie, after the very first morning when he met Oliver coming laden home, was seized with such a passion for flowers, and displayed such a taste in their arrangement, as left his young companion far behind. If Oliver were behindhand in these respects, he knew where the best were to be found; and morning after morning they scoured the country together, and brought home the fairest that blossomed. The window of the young lady’s chamber was opened now; for she loved to feel the rich summer air stream in, and revive her with its freshness; but there always stood in water, just inside the lattice, one particular little bunch, which was made up with great care, every morning. Oliver could not help noticing that the withered flowers were never thrown away, although the little vase was regularly replenished; nor, could he help observing, that whenever the doctor came into the garden, he invariably cast his eyes up to that particular corner, and nodded his head most expressively, as he set forth on his morning’s walk. Pending these observations, the days were flying by; and Rose was rapidly recovering.

Nor did Oliver’s time hang heavy on his hands, although the young lady had not yet left her chamber, and there were no evening walks, save now and then, for a short distance, with Mrs. Maylie. He applied himself, with redoubled assiduity, to the instructions of the white-headed old gentleman, and laboured so hard that his quick progress surprised even himself. It was while he was engaged in this pursuit, that he was greatly startled and distressed by a most unexpected occurrence.

The little room in which he was accustomed to sit, when busy at his books, was on the ground-floor, at the back of the house. It was quite a cottage-room, with a lattice-window: around which were clusters of jessamine and honeysuckle, that crept over the casement, and filled the place with their delicious perfume. It looked into a garden, whence a wicket-gate opened into a small paddock; all beyond, was fine meadow-land and wood. There was no other dwelling near, in that direction; and the prospect it commanded was very extensive.

One beautiful evening, when the first shades of twilight were beginning to settle upon the earth, Oliver sat at this window, intent upon his books. He had been poring over them for some time; and, as the day had been uncommonly sultry, and he had exerted himself a great deal, it is no disparagement to the authors, whoever they may have been, to say, that gradually and by slow degrees, he fell asleep.

“Bene,” disse il dottore. “Vedervi qui mi ricorda, signor Giles, che il giorno prima di quello in cui fui chiamato via così affrettatamente, eseguii, su richiesta della vostra buona padrona, una piccola commissione a vostro favore. Venite un attimo in questo angolo, per piacere?”

Il signor Giles si diresse nell’angolo con molta importanza e un po’ di meraviglia, e fu onorato di una breve conferenza bisbigliata col dottore; al termine della quale, fece molti inchini ed uscì con passo insolitamente maestoso. L’argomento di questa conferenza non venne rivelato nel salotto, ma la cucina fu rapidamente illuminata in proposito; infatti il signor Giles andò dritto lì e, dopo aver chiesto una boccale di birra, annunciò con un’aria di maestà che ebbe grande effetto, che era piaciuto alla sua padrona, considerato il suo comportamento eroico in occasione del tentativo di furto, depositare nella banca locale la somma di venticinque sterline per il solo uso e beneficio di lui. A questo le due cameriere alzarono mani e occhi e supposero che il signor Giles, tirando fuori l’ampia piega della camicia, rispondesse: “No, no”; e che se notavano che era in qualche modo arrogante coi suoi inferiori, gli sarebbe grato se glielo facessero presente. E poi fece molti altri commenti non meno esemplari per la sua umiltà, che furono accolti con pari favore e applauso, ed erano inoltre originali e pertinenti quanto i commenti dei grandi uomini di solito sono.

Di sopra le scale, il resto della serata trascorse allegramente; perché il dottore era di ottimo umore e, per quanto stanco o pensieroso fosse stato Harry Maylie all’inizio, non riuscì a resistere al buon umore del degno gentiluomo, che si manifestò in una grande varietà di battute e ricordi professionali, e in un’abbondanza di piccole barzellette, che sembrarono a Oliver le cose più buffe che avesse mai sentito, e lo fecero ridere proporzionalmente; con evidente soddisfazione del dottore, che rideva in modo immoderato di sé stesso, e fece ridere Harry quasi altrettanto cordialmente, per pura forza di simpatia. Così, erano un gruppo piacevole quanto, date le circostanze, potevano bene essere; e fu tardi prima che si ritirassero, con cuori leggeri e grati, a prendere quel riposo di cui, dopo il dubbio e la suspense che avevano recentemente subito, avevano molto bisogno.

Oliver si alzò la mattina seguente con il cuore più leggero e si dedicò alle sue solite occupazioni con più speranza e piacere di quanti ne avesse provati in molti giorni. Gli uccelli furono nuovamente appesi a cantare nei loro vecchi posti; e i fiori selvatici più dolci che si potessero trovare furono raccolti ancora una volta per rallegrare Rose con la loro bellezza. La malinconia che sembrava aleggiare, agli occhi tristi del ragazzo in ansia, su ogni oggetto da giorni ormai, fu scacciata come per magia. La rugiada sembrava brillare più intensamente sulle foglie verdi; l’aria frusciava tra di esse con una musica più dolce; e il cielo stesso appariva più azzurro e luminoso. Tale è l’influenza che lo stato dei nostri pensieri esercita, persino sull’apparenza degli oggetti esterni. Gli uomini che guardano alla natura e ai loro simili e gridano che tutto è oscuro e tetro hanno ragione; ma i colori cupi sono riflessi dei loro occhi e cuori giallastri. I veri colori sono delicati, e richiedono una visione più chiara.

Vale la pena di notare, e Oliver non mancò di osservarlo al momento, che le sue spedizioni mattutine non venivano più fatte da solo. Harry Maylie, dopo la prima mattina in cui incontrò Oliver che tornava a casa carico, fu preso da una tale passione per i fiori, e dimostrò un tal gusto nel loro arrangiamento, che lasciò il suo giovane compagno ben indietro. Se Oliver era in ritardo sotto questi aspetti, sapeva dove trovarne i migliori; e mattina dopo mattina perlustravano insieme la campagna, e portavano a casa i più belli che fiorivano. La finestra della camera della giovane signora era ora aperta; perché amava sentire l’aria ricca dell’estate che entrava e la rinvigoriva con la sua freschezza; ma c’era sempre, in acqua, appena dentro il reticolo, un piccolo mazzo particolare, che veniva preparato con grande cura ogni mattina. Oliver non poteva fare a meno di notare che i fiori appassiti non venivano mai buttati via, anche se il piccolo vaso veniva regolarmente riempito; né poteva fare a meno di osservare, che ogni volta che il dottore entrava nel giardino, invariabilmente alzava gli occhi verso quell’angolo particolare, e annuiva con grande espressione, mentre si metteva in cammino per la sua passeggiata mattutina. Mentre faceva queste osservazioni, i giorni volavano; e Rose stava rapidamente recuperando.

Né il tempo di Oliver gli pesava sulle mani, sebbene la giovane signora non fosse ancora uscita dalla sua camera e non ci fossero passeggiate serali, salvo ogni tanto per una breve distanza con la signora Maylie. Si dedicò agli insegnamenti del vecchio gentiluomo dai capelli bianchi con rinnovata assiduità e lavorò così duramente che i suoi rapidi progressi sorpresero persino lui. Fu proprio mentre era impegnato in questo compito che fu grandemente turbato e angosciato da un evento del tutto inaspettato.

La piccola stanza dove aveva l’abitudine di sedersi quando era intento ai suoi libri si trovava al pianterreno, nella parte posteriore della casa. Era una vera e propria stanzetta da cottage con un finestrino a grata: intorno al quale crescevano ciuffi di gelsomino e caprifoglio che si arrampicavano sullo stipite della finestra, riempiendo il luogo del loro squisito profumo. La stanza dava su un giardino da cui una porticina conduceva in un piccolo paddock; oltre di esso c’erano solo prati e boschi. In quella direzione non c’era nessun’altra abitazione nelle vicinanze, e la vista che si godeva era molto ampia.

Una bella sera, quando le prime ombre del crepuscolo stavano cominciando a calare sulla terra, Oliver sedeva a questa finestra, intento sui suoi libri. Li aveva studiati per un bel po’ di tempo; e, dato che la giornata era stata insolitamente afosa, e lui si era sforzato parecchio, non è una mancanza di rispetto verso gli autori, chiunque essi fossero, dire che gradualmente e poco alla volta, si addormentò.

There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it holds the body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of things about it, and enable it to ramble at its pleasure. So far as an overpowering heaviness, a prostration of strength, and an utter inability to control our thoughts or power of motion, can be called sleep, this is it; and yet, we have a consciousness of all that is going on about us, and, if we dream at such a time, words which are really spoken, or sounds which really exist at the moment, accommodate themselves with surprising readiness to our visions, until reality and imagination become so strangely blended that it is afterwards almost matter of impossibility to separate the two. Nor is this, the most striking phenomenon incidental to such a state. It is an undoubted fact, that although our senses of touch and sight be for the time dead, yet our sleeping thoughts, and the visionary scenes that pass before us, will be influenced and materially influenced, by the mere silent presence of some external object; which may not have been near us when we closed our eyes: and of whose vicinity we have had no waking consciousness.

Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that his books were lying on the table before him; that the sweet air was stirring among the creeping plants outside. And yet he was asleep. Suddenly, the scene changed; the air became close and confined; and he thought, with a glow of terror, that he was in the Jew’s house again. There sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed corner, pointing at him, and whispering to another man, with his face averted, who sat beside him.

“Hush, my dear!” he thought he heard the Jew say; “it is he, sure enough. Come away.”

“He!” the other man seemed to answer; “could I mistake him, think you? If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and he stood amongst them, there is something that would tell me how to point him out. If you buried him fifty feet deep, and took me across his grave, I fancy I should know, if there wasn’t a mark above it, that he lay buried there?”

The man seemed to say this, with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver awoke with the fear, and started up.

Good Heaven! what was that, which sent the blood tingling to his heart, and deprived him of his voice, and of power to move! There—there—at the window—close before him—so close, that he could have almost touched him before he started back: with his eyes peering into the room, and meeting his: there stood the Jew! And beside him, white with rage or fear, or both, were the scowling features of the man who had accosted him in the inn-yard.

It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and they were gone. But they had recognised him, and he them; and their look was as firmly impressed upon his memory, as if it had been deeply carved in stone, and set before him from his birth. He stood transfixed for a moment; then, leaping from the window into the garden, called loudly for help.

C’è un tipo di sonno che talvolta ci assale, il quale, mentre tiene prigioniero il corpo, non libera la mente dalla percezione delle cose intorno a sé e le permette di vagare a suo piacimento. Per quanto possa essere chiamato sonno un’opprimente pesantezza, una prostrazione della forza e l’incapacità totale di controllare i nostri pensieri o la capacità di movimento, questo è esso; eppure, abbiamo coscienza di tutto ciò che accade intorno a noi, e se sogniamo in un tale momento, le parole effettivamente pronunciate o i suoni che realmente esistono in quel momento si adattano con sorprendente prontezza alle nostre visioni, fino a quando realtà e immaginazione non diventano così stranamente mescolate da rendere quasi impossibile separarle. E questo non è il fenomeno più sorprendente che si verifica in uno stato del genere. È un fatto innegabile che, sebbene i nostri sensi del tatto e della vista siano per il momento spenti, i nostri pensieri dormienti e le scene visionarie che ci passano davanti saranno influenzati e materialmente influenzati dalla mera presenza silenziosa di qualche oggetto esterno; che potrebbe non essere stato vicino a noi quando abbiamo chiuso gli occhi: e della cui vicinanza non abbiamo avuto alcuna coscienza da svegli.

Oliver sapeva perfettamente bene di trovarsi nella sua piccola stanza; che i suoi libri erano sul tavolo davanti a lui; che l’aria dolce si muoveva tra le piante rampicanti all’esterno. Eppure stava dormendo. All’improvviso, la scena cambiò: l’aria divenne pesante e soffocante; e pensò, con un brivido di terrore, che era di nuovo nella casa del vecchio. Il vecchio orribile sedeva nel suo solito angolo, indicandolo e sussurrando a un altro uomo, con il volto distolto, che gli stava accanto.

“Silenzio, mio caro!” pensò di sentire dire l’ebreo; “è proprio lui. Andiamocene.”

“Lui!” sembrò rispondere l’altro uomo; “credi che potrei sbagliarmi? Se una folla di fantasmi assumesse esattamente la sua forma e lui si trovasse in mezzo a loro, ci sarebbe qualcosa che mi indicherebbe come riconoscerlo. Se lo seppellissimo a cinquanta piedi di profondità e io passassi sopra la sua tomba, credo che saprei, anche senza un segno visibile, che lui è lì sotto?”

L’uomo sembrava dire questo con un odio così terribile che Oliver si svegliò pieno di paura e balzò in piedi.

Buon Dio! che cosa era quella che mandò il sangue a tingilirgli nel cuore, e gli tolse la voce e la forza di muoversi? Là—là—a quella finestra—proprio davanti a lui—così vicino, che avrebbe quasi potuto toccarlo prima di ritrarsi: con gli occhi che scrutavano nella stanza, e si incontravano coi suoi: là stava l’ebreo! E accanto a lui, bianco di rabbia o di paura, o forse delle due cose insieme, c’erano i lineamenti torvi dell’uomo che lo aveva affrontato nel cortile della locanda.

Fu solo un istante, uno sguardo, un lampo davanti ai suoi occhi; e poi erano spariti. Ma si erano riconosciuti a vicenda, e il loro sguardo era impresso nella sua memoria con la stessa fermezza di una scultura incisa profondamente nella pietra e posta davanti a lui dalla nascita. Rimase immobile per un momento; poi, saltando dalla finestra nel giardino, chiamò ad alta voce aiuto.

CHAPTER XXXV. CONTAINING THE UNSATISFACTORY RESULT OF OLIVER’S ADVENTURE; AND A CONVERSATION OF SOME IMPORTANCE BETWEEN HARRY MAYLIE AND ROSE

When the inmates of the house, attracted by Oliver’s cries, hurried to the spot from which they proceeded, they found him, pale and agitated, pointing in the direction of the meadows behind the house, and scarcely able to articulate the words, “The Jew! the Jew!”

Mr. Giles was at a loss to comprehend what this outcry meant; but Harry Maylie, whose perceptions were something quicker, and who had heard Oliver’s history from his mother, understood it at once.

“What direction did he take?” he asked, catching up a heavy stick which was standing in a corner.

“That,” replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man had taken; “I missed them in an instant.”

“Then, they are in the ditch!” said Harry. “Follow! And keep as near me, as you can.” So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and darted off with a speed which rendered it matter of exceeding difficulty for the others to keep near him.

Giles followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed too; and in the course of a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had been out walking, and just then returned, tumbled over the hedge after them, and picking himself up with more agility than he could have been supposed to possess, struck into the same course at no contemptible speed, shouting all the while, most prodigiously, to know what was the matter.

On they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the leader, striking off into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver, began to search, narrowly, the ditch and hedge adjoining; which afforded time for the remainder of the party to come up; and for Oliver to communicate to Mr. Losberne the circumstances that had led to so vigorous a pursuit.

The search was all in vain. There were not even the traces of recent footsteps, to be seen. They stood now, on the summit of a little hill, commanding the open fields in every direction for three or four miles. There was the village in the hollow on the left; but, in order to gain that, after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed out, the men must have made a circuit of open ground, which it was impossible they could have accomplished in so short a time. A thick wood skirted the meadow-land in another direction; but they could not have gained that covert for the same reason.

“It must have been a dream, Oliver,” said Harry Maylie.

“Oh no, indeed, sir,” replied Oliver, shuddering at the very recollection of the old wretch’s countenance; “I saw him too plainly for that. I saw them both, as plainly as I see you now.”

“Who was the other?” inquired Harry and Mr. Losberne, together.

“The very same man I told you of, who came so suddenly upon me at the inn,” said Oliver. “We had our eyes fixed full upon each other; and I could swear to him.”

“They took this way?” demanded Harry: “are you sure?”

“As I am that the men were at the window,” replied Oliver, pointing down, as he spoke, to the hedge which divided the cottage-garden from the meadow. “The tall man leaped over, just there; and the Jew, running a few paces to the right, crept through that gap.”

The two gentlemen watched Oliver’s earnest face, as he spoke, and looking from him to each other, seemed to feel satisfied of the accuracy of what he said. Still, in no direction were there any appearances of the trampling of men in hurried flight. The grass was long; but it was trodden down nowhere, save where their own feet had crushed it. The sides and brinks of the ditches were of damp clay; but in no one place could they discern the print of men’s shoes, or the slightest mark which would indicate that any feet had pressed the ground for hours before.

“This is strange!” said Harry.

“Strange?” echoed the doctor. “Blathers and Duff, themselves, could make nothing of it.”

Notwithstanding the evidently useless nature of their search, they did not desist until the coming on of night rendered its further prosecution hopeless; and even then, they gave it up with reluctance. Giles was dispatched to the different ale-houses in the village, furnished with the best description Oliver could give of the appearance and dress of the strangers. Of these, the Jew was, at all events, sufficiently remarkable to be remembered, supposing he had been seen drinking, or loitering about; but Giles returned without any intelligence, calculated to dispel or lessen the mystery.

On the next day, fresh search was made, and the inquiries renewed; but with no better success. On the day following, Oliver and Mr. Maylie repaired to the market-town, in the hope of seeing or hearing something of the men there; but this effort was equally fruitless. After a few days, the affair began to be forgotten, as most affairs are, when wonder, having no fresh food to support it, dies away of itself.

Meanwhile, Rose was rapidly recovering. She had left her room: was able to go out; and mixing once more with the family, carried joy into the hearts of all.

But, although this happy change had a visible effect on the little circle; and although cheerful voices and merry laughter were once more heard in the cottage; there was at times, an unwonted restraint upon some there: even upon Rose herself: which Oliver could not fail to remark. Mrs. Maylie and her son were often closeted together for a long time; and more than once Rose appeared with traces of tears upon her face. After Mr. Losberne had fixed a day for his departure to Chertsey, these symptoms increased; and it became evident that something was in progress which affected the peace of the young lady, and of somebody else besides.

At length, one morning, when Rose was alone in the breakfast-parlour, Harry Maylie entered; and, with some hesitation, begged permission to speak with her for a few moments.

CAPITOLO XXXV. CONTENENTE IL RISULTATO NON SATISFACENTE DELL’AVVENTURA DI OLIVER; E UNA CONVERSAZIONE DI ALQUANTA IMPORTANZA TRA HARRY MAYLIE E ROSE

Quando gli abitanti della casa, attratti dai pianti di Oliver, accorsero verso il punto da cui provenivano, lo trovarono pallido e agitato, che indicava nella direzione dei prati dietro la casa e a malapena riusciva ad articolare le parole: «Lo ebreo! Lo ebreo!»

Il signor Giles non riusciva a capire il significato di quel clamore; ma Harry Maylie, la cui percezione era un po’ più rapida e che aveva sentito la storia del Oliver dalla madre, lo comprese subito.

“Che direzione ha preso?”, chiese afferrando un bastone pesante che era appoggiato in un angolo.

«Quella», rispose Oliver, indicando la direzione presa dall’uomo, «li ho persi di vista in un attimo.»

«Allora sono nella fossa!» disse Harry. «Seguitemi! E cercate di rimanere il più vicino possibile a me». Detto ciò, saltò oltre la siepe e si lanciò con una velocità tale da rendere estremamente difficile per gli altri restare al suo fianco.

Giles seguì al meglio delle sue possibilità; e anche Oliver seguì; e nel giro di un minuto o due, il signor Losberne, che era uscito a fare una passeggiata ed era appena tornato, rotolò oltre la siepe dietro di loro, e rialzandosi con più agilità di quanto si sarebbe potuto supporre in lui, prese la stessa direzione ad una velocità tutt’altro che disprezzabile, gridando nel frattempo a squarciagola per sapere cosa fosse successo.

Tutti continuarono ad avanzare senza fermarsi un solo istante per riprendere fiato, finché il capo, svoltando in un angolo del campo indicato da Oliver, cominciò a perlustrare attentamente la fossa e la siepe vicina; ciò diede tempo agli altri di raggiungerli e a Oliver di riferire al signor Losberne le circostanze che avevano portato a una caccia così accanita.

La ricerca fu vana. Non c’erano nemmeno tracce di passi recenti da vedere. Erano ora sulla sommità di una piccola collina, che dominava i campi aperti in ogni direzione per tre o quattro miglia. C’era il villaggio nella valle a sinistra; ma, per raggiungerlo dopo aver seguito la pista indicata da Oliver, gli uomini avrebbero dovuto fare un giro di terreno aperto che era impossibile potessero compiere in così breve tempo. Un fitto bosco costeggiava i prati in un’altra direzione; ma per la stessa ragione non potevano aver raggiunto quel riparo.

«Deve essere stato un sogno, Oliver», disse Harry Maylie.

“Oh no, davvero, signore,” rispose Oliver, rabbrividendo al solo ricordo del volto della vecchia canaglia; “l’ho visto troppo chiaramente per questo. Li ho visti entrambi, tanto chiaramente quanto vi vedo ora.”

«Chi era l’altro?» domandarono insieme Harry e il signor Losberne.

«Proprio lo stesso uomo di cui vi ho parlato, che mi è venuto incontro così all’improvviso alla locanda», disse Oliver. «Avevamo gli occhi fissi l’uno sull’altro; e potrei giurare su di lui.»

“Hanno preso questa strada?” chiese Harry: “ne sei sicuro?”

«Come dico io, gli uomini erano alla finestra», rispose Oliver, indicando, mentre parlava, la siepe che divideva il giardino della casetta dal prato. «L’uomo alto saltò oltre, proprio lì; e l’ebreo, correndo per qualche passo a destra, si infilò in quella breccia.»

I due gentiluomini osservarono il viso serio di Oliver mentre parlava e, guardandosi l’un l’altro, sembravano convinti della veridicità delle sue parole. Tuttavia, in nessuna direzione c’erano segni di uomini che fuggivano affannosamente. L’erba era alta; ma non era calpestata da nessuna parte, tranne dove i loro stessi piedi l’avevano schiacciata. I lati e le sponde dei fossati erano di argilla umida; ma in nessun punto potevano scorgere l’impronta delle scarpe degli uomini o il minimo segno che indicasse che qualche piede avesse calpestato il terreno nelle ore precedenti.

«Questo è strano!» disse Harry.

“Strano?” fece eco il dottore. “Anche Blathers e Duff non ci hanno capito nulla.”

Nonostante l’evidentemente inutile natura della loro ricerca, non desistettero fino a quando la venuta del buio non rese ulteriori ricerche impossibili; e anche allora, rinunciarono con riluttanza. Giles fu inviato nei diversi pub del villaggio, fornito della migliore descrizione che Oliver potesse dare dell’aspetto e dell’abbigliamento degli sconosciuti. Di questi, l’Ebreo era, in ogni caso, sufficientemente notevole da essere ricordato, supponendo di averlo visto bere o gironzolare; ma Giles tornò senza alcuna informazione che potesse dissipare o ridurre il mistero.

Il giorno dopo si fece una nuova ricerca e si rinnovarono le indagini; ma senza un successo migliore. Il giorno successivo, Oliver e il signor Maylie andarono nella città di mercato, nella speranza di vedere o sentire qualcosa degli uomini là; ma anche questo tentativo fu del tutto infruttuoso. Dopo alcuni giorni, la faccenda cominciò ad essere dimenticata, come accade per la maggior parte delle cose, quando lo stupore, non avendo più nulla di nuovo su cui nutrirsi, svanisce da solo.

Nel frattempo, Rose stava rapidamente recuperando. Aveva lasciato la sua stanza: era in grado di uscire e, tornata a mescolarsi con la famiglia, portò gioia nel cuore di tutti.

Ma sebbene questo felice cambiamento avesse un effetto visibile sul piccolo circolo e benché nelle cottage si udissero di nuovo voci allegre e risate gioiose, a volte c’era una sorta di inusitata riservatezza tra alcuni: persino nella stessa Rose: che Oliver non poteva fare a meno di notare. La signora Maylie e suo figlio si chiudevano spesso insieme per un lungo periodo; e più di una volta Rose appariva con tracce di lacrime sul viso. Dopo che il signor Losberne aveva fissato la data della sua partenza per Chertsey, questi sintomi aumentarono; ed era evidente che qualcosa stava accadendo che turbava la pace della giovane signora e di qualcun altro oltre a lei.

Finalmente, una mattina, quando Rosa era sola nella sala da pranzo, entrò Harry Maylie e, con qualche esitazione, chiese il permesso di parlare con lei per alcuni minuti.

“A few—a very few—will suffice, Rose,” said the young man, drawing his chair towards her. “What I shall have to say, has already presented itself to your mind; the most cherished hopes of my heart are not unknown to you, though from my lips you have not heard them stated.”

Rose had been very pale from the moment of his entrance; but that might have been the effect of her recent illness. She merely bowed; and bending over some plants that stood near, waited in silence for him to proceed.

“I—I—ought to have left here, before,” said Harry.

“You should, indeed,” replied Rose. “Forgive me for saying so, but I wish you had.”

“I was brought here, by the most dreadful and agonising of all apprehensions,” said the young man; “the fear of losing the one dear being on whom my every wish and hope are fixed. You had been dying; trembling between earth and heaven. We know that when the young, the beautiful, and good, are visited with sickness, their pure spirits insensibly turn towards their bright home of lasting rest; we know, Heaven help us! that the best and fairest of our kind, too often fade in blooming.”

There were tears in the eyes of the gentle girl, as these words were spoken; and when one fell upon the flower over which she bent, and glistened brightly in its cup, making it more beautiful, it seemed as though the outpouring of her fresh young heart, claimed kindred naturally, with the loveliest things in nature.

“A creature,” continued the young man, passionately, “a creature as fair and innocent of guile as one of God’s own angels, fluttered between life and death. Oh! who could hope, when the distant world to which she was akin, half opened to her view, that she would return to the sorrow and calamity of this! Rose, Rose, to know that you were passing away like some soft shadow, which a light from above, casts upon the earth; to have no hope that you would be spared to those who linger here; hardly to know a reason why you should be; to feel that you belonged to that bright sphere whither so many of the fairest and the best have winged their early flight; and yet to pray, amid all these consolations, that you might be restored to those who loved you—these were distractions almost too great to bear. They were mine, by day and night; and with them, came such a rushing torrent of fears, and apprehensions, and selfish regrets, lest you should die, and never know how devotedly I loved you, as almost bore down sense and reason in its course. You recovered. Day by day, and almost hour by hour, some drop of health came back, and mingling with the spent and feeble stream of life which circulated languidly within you, swelled it again to a high and rushing tide. I have watched you change almost from death, to life, with eyes that turned blind with their eagerness and deep affection. Do not tell me that you wish I had lost this; for it has softened my heart to all mankind.”

“I did not mean that,” said Rose, weeping; “I only wish you had left here, that you might have turned to high and noble pursuits again; to pursuits well worthy of you.”

“There is no pursuit more worthy of me: more worthy of the highest nature that exists: than the struggle to win such a heart as yours,” said the young man, taking her hand. “Rose, my own dear Rose! For years—for years—I have loved you; hoping to win my way to fame, and then come proudly home and tell you it had been pursued only for you to share; thinking, in my daydreams, how I would remind you, in that happy moment, of the many silent tokens I had given of a boy’s attachment, and claim your hand, as in redemption of some old mute contract that had been sealed between us! That time has not arrived; but here, with not fame won, and no young vision realised, I offer you the heart so long your own, and stake my all upon the words with which you greet the offer.”

“Your behaviour has ever been kind and noble.” said Rose, mastering the emotions by which she was agitated. “As you believe that I am not insensible or ungrateful, so hear my answer.”

“It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, dear Rose?”

“It is,” replied Rose, “that you must endeavour to forget me; not as your old and dearly-attached companion, for that would wound me deeply; but, as the object of your love. Look into the world; think how many hearts you would be proud to gain, are there. Confide some other passion to me, if you will; I will be the truest, warmest, and most faithful friend you have.”

There was a pause, during which, Rose, who had covered her face with one hand, gave free vent to her tears. Harry still retained the other.

“And your reasons, Rose,” he said, at length, in a low voice; “your reasons for this decision?”

“You have a right to know them,” rejoined Rose. “You can say nothing to alter my resolution. It is a duty that I must perform. I owe it, alike to others, and to myself.”

“To yourself?”

“Yes, Harry. I owe it to myself, that I, a friendless, portionless, girl, with a blight upon my name, should not give your friends reason to suspect that I had sordidly yielded to your first passion, and fastened myself, a clog, on all your hopes and projects. I owe it to you and yours, to prevent you from opposing, in the warmth of your generous nature, this great obstacle to your progress in the world.”

“If your inclinations chime with your sense of duty—” Harry began.

“They do not,” replied Rose, colouring deeply.

“Then you return my love?” said Harry. “Say but that, dear Rose; say but that; and soften the bitterness of this hard disappointment!”

“If I could have done so, without doing heavy wrong to him I loved,” rejoined Rose, “I could have—”

“Have received this declaration very differently?” said Harry. “Do not conceal that from me, at least, Rose.”

“Qualche parola—poche parole—saranno sufficienti, Rose”, disse il giovane avvicinando la sedia a lei. “Quello che ho da dire ti è già passato per la mente; le speranze più care del mio cuore non sono ignote a te, anche se non le hai mai sentite pronunciare dalle mie labbra.”

Rosa era stata molto pallida dal momento del suo ingresso; ma ciò avrebbe potuto essere l’effetto della sua recente malattia. Si limitò a inchinarsi e, chinandosi su alcune piante che si trovavano nelle vicinanze, attese in silenzio che lui proseguisse.

«Io, io, avrei dovuto andarmene prima», disse Harry.

«Dovreste davvero», rispose Rose. «Perdonatemi se lo dico, ma vorrei che l’aveste fatto.»

«Sono stato portato qui dal più terribile e angosciante di tutti i timori», disse il giovane uomo «il timore di perdere l’unica persona cara su cui si concentrano ogni mio desiderio e speranza. Tu stavi morendo, tremando tra la terra e il cielo. Sappiamo che quando i giovani, i belli e i buoni vengono colpiti dalla malattia, i loro puri spiriti si rivolgono impercettibilmente verso la loro luminosa dimora di riposo eterno; sappiamo, Dio ci aiuti! che i migliori e più belli tra noi spesso appassiscono nel fiore degli anni».

C’erano lacrime negli occhi della gentile fanciulla mentre venivano pronunciate queste parole; e quando una cadde sul fiore su cui si era chinata, brillando luminosa nel suo calice e rendendolo più bello, sembrò che il fuoriuscire del suo giovane cuore fresco rivendicasse naturalmente un legame con le cose più belle della natura.

«Una creatura», continuò il giovane con passione, «una creatura tanto bella e innocente di astuzia quanto uno degli angeli di Dio, fluttuava tra la vita e la morte. Oh! chi avrebbe potuto sperare, quando il lontano mondo a cui apparteneva si aprì parzialmente alla sua vista, che sarebbe tornata al dolore e alle calamità di questo? Rosa, Rosa, sapere che stavi svanendo come un tenero ombra che una luce dall’alto proietta sulla terra; non avere alcuna speranza che sarebbe stata risparmiata a coloro che rimangono qui; a malapena sapere il motivo per cui avrebbe dovuto esserlo; sentire che appartenevi a quella luminosa sfera verso la quale tanti dei più belli e dei migliori hanno spiccato il volo in giovane età; eppure pregare, tra tutte queste consolazioni, che potessi essere restituita a coloro che ti amavano: questi erano tormenti quasi troppo grandi da sopportare. Erano i miei, di giorno e notte; e con essi veniva un torrente impetuoso di paure, apprensioni ed egoistici rimpianti, nel timore che tu potessi morire senza mai sapere quanto ti amassi devotamente, quasi sopraffacendo il senso e la ragione. Ti sei ripresa. Giorno dopo giorno, e quasi ora dopo ora, qualche goccia di salute è tornata, mescolandosi con il flusso esaurito e debole della vita che circolava languidamente dentro di te, gonfiandolo nuovamente a una marea alta e impetuosa. Ti ho osservato cambiare quasi dalla morte alla vita, con occhi che si sono accecati per il loro desiderio e profondo affetto. Non dirmi che vorresti che avessi perso questo; perché ha ammorbidito il mio cuore verso tutta l’umanità».

“Non intendevo questo”, disse Rose, piangendo; “speravo solo che fossi rimasto qui, così avresti potuto dedicarti di nuovo ad attività elevate e nobili; a occupazioni ben degne di te.”

“Non c’è impegno più degno di me: più degno della più alta natura esistente: che la lotta per conquistare un cuore come il tuo”, disse il giovane, prendendole la mano. “Rosa, mia cara Rosa! Per anni—per anni—ti ho amata; sperando di guadagnarmi la fama e poi tornare orgogliosamente a casa per dirti che l’avevo cercata solo perché tu potessi condividerla; pensando, nei miei sogni a occhi aperti, come in quel momento felice ti avrei ricordato i tanti segni silenziosi di un affetto da ragazzo e ti avrei chiesto la tua mano, come per riscattare qualche vecchio mutuo contratto tra noi! Quel momento non è ancora arrivato; ma qui, senza aver ottenuto fama né realizzato alcuna giovane visione, ti offro il cuore che da tanto tempo è tuo e metto tutto in gioco sulle parole con cui accoglierai questa proposta.”

«Il tuo comportamento è sempre stato gentile e nobile», disse Rose, dominando le emozioni che la turbavano. «Poiché credi che io non sia insensibile o ingrata, ascolta la mia risposta».

«È perché io possa cercare di meritarmi te; è così, cara Rosa?»

«È», rispose Rose, «che dovete cercare di dimenticarmi; non come la vostra vecchia e cara compagna, perché questo mi ferirebbe profondamente; ma, come l’oggetto del vostro amore. Guardate il mondo; pensate a quanti cuori sareste orgoglioso di conquistare. Affidatemi un’altra passione, se volete; sarò la più vera, calorosa e fedele amica che abbiate mai avuto».

Ci fu una pausa durante la quale Rosa, che si era coperta il volto con una mano, diede libero sfogo alle sue lacrime. L’altra mano era ancora trattenuta da Harry.

“E le tue ragioni, Rosa”, disse infine con voce bassa, “le tue ragioni per questa decisione?”

«Avete il diritto di conoscerli», ribatté Rose. «Non potete dire nulla che cambi la mia decisione. È un dovere che devo compiere. Lo devo sia agli altri che a me stessa».

“A te stesso?”

“Sì, Harry. Devo a me stessa che io, una ragazza senza amici e senza dote, con un marchio sulla mia reputazione, non dia ai tuoi amici motivo di sospettare che mi sia volgarmente arresa alla tua prima passione e mi sia aggrappata come un peso a tutte le tue speranze e progetti. Devo a te e ai tuoi impedire che ti opponga, nella generosità della tua natura, a questo grande ostacolo al tuo cammino nel mondo.”

«Se i tuoi desideri coincidono con il tuo senso del dovere —» cominciò Harry.

“Non lo fanno”, rispose Rose, arrossendo profondamente.

«Allora mi restituisci il mio amore?» disse Harry. «Dì solo questo, cara Rosa; dì solo questo e addolcisce l’amarezza di questa dura delusione!»

«Se avessi potuto farlo senza arrecare un grave torto a colui che amavo», riprese Rose, «avrei potuto, »

«Avete accolto questa dichiarazione in modo molto diverso?» disse Harry. «Non nascondetemelo almeno a me, Rose.»

“I could,” said Rose. “Stay!” she added, disengaging her hand, “why should we prolong this painful interview? Most painful to me, and yet productive of lasting happiness, notwithstanding; for it will be happiness to know that I once held the high place in your regard which I now occupy, and every triumph you achieve in life will animate me with new fortitude and firmness. Farewell, Harry! As we have met today, we meet no more; but in other relations than those in which this conversation have placed us, we may be long and happily entwined; and may every blessing that the prayers of a true and earnest heart can call down from the source of all truth and sincerity, cheer and prosper you!”

“Another word, Rose,” said Harry. “Your reason in your own words. From your own lips, let me hear it!”

“The prospect before you,” answered Rose, firmly, “is a brilliant one. All the honours to which great talents and powerful connections can help men in public life, are in store for you. But those connections are proud; and I will neither mingle with such as may hold in scorn the mother who gave me life; nor bring disgrace or failure on the son of her who has so well supplied that mother’s place. In a word,” said the young lady, turning away, as her temporary firmness forsook her, “there is a stain upon my name, which the world visits on innocent heads. I will carry it into no blood but my own; and the reproach shall rest alone on me.”

“One word more, Rose. Dearest Rose! one more!” cried Harry, throwing himself before her. “If I had been less—less fortunate, the world would call it—if some obscure and peaceful life had been my destiny—if I had been poor, sick, helpless—would you have turned from me then? Or has my probable advancement to riches and honour, given this scruple birth?”

“Do not press me to reply,” answered Rose. “The question does not arise, and never will. It is unfair, almost unkind, to urge it.”

“If your answer be what I almost dare to hope it is,” retorted Harry, “it will shed a gleam of happiness upon my lonely way, and light the path before me. It is not an idle thing to do so much, by the utterance of a few brief words, for one who loves you beyond all else. Oh, Rose: in the name of my ardent and enduring attachment; in the name of all I have suffered for you, and all you doom me to undergo; answer me this one question!”

“Then, if your lot had been differently cast,” rejoined Rose; “if you had been even a little, but not so far, above me; if I could have been a help and comfort to you in any humble scene of peace and retirement, and not a blot and drawback in ambitious and distinguished crowds; I should have been spared this trial. I have every reason to be happy, very happy, now; but then, Harry, I own I should have been happier.”

Busy recollections of old hopes, cherished as a girl, long ago, crowded into the mind of Rose, while making this avowal; but they brought tears with them, as old hopes will when they come back withered; and they relieved her.

“I cannot help this weakness, and it makes my purpose stronger,” said Rose, extending her hand. “I must leave you now, indeed.”

“I ask one promise,” said Harry. “Once, and only once more,—say within a year, but it may be much sooner,—I may speak to you again on this subject, for the last time.”

“Not to press me to alter my right determination,” replied Rose, with a melancholy smile; “it will be useless.”

“No,” said Harry; “to hear you repeat it, if you will—finally repeat it! I will lay at your feet, whatever of station of fortune I may possess; and if you still adhere to your present resolution, will not seek, by word or act, to change it.”

“Then let it be so,” rejoined Rose; “it is but one pang the more, and by that time I may be enabled to bear it better.”

She extended her hand again. But the young man caught her to his bosom; and imprinting one kiss on her beautiful forehead, hurried from the room.

«Potrei», disse Rose. «Resta!» aggiunse, ritraendo la mano. «Perché dovremmo prolungare questo colloquio così doloroso? Molto più doloroso per me che per te, eppure destinato a produrre una felicità duratura; perché sarà felicità sapere di aver occupato un giorno il posto elevato nel tuo cuore che ora detengo, e ogni trionfo che otterrai nella vita mi infonderà nuova forza e fermezza. Addio, Harry! Come ci siamo incontrati oggi, non ci incontreremo più; ma in altre relazioni rispetto a quelle in cui questa conversazione ci ha messo, potremmo essere legati a lungo e felicemente; e possano tutte le benedizioni che le preghiere di un cuore sincero e appassionato possono invocare dalla fonte di ogni verità e sincerità, confortarti e farti prosperare!»

«Un’altra parola, Rosa», disse Harry. «La tua ragione con le tue stesse parole. Dalle tue labbra voglio sentirla!»

«La prospettiva che ti si apre davanti», rispose Rosa, con fermezza, «è brillante. Tutti gli onori a cui possono aspirare grandi talenti e potenti connessioni nella vita pubblica, sono in serbo per te. Ma queste connessioni sono orgogliose; e io non mi mischierò con coloro che disprezzano la madre che mi ha dato la vita, né porterò disgrazia o fallimento al figlio di colei che ha così bene sostituito quella madre. In breve», disse la giovane signora, voltandosi via mentre la sua temporanea fermezza l’abbandonava, «c’è una macchia sul mio nome, che il mondo infligge a teste innocenti. Non la porterò in nessun sangue se non nel mio; e il rimprovero riposerà solo su di me.»

“Un’altra parola, Rose. Mia adorata Rose! Un’altra!” gridò Harry, gettandosi ai suoi piedi. “Se fossi stato meno—meno fortunato, il mondo lo chiamerebbe così—se una vita oscura e tranquilla fosse stata la mia sorte—se fossi stato povero, malato, indifeso—ti saresti allontanata da me? O è stato il mio probabile avanzamento verso ricchezza e onore a dare vita a questo scrupolo?”

«Non insistere per una risposta», replicò Rose. «La domanda non si pone e non si porrà mai. È ingiusto, quasi crudele, sollecitarla».

“Se la tua risposta è quella che quasi oso sperare”, ribatté Harry, “spargerà un raggio di felicità sulla mia solitaria strada e illuminerà il sentiero davanti a me. Non è cosa da poco fare tanto, con l’uso di poche brevi parole, per uno che ti ama più di ogni altra cosa. Oh, Rose: in nome del mio ardente e duraturo affetto; in nome di tutto ciò che ho sofferto per te, e di tutto ciò a cui mi condanni ad andare incontro; rispondimi a questa unica domanda!”

«Allora, se il tuo destino fosse stato diverso», replicò Rose; «se tu fossi stato anche solo un po’, ma non troppo, al di sopra di me; se avessi potuto essere per te un aiuto e un conforto in qualche umile scenario di pace e ritiro, e non una macchia e un ostacolo in folle ambiziose e distinte; mi sarebbe stato risparmiato questo tormento. Ho ogni ragione per essere felice, molto felice, ora; ma allora, Harry, confesso che sarei stata più felice».

Ricordi vivaci di vecchie speranze, coltivate da ragazza tanto tempo fa, affollarono la mente di Rosa mentre faceva questa dichiarazione; ma portarono con sé delle lacrime, come fanno le vecchie speranze quando tornano appassite; e la confortarono.

“Non posso farci nulla contro questa debolezza e mi rende più forte nella mia decisione”, disse Rose porgendo la mano. “Devo proprio lasciarvi ora”.

«Ti chiedo una promessa», disse Harry. «Una volta sola, e solo un’altra volta ancora, — diciamo entro un anno, ma potrebbe essere molto prima, — ti parlerò di nuovo su questo argomento, per l’ultima volta.»

«Non per insistere affinché cambiassi la mia giusta decisione», rispose Rosa, con un sorriso malinconico; «sarebbe inutile.»

«No», disse Harry, «per sentirti ripetere, se vuoi, ripeterlo finalmente! Ti metterò ai piedi tutto ciò che posseggo in termini di rango e fortuna; e se continuerai a mantenere la tua attuale decisione, non cercherò, con parole o azioni, di cambiarla.»

«Allora sia così», rispose Rosa; «è solo un altro dolore, e a quel tempo potrei essere in grado di sopportarlo meglio.»

Lei gli tese di nuovo la mano. Ma il giovane l’abbracciò al petto e, dopo averle deposto un bacio sulla bella fronte, uscì in fretta dalla stanza.

CHAPTER XXXVI. IS A VERY SHORT ONE, AND MAY APPEAR OF NO GREAT IMPORTANCE IN ITS PLACE, BUT IT SHOULD BE READ NOTWITHSTANDING, AS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST, AND A KEY TO ONE THAT WILL FOLLOW WHEN ITS TIME ARRIVES

“And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning; eh?” said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the breakfast-table. “Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two half-hours together!”

“You will tell me a different tale one of these days,” said Harry, colouring without any perceptible reason.

“I hope I may have good cause to do so,” replied Mr. Losberne; “though I confess I don’t think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up your mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your mother, like a dutiful son, to the sea-side. Before noon, you announce that you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I go, on your road to London. And at night, you urge me, with great mystery, to start before the ladies are stirring; the consequence of which is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn’t it, Oliver?”

“I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr. Maylie went away, sir,” rejoined Oliver.

“That’s a fine fellow,” said the doctor; “you shall come and see me when you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?”

“The great nobs,” replied Harry, “under which designation, I presume, you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all, since I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it likely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate attendance among them.”

“Well,” said the doctor, “you are a queer fellow. But of course they will get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political life. There’s something in that. Good training is always desirable, whether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes.”

Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but he contented himself with saying, “We shall see,” and pursued the subject no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it packed.

“Oliver,” said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, “let me speak a word with you.”

Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him; much surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed.

“You can write well now?” said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm.

“I hope so, sir,” replied Oliver.

“I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write to me—say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?”

“Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it,” exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission.

“I should like to know how—how my mother and Miss Maylie are,” said the young man; “and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she—they, I mean—seem happy and quite well. You understand me?”

“Oh! quite, sir, quite,” replied Oliver.

“I would rather you did not mention it to them,” said Harry, hurrying over his words; “because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me; and mind you tell me everything! I depend upon you.”

Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie took leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and protection.

The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should be left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants were in the garden, looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the latticed window, and jumped into the carriage.

“Drive on!” he cried, “hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing short of flying will keep pace with me, today.”

“Halloa!” cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great hurry, and shouting to the postillion; “something very short of flying will keep pace with me. Do you hear?”

Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible, and its rapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound its way along the road, almost hidden in a cloud of dust: now wholly disappearing, and now becoming visible again, as intervening objects, or the intricacies of the way, permitted. It was not until even the dusty cloud was no longer to be seen, that the gazers dispersed.

And there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes fixed upon the spot where the carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away; for, behind the white curtain which had shrouded her from view when Harry raised his eyes towards the window, sat Rose herself.

“He seems in high spirits and happy,” she said, at length. “I feared for a time he might be otherwise. I was mistaken. I am very, very glad.”

Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which coursed down Rose’s face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in the same direction, seemed to tell more of sorrow than of joy.

CAPITOLO XXXVI. È UN CAPITOLO MOLTO BREVE E POTREBBE SEMBRARE DI POCO CONTO IN QUESTA PARTE DEL RACCONTO, MA DOVREBBE COMUNQUE ESSERE LETTO PERCHÉ È IL SEQUELLO DELL’ULTIMO E LA CHIAVE DI UN ALTRO CHE VERRÀ QUANDO ARRIVERÀ IL SUO TEMPO

“E così sei deciso ad essere il mio compagno di viaggio questa mattina; eh?” disse il dottore quando Harry Maylie si unì a lui e Oliver a tavola per la colazione. “Ma tu non hai mai lo stesso pensiero o intenzione nemmeno per due mezze ore!”

«Mi racconterai una storia diversa un giorno di questi», disse Harry, arrossendo senza alcuna ragione evidente.

“Spero di avere buone ragioni per farlo”, rispose il signor Losberne; “anche se confesso che non credo ci siano. Ma ieri mattina avete deciso in gran fretta di rimanere qui e di accompagnare vostra madre, da bravo figlio, al mare. Prima di mezzogiorno, annunciate che mi farete il piacere di accompagnarmi fino a dove vado, sulla vostra strada per Londra. E la sera, mi esortate con grande mistero a partire prima che le signore si sveglino; il risultato è che il giovane Oliver qui presente è costretto a fare colazione quando dovrebbe vagare per i prati in cerca di fenomeni botanici di ogni tipo. Troppo brutto, non è vero, Oliver?”

“Mi sarebbe dispiaciuto molto non essere stato a casa quando lei e il signor Maylie siete partiti, signore”, rispose Oliver.

«È un bravo ragazzo», disse il dottore; «verrai a trovarmi quando tornerai. Ma, per parlare seriamente, Harry: qualche comunicazione dei grandi personaggi ha provocato questa improvvisa ansia da parte tua di andartene?»

«I grandi nobili», rispose Harry, «sotto la cui denominazione presumo che includiate mio zio più imponente, non hanno comunicato con me affatto da quando sono qui; né, in questo periodo dell’anno, è probabile che accada qualcosa che renda necessaria la mia immediata presenza tra loro.»

«Bene,» disse il dottore «sei un tipo strano. Ma naturalmente ti faranno entrare al parlamento alle elezioni prima di Natale e questi improvvisi cambiamenti non sono una cattiva preparazione per la vita politica. C’è qualcosa in questo. Un buon addestramento è sempre desiderabile, sia che si corra per un posto, una coppa o il montepremi».

Harry Maylie sembrava che avrebbe potuto seguire questo breve dialogo con uno o due commenti che non avrebbero lasciato il dottore indifferente; ma si accontentò di dire: «Vedremo», e non approfondì l’argomento. Poco dopo la carrozza da posta si fermò davanti alla porta, e Giles entrò per prendere i bagagli, mentre il buon dottore usciva affannato per vederli caricare.

«Oliver», disse Harry Maylie con voce bassa, «lascia che ti dica una parola».

Oliver si avvicinò alla rientranza della finestra verso cui il signor Maylie lo stava chiamando con un cenno; molto sorpreso dalla mescolanza di tristezza e spirito vivace che il suo comportamento complessivo mostrava.

“Ora sai scrivere bene?”, disse Harry posandogli la mano sul braccio.

“Lo spero, signore”, rispose Oliver.

“Non sarò più a casa, forse per un po’ di tempo; vorrei che mi scriveste, diciamo una volta ogni fort-notte: ogni lunedì alternato; all’ufficio postale generale di Londra. Lo farete?”

“Ah! certamente, signore; ne sarò orgoglioso”, esclamò Oliver, molto contento dell’incarico.

“Mi piacerebbe sapere come sta, come stanno mia madre e la signorina Maylie”, disse il giovane; “e potete riempire un foglio raccontandomi quali passeggiate fate, di cosa parlate, se lei, loro, intendo dire, sembrano felici e completamente bene. Mi capite?”

“Ah! proprio così, signore, proprio così”, rispose Oliver.

«Preferirei che non ne parlaste loro», disse Harry in fretta, «perché potrebbe indurre mia madre ad essere più sollecita nel scrivermi, e questo le è di disturbo e preoccupazione. Teniamolo per noi; e ricordatevi di dirmi tutto! Conto su di voi».

Oliver, tutto eccitato e onorato dal senso della sua importanza, promise fedelmente di essere discreto ed esplicito nelle sue comunicazioni. Il signor Maylie lo salutò, assicurandogli il suo affetto e la sua protezione.

Il dottore era nella carrozza; Giles (che, come stabilito, doveva rimanere indietro) teneva la porta aperta con una mano; e le donne di servizio erano nel giardino, a guardare. Harry lanciò uno sguardo fugace alla finestra a grata e saltò sulla carrozza.

«Avanti!» gridò «a tutta velocità, al galoppo sfrenato! Solo volando oggi potrei starmi al passo.»

«Ehi!», gridò il dottore abbassando di gran fretta il vetro anteriore e chiamando il postiglione: «qualcosa che voli molto basso potrà tenere il passo con me. Mi sentite?»

Tintinnando e sferragliando finché la distanza rese il suo rumore inudibile, e il rapido avanzamento era percepibile solo agli occhi, il veicolo si snodava lungo la strada, quasi nascosto in una nuvola di polvere: ora scomparendo del tutto e ora diventando visibile di nuovo, a seconda degli oggetti interposti o delle complessità della strada. Non fu finché anche la nuvola polverosa non si vide più che gli spettatori si dispersero.

E c’era un osservatore che rimase con gli occhi fissi sul punto in cui la carrozza era scomparsa, molto tempo dopo che si trovava a molte miglia di distanza; perché, dietro il bianco tendaggio che l’aveva nascosta alla vista quando Harry aveva alzato lo sguardo verso la finestra, sedeva la stessa Rose.

«Sembra di buon umore e felice», disse infine. «Per un po’ ho temuto che potesse essere diversamente. Mi sbagliavo. Sono molto, molto contenta».

Le lacrime sono segni di gioia così come di dolore; ma quelle che scorrevano sul volto di Rose, mentre sedeva pensierosa alla finestra, ancora fissando nella stessa direzione, sembravano raccontare più di tristezza che di felicità.

CHAPTER XXXVII. IN WHICH THE READER MAY PERCEIVE A CONTRAST, NOT UNCOMMON IN MATRIMONIAL CASES

Mr. Bumble sat in the workhouse parlour, with his eyes moodily fixed on the cheerless grate, whence, as it was summer time, no brighter gleam proceeded, than the reflection of certain sickly rays of the sun, which were sent back from its cold and shining surface. A paper fly-cage dangled from the ceiling, to which he occasionally raised his eyes in gloomy thought; and, as the heedless insects hovered round the gaudy net-work, Mr. Bumble would heave a deep sigh, while a more gloomy shadow overspread his countenance. Mr. Bumble was meditating; it might be that the insects brought to mind, some painful passage in his own past life.

Nor was Mr. Bumble’s gloom the only thing calculated to awaken a pleasing melancholy in the bosom of a spectator. There were not wanting other appearances, and those closely connected with his own person, which announced that a great change had taken place in the position of his affairs. The laced coat, and the cocked hat; where were they? He still wore knee-breeches, and dark cotton stockings on his nether limbs; but they were not the breeches. The coat was wide-skirted; and in that respect like the coat, but, oh how different! The mighty cocked hat was replaced by a modest round one. Mr. Bumble was no longer a beadle.

There are some promotions in life, which, independent of the more substantial rewards they offer, require peculiar value and dignity from the coats and waistcoats connected with them. A field-marshal has his uniform; a bishop his silk apron; a counsellor his silk gown; a beadle his cocked hat. Strip the bishop of his apron, or the beadle of his hat and lace; what are they? Men. Mere men. Dignity, and even holiness too, sometimes, are more questions of coat and waistcoat than some people imagine.

Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney, and was master of the workhouse. Another beadle had come into power. On him the cocked hat, gold-laced coat, and staff, had all three descended.

“And tomorrow two months it was done!” said Mr. Bumble, with a sigh. “It seems a age.”

Mr. Bumble might have meant that he had concentrated a whole existence of happiness into the short space of eight weeks; but the sigh—there was a vast deal of meaning in the sigh.

“I sold myself,” said Mr. Bumble, pursuing the same train of reflection, “for six teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a milk-pot; with a small quantity of second-hand furniture, and twenty pound in money. I went very reasonable. Cheap, dirt cheap!”

“Cheap!” cried a shrill voice in Mr. Bumble’s ear: “you would have been dear at any price; and dear enough I paid for you, Lord above knows that!”

Mr. Bumble turned, and encountered the face of his interesting consort, who, imperfectly comprehending the few words she had overheard of his complaint, had hazarded the foregoing remark at a venture.

“Mrs. Bumble, ma’am!” said Mr. Bumble, with a sentimental sternness.

“Well!” cried the lady.

“Have the goodness to look at me,” said Mr. Bumble, fixing his eyes upon her.

“If she stands such a eye as that,” said Mr. Bumble to himself, “she can stand anything. It is a eye I never knew to fail with paupers. If it fails with her, my power is gone.”

Whether an exceedingly small expansion of eye be sufficient to quell paupers, who, being lightly fed, are in no very high condition; or whether the late Mrs. Corney was particularly proof against eagle glances; are matters of opinion. The matter of fact, is, that the matron was in no way overpowered by Mr. Bumble’s scowl, but, on the contrary, treated it with great disdain, and even raised a laugh thereat, which sounded as though it were genuine.

On hearing this most unexpected sound, Mr. Bumble looked, first incredulous, and afterwards amazed. He then relapsed into his former state; nor did he rouse himself until his attention was again awakened by the voice of his partner.

“Are you going to sit snoring there, all day?” inquired Mrs. Bumble.

“I am going to sit here, as long as I think proper, ma’am,” rejoined Mr. Bumble; “and although I was not snoring, I shall snore, gape, sneeze, laugh, or cry, as the humour strikes me; such being my prerogative.”

“Your prerogative!” sneered Mrs. Bumble, with ineffable contempt.

“I said the word, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble. “The prerogative of a man is to command.”

“And what’s the prerogative of a woman, in the name of Goodness?” cried the relict of Mr. Corney deceased.

“To obey, ma’am,” thundered Mr. Bumble. “Your late unfortunate husband should have taught it you; and then, perhaps, he might have been alive now. I wish he was, poor man!”

Mrs. Bumble, seeing at a glance, that the decisive moment had now arrived, and that a blow struck for the mastership on one side or other, must necessarily be final and conclusive, no sooner heard this allusion to the dead and gone, than she dropped into a chair, and with a loud scream that Mr. Bumble was a hard-hearted brute, fell into a paroxysm of tears.

But, tears were not the things to find their way to Mr. Bumble’s soul; his heart was waterproof. Like washable beaver hats that improve with rain, his nerves were rendered stouter and more vigorous, by showers of tears, which, being tokens of weakness, and so far tacit admissions of his own power, pleased and exalted him. He eyed his good lady with looks of great satisfaction, and begged, in an encouraging manner, that she should cry her hardest: the exercise being looked upon, by the faculty, as strongly conducive to health.

“It opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises the eyes, and softens down the temper,” said Mr. Bumble. “So cry away.”

As he discharged himself of this pleasantry, Mr. Bumble took his hat from a peg, and putting it on, rather rakishly, on one side, as a man might, who felt he had asserted his superiority in a becoming manner, thrust his hands into his pockets, and sauntered towards the door, with much ease and waggishness depicted in his whole appearance.

CAPITOLO XXXVII. NEL QUALE IL LETTORE PUO’ RICONOSCERE UN CONTRASTO NON RARO NEI CASI MATRIMONIALI

Il signor Bumble sedeva nel salotto del lavoro, con gli occhi fissi malinconicamente sulla fredda grata, da cui, poiché era estate estate, non proveniva luce più brillante di quella riflessa dai pallidi raggi del sole che rimbalzavano dalla sua superficie fredda e lucida. Una gabbia per mosche fatta di carta pendeva dal soffitto, verso la quale alzava occasionalmente gli occhi in cupo pensiero; e mentre gli sconsiderati insetti volteggiavano intorno alla vistosa rete, il signor Bumble emetteva un profondo sospiro, mentre una più cupa ombra si diffondeva sul suo volto. Il signor Bumble stava meditando; poteva darsi che gli insetti gli facessero venire in mente qualche passaggio doloroso della sua vita passata.

Né il malumore del signor Bumble era l’unica cosa adatta a suscitare una malinconia piacevole nel cuore di un osservatore. Non mancavano altri segni, e questi strettamente connessi alla sua persona, che annunciavano che un grande cambiamento aveva avuto luogo nella situazione dei suoi affari. La giacca con i lacci e il cappello a tricorno; dove erano? Indossava ancora le brache al ginocchio e calze di cotone scuro sulle gambe inferiori; ma non erano quelle brache. La giacca aveva una gonna ampia; e in questo senso era simile alla giacca, ma, oh come diversa! Il possente cappello a tricorno era stato sostituito da un modesto copricapo tondo. Il signor Bumble non era più un becchino.

Ci sono alcune promozioni nella vita che, indipendentemente dalle ricompense più sostanziose che offrono, richiedono un valore e una dignità particolari da parte dei cappotti e delle giacche ad essi collegati. Un maresciallo di campo ha la sua uniforme; un vescovo il suo grembiule di seta; un avvocato la sua toga di seta; un usciere il suo cappello a tricorno. Spogliate il vescovo del suo grembiule, o l’usciere del suo cappello e dei suoi merletti; che cosa sono? Uomini. Semplici uomini. La dignità, e talvolta anche la santità, sono a volte più questione di cappotto e giacca di quanto alcune persone immaginino.

Il signor Bumble aveva sposato la signora Corney ed era diventato il direttore del ricovero. Un altro becchino era salito al potere: su di lui erano ricaduti il cappello a tricorno, la giacca con le decorazioni d’oro e lo scettro.

“E tra due mesi sarà fatta!” disse il signor Bumble con un sospiro. “Sembra una vita.”

Il signor Bumble avrebbe potuto voler dire che aveva concentrato un’intera esistenza di felicità nello spazio breve di otto settimane, ma il sospiro — c’era una grande quantità di significato nel sospiro.

«Mi sono venduto», disse il signor Bumble, proseguendo nello stesso filo di pensiero, «per sei cucchiaini da tè, un paio di tenaglie per lo zucchero e una brocca del latte; con una piccola quantità di mobili usati e venti sterline in denaro. Sono andato molto ragionevole. A buon mercato, a vil prezzo!»

«A buon mercato!» gridò una voce stridula all’orecchio del signor Bumble: «saresti stato caro a qualsiasi prezzo e abbastanza caro ti ho pagato io, il Signore lo sa bene!»

Il signor Bumble si voltò e incontrò il volto della sua interessante consorte, che, comprendendo imperfettamente le poche parole che aveva udito del suo lamento, aveva osato fare l’osservazione precedente a caso.

«Signora Bumble, signora!» disse il signor Bumble con severità sentimentale.

«Bene!» esclamò la signora.

«Avete la bontà di guardarmi», disse il signor Bumble fissandola negli occhi.

«Se lei resiste a uno sguardo del genere», disse il signor Bumble tra sé e sé, «può resistere a tutto. È uno sguardo che non ho mai visto fallire con i poveri. Se fallisce con lei, la mia autorità è finita».

Che un’espansione estremamente piccola dell’occhio sia sufficiente per domare i poveri, che, essendo poco nutriti, non sono in condizioni molto buone; o se la defunta signora Corney fosse particolarmente immune agli sguardi da rapace; sono questioni opinabili. Il fatto è che la matrona non fu per nulla sopraffatta dallo sguardo torvo del signor Bumble, ma al contrario lo trattò con grande disprezzo e addirittura suscitò una risata a quel proposito, che sembrava autentica.

Udito quel suono così inaspettato, il signor Bumble dapprima non credette ai suoi occhi e poi rimase stupito. Poi ricadde nello stato precedente; né si riebbe finché la sua attenzione fu di nuovo richiamata dalla voce della moglie.

«Avete intenzione di restare seduto a russare lì tutto il giorno?» chiese la signora Bumble.

«Mi siederò qui finché non mi sembrerà opportuno, signora», ribatté il signor Bumble; «e anche se non stavo russando, farò come mi pare: russare, sbadigliare, starnutire, ridere o piangere, secondo l’umore in cui sarò; questo è un mio privilegio.»

«La sua prerrogativa!» sibilò la signora Bumble con inesprimibile disprezzo.

Ho detto la parola, signora, disse il signor Bumble. Il privilegio di un uomo è quello di comandare.

«E qual è la prerogativa di una donna, per amor del cielo?» esclamò la vedova del defunto signor Corney.

«Obbedire, signora», tuonò il signor Bumble. «Il suo defunto sfortunato marito avrebbe dovuto insegnarglielo e forse sarebbe ancora vivo adesso. Gliel’auguro di cuore!»

La signora Bumble, vedendo in un attimo che il momento decisivo era ormai arrivato e che un colpo sferrato per la supremazia da una parte o dall’altra doveva necessariamente essere definitivo e conclusivo, non appena udì questa allusione ai morti e sepolti, cadde su una sedia e con un forte urlo che il signor Bumble era un bruto senza cuore, cadde in un parossismo di lacrime.

Ma le lacrime non erano la cosa giusta per raggiungere l’anima del signor Bumble; il suo cuore era impermeabile. Come i cappelli di castoro lavabili che migliorano con la pioggia, i suoi nervi diventavano più robusti e vigorosi sotto le docce di lacrime, che, essendo segni di debolezza e quindi tacite ammissioni del suo potere, lo compiacquero ed esaltarono. Osservò sua moglie con sguardo molto soddisfatto e la pregò, in modo incoraggiante, di piangere più forte che poteva: l’esercizio era considerato dalla facoltà molto utile per la salute.

«Aria aperta allarga i polmoni, lava il viso, esercita gli occhi e addolcisce l’umore», disse il signor Bumble. «Quindi piangere pure».

Mentre si liberava di questa battuta scherzosa, il signor Bumble prese il cappello da un piolo e lo mise, con una certa spavalderia, su un lato della testa, come potrebbe fare un uomo che sente di aver affermato la propria superiorità in modo appropriato; poi si infilò le mani nelle tasche e si avviò verso la porta con molta disinvoltura e malizia dipinta sul volto.

Now, Mrs. Corney that was, had tried the tears, because they were less troublesome than a manual assault; but, she was quite prepared to make trial of the latter mode of proceeding, as Mr. Bumble was not long in discovering.

The first proof he experienced of the fact, was conveyed in a hollow sound, immediately succeeded by the sudden flying off of his hat to the opposite end of the room. This preliminary proceeding laying bare his head, the expert lady, clasping him tightly round the throat with one hand, inflicted a shower of blows (dealt with singular vigour and dexterity) upon it with the other. This done, she created a little variety by scratching his face, and tearing his hair; and, having, by this time, inflicted as much punishment as she deemed necessary for the offence, she pushed him over a chair, which was luckily well situated for the purpose: and defied him to talk about his prerogative again, if he dared.

“Get up!” said Mrs. Bumble, in a voice of command. “And take yourself away from here, unless you want me to do something desperate.”

Mr. Bumble rose with a very rueful countenance: wondering much what something desperate might be. Picking up his hat, he looked towards the door.

“Are you going?” demanded Mrs. Bumble.

“Certainly, my dear, certainly,” rejoined Mr. Bumble, making a quicker motion towards the door. “I didn’t intend to—I’m going, my dear! You are so very violent, that really I—”

At this instant, Mrs. Bumble stepped hastily forward to replace the carpet, which had been kicked up in the scuffle. Mr. Bumble immediately darted out of the room, without bestowing another thought on his unfinished sentence: leaving the late Mrs. Corney in full possession of the field.

Mr. Bumble was fairly taken by surprise, and fairly beaten. He had a decided propensity for bullying: derived no inconsiderable pleasure from the exercise of petty cruelty; and, consequently, was (it is needless to say) a coward. This is by no means a disparagement to his character; for many official personages, who are held in high respect and admiration, are the victims of similar infirmities. The remark is made, indeed, rather in his favour than otherwise, and with a view of impressing the reader with a just sense of his qualifications for office.

But, the measure of his degradation was not yet full. After making a tour of the house, and thinking, for the first time, that the poor-laws really were too hard on people; and that men who ran away from their wives, leaving them chargeable to the parish, ought, in justice to be visited with no punishment at all, but rather rewarded as meritorious individuals who had suffered much; Mr. Bumble came to a room where some of the female paupers were usually employed in washing the parish linen: when the sound of voices in conversation, now proceeded.

“Hem!” said Mr. Bumble, summoning up all his native dignity. “These women at least shall continue to respect the prerogative. Hallo! hallo there! What do you mean by this noise, you hussies?”

With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door, and walked in with a very fierce and angry manner: which was at once exchanged for a most humiliated and cowering air, as his eyes unexpectedly rested on the form of his lady wife.

“My dear,” said Mr. Bumble, “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Didn’t know I was here!” repeated Mrs. Bumble. “What do you do here?”

“I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their work properly, my dear,” replied Mr. Bumble: glancing distractedly at a couple of old women at the wash-tub, who were comparing notes of admiration at the workhouse-master’s humility.

“You thought they were talking too much?” said Mrs. Bumble. “What business is it of yours?”

“Why, my dear—” urged Mr. Bumble submissively.

“What business is it of yours?” demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.

“It’s very true, you’re matron here, my dear,” submitted Mr. Bumble; “but I thought you mightn’t be in the way just then.”

“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Bumble,” returned his lady. “We don’t want any of your interference. You’re a great deal too fond of poking your nose into things that don’t concern you, making everybody in the house laugh, the moment your back is turned, and making yourself look like a fool every hour in the day. Be off; come!”

Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings, the delight of the two old paupers, who were tittering together most rapturously, hesitated for an instant. Mrs. Bumble, whose patience brooked no delay, caught up a bowl of soap-suds, and motioning him towards the door, ordered him instantly to depart, on pain of receiving the contents upon his portly person.

What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked dejectedly round, and slunk away; and, as he reached the door, the titterings of the paupers broke into a shrill chuckle of irrepressible delight. It wanted but this. He was degraded in their eyes; he had lost caste and station before the very paupers; he had fallen from all the height and pomp of beadleship, to the lowest depth of the most snubbed hen-peckery.

“All in two months!” said Mr. Bumble, filled with dismal thoughts. “Two months! No more than two months ago, I was not only my own master, but everybody else’s, so far as the porochial workhouse was concerned, and now!—”

It was too much. Mr. Bumble boxed the ears of the boy who opened the gate for him (for he had reached the portal in his reverie); and walked, distractedly, into the street.

He walked up one street, and down another, until exercise had abated the first passion of his grief; and then the revulsion of feeling made him thirsty. He passed a great many public-houses; but, at length paused before one in a by-way, whose parlour, as he gathered from a hasty peep over the blinds, was deserted, save by one solitary customer. It began to rain, heavily, at the moment. This determined him. Mr. Bumble stepped in; and ordering something to drink, as he passed the bar, entered the apartment into which he had looked from the street.

Ora, la signora Corney che era stata aveva provato le lacrime, perché erano meno problematiche di un assalto fisico; ma era pronta a sperimentare quest’ultimo metodo, come il signor Bumble non tardò a scoprire.

La prima prova che ne ebbe fu un suono cupo, subito seguito dal volo improvviso del suo cappello fino all’altra estremità della stanza. Questo preliminare procedimento lasciò scoperta la sua testa, e l’esperta signora, stringendolo saldamente alla gola con una mano, gli inflisse una raffica di colpi (dati con singolare vigore e destrezza) sull’altra. Fatto ciò, creò un po’ di varietà graffiandogli il viso e strappandogli i capelli; e, avendo, entro questo tempo, inflitto quanto castigo riteneva necessario per l’offesa, lo spinse sopra una sedia, che era fortunatamente bene situata allo scopo: e lo sfidò a parlare ancora del suo privilegio, se osava.

«Alzati!» disse la signora Bumble con tono imperioso «e levati dai piedi, se non vuoi che faccia qualcosa di disperato».

Il signor Bumble si alzò con un’espressione molto contrariata, chiedendosi che cosa potesse mai essere qualcosa di disperato. Raccolto il cappello, guardò verso la porta.

«State per andarvene?» chiese la signora Bumble.

«Certamente, mia cara, certamente», rispose il signor Bumble facendo un movimento più rapido verso la porta. «Non intendevo — vado, mia cara! Sei così violenta che davvero io, »

In quell’istante la signora Bumble si fece avanti di corsa per rimettere a posto il tappeto che era stato sollevato nella rissa. Il signor Bumble uscì subito dalla stanza senza più pensare alla frase incompiuta, lasciando l’ex signora Corney in pieno possesso del campo.

Il signor Bumble fu colto di sorpresa e sconfitto. Era un vero bullo, provava non poco piacere nell’esercizio della piccola crudeltà; e, per conseguenza (è inutile dirlo), era un codardo. Questo non è affatto un rimprovero al suo carattere; perché molti personaggi ufficiali, tenuti in grande rispetto e ammirazione, sono vittime di simili debolezze. L’osservazione è fatta anzi più a suo favore che altro, con l’intento di dare al lettore una giusta idea delle sue qualità per l’incarico.

Ma la misura della sua degradazione non era ancora completa. Dopo aver fatto un giro per la casa e pensato, per la prima volta, che le leggi sui poveri erano davvero troppo dure con la gente; e che gli uomini che fuggivano dalle loro mogli, lasciandole a carico della parrocchia, avrebbero dovuto, in giustizia, essere puniti affatto, ma piuttosto premiati come individui meritevoli che avevano sofferto molto; il signor Bumble arrivò a una stanza dove alcune delle donne povere erano solitamente impiegate nel lavare la biancheria della parrocchia: quando il suono di voci in conversazione, ora procedette.

«Ehm!» disse il signor Bumble, raccogliendo tutta la sua dignità innata. «Queste donne almeno continueranno a rispettare i privilegi. Ehi! ehi là! Cosa intendete con questo rumore, mascalzone?»

Con queste parole, il signor Bumble aprì la porta e entrò con un’aria molto feroce e arrabbiata: che fu subito sostituita da un’espressione umiliata e rattrappita quando i suoi occhi si posarono inaspettatamente sulla figura della sua signora moglie.

“Carissima,” disse il signor Bumble, “non sapevo che fossi qui.”

“Non sapevo che fossi qui!” ripeté la signora Bumble. “Cosa ci fai tu qui?”

“Pensavo che stessero parlando troppo per svolgere il loro lavoro in modo adeguato, mia cara”, rispose il signor Bumble: lanciando uno sguardo distratto a un paio di vecchie donne al lavandino, che stavano scambiandosi apprezzamenti sulla umiltà del direttore della casa di lavoro.

«Pensavate che parlassero troppo?» disse la signora Bumble. «Che affarè è questo vostro?»

«Ma, mia cara —» insistette il signor Bumble con umiltà.

«Che affare è questo?» chiese di nuovo la signora Bumble.

«È molto vero che sei la direttrice qui, mia cara», ammise il signor Bumble, «ma pensavo che forse non volessi essere nei paraggi proprio allora.»

«Le dirò una cosa, signor Bumble», rispose la sua consorte. «Non vogliamo nessun suo intervento. Lei è troppo propenso a ficcare il naso in cose che non la riguardano, facendo ridere tutti nella casa appena gira le spalle e rendendosi ridicolo ogni ora del giorno. Vada via; venga!»

Il signor Bumble, vedendo con sentimenti strazianti il piacere dei due vecchi poveri che stavano ridacchiando insieme in modo estasiato, esitò per un istante. La signora Bumble, la cui pazienza non tollerava ritardi, afferrò una ciotola di schiuma di sapone e facendogli cenno verso la porta gli ordinò di andarsene immediatamente, pena il rischio di ricevere il contenuto sulla sua persona corpulenta.

Che cosa poteva fare il signor Bumble? Guardò intorno con aria abbattuta e se ne andò di soppiatto; e mentre raggiungeva la porta le risatine dei poveri si trasformarono in un acuto scoppio di ilarità incontenibile. Mancava solo questo. Era degradato ai loro occhi; aveva perso casta e posizione davanti agli stessi poveri; era caduto da tutta l’altezza e la pompa del mestiere di becchino, alla profondità più bassa della più umiliante sottomissione alle donne.

«Tutto in due mesi!» disse il signor Bumble, pieno di pensieri tetri. «Due mesi! Non più di due mesi fa ero non solo padrone di me stesso ma anche degli altri, per quanto riguardava la casa di lavoro parrocchiale, e ora!—»

Era troppo. Il signor Bumble diede uno schiaffo al ragazzo che gli aprì il cancello (perché era arrivato all’ingresso immerso nei suoi pensieri) e si incamminò distrattamente per la strada.

Camminò su per una strada e giù per un’altra finché l’esercizio fisico non attenuò la prima passione del suo dolore; e allora il cambiamento di umore lo fece sentire assetato. Passò davanti a molti pub, ma alla fine si fermò davanti a uno in una stradina laterale, il cui salotto, come capì da un’occhiata frettolosa oltre le tende, era deserto tranne che per un solo cliente solitario. In quel momento cominciò a piovere forte. Questo lo decise. Il signor Bumble entrò; e ordinando qualcosa da bere mentre passava al bar, entrò nella stanza in cui aveva guardato dalla strada.

The man who was seated there, was tall and dark, and wore a large cloak. He had the air of a stranger; and seemed, by a certain haggardness in his look, as well as by the dusty soils on his dress, to have travelled some distance. He eyed Bumble askance, as he entered, but scarcely deigned to nod his head in acknowledgment of his salutation.

Mr. Bumble had quite dignity enough for two; supposing even that the stranger had been more familiar: so he drank his gin-and-water in silence, and read the paper with great show of pomp and circumstance.

It so happened, however: as it will happen very often, when men fall into company under such circumstances: that Mr. Bumble felt, every now and then, a powerful inducement, which he could not resist, to steal a look at the stranger: and that whenever he did so, he withdrew his eyes, in some confusion, to find that the stranger was at that moment stealing a look at him. Mr. Bumble’s awkwardness was enhanced by the very remarkable expression of the stranger’s eye, which was keen and bright, but shadowed by a scowl of distrust and suspicion, unlike anything he had ever observed before, and repulsive to behold.

When they had encountered each other’s glance several times in this way, the stranger, in a harsh, deep voice, broke silence.

“Were you looking for me,” he said, “when you peered in at the window?”

“Not that I am aware of, unless you’re Mr.—” Here Mr. Bumble stopped short; for he was curious to know the stranger’s name, and thought in his impatience, he might supply the blank.

“I see you were not,” said the stranger; an expression of quiet sarcasm playing about his mouth; “or you have known my name. You don’t know it. I would recommend you not to ask for it.”

“I meant no harm, young man,” observed Mr. Bumble, majestically.

“And have done none,” said the stranger.

Another silence succeeded this short dialogue: which was again broken by the stranger.

“I have seen you before, I think?” said he. “You were differently dressed at that time, and I only passed you in the street, but I should know you again. You were beadle here, once; were you not?”

“I was,” said Mr. Bumble, in some surprise; “porochial beadle.”

“Just so,” rejoined the other, nodding his head. “It was in that character I saw you. What are you now?”

“Master of the workhouse,” rejoined Mr. Bumble, slowly and impressively, to check any undue familiarity the stranger might otherwise assume. “Master of the workhouse, young man!”

“You have the same eye to your own interest, that you always had, I doubt not?” resumed the stranger, looking keenly into Mr. Bumble’s eyes, as he raised them in astonishment at the question.

“Don’t scruple to answer freely, man. I know you pretty well, you see.”

“I suppose, a married man,” replied Mr. Bumble, shading his eyes with his hand, and surveying the stranger, from head to foot, in evident perplexity, “is not more averse to turning an honest penny when he can, than a single one. Porochial officers are not so well paid that they can afford to refuse any little extra fee, when it comes to them in a civil and proper manner.”

The stranger smiled, and nodded his head again: as much to say, he had not mistaken his man; then rang the bell.

“Fill this glass again,” he said, handing Mr. Bumble’s empty tumbler to the landlord. “Let it be strong and hot. You like it so, I suppose?”

“Not too strong,” replied Mr. Bumble, with a delicate cough.

“You understand what that means, landlord!” said the stranger, drily.

The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a steaming jorum: of which, the first gulp brought the water into Mr. Bumble’s eyes.

“Now listen to me,” said the stranger, after closing the door and window. “I came down to this place, today, to find you out; and, by one of those chances which the devil throws in the way of his friends sometimes, you walked into the very room I was sitting in, while you were uppermost in my mind. I want some information from you. I don’t ask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is. Put up that, to begin with.”

As he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to his companion, carefully, as though unwilling that the chinking of money should be heard without. When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins, to see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with much satisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on:

“Carry your memory back—let me see—twelve years, last winter.”

“It’s a long time,” said Mr. Bumble. “Very good. I’ve done it.”

“The scene, the workhouse.”

“Good!”

“And the time, night.”

“Yes.”

“And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves—gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and hid their shame, rot ’em in the grave!”

“The lying-in room, I suppose?” said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the stranger’s excited description.

“Yes,” said the stranger. “A boy was born there.”

“A many boys,” observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head, despondingly.

“A murrain on the young devils!” cried the stranger; “I speak of one; a meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down here, to a coffin-maker—I wish he had made his coffin, and screwed his body in it—and who afterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed.”

“Why, you mean Oliver! Young Twist!” said Mr. Bumble; “I remember him, of course. There wasn’t a obstinater young rascal—”

“It’s not of him I want to hear; I’ve heard enough of him,” said the stranger, stopping Mr. Bumble in the outset of a tirade on the subject of poor Oliver’s vices. “It’s of a woman; the hag that nursed his mother. Where is she?”

“Where is she?” said Mr. Bumble, whom the gin-and-water had rendered facetious. “It would be hard to tell. There’s no midwifery there, whichever place she’s gone to; so I suppose she’s out of employment, anyway.”

L’uomo seduto era alto e di carnagione scura, indossava un grande mantello. Aveva l’aria di uno straniero; e sembrava, per una certa stanchezza nel suo sguardo, così come per la polvere sui suoi vestiti, che avesse viaggiato da lontano. Fissò Bumble di traverso quando entrò, ma si limitò a fare un cenno con il capo in segno di saluto.

Il signor Bumble aveva abbastanza dignità per due; anche supponendo che lo sconosciuto fosse stato più confidenziale: così bevve il suo gin e acqua in silenzio, e lesse il giornale con grande ostentazione di pompa e cerimonie.

Ma accadde che: come spesso succede quando gli uomini si ritrovano insieme in circostanze simili: il signor Bumble sentisse di tanto in tanto un forte impulso, al quale non poteva resistere, a lanciare uno sguardo furtivo allo straniero; e che ogni volta che lo faceva, distogliesse gli occhi con qualche confusione, scoprendo che proprio in quel momento anche lo straniero stava lanciandogli uno sguardo furtivo. L’imbarazzo del signor Bumble era accentuato dall’espressione davvero notevole dell’occhio dello straniero, acuto e brillante, ma offuscato da un cipiglio di sfiducia e sospetto, diverso da qualsiasi cosa avesse mai visto prima d’allora, e repellente a vedersi.

Quando si erano scambiati sguardi l’uno con l’altro diverse volte in questo modo, lo straniero, con una voce dura e profonda, ruppe il silenzio.

«Mi cercavi», disse, «quando hai sbirciato dalla finestra?»

«Non che io sappia, a meno che lei non sia il signor, » Qui il signor Bumble si fermò di colpo: perché era curioso di conoscere il nome dello straniero e pensava che nella sua impazienza avrebbe potuto completare la frase.

«Vedo che non lo eravate», disse lo sconosciuto, con un’espressione di tranquillo sarcasmo sulle labbra; «o altrimenti sapreste il mio nome. Non lo sapete. Vi consiglio di non chiederlo».

«Non intendevo fare del male, giovane», osservò il signor Bumble, con maestà.

«E non ne ha fatto nessuna», disse lo sconosciuto.

Un altro silenzio seguì a questo breve dialogo, che fu di nuovo interrotto dallo sconosciuto.

«Vi ho già visto prima, credo?» disse lui. «Eri vestito diversamente a quel tempo, e ti ho solo incrociato per strada, ma ti riconoscerei di nuovo. Eri il becchino qui una volta; non è così?»

“Lo ero,” disse il signor Bumble con un certo stupore, “il diacono parrocchiale.”

«Proprio così», ribatté l’altro, annuendo col capo. «Fu in quel carattere che vi vidi. E ora cosa siete?»

«Direttore del ricovero», riprese il signor Bumble lentamente e con enfasi, per evitare che lo sconosciuto assumesse un tono troppo confidenziale. «Direttore del ricovero, giovanotto!»

“Avete lo stesso occhio al vostro interesse che avete sempre avuto, non ne dubito”, riprese lo sconosciuto, scrutando attentamente negli occhi di Mr. Bumble mentre li sollevava stupito per la domanda.

«Non esiti a rispondere liberamente, uomo. La conosco abbastanza bene, vede».

«Suppongo che un uomo sposato», rispose il signor Bumble, ombreggiandosi gli occhi con la mano e scrutando lo sconosciuto da capo a piedi, visibilmente perplesso, «non sia più contrario a guadagnare onestamente qualche soldo quando può di un uomo single. Gli ufficiali parrocchiali non sono pagati così bene da potersi permettere di rifiutare una piccola commissione extra, se gli viene offerta in modo civile e corretto».

Lo sconosciuto sorrise e annuì di nuovo col capo: come a dire che non si era sbagliato sulla persona; poi suonò il campanello.

«Riempite di nuovo questo bicchiere», disse, porgendo il bicchiere vuoto del signor Bumble al locandiere. «Facciatelo forte e caldo. Immagino che lo preferiate così?»

«Non troppo forte», rispose il signor Bumble con un delicato colpo di tosse.

«Capite cosa significa, locandiere!» disse lo sconosciuto, asciutto.

Il padrone di casa sorrise, sparì e poco dopo tornò con un bollente recipiente pieno di liquido; il primo sorso fece salire le lacrime agli occhi del signor Bumble.

«Ora ascoltami», disse lo sconosciuto dopo aver chiuso la porta e la finestra. «Sono venuto in questo posto oggi per trovarti; e, grazie a una di quelle coincidenze che il diavolo mette a volte sulla strada dei suoi amici, sei entrato proprio nella stanza dove ero seduto mentre tu eri l’unico pensiero nella mia mente. Ho bisogno di alcune informazioni da te. Non ti chiedo di darmele gratis, per quanto siano insignificanti. Metti via quello, per cominciare».

Mentre parlava, spinse un paio di sovrani sul tavolo verso il suo compagno, con cautela, come se non volesse che il tintinnio del denaro fosse udito fuori. Quando Mr. Bumble ebbe esaminato scrupolosamente le monete per assicurarsi della loro autenticità e le ebbe riposte con grande soddisfazione nella tasca del panciotto, continuò:

«Riportate la vostra memoria indietro — lasciatemi vedere — di dodici anni, l’inverno scorso.»

«È passato un lungo periodo», disse il signor Bumble. «Bene, l’ho fatto».

“La scena: il ricovero per poveri.”

“Bravo!”

“E il tempo, la notte.”

“Sì, davvero.”

“E il luogo, la buca pazza, ovunque fosse, dove le miserabili drappole mettevano al mondo la vita e la salute così spesso negate a loro stesse — davano alla luce bambini piagnucolosi per essere allevati dalla parrocchia; e nascondevano il loro vergogna, marciscano pure nella tomba!”

«La sala di maternità, immagino?» disse il signor Bumble, che non riusciva a seguire del tutto la descrizione concitata dello sconosciuto.

“Sì,” disse lo sconosciuto. “Là è nato un ragazzo.”

«Molti ragazzi», osservò il signor Bumble scuotendo la testa con aria scoraggiata.

“Maledizione ai giovani diavoli!” gridò lo sconosciuto; “parlo di uno solo: un ragazzo dall’aria mite, dal viso pallido, che era stato apprendista qui da un fabbricante di bare — vorrei che avesse fatto la sua bara e ci avesse inchiodato dentro il corpo — e che poi è scappato a Londra, come si pensava.”

«Ma intendete dire Oliver! Il giovane Twist!» disse il signor Bumble; «Certo che mi ricordo di lui. Non c’era un piccolo furfante più ostinato, »

“Non è di lui che voglio sentire parlare, ne ho già sentito abbastanza”, disse lo sconosciuto, interrompendo il signor Bumble all’inizio di una tirata sui vizi del povero Oliver. “Si tratta di una donna; la vecchia che ha assistito sua madre. Dov’è?”

“Dov’è?” disse il signor Bumble, che la gin-and-water aveva reso faceto. “Sarebbe difficile dirlo. Non c’è nessuna ostetricia lì, qualunque posto sia andata; quindi immagino che sia disoccupata, comunque.”

“What do you mean?” demanded the stranger, sternly.

“That she died last winter,” rejoined Mr. Bumble.

The man looked fixedly at him when he had given this information, and although he did not withdraw his eyes for some time afterwards, his gaze gradually became vacant and abstracted, and he seemed lost in thought. For some time, he appeared doubtful whether he ought to be relieved or disappointed by the intelligence; but at length he breathed more freely; and withdrawing his eyes, observed that it was no great matter. With that he rose, as if to depart.

But Mr. Bumble was cunning enough; and he at once saw that an opportunity was opened, for the lucrative disposal of some secret in the possession of his better half. He well remembered the night of old Sally’s death, which the occurrences of that day had given him good reason to recollect, as the occasion on which he had proposed to Mrs. Corney; and although that lady had never confided to him the disclosure of which she had been the solitary witness, he had heard enough to know that it related to something that had occurred in the old woman’s attendance, as workhouse nurse, upon the young mother of Oliver Twist. Hastily calling this circumstance to mind, he informed the stranger, with an air of mystery, that one woman had been closeted with the old harridan shortly before she died; and that she could, as he had reason to believe, throw some light on the subject of his inquiry.

“How can I find her?” said the stranger, thrown off his guard; and plainly showing that all his fears (whatever they were) were aroused afresh by the intelligence.

“Only through me,” rejoined Mr. Bumble.

“When?” cried the stranger, hastily.

“Tomorrow,” rejoined Bumble.

“At nine in the evening,” said the stranger, producing a scrap of paper, and writing down upon it, an obscure address by the water-side, in characters that betrayed his agitation; “at nine in the evening, bring her to me there. I needn’t tell you to be secret. It’s your interest.”

With these words, he led the way to the door, after stopping to pay for the liquor that had been drunk. Shortly remarking that their roads were different, he departed, without more ceremony than an emphatic repetition of the hour of appointment for the following night.

On glancing at the address, the parochial functionary observed that it contained no name. The stranger had not gone far, so he made after him to ask it.

“What do you want?” cried the man, turning quickly round, as Bumble touched him on the arm. “Following me?”

“Only to ask a question,” said the other, pointing to the scrap of paper. “What name am I to ask for?”

“Monks!” rejoined the man; and strode hastily away.

«Cosa intendete?» chiese lo sconosciuto con severità.

«Che morì lo scorso inverno», replicò il signor Bumble.

L’uomo lo guardò fissamente quando gli ebbe dato queste informazioni e, anche se non distolse gli occhi per qualche tempo dopo, il suo sguardo divenne gradualmente vuoto e distratto, e sembrava perso nei suoi pensieri. Per qualche tempo, apparve incerto se dovesse sentirsi sollevato o deluso dalle notizie; ma alla fine respirò più liberamente; e distogliendo gli occhi, osservò che non era una gran cosa. Con ciò si alzò, come se volesse andarsene.

Ma il signor Bumble era abbastanza astuto e subito vide che si presentava un’opportunità per disporre in modo lucrativo di qualche segreto in possesso della sua migliore metà. Ricordava benissimo la notte della morte della vecchia Sally, che gli eventi di quel giorno gli avevano dato buone ragioni per ricordare, come l’occasione in cui aveva fatto la proposta a Mrs. Corney; e sebbene quella signora non gli avesse mai confidato la rivelazione di cui era stata l’unica testimone, ne aveva sentito abbastanza da sapere che riguardava qualcosa che era accaduto durante il servizio della vecchia donna come infermiera del lavoro presso la giovane madre di Oliver Twist. Richiamando rapidamente alla mente questa circostanza, informò lo sconosciuto, con un’aria misteriosa, che una donna era stata chiusa a quattr’occhi con l’antica strega poco prima che morisse; e che lei poteva, come aveva motivo di credere, gettare qualche luce sull’oggetto della sua indagine.

«Come posso trovarla?» disse lo sconosciuto, smarrito e fuori di sé; e mostrò chiaramente che tutte le sue paure (qualunque esse fossero) erano state nuovamente desturate da quella notizia.

«Solo attraverso di me», ribatté il signor Bumble.

«Quando?» esclamò lo sconosciuto, in fretta.

«Domani», ribatté Bumble.

«Alle nove di sera», disse lo sconosciuto, tirando fuori un pezzetto di carta e scrivendovi sopra un indirizzo oscuro lungo il fiume, con caratteri che tradivano la sua agitazione; «alle nove di sera, portatemela lì. Non c’è bisogno che vi dica di mantenere il segreto. È nel vostro interesse».

Con queste parole, egli si diresse verso la porta dopo essersi fermato a pagare il liquore che era stato bevuto. Dopo aver brevemente osservato che le loro strade erano diverse, se ne andò senza ulteriori cerimonie oltre una ripetizione enfatica dell’ora del convegno per la sera successiva.

Dopo aver dato un’occhiata all’indirizzo, l’impiegato parrocchiale osservò che non conteneva alcun nome. Lo sconosciuto non si era allontanato molto, così lo inseguì per chiederglielo.

«Che cosa vuole?» gridò l’uomo, voltandosi rapidamente quando Bumble lo toccò sul braccio. «Mi sta seguendo?»

«Solo per fare una domanda», disse l’altro indicando il pezzetto di carta. «A quale nome devo chiedere?»

«Monaci!», replicò l’uomo e si allontanò in fretta.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN MR. AND MRS. BUMBLE, AND MR. MONKS, AT THEIR NOCTURNAL INTERVIEW

It was a dull, close, overcast summer evening. The clouds, which had been threatening all day, spread out in a dense and sluggish mass of vapour, already yielded large drops of rain, and seemed to presage a violent thunder-storm, when Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, turning out of the main street of the town, directed their course towards a scattered little colony of ruinous houses, distant from it some mile and a-half, or thereabouts, and erected on a low unwholesome swamp, bordering upon the river.

They were both wrapped in old and shabby outer garments, which might, perhaps, serve the double purpose of protecting their persons from the rain, and sheltering them from observation. The husband carried a lantern, from which, however, no light yet shone; and trudged on, a few paces in front, as though—the way being dirty—to give his wife the benefit of treading in his heavy footprints. They went on, in profound silence; every now and then, Mr. Bumble relaxed his pace, and turned his head as if to make sure that his helpmate was following; then, discovering that she was close at his heels, he mended his rate of walking, and proceeded, at a considerable increase of speed, towards their place of destination.

This was far from being a place of doubtful character; for it had long been known as the residence of none but low ruffians, who, under various pretences of living by their labour, subsisted chiefly on plunder and crime. It was a collection of mere hovels: some, hastily built with loose bricks: others, of old worm-eaten ship-timber: jumbled together without any attempt at order or arrangement, and planted, for the most part, within a few feet of the river’s bank. A few leaky boats drawn up on the mud, and made fast to the dwarf wall which skirted it: and here and there an oar or coil of rope: appeared, at first, to indicate that the inhabitants of these miserable cottages pursued some avocation on the river; but a glance at the shattered and useless condition of the articles thus displayed, would have led a passer-by, without much difficulty, to the conjecture that they were disposed there, rather for the preservation of appearances, than with any view to their being actually employed.

In the heart of this cluster of huts; and skirting the river, which its upper stories overhung; stood a large building, formerly used as a manufactory of some kind. It had, in its day, probably furnished employment to the inhabitants of the surrounding tenements. But it had long since gone to ruin. The rat, the worm, and the action of the damp, had weakened and rotted the piles on which it stood; and a considerable portion of the building had already sunk down into the water; while the remainder, tottering and bending over the dark stream, seemed to wait a favourable opportunity of following its old companion, and involving itself in the same fate.

It was before this ruinous building that the worthy couple paused, as the first peal of distant thunder reverberated in the air, and the rain commenced pouring violently down.

“The place should be somewhere here,” said Bumble, consulting a scrap of paper he held in his hand.

“Halloa there!” cried a voice from above.

Following the sound, Mr. Bumble raised his head and descried a man looking out of a door, breast-high, on the second story.

“Stand still, a minute,” cried the voice; “I’ll be with you directly.” With which the head disappeared, and the door closed.

“Is that the man?” asked Mr. Bumble’s good lady.

Mr. Bumble nodded in the affirmative.

“Then, mind what I told you,” said the matron: “and be careful to say as little as you can, or you’ll betray us at once.”

Mr. Bumble, who had eyed the building with very rueful looks, was apparently about to express some doubts relative to the advisability of proceeding any further with the enterprise just then, when he was prevented by the appearance of Monks: who opened a small door, near which they stood, and beckoned them inwards.

“Come in!” he cried impatiently, stamping his foot upon the ground. “Don’t keep me here!”

The woman, who had hesitated at first, walked boldly in, without any other invitation. Mr. Bumble, who was ashamed or afraid to lag behind, followed: obviously very ill at ease and with scarcely any of that remarkable dignity which was usually his chief characteristic.

“What the devil made you stand lingering there, in the wet?” said Monks, turning round, and addressing Bumble, after he had bolted the door behind them.

“We—we were only cooling ourselves,” stammered Bumble, looking apprehensively about him.

“Cooling yourselves!” retorted Monks. “Not all the rain that ever fell, or ever will fall, will put as much of hell’s fire out, as a man can carry about with him. You won’t cool yourself so easily; don’t think it!”

With this agreeable speech, Monks turned short upon the matron, and bent his gaze upon her, till even she, who was not easily cowed, was fain to withdraw her eyes, and turn them towards the ground.

“This is the woman, is it?” demanded Monks.

“Hem! That is the woman,” replied Mr. Bumble, mindful of his wife’s caution.

“You think women never can keep secrets, I suppose?” said the matron, interposing, and returning, as she spoke, the searching look of Monks.

“I know they will always keep one till it’s found out,” said Monks.

“And what may that be?” asked the matron.

“The loss of their own good name,” replied Monks. “So, by the same rule, if a woman’s a party to a secret that might hang or transport her, I’m not afraid of her telling it to anybody; not I! Do you understand, mistress?”

“No,” rejoined the matron, slightly colouring as she spoke.

“Of course you don’t!” said Monks. “How should you?”

CAPITOLO XXXVIII. CHE CONTIENE LA RELAZIONE DI CIÒ CHE ABBIA DETTO E FATTO IL SIGNOR E LA SIGNORA BUMBLE, CON IL SIGNOR MONKS, DURANTE IL LORO INCONTRO NOTTURNO

Era una serata d’estate opaca, afosa e nuvolosa. Le nubi, che avevano minacciato tutto il giorno, si estesero in un denso e lento ammasso di vapore, già rilasciavano grosse gocce di pioggia e sembravano preannunciare una violenta tempesta con tuoni, quando il signor e la signora Bumble, svoltando dalla strada principale della città, si diressero verso un piccolo insediamento disperso di case in rovina, distanti da essa circa un miglio e mezzo o giù di lì, ed erette su una palude bassa e malsana che confinava con il fiume.

Entrambi erano avvolti in indumenti esterni vecchi e malandati che forse potevano servire al doppio scopo di proteggere le loro persone dalla pioggia e nasconderli dalle osservazioni. Il marito portava una lanterna, da cui però non filtrava ancora alcuna luce; procedeva a fatica qualche passo davanti, come se — il terreno essendo fangoso — volesse dare alla moglie la possibilità di calpestare le sue pesanti orme. Andarono avanti in profondo silenzio; ogni tanto, il signor Bumble rallentava il passo e girava la testa come per assicurarsi che la sua compagna lo seguisse; poi, accorgendosi che lei gli era vicina, accelerava l’andatura e proseguiva a un notevole aumento di velocità verso la loro destinazione.

Questo era ben lungi dall’essere un luogo di dubbia reputazione; poiché da tempo era noto come residenza esclusiva di rozzi teppisti che, sotto varie scuse di vivere del loro lavoro, si sostentavano principalmente con il saccheggio e il crimine. Era un insieme di semplici baracche: alcune costruite frettolosamente con mattoni sciolti; altre in vecchio legname di nave attaccato dai tarli: ammassate senza alcun tentativo di ordine o disposizione, e piantate, per la maggior parte, a pochi metri dalla riva del fiume. Alcune barche con perdite tirate sulla fanghiglia e assicurate al muro nano che la costeggiava: e di tanto in tanto un remo o una bobina di corda: sembravano, a prima vista, indicare che gli abitanti di queste misere casupole esercitassero qualche attività sul fiume; ma uno sguardo allo stato sfasciato e inutile degli articoli così esposti avrebbe portato un passante, senza molta difficoltà, a concludere che erano disposti lì piuttosto per mantenere le apparenze, che con la prospettiva di essere effettivamente utilizzati.

Nel cuore di questo agglomerato di capanne; e lungo il fiume, che le sue parti superiori sovrastavano; sorgeva un grande edificio, precedentemente utilizzato come una fabbrica di qualche tipo. Aveva, nel suo tempo, probabilmente fornito lavoro agli abitanti dei palazzi circostanti. Ma era ormai da tempo in rovina. Il ratto, il verme e l’azione dell’umidità avevano indebolito e fatto marcire i piloni su cui poggiava; e una parte considerevole dell’edificio era già affondata nell’acqua; mentre la restante parte, vacillando e inclinandosi sul corso d’acqua scuro, sembrava attendere un’occasione favorevole per seguire il vecchio compagno e condividere lo stesso destino.

Fu davanti a questo edificio rovinoso che la degna coppia si fermò, mentre il primo rimbombo di tuono lontano risuonava nell’aria e la pioggia cominciò a scrosciare violentemente giù.

«Il posto dovrebbe essere da queste parti», disse Bumble consultando un pezzetto di carta che teneva in mano.

«Ehi là!» gridò una voce dall’alto.

Seguendo il rumore, il signor Bumble alzò la testa e scorse un uomo che guardava fuori da una porta all’altezza del petto, al secondo piano.

«Fermatevi un attimo», gridò la voce «e sarò con voi tra poco». Con ciò la testa scomparve e la porta si chiuse.

«È quest’uomo?» chiese la buona signora di Mr. Bumble.

Il signor Bumble annuì affermativamente.

«Poi, ricordati di quello che ti ho detto», disse la matrona «e fai attenzione a dire il meno possibile, altrimenti ci tradirai subito.»

Il signor Bumble, che aveva osservato l’edificio con sguardi molto malinconici, appariva sul punto di esprimere qualche dubbio riguardo alla convenienza di proseguire oltre con l’impresa proprio in quel momento, quando fu trattenuto dall’apparizione di Monks: che aprì una piccola porta, vicino a cui si trovavano, e li invitò ad entrare.

“Entra!” gridò impaziente, battendo il piede per terra. “Non farmi aspettare qui!”

La donna, che all’inizio aveva esitato, entrò con audacia senza ulteriore invito. Il signor Bumble, che si vergognava o temeva di rimanere indietro, la seguì: chiaramente molto a disagio e con appena un po’ di quella notevole dignità che era solitamente la sua caratteristica principale.

«Che diavolo ti ha fatto rimanere lì a indugiare nella pioggia?» disse Monks, voltandosi e rivolgendosi a Bumble dopo aver chiuso la porta alle loro spalle.

«Noi—noi ci stavamo solo rinfrescando», balbettò Bumble guardandosi intorno con apprensione.

«Rinfrescarvi!» ribatté Monks. «Tutta la pioggia che è mai caduta, o che cadrà, non spegnerà mai tanto del fuoco dell’inferno quanto un uomo può portare con sé. Non vi rinfrescherete così facilmente; non pensateci nemmeno!»

Con questo discorso amabile, Monks si voltò bruscamente verso la matrona e fissò lo sguardo su di lei finché anche lei, che non era facilmente intimidita, fu costretta a distogliere gli occhi e rivolgerli al pavimento.

“Questa è la donna, vero?”, chiese Monks.

«Ehm! È quella la donna», rispose il signor Bumble, ricordando le raccomandazioni della moglie.

“Suppongo che pensiate che le donne non siano mai capaci di custodire i segreti?”, disse la matrona, interponendosi e restituendo, mentre parlava, lo sguardo scrutatore di Monks.

«So che ne terranno sempre uno finché non verrà scoperto», disse Monks.

«E che cosa potrebbe essere?» chiese la direttrice.

«La perdita della propria reputazione», rispose Monks. «Quindi, secondo lo stesso principio, se una donna è coinvolta in un segreto che potrebbe portarla al patibolo o alla deportazione, non ho paura che lo riveli a qualcuno; no di certo! Mi hai capito, signora?»

«No», replicò la matrona, arrossendo leggermente mentre parlava.

«Naturalmente non lo sai!» disse Monks. «Come potresti?»

Bestowing something half-way between a smile and a frown upon his two companions, and again beckoning them to follow him, the man hastened across the apartment, which was of considerable extent, but low in the roof. He was preparing to ascend a steep staircase, or rather ladder, leading to another floor of warehouses above: when a bright flash of lightning streamed down the aperture, and a peal of thunder followed, which shook the crazy building to its centre.

“Hear it!” he cried, shrinking back. “Hear it! Rolling and crashing on as if it echoed through a thousand caverns where the devils were hiding from it. I hate the sound!”

He remained silent for a few moments; and then, removing his hands suddenly from his face, showed, to the unspeakable discomposure of Mr. Bumble, that it was much distorted and discoloured.

“These fits come over me, now and then,” said Monks, observing his alarm; “and thunder sometimes brings them on. Don’t mind me now; it’s all over for this once.”

Thus speaking, he led the way up the ladder; and hastily closing the window-shutter of the room into which it led, lowered a lantern which hung at the end of a rope and pulley passed through one of the heavy beams in the ceiling: and which cast a dim light upon an old table and three chairs that were placed beneath it.

“Now,” said Monks, when they had all three seated themselves, “the sooner we come to our business, the better for all. The woman know what it is, does she?”

The question was addressed to Bumble; but his wife anticipated the reply, by intimating that she was perfectly acquainted with it.

“He is right in saying that you were with this hag the night she died; and that she told you something—”

“About the mother of the boy you named,” replied the matron interrupting him. “Yes.”

“The first question is, of what nature was her communication?” said Monks.

“That’s the second,” observed the woman with much deliberation. “The first is, what may the communication be worth?”

“Who the devil can tell that, without knowing of what kind it is?” asked Monks.

“Nobody better than you, I am persuaded,” answered Mrs. Bumble: who did not want for spirit, as her yoke-fellow could abundantly testify.

“Humph!” said Monks significantly, and with a look of eager inquiry; “there may be money’s worth to get, eh?”

“Perhaps there may,” was the composed reply.

“Something that was taken from her,” said Monks. “Something that she wore. Something that—”

“You had better bid,” interrupted Mrs. Bumble. “I have heard enough, already, to assure me that you are the man I ought to talk to.”

Mr. Bumble, who had not yet been admitted by his better half into any greater share of the secret than he had originally possessed, listened to this dialogue with outstretched neck and distended eyes: which he directed towards his wife and Monks, by turns, in undisguised astonishment; increased, if possible, when the latter sternly demanded, what sum was required for the disclosure.

“What’s it worth to you?” asked the woman, as collectedly as before.

“It may be nothing; it may be twenty pounds,” replied Monks. “Speak out, and let me know which.”

“Add five pounds to the sum you have named; give me five-and-twenty pounds in gold,” said the woman; “and I’ll tell you all I know. Not before.”

“Five-and-twenty pounds!” exclaimed Monks, drawing back.

“I spoke as plainly as I could,” replied Mrs. Bumble. “It’s not a large sum, either.”

“Not a large sum for a paltry secret, that may be nothing when it’s told!” cried Monks impatiently; “and which has been lying dead for twelve years past or more!”

“Such matters keep well, and, like good wine, often double their value in course of time,” answered the matron, still preserving the resolute indifference she had assumed. “As to lying dead, there are those who will lie dead for twelve thousand years to come, or twelve million, for anything you or I know, who will tell strange tales at last!”

“What if I pay it for nothing?” asked Monks, hesitating.

“You can easily take it away again,” replied the matron. “I am but a woman; alone here; and unprotected.”

“Not alone, my dear, nor unprotected, neither,” submitted Mr. Bumble, in a voice tremulous with fear: “I am here, my dear. And besides,” said Mr. Bumble, his teeth chattering as he spoke, “Mr. Monks is too much of a gentleman to attempt any violence on porochial persons. Mr. Monks is aware that I am not a young man, my dear, and also that I am a little run to seed, as I may say; but he has heerd: I say I have no doubt Mr. Monks has heerd, my dear: that I am a very determined officer, with very uncommon strength, if I’m once roused. I only want a little rousing; that’s all.”

As Mr. Bumble spoke, he made a melancholy feint of grasping his lantern with fierce determination; and plainly showed, by the alarmed expression of every feature, that he did want a little rousing, and not a little, prior to making any very warlike demonstration: unless, indeed, against paupers, or other person or persons trained down for the purpose.

“You are a fool,” said Mrs. Bumble, in reply; “and had better hold your tongue.”

“He had better have cut it out, before he came, if he can’t speak in a lower tone,” said Monks, grimly. “So! He’s your husband, eh?”

“He my husband!” tittered the matron, parrying the question.

“I thought as much, when you came in,” rejoined Monks, marking the angry glance which the lady darted at her spouse as she spoke. “So much the better; I have less hesitation in dealing with two people, when I find that there’s only one will between them. I’m in earnest. See here!”

He thrust his hand into a side-pocket; and producing a canvas bag, told out twenty-five sovereigns on the table, and pushed them over to the woman.

“Now,” he said, “gather them up; and when this cursed peal of thunder, which I feel is coming up to break over the house-top, is gone, let’s hear your story.”

Concedendo ai suoi due compagni qualcosa di mezzo tra un sorriso e una smorfia, e facendogli cenno ancora una volta di seguirlo, l’uomo si affrettò attraverso la stanza, che era di notevoli dimensioni ma con il soffitto basso. Si stava preparando a salire su una ripida scala, o meglio una scala a pioli, che portava a un altro piano di magazzini sopra: quando un lampo accecante di fulmine illuminò l’apertura e seguì un tuono, che scosse l’edificio malandato fino al centro.

«Sentitelo!» gridò ritraendosi. «Sentitelo! Rullare e frastornare come se riecheggiasse attraverso mille caverne dove i diavoli si nascondono da esso. Odio quel suono!»

Rimase in silenzio per qualche istante e poi, togliendo improvvisamente le mani dal viso, mostrò, con grande sgomento del signor Bumble, che era molto distorto e livido.

“Questi attacchi mi prendono di tanto in tanto”, disse Monks, osservando il suo allarme, “e a volte li scatena il tuono. Non badate a me ora; è tutto finito per questa volta”.

Così parlando, egli prese la testa della scala; e chiudendo rapidamente lo scuro della finestra nella stanza cui essa conduceva, abbassò una lanterna che pendeva da una corda e un argano passati attraverso uno dei massicci travetti del soffitto: e che gettava una luce fioca su un vecchio tavolo e tre sedie collocate sotto di essi.

«Ora», disse Monks quando tutti e tre si furono seduti, «più presto ci mettiamo al lavoro, meglio è per tutti. La donna sa di che cosa si tratta, vero?»

La domanda era rivolta a Bumble, ma sua moglie anticipò la risposta facendo capire che ne era perfettamente al corrente.

«Ha ragione nel dire che eri con questa strega la notte in cui morì; e che ti disse qualcosa, »

“Riguardo alla madre del ragazzo che hai nominato,” rispose la matrona, interrompendolo. “Sì.”

“La prima domanda è: qual era la natura della sua comunicazione?”, disse Monks.

«Questo è il secondo», osservò la donna con molta ponderazione. «Il primo è: quanto può valere la comunicazione?»

«Chi diavolo può dirlo senza sapere di che genere è?» chiese Monks.

«Nessuno meglio di voi, ne sono convinta», rispose la signora Bumble, che non mancava certo di spirito, come poteva abbondantemente testimoniare il suo compagno di giogo.

«Humph!» disse Monks in modo significativo e con uno sguardo di ansiosa curiosità; «potrebbe esserci qualcosa da guadagnare, eh?»

«Forse ci sarà», fu la risposta calma.

«Qualcosa che le è stato tolto», disse Monks. «Qualcosa che indossava. Qualcosa che, »

«Farebbe meglio a offrire», interruppe la signora Bumble. «Ho già sentito abbastanza per assicurarmi che lei è l’uomo con cui dovrei parlare».

Il signor Bumble, che non era ancora stato ammesso dalla sua migliore metà a una quota maggiore del segreto di quella che aveva originariamente posseduto, ascoltò questo dialogo con il collo proteso in avanti e gli occhi spalancati: li dirigeva verso la moglie e Monks, a turno, con un stupore non dissimulato; aumentato, se possibile, quando quest’ultimo chiese severamente quale somma fosse richiesta per la rivelazione.

«Che valore ha per voi?» chiese la donna con lo stesso sangue freddo di prima.

«Può non essere nulla; può essere venti sterline», rispose Monks. «Parli chiaro e faccia sapere quale delle due.»

«Aggiungete cinque sterline alla somma che avete nominato; datemi venticinque sterline in oro», disse la donna, «e vi dirò tutto ciò che so. Non prima».

«Cinquecento sterline!» esclamò Monks, indietreggiando.

“Non ho potuto essere più chiara”, rispose la signora Bumble. “Inoltre non è una somma elevata.”

«Non è una grossa somma per un misero segreto che potrebbe non essere nulla quando verrà rivelato!» gridò Monks con impazienza; «e che giace morto da dodici anni o più!»

«Queste cose si conservano bene, e, come un buon vino, spesso raddoppiano il loro valore col passare del tempo», rispose la matrona, mantenendo ancora l’indifferenza risoluta che aveva assunto. «Per quanto riguarda giacere morti, ci sono quelli che rimarranno morti per dodicimila anni a venire, o dodici milioni, per quello che ne sappiamo tu e io, ma alla fine racconteranno strane storie!»

“E se lo pago per niente?”, chiese Monks, esitando.

«Potete facilmente riprenderlo», rispose la matrona, «sono solo una donna, qui sola e senza protezione».

«Non sei sola, mia cara, né senza protezione», disse il signor Bumble, con voce tremante di paura: «Io sono qui, mia cara. E poi», disse il signor Bumble, con i denti che gli battevano mentre parlava, «il signor Monks è troppo gentiluomo per tentare violenza su persone parrocchiali. Il signor Monks sa bene che non sono più un giovane, mia cara, e anche che ho un po’ di pancetta, come si dice; ma ha sentito: dico che non ho alcun dubbio che il signor Monks abbia sentito, mia cara: che sono un funzionario molto deciso, con una forza fuori dal comune, se mi si provoca. Mi basta solo essere provocato; ecco tutto».

Mentre il signor Bumble parlava, fece un gesto malinconico di afferrare la sua lanterna con feroce determinazione; e mostrò chiaramente, dall’espressione allarmata di ogni tratto del viso, che voleva essere un po’ stimolato, e non poco, prima di fare qualsiasi dimostrazione molto bellicosa: a meno che, naturalmente, non fosse contro i poveri o altre persone addestrate allo scopo.

«Sei un sciocco», rispose la signora Bumble, «e faresti meglio a tenere la lingua a freno».

“Avrebbe fatto meglio a tagliarsela prima di venire, se non può parlare con un tono più basso”, disse Monks in modo cupo. “Ecco! È suo marito, vero?”

«Lui mio marito!» ridacchiò la matrona, schivando la domanda.

“L’avevo pensato quando siete entrati”, replicò Monks, notando lo sguardo furioso che la signora lanciava al marito mentre parlava. “Tanto meglio; ho meno esitazioni nel trattare con due persone, quando scopro che tra loro c’è una sola volontà. Sono serio. Guardate qui!”

Infilò la mano in una tasca laterale e tirando fuori un sacchetto di tela vi rovesciò sopra venticinque sovrani che spinse verso la donna.

«Ora», disse, «raccoglieteli; e quando questo maledetto tuono che sento avvicinarsi per abbattersi sul tetto della casa sarà passato, ascolteremo la tua storia.»

The thunder, which seemed in fact much nearer, and to shiver and break almost over their heads, having subsided, Monks, raising his face from the table, bent forward to listen to what the woman should say. The faces of the three nearly touched, as the two men leant over the small table in their eagerness to hear, and the woman also leant forward to render her whisper audible. The sickly rays of the suspended lantern falling directly upon them, aggravated the paleness and anxiety of their countenances: which, encircled by the deepest gloom and darkness, looked ghastly in the extreme.

“When this woman, that we called old Sally, died,” the matron began, “she and I were alone.”

“Was there no one by?” asked Monks, in the same hollow whisper; “No sick wretch or idiot in some other bed? No one who could hear, and might, by possibility, understand?”

“Not a soul,” replied the woman; “we were alone. I stood alone beside the body when death came over it.”

“Good,” said Monks, regarding her attentively. “Go on.”

“She spoke of a young creature,” resumed the matron, “who had brought a child into the world some years before; not merely in the same room, but in the same bed, in which she then lay dying.”

“Ay?” said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing over his shoulder, “Blood! How things come about!”

“The child was the one you named to him last night,” said the matron, nodding carelessly towards her husband; “the mother this nurse had robbed.”

“In life?” asked Monks.

“In death,” replied the woman, with something like a shudder. “She stole from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant’s sake.”

“She sold it,” cried Monks, with desperate eagerness; “did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?”

“As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this,” said the matron, “she fell back and died.”

“Without saying more?” cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very suppression, seemed only the more furious. “It’s a lie! I’ll not be played with. She said more. I’ll tear the life out of you both, but I’ll know what it was.”

“She didn’t utter another word,” said the woman, to all appearance unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man’s violence; “but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper.”

“Which contained—” interposed Monks, stretching forward.

“Nothing,” replied the woman; “it was a pawnbroker’s duplicate.”

“For what?” demanded Monks.

“In good time I’ll tell you.” said the woman. “I judge that she had kept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account; and then had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker’s interest year by year, and prevent its running out; so that if anything came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she died with the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in her hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too; and so redeemed the pledge.”

“Where is it now?” asked Monks quickly.

“There,” replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it, she hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands. It contained a little gold locket: in which were two locks of hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring.

“It has the word ‘Agnes’ engraved on the inside,” said the woman.

“There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which is within a year before the child was born. I found out that.”

“And this is all?” said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the contents of the little packet.

“All,” replied the woman.

Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back again; and now he took courage to wipe the perspiration which had been trickling over his nose, unchecked, during the whole of the previous dialogue.

“I know nothing of the story, beyond what I can guess at,” said his wife addressing Monks, after a short silence; “and I want to know nothing; for it’s safer not. But I may ask you two questions, may I?”

“You may ask,” said Monks, with some show of surprise; “but whether I answer or not is another question.”

“—Which makes three,” observed Mr. Bumble, essaying a stroke of facetiousness.

“Is that what you expected to get from me?” demanded the matron.

“It is,” replied Monks. “The other question?”

“What do you propose to do with it? Can it be used against me?”

“Never,” rejoined Monks; “nor against me either. See here! But don’t move a step forward, or your life is not worth a bulrush.”

With these words, he suddenly wheeled the table aside, and pulling an iron ring in the boarding, threw back a large trap-door which opened close at Mr. Bumble’s feet, and caused that gentleman to retire several paces backward, with great precipitation.

“Look down,” said Monks, lowering the lantern into the gulf. “Don’t fear me. I could have let you down, quietly enough, when you were seated over it, if that had been my game.”

Thus encouraged, the matron drew near to the brink; and even Mr. Bumble himself, impelled by curiousity, ventured to do the same. The turbid water, swollen by the heavy rain, was rushing rapidly on below; and all other sounds were lost in the noise of its plashing and eddying against the green and slimy piles. There had once been a water-mill beneath; the tide foaming and chafing round the few rotten stakes, and fragments of machinery that yet remained, seemed to dart onward, with a new impulse, when freed from the obstacles which had unavailingly attempted to stem its headlong course.

Il tuono, che sembrava infatti molto più vicino e squassarsi e spezzarsi quasi sopra le loro teste, essendosi placato, Monks, alzando il viso dal tavolo, si chinò in avanti per ascoltare ciò che la donna aveva da dire. I volti dei tre erano quasi a contatto, mentre i due uomini si sporgevano sul piccolo tavolo nel loro desiderio di sentire e anche la donna si inclinava in avanti per rendere udibile il suo sussurro. I raggi malaticci della lanterna appesa che cadevano direttamente su di loro, accentuavano la pallore e l’ansia dei loro volti: che, circondati dal più profondo buio, apparivano spettrali in modo estremo.

«Quando questa donna, che chiamavamo vecchia Sally, morì», cominciò la direttrice, «lei ed io eravamo sole».

«Non c’era nessuno nei paraggi?» chiese Monks, con lo stesso sussurro cavernoso; «Nessun povero malato o idiota in qualche altro letto? Nessuno che potesse sentire e, per quanto possibile, capire?»

«Non c’era una anima», rispose la donna; «eravamo sole. Io stavo sola accanto al corpo quando sopraggiunse la morte.»

“Bene”, disse Monks, osservandola con attenzione. “Continua.”

«Parlò di una giovane creatura», riprese la matrona, «che aveva portato un bambino nel mondo alcuni anni prima; non semplicemente nella stessa stanza, ma nello stesso letto in cui giaceva allora morente.»

«Eh?», disse Monks, con il labbro tremante e lanciando uno sguardo alle sue spalle, «Sangue! Come vanno le cose!»

«Il bambino era quello che gli hai nominato ieri sera», disse la matrona, facendo un cenno distratto verso suo marito; «la madre di cui questa balia si era impossessata».

“Nella vita?” chiese Monks.

«Nella morte», rispose la donna con qualcosa di simile a un brivido. «Lei rubò al cadavere, quando non era ancora diventato tale, ciò che la madre defunta le aveva pregato, col suo ultimo respiro, di conservare per amore del bambino».

«La vendette», gridò Monks con disperata impazienza, «la vendette? Dove? Quando? A chi? Quanto tempo prima?»

«Mentre mi diceva con grande difficoltà che aveva fatto questo», disse la matrona, «cadde all’indietro e morì.»

«Senza dire altro?» gridò Monks, con una voce che, proprio per il suo contenimento, sembrava ancora più furiosa. «È una bugia! Non mi si prenderà in giro. Lei ha detto di più. Vi strapperò la vita a entrambi, ma saprò cosa è stato.»

«Non ha pronunciato un’altra parola», disse la donna, apparentemente impassibile (mentre il signor Bumble era ben lontano dall’esserlo) di fronte alla violenza dell’uomo strano; «ma mi afferrò con forza la veste con una mano, che era in parte chiusa; e quando vidi che era morta e quindi le tolsi la mano con la forza, scoprii che stringeva un pezzo di carta sporca.»

«Che conteneva —» si intromise Monks, protendendosi in avanti.

“Niente,” rispose la donna; “era un duplicato di pegno.”

«Per cosa?» chiese Monks.

«Ve lo dirò a suo tempo.» disse la donna. «Penso che lei avesse tenuto il gioiellino per un po’ di tempo, nella speranza di venderlo a un prezzo migliore; poi lo aveva impegnato e aveva risparmiato o racimolato denaro per pagare gli interessi del pegno anno dopo anno, evitando che scadesse; così se fosse successo qualcosa, avrebbe potuto essere riscattato. Non era successo nulla ed è morta con quel pezzetto di carta tutta consumata e strappata in mano. Il tempo stava per scadere tra due giorni; pensavo che un giorno o l’altro sarebbe potuto succedere qualcosa, così ho riscattato il pegno.»

«Dov’è ora?» chiese in fretta Monks.

«Ecco fatto», rispose la donna. E come se fosse contenta di liberarsene, gettò rapidamente sul tavolo una piccola borsa di pelle di capra appena abbastanza grande per un orologio francese, che Monks afferrò e aprì con mani tremanti. Conteneva un piccolo ciondolo d’oro: all’interno del quale si trovavano due ciocche di capelli e una semplice fede nuziale d’oro.

«Ha la parola “Agnes” incisa all’interno», disse la donna.

«C’è uno spazio vuoto per il cognome, e poi segue la data, che è di un anno prima che il bambino nascesse. L’ho scoperto io».

“E questo è tutto?” disse Monks, dopo un’attenta ed ansiosa esplorazione del contenuto del piccolo pacchetto.

«Tutto», rispose la donna.

Il signor Bumble tirò un lungo respiro, come se fosse contento di scoprire che la storia era finita e non si parlava più di riprendersi i venticinque sterline; ora prese coraggio per asciugare il sudore che gli colava dal naso inarrestato durante tutto il dialogo precedente.

“Non so nulla della storia, oltre a quello che posso immaginare”, disse sua moglie rivolgendosi a Monks, dopo un breve silenzio; “e non voglio saperne niente; perché è più sicuro così. Ma posso farti due domande, vero?”

«Potete chiedere», disse Monks, con un certo tono di sorpresa, «ma se io risponda o no è tutta un’altra questione.»

«—Il che fa tre», osservò il signor Bumble, tentando una battuta di spirito.

«È questo ciò che ti aspettavi di ottenere da me?» chiese la matrona.

«È così», rispose Monks. «E l’altra domanda?»

“Cosa intendete farne? Può essere usato contro di me?”

«Mai», ribatté Monks; «né contro di me. Guardate qui! Ma non fate un passo avanti, o la vostra vita non varrà più di una canna».

Con queste parole, egli improvvisamente spostò il tavolo di lato e tirando un anello di ferro nella tavola, aprì una grande botola che si trovava proprio ai piedi del signor Bumble, facendo arretrare quel gentiluomo di diversi passi all’indietro con grande precipitazione.

«Guarda giù», disse Monks, abbassando la lanterna nel baratro. «Non avermi paura. Avrei potuto lasciarti cadere abbastanza silenziosamente mentre eri seduto sopra di esso, se fosse stato il mio intento».

Incoraggiata così, la matrona si avvicinò al bordo; e persino il signor Bumble, spinto dalla curiosità, osò fare lo stesso. L’acqua torbida acqua, gonfia per la forte pioggia, scorreva rapidamente sotto di loro; e tutti gli altri suoni si perdevano nel rumore del suo schianto e vorticare contro i pali verdi e viscidi. Un tempo c’era stata una mulino ad acqua sottostante; la marea, che schiumava e si agitava intorno alle poche pali marce e ai frammenti di macchinari rimasti, sembrava scattare in avanti con un nuovo impulso quando era liberata dagli ostacoli che avevano invano tentato di arginare la sua corsa sfrenata.

“If you flung a man’s body down there, where would it be tomorrow morning?” said Monks, swinging the lantern to and fro in the dark well.

“Twelve miles down the river, and cut to pieces besides,” replied Bumble, recoiling at the thought.

Monks drew the little packet from his breast, where he had hurriedly thrust it; and tying it to a leaden weight, which had formed a part of some pulley, and was lying on the floor, dropped it into the stream. It fell straight, and true as a die; clove the water with a scarcely audible splash; and was gone.

The three looking into each other’s faces, seemed to breathe more freely.

“There!” said Monks, closing the trap-door, which fell heavily back into its former position. “If the sea ever gives up its dead, as books say it will, it will keep its gold and silver to itself, and that trash among it. We have nothing more to say, and may break up our pleasant party.”

“By all means,” observed Mr. Bumble, with great alacrity.

“You’ll keep a quiet tongue in your head, will you?” said Monks, with a threatening look. “I am not afraid of your wife.”

“You may depend upon me, young man,” answered Mr. Bumble, bowing himself gradually towards the ladder, with excessive politeness. “On everybody’s account, young man; on my own, you know, Mr. Monks.”

“I am glad, for your sake, to hear it,” remarked Monks. “Light your lantern! And get away from here as fast as you can.”

It was fortunate that the conversation terminated at this point, or Mr. Bumble, who had bowed himself to within six inches of the ladder, would infallibly have pitched headlong into the room below. He lighted his lantern from that which Monks had detached from the rope, and now carried in his hand; and making no effort to prolong the discourse, descended in silence, followed by his wife. Monks brought up the rear, after pausing on the steps to satisfy himself that there were no other sounds to be heard than the beating of the rain without, and the rushing of the water.

They traversed the lower room, slowly, and with caution; for Monks started at every shadow; and Mr. Bumble, holding his lantern a foot above the ground, walked not only with remarkable care, but with a marvellously light step for a gentleman of his figure: looking nervously about him for hidden trap-doors. The gate at which they had entered, was softly unfastened and opened by Monks; merely exchanging a nod with their mysterious acquaintance, the married couple emerged into the wet and darkness outside.

They were no sooner gone, than Monks, who appeared to entertain an invincible repugnance to being left alone, called to a boy who had been hidden somewhere below. Bidding him go first, and bear the light, he returned to the chamber he had just quitted.

“Se gettassi il corpo di un uomo laggiù, dove sarebbe domattina?” disse Monks, facendo oscillare la lanterna avanti e indietro nel buio del pozzo.

«A dodici miglia lungo il fiume e ridotto a pezzi per giunta», rispose Bumble, ritraendosi al pensiero.

Monaci estrasse il piccolo pacchetto dal petto, dove lo aveva affrettatamente infilato; e legandolo a un peso di piombo, che era stato parte di una carrucola ed era rimasto sul pavimento, lo gettò nel torrente. Cadde dritto come un dado; fendette l’acqua con uno schizzo appena percettibile; e scomparve.

I tre si guardarono in faccia e sembrarono respirare più liberamente.

«Ecco fatto!» disse Monks, chiudendo la botola che ricadde pesantemente nella sua posizione originale. «Se il mare un giorno restituirà i suoi morti, come dicono i libri, terrà per sé l’oro e l’argento e quella spazzatura insieme a loro. Non abbiamo più nulla da dire e possiamo sciogliere la nostra piacevole compagnia.»

«Certamente», osservò il signor Bumble con grande prontezza.

“Ti terrai la lingua a posto, vero?” disse Monks, con uno sguardo minaccioso. “Non ho paura di tua moglie.”

«Può contare su di me, giovane uomo», rispose il signor Bumble, inchinandosi lentamente verso la scala con eccessiva cortesia. «Per tutti gli interessati, giovane uomo; per quanto mi riguarda, sa, signor Monks.»

“Ne sono lieto per il tuo bene”, osservò Monks. “Accendi la lanterna e vattene da qui più in fretta che puoi”.

Fu fortunato che la conversazione si concludesse a quel punto, o il signor Bumble, che si era inchinato fino a sei pollici dalla scala, sarebbe inevitabilmente caduto rovinosamente nella stanza sottostante. Accese la sua lanterna da quella che Monks aveva staccato dalla corda e ora portava in mano; e senza fare alcuno sforzo per prolungare il discorso, scese in silenzio, seguito dalla moglie. Monks chiuse la fila, dopo essersi fermato sui gradini per assicurarsi che non ci fossero altri suoni da sentire se non il battito della pioggia all’esterno e l’impeto dell’acqua.

Attraversarono la stanza inferiore lentamente e con cautela; perché Monks sobbalzava ad ogni ombra; e il signor Bumble, tenendo la lanterna a un piede da terra, camminava non solo con notevole attenzione ma anche con passo straordinariamente leggero per un gentiluomo della sua corporatura: guardandosi nervosamente intorno in cerca di trappole nascoste. Il cancello da cui erano entrati fu aperto e sbarrato dolcemente da Monks; scambiando semplicemente un cenno con il loro misterioso conoscente, la coppia sposata uscì nella pioggia e nell’oscurità esterne.

Non erano ancora scomparsi che Monks, il quale sembrava provare un’invincibile repugnanza a rimanere solo, chiamò un ragazzo che era stato nascosto da qualche parte al piano inferiore. Dandogli l’ordine di andare per primo e portare la luce, tornò nella stanza che aveva appena lasciato.

CHAPTER XXXIX. INTRODUCES SOME RESPECTABLE CHARACTERS WITH WHOM THE READER IS ALREADY ACQUAINTED, AND SHOWS HOW MONKS AND THE JEW LAID THEIR WORTHY HEADS TOGETHER

On the evening following that upon which the three worthies mentioned in the last chapter, disposed of their little matter of business as therein narrated, Mr. William Sikes, awakening from a nap, drowsily growled forth an inquiry what time of night it was.

The room in which Mr. Sikes propounded this question, was not one of those he had tenanted, previous to the Chertsey expedition, although it was in the same quarter of the town, and was situated at no great distance from his former lodgings. It was not, in appearance, so desirable a habitation as his old quarters: being a mean and badly-furnished apartment, of very limited size; lighted only by one small window in the shelving roof, and abutting on a close and dirty lane. Nor were there wanting other indications of the good gentleman’s having gone down in the world of late: for a great scarcity of furniture, and total absence of comfort, together with the disappearance of all such small moveables as spare clothes and linen, bespoke a state of extreme poverty; while the meagre and attenuated condition of Mr. Sikes himself would have fully confirmed these symptoms, if they had stood in any need of corroboration.

The housebreaker was lying on the bed, wrapped in his white great-coat, by way of dressing-gown, and displaying a set of features in no degree improved by the cadaverous hue of illness, and the addition of a soiled nightcap, and a stiff, black beard of a week’s growth. The dog sat at the bedside: now eyeing his master with a wistful look, and now pricking his ears, and uttering a low growl as some noise in the street, or in the lower part of the house, attracted his attention. Seated by the window, busily engaged in patching an old waistcoat which formed a portion of the robber’s ordinary dress, was a female: so pale and reduced with watching and privation, that there would have been considerable difficulty in recognising her as the same Nancy who has already figured in this tale, but for the voice in which she replied to Mr. Sikes’s question.

“Not long gone seven,” said the girl. “How do you feel tonight, Bill?”

“As weak as water,” replied Mr. Sikes, with an imprecation on his eyes and limbs. “Here; lend us a hand, and let me get off this thundering bed anyhow.”

Illness had not improved Mr. Sikes’s temper; for, as the girl raised him up and led him to a chair, he muttered various curses on her awkwardness, and struck her.

“Whining are you?” said Sikes. “Come! Don’t stand snivelling there. If you can’t do anything better than that, cut off altogether. D’ye hear me?”

“I hear you,” replied the girl, turning her face aside, and forcing a laugh. “What fancy have you got in your head now?”

“Oh! you’ve thought better of it, have you?” growled Sikes, marking the tear which trembled in her eye. “All the better for you, you have.”

“Why, you don’t mean to say, you’d be hard upon me tonight, Bill,” said the girl, laying her hand upon his shoulder.

“No!” cried Mr. Sikes. “Why not?”

“Such a number of nights,” said the girl, with a touch of woman’s tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to her voice: “such a number of nights as I’ve been patient with you, nursing and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the first that I’ve seen you like yourself; you wouldn’t have served me as you did just now, if you’d thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn’t.”

“Well, then,” rejoined Mr. Sikes, “I wouldn’t. Why, damme, now, the girls’s whining again!”

“It’s nothing,” said the girl, throwing herself into a chair. “Don’t you seem to mind me. It’ll soon be over.”

“What’ll be over?” demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. “What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don’t come over me with your woman’s nonsense.”

At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very well, what to do, in this uncommon emergency; for Miss Nancy’s hysterics were usually of that violent kind which the patient fights and struggles out of, without much assistance; Mr. Sikes tried a little blasphemy: and finding that mode of treatment wholly ineffectual, called for assistance.

“What’s the matter here, my dear?” said Fagin, looking in.

“Lend a hand to the girl, can’t you?” replied Sikes impatiently. “Don’t stand chattering and grinning at me!”

With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl’s assistance, while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who had followed his venerable friend into the room, hastily deposited on the floor a bundle with which he was laden; and snatching a bottle from the grasp of Master Charles Bates who came close at his heels, uncorked it in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured a portion of its contents down the patient’s throat: previously taking a taste, himself, to prevent mistakes.

“Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley,” said Mr. Dawkins; “and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts.”

These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially that department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in producing the desired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses; and, staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow: leaving Mr. Sikes to confront the new comers, in some astonishment at their unlooked-for appearance.

CAPITOLO XXXIX. PRESENTA ALCUNI RISPETTABILI PERSONAGGI CHE IL LETTORE CONOSCE GIA’, E MOSTRA COME MONACI E L’EBREO MISERO INSIEME LE LORO ONOREVOLI TESTE

La sera successiva a quella in cui i tre personaggi di cui si è parlato nel capitolo precedente avevano risolto la loro piccola questione, come raccontato lì, il signor William Sikes, svegliandosi da un pisolino, brontolò con voce assonnata chiedendo che ora della notte fosse.

La stanza in cui il signor Sikes propose questa domanda non era una di quelle che aveva occupato prima della spedizione a Chertsey, sebbene si trovasse nello stesso quartiere della città e fosse situata a poca distanza dai suoi precedenti alloggi. Non sembrava, in apparenza, un’abitazione così desiderabile come i suoi vecchi locali: era un appartamento modesto e mal arredato, di dimensioni molto limitate; illuminato solo da una piccola finestra nel tetto inclinato, e che dava su un vicolo stretto e sporco. Non mancavano inoltre altri segni del fatto che il buon gentiluomo fosse recentemente decaduto: per la grande scarsità di mobili e l’assoluta mancanza di comfort, insieme alla scomparsa di tutti quei piccoli oggetti trasportabili come vestiti e biancheria di ricambio, che indicavano uno stato di estrema povertà; mentre lo stato magro ed emaciato del signor Sikes stesso avrebbe pienamente confermato questi sintomi, se fossero stati necessari ulteriori approfondimenti.

Il ladro era sdraiato sul letto, avvolto nel suo grande cappotto bianco, in veste di vestaglia, e mostrava un insieme di tratti che non erano affatto migliorati dal pallore cadaverico della malattia e dall’aggiunta di una cuffia da notte sporca e di una barba nera e rigida cresciuta in una settimana. Il cane era seduto accanto al letto: ora fissava il suo padrone con uno sguardo desideroso, ora drizzava le orecchie ed emetteva un ringhio sommesso quando qualche rumore per la strada, o nella parte inferiore della casa, attirava la sua attenzione. Seduta alla finestra, intenta a rammendare una vecchia giacca che faceva parte dell’abbigliamento ordinario del ladro, c’era una donna: così pallida e dimagrita per le veglie e la privazione, che sarebbe stato difficile riconoscerla come la stessa Nancy già apparsa in questa storia, se non fosse stato per la voce con cui rispose alla domanda di Mr. Sikes.

“Non è ancora le sette”, disse la ragazza. “Come ti senti stasera, Bill?”

“Debole come acqua”, rispose il signor Sikes con un’imprecazione negli occhi e nelle membra. “Ecco; dammi una mano, e fammi alzare da questo maledetto letto in qualche modo.”

La malattia non aveva migliorato l’umore di Sikes; e mentre la ragazza lo sollevava e lo conduceva verso una sedia, lui borbottò varie imprecazioni contro la sua goffaggine e le assestò un colpo.

«Stai piagnucolando?» disse Sikes. «Su, non startene lì a frignare. Se non riesci a fare di meglio che questo, taglia del tutto la corda. Mi hai sentito?»

«Vi sento», rispose la ragazza, voltando il viso dall’altra parte e forzando una risata. «Che idea vi è venuta in mente adesso?»

«Oh! ci hai ripensato, eh?» ringhiò Sikes notando la lacrima che le brillava nell’occhio. «Tanto meglio per te».

«Ma non vorrete dire che sareste duro con me stasera, Bill», disse la ragazza posandogli una mano sulla spalla.

“No!” esclamò il signor Sikes. “Perché no?”

«Un tale numero di notti», disse la ragazza con un tocco di tenerezza femminile che conferiva una dolcezza di tono persino alla sua voce: «un tale numero di notti in cui sono stata paziente con te, prendendomi cura di te e assistendoti come se fossi stato un bambino: e questa è la prima volta che ti vedo tornare a essere te stesso; non mi avresti trattato così, poco fa, se ci avessi pensato, vero? Dai, ammettilo; di’ che non l’avresti fatto.»

«Bene, allora», riprese il signor Sikes, «non lo farei. Perbacco, ora le ragazze stanno piangucchiando di nuovo!»

«Non è nulla», disse la ragazza, gettandosi su una sedia. «Non fate caso a me. Presto sarà finita».

«Che cosa sarà finita?» chiese il signor Sikes con voce selvaggia. «A che gioco stai giocando ora di nuovo? Alzati e muoviti, e non venire a raccontarmi le tue sciocchezze da donna».

In qualsiasi altro momento, questa protesta e il tono in cui era stata espressa avrebbero sortito l’effetto desiderato; ma la ragazza, essendo veramente debole ed esausta, lasciò cadere la testa sullo schienale della sedia e svenne prima che Sikes potesse far fuori alcune delle appropriate imprecazioni con cui era solito arricchire le sue minacce in occasioni simili. Non sapendo bene cosa fare, di fronte a questa insolita emergenza - perché gli attacchi isterici della signorina Nancy erano solitamente di quel tipo violento che il paziente combatte e supera senza molto aiuto - Sikes provò un po’ di bestemmie; e trovando questo metodo del tutto inefficace, chiese aiuto.

“Che succede qui, mia cara?”, disse Fagin guardando dentro.

«Date una mano alla ragazza, non potete?» rispose Sikes con impazienza. «Non state lì a chiacchierare e a ghignare!»

Con un’esclamazione di sorpresa, Fagin si affrettò ad aiutare la ragazza, mentre il signor John Dawkins (noto anche come l’Artful Dodger), che aveva seguito il suo venerabile amico nella stanza, depose in fretta sul pavimento un pacco che portava con sé; e strappando una bottiglia dalle mani del giovane Charles Bates che gli stava alle calcagna, la decantucciò in un attimo con i denti e versò parte del suo contenuto giù per la gola della paziente: dopo averne assaggiato lui stesso un po’, per evitare errori.

«Datele una boccata d’aria fresca con il mantice, Charley», disse il signor Dawkins; «e tu le dai uno schiaffo sulle mani, Fagin, mentre Bill scioglie i pettini.»

Questi rimedi uniti, somministrati con grande energia, specialmente quello affidato al piccolo Bates, che sembrava considerare la sua parte nella procedura come una straordinaria burla, non tardarono a produrre l’effetto desiderato. La ragazza riprese gradualmente i sensi e, barcollando fino a una sedia accanto al letto, si nascose il viso sul cuscino: lasciando così Mr. Sikes ad affrontare i nuovi arrivati, piuttosto stupito dalla loro inaspettata comparsa.

“Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?” he asked Fagin.

“No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and I’ve brought something good with me, that you’ll be glad to see. Dodger, my dear, open the bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that we spent all our money on, this morning.”

In compliance with Mr. Fagin’s request, the Artful untied this bundle, which was of large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed the articles it contained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed them on the table, with various encomiums on their rarity and excellence.

“Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill,” exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to view a huge pasty; “sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs, Bill, that the wery bones melt in your mouth, and there’s no occasion to pick ’em; half a pound of seven and six-penny green, so precious strong that if you mix it with biling water, it’ll go nigh to blow the lid of the tea-pot off; a pound and a half of moist sugar that the niggers didn’t work at all at, afore they got it up to sitch a pitch of goodness,—oh no! Two half-quartern brans; pound of best fresh; piece of double Glo’ster; and, to wind up all, some of the richest sort you ever lushed!”

Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his extensive pockets, a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while Mr. Dawkins, at the same instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw spirits from the bottle he carried: which the invalid tossed down his throat without a moment’s hesitation.

“Ah!” said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. “You’ll do, Bill; you’ll do now.”

“Do!” exclaimed Mr. Sikes; “I might have been done for, twenty times over, afore you’d have done anything to help me. What do you mean by leaving a man in this state, three weeks and more, you false-hearted wagabond?”

“Only hear him, boys!” said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. “And us come to bring him all these beau-ti-ful things.”

“The things is well enough in their way,” observed Mr. Sikes: a little soothed as he glanced over the table; “but what have you got to say for yourself, why you should leave me here, down in the mouth, health, blunt, and everything else; and take no more notice of me, all this mortal time, than if I was that ’ere dog.—Drive him down, Charley!”

“I never see such a jolly dog as that,” cried Master Bates, doing as he was desired. “Smelling the grub like a old lady a going to market! He’d make his fortun’ on the stage that dog would, and rewive the drayma besides.”

“Hold your din,” cried Sikes, as the dog retreated under the bed: still growling angrily. “What have you got to say for yourself, you withered old fence, eh?”

“I was away from London, a week and more, my dear, on a plant,” replied the Jew.

“And what about the other fortnight?” demanded Sikes. “What about the other fortnight that you’ve left me lying here, like a sick rat in his hole?”

“I couldn’t help it, Bill. I can’t go into a long explanation before company; but I couldn’t help it, upon my honour.”

“Upon your what?” growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. “Here! Cut me off a piece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my mouth, or it’ll choke me dead.”

“Don’t be out of temper, my dear,” urged Fagin, submissively. “I have never forgot you, Bill; never once.”

“No! I’ll pound it that you han’t,” replied Sikes, with a bitter grin. “You’ve been scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid shivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do that; and Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn’t been for the girl, I might have died.”

“There now, Bill,” remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. “If it hadn’t been for the girl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the means of your having such a handy girl about you?”

“He says true enough there!” said Nancy, coming hastily forward. “Let him be; let him be.”

Nancy’s appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys, receiving a sly wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor: of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better temper, by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, by laughing very heartily at one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make.

“It’s all very well,” said Mr. Sikes; “but I must have some blunt from you tonight.”

“I haven’t a piece of coin about me,” replied the Jew.

“Then you’ve got lots at home,” retorted Sikes; “and I must have some from there.”

“Lots!” cried Fagin, holding up his hands. “I haven’t so much as would—”

“I don’t know how much you’ve got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it,” said Sikes; “but I must have some tonight; and that’s flat.”

“Well, well,” said Fagin, with a sigh, “I’ll send the Artful round presently.”

“You won’t do nothing of the kind,” rejoined Mr. Sikes. “The Artful’s a deal too artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get dodged by traps and so be perwented, or anything for an excuse, if you put him up to it. Nancy shall go to the ken and fetch it, to make all sure; and I’ll lie down and have a snooze while she’s gone.”

After a great deal of haggling and squabbling, Fagin beat down the amount of the required advance from five pounds to three pounds four and sixpence: protesting with many solemn asseverations that that would only leave him eighteen-pence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes sullenly remarking that if he couldn’t get any more he must accompany him home; with the Dodger and Master Bates put the eatables in the cupboard. The Jew then, taking leave of his affectionate friend, returned homeward, attended by Nancy and the boys: Mr. Sikes, meanwhile, flinging himself on the bed, and composing himself to sleep away the time until the young lady’s return.

«Ebbene, quale malvagio vento ti ha spinto qui?» chiese a Fagin.

“Nessun vento cattivo, mia cara, perché i venti cattivi non portano bene a nessuno; e io ho portato qualcosa di buono che vi farà piacere vedere. Dodger, mio caro, apri il pacco e dai a Bill quei piccoli doni per cui abbiamo speso tutti i nostri soldi questa mattina.”

In conformità alla richiesta del signor Fagin, il Furbo sciolse questo pacco, che era di grandi dimensioni e formato con una vecchia tovaglia; e consegnò gli articoli che conteneva, uno dopo l’altro, a Charley Bates: che li mise sul tavolo, con vari elogi sulla loro rarità ed eccellenza.

«Una torta di coniglio così, Bill», esclamò quel giovane gentiluomo, mostrando una enorme pietanza; «creature così delicate, con membra così tenere, Bill, che le ossa stesse si sciolgono in bocca e non c’è bisogno di scegliere; mezzo chilo di tè da sette e sei penny, tanto forte che se lo mescoli con acqua bollente, rischia quasi di far saltare il coperchio della teiera; un chilo e mezzo di zucchero semolato che i negri non hanno lavorato affatto prima di portarlo a tale livello di perfezione, — oh no! Due pani di grano saraceno da mezzo quarto; un chilo del migliore fresco; un pezzo di formaggio doppio Glo’ster; e, per chiudere tutto, una delle varietà più ricche che tu abbia mai assaporato!»

Pronunciando questo ultimo panegirico, il signorino Bates estrasse da una delle sue ampie tasche una bottiglia di vino piena fino all’orlo e accuratamente tappata; mentre nello stesso istante il signor Dawkins versava un bicchiere di liquore crudo dalla bottiglia che portava con sé: che l’infermo ingurgitò senza esitazione.

“Ah!” disse Fagin, strofinandosi le mani con grande soddisfazione. “Va bene così, Bill; ora va bene.”

«Fallo!» esclamò Sikes; «avrei potuto essere spacciato venti volte, prima che tu facessi qualcosa per aiutarmi. Che cosa intendi lasciare un uomo in questo stato, tre settimane e più, tu falso vagabondo?»

«Sentitelo solo, ragazzi!» disse Fagin, stringendosi nelle spalle. «E noi veniamo a portargli tutte queste cose bellissime».

«La cosa è abbastanza bene a modo suo», osservò il signor Sikes: un po’ placato mentre dava una scorsa al tavolo; «ma che cosa hai da dire in tua difesa per avermi lasciato qui, giù di corda, sano, schietto e tutto il resto; e non prenderti più cura di me, in tutto questo tempo mortale, come se fossi quel cane lì.—Scaccialo via, Charley!»

«Non ho mai visto un cane così allegro come quello», esclamò il giovane Bates, facendo ciò che gli era stato chiesto. «Annusa la roba da mangiare come una vecchietta che va al mercato! Quel cane farebbe fortuna sul palcoscenico e in più rianimerebbe il dramma».

«Tieni a freno il tuo chiasso», gridò Sikes mentre il cane si ritirava sotto il letto, continuando a ringhiare furiosamente. «Cosa hai da dire in tua difesa, vecchio ricettatore rinsecchito? Eh?»

“Ero lontano da Londra per più di una settimana, mia cara, in un allevamento”, rispose il vecchio ebreo.

«E che ne è stato dell’altra quindicina?» chiese Sikes. «Che ne è stato dell’altra quindicina durante la quale mi hai lasciato qui sdraiato come un topo malato nella sua tana?»

“Non potevo farne a meno, Bill. Non posso addentrarmi in una lunga spiegazione davanti agli ospiti; ma non potevo farne a meno, sulla mia parola.”

«Su cosa?» ringhiò Sikes con disgusto eccessivo. «Ecco! Tagliatemi un pezzo di quella torta, uno di voi ragazzi, per togliermi il sapore dalla bocca, altrimenti mi soffocherà fino a farmi morire.»

«Non essere di cattivo umore, mio caro», implorò Fagin, con sottomissione. «Non ti ho mai dimenticato, Bill; neanche una volta».

“No! Io ti dimostrerò che non l’hai fatto,” rispose Sikes con un ghigno amaro. “Hai architettato e tramato ogni ora in cui io sono rimasto qui a tremare e bruciare; e Bill doveva fare questo; e Bill doveva fare quello; e Bill avrebbe dovuto fare tutto, per niente, non appena fosse guarito: e sarebbe stato abbastanza povero da farsi usare. Se non ci fosse stata la ragazza, forse sarei morto.”

«Ecco, Bill», obiettò Fagin, cogliendo con entusiasmo l’occasione. «Se non fosse stato per la ragazza! Chi se non il povero vecchio Fagin ha fatto in modo che tu avessi una ragazza così pratica accanto a te?»

«Dice abbastanza vero!» disse Nancy avvicinandosi in fretta. «Lasciatelo stare, lasciatelo stare».

L’apparizione di Nancy diede una nuova svolta alla conversazione; i ragazzi, ricevuto un ammiccamento furtivo dal vecchio e cauto ebreo, cominciarono a porgere da bere a lei: di cui, tuttavia, ne prese molto poco; mentre Fagin, assumendo una insolita loquacità, gradualmente portò il signor Sikes in un umore migliore, fingendo di considerare le sue minacce come un po’ di piacevole scherzo; e, per giunta, ridendo molto cordialmente a uno o due scherzi rozzi che, dopo ripetute applicazioni alla bottiglia di liquore, si degnò di fare.

«È tutto molto bene», disse il signor Sikes, «ma stasera devo avere dei soldi da te».

«Non ho un pezzo di moneta con me», rispose l’ebreo.

«Allora avete un sacco di cose a casa», ribatté Sikes, «e io ne devo avere qualcuna da lì.»

«Molti!» gridò Fagin, alzando le mani. «Non ne ho nemmeno abbastanza da, »

«Non so quanto ne hai e presumo che non lo sappia nemmeno tu, dato che ci vorrebbe un bel po’ di tempo per contarli», disse Sikes; «ma stasera devo averne qualcuno; è così e basta.»

«Beh, beh», disse Fagin, con un sospiro, «manderò l’astuto intorno tra poco».

«Non farai niente del genere», ribatté il signor Sikes. «L’Artful è troppo furbo e dimenticherebbe di venire, o si perderebbe, o verrebbe preso in trappola e così sarebbe fermato, o inventerebbe qualsiasi scusa se glielo chiedessi. Nancy andrà al rifugio a prenderlo, per essere sicuri; e io mi sdraierò e farò un pisolino mentre lei è via».

Dopo un lungo mercanteggiare e litigare, Fagin ridusse l’importo dell’anticipo richiesto da cinque sterline a tre sterline quattro scellini e mezzo penny: protestando con molte solenni asserzioni che ciò gli avrebbe lasciato solo diciotto pence per mantenere la casa; il signor Sikes osservò cupamente che se non riusciva a ottenere di più, doveva accompagnarlo a casa; mentre il Dodger e Master Bates mettevano i generi alimentari nell’armadio. Poi l’Ebreo, salutando il suo affettuoso amico, tornò verso casa, accompagnato da Nancy e dai ragazzi: nel frattempo il signor Sikes si gettò sul letto e si dispose a dormire per passare il tempo fino al ritorno della giovane signora.

In due course, they arrived at Fagin’s abode, where they found Toby Crackit and Mr. Chitling intent upon their fifteenth game at cribbage, which it is scarcely necessary to say the latter gentleman lost, and with it, his fifteenth and last sixpence: much to the amusement of his young friends. Mr. Crackit, apparently somewhat ashamed at being found relaxing himself with a gentleman so much his inferior in station and mental endowments, yawned, and inquiring after Sikes, took up his hat to go.

“Has nobody been, Toby?” asked Fagin.

“Not a living leg,” answered Mr. Crackit, pulling up his collar; “it’s been as dull as swipes. You ought to stand something handsome, Fagin, to recompense me for keeping house so long. Damme, I’m as flat as a juryman; and should have gone to sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I hadn’t had the good natur’ to amuse this youngster. Horrid dull, I’m blessed if I an’t!”

With these and other ejaculations of the same kind, Mr. Toby Crackit swept up his winnings, and crammed them into his waistcoat pocket with a haughty air, as though such small pieces of silver were wholly beneath the consideration of a man of his figure; this done, he swaggered out of the room, with so much elegance and gentility, that Mr. Chitling, bestowing numerous admiring glances on his legs and boots till they were out of sight, assured the company that he considered his acquaintance cheap at fifteen sixpences an interview, and that he didn’t value his losses the snap of his little finger.

“Wot a rum chap you are, Tom!” said Master Bates, highly amused by this declaration.

“Not a bit of it,” replied Mr. Chitling. “Am I, Fagin?”

“A very clever fellow, my dear,” said Fagin, patting him on the shoulder, and winking to his other pupils.

“And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell; an’t he, Fagin?” asked Tom.

“No doubt at all of that, my dear.”

“And it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance; an’t it, Fagin?” pursued Tom.

“Very much so, indeed, my dear. They’re only jealous, Tom, because he won’t give it to them.”

“Ah!” cried Tom, triumphantly, “that’s where it is! He has cleaned me out. But I can go and earn some more, when I like; can’t I, Fagin?”

“To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up your loss at once, and don’t lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It’s time you were on the lay. Come! It’s near ten, and nothing done yet.”

In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their hats, and left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging, as they went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct, it is but justice to say, there was nothing very conspicuous or peculiar: inasmuch as there are a great number of spirited young bloods upon town, who pay a much higher price than Mr. Chitling for being seen in good society: and a great number of fine gentlemen (composing the good society aforesaid) who established their reputation upon very much the same footing as flash Toby Crackit.

“Now,” said Fagin, when they had left the room, “I’ll go and get you that cash, Nancy. This is only the key of a little cupboard where I keep a few odd things the boys get, my dear. I never lock up my money, for I’ve got none to lock up, my dear—ha! ha! ha!—none to lock up. It’s a poor trade, Nancy, and no thanks; but I’m fond of seeing the young people about me; and I bear it all, I bear it all. Hush!” he said, hastily concealing the key in his breast; “who’s that? Listen!”

The girl, who was sitting at the table with her arms folded, appeared in no way interested in the arrival: or to care whether the person, whoever he was, came or went: until the murmur of a man’s voice reached her ears. The instant she caught the sound, she tore off her bonnet and shawl, with the rapidity of lightning, and thrust them under the table. The Jew, turning round immediately afterwards, she muttered a complaint of the heat: in a tone of languor that contrasted, very remarkably, with the extreme haste and violence of this action: which, however, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towards her at the time.

“Bah!” he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption; “it’s the man I expected before; he’s coming downstairs. Not a word about the money while he’s here, Nance. He won’t stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear.”

Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the door, as a man’s step was heard upon the stairs without. He reached it, at the same moment as the visitor, who, coming hastily into the room, was close upon the girl before he observed her.

It was Monks.

“Only one of my young people,” said Fagin, observing that Monks drew back, on beholding a stranger. “Don’t move, Nancy.”

The girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks with an air of careless levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin, she stole another look; so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if there had been any bystander to observe the change, he could hardly have believed the two looks to have proceeded from the same person.

“Any news?” inquired Fagin.

“Great.”

“And—and—good?” asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to vex the other man by being too sanguine.

“Not bad, any way,” replied Monks with a smile. “I have been prompt enough this time. Let me have a word with you.”

The girl drew closer to the table, and made no offer to leave the room, although she could see that Monks was pointing to her. The Jew: perhaps fearing she might say something aloud about the money, if he endeavoured to get rid of her: pointed upward, and took Monks out of the room.

“Not that infernal hole we were in before,” she could hear the man say as they went upstairs. Fagin laughed; and making some reply which did not reach her, seemed, by the creaking of the boards, to lead his companion to the second story.

Alla fine arrivarono alla dimora di Fagin, dove trovarono Toby Crackit e il signor Chitling intenti nella loro quindicesima partita a cribbage, che quest’ultimo gentiluomo perse, come non c’è bisogno di dire, insieme al suo ultimo scellino: grande divertimento dei suoi giovani amici. Il signor Crackit, apparentemente un po’ imbarazzato per essere stato sorpreso a rilassarsi con un gentiluomo così inferiore a lui in posizione sociale e doti mentali, sbadigliò, chiese di Sikes e prese il cappello per andarsene.

«Nessuno è venuto, Toby?» chiese Fagin.

«Non una gamba viva», rispose il signor Crackit, tirandosi su il colletto; «è stato noioso come le sculacciate. Dovresti darmi qualcosa di bello, Fagin, per compensarmi di aver tenuto la casa così a lungo. Dannazione, sono più annoiato di un giurato; e sarei andato a dormire veloce come il Newgate, se non avessi avuto la buona natura di intrattenere questo giovane. Orribilmente noioso, per Dio se lo è!»

Con queste e altre esclamazioni dello stesso genere, il signor Toby Crackit raccolse i suoi guadagni e li infilò nella tasca del panciotto con aria altezzosa, come se tali piccoli pezzi d’argento fossero del tutto al di sotto della considerazione di un uomo della sua statura; fatto ciò, uscì dalla stanza con tanto di eleganza e gentilezza che il signor Chitling, rivolgendo numerosi sguardi ammirati alle sue gambe e ai suoi stivali fino a quando non furono più in vista, assicurò alla compagnia che considerava la sua conoscenza un affare a quindici scellini e sei pence per incontro, e che non dava alcun valore alle sue perdite neanche con lo schiocco del suo mignolo.

«Che tipo strano sei, Tom!» disse il giovane Bates, molto divertito da questa dichiarazione.

«Niente affatto», rispose il signor Chitling. «Non è così, Fagin?»

“Un ragazzo molto intelligente, mio caro”, disse Fagin, dandogli una pacca sulla spalla e strizzando l’occhio agli altri allievi.

“E il signor Crackit è un gran signore; non è vero, Fagin?” chiese Tom.

“Nessun dubbio al riguardo, mia cara.”

“E’ una cosa lodevole conoscerlo, non è vero, Fagin?”, continuò Tom.

«Proprio così, davvero, mia cara. Sono solo gelosi, Tom, perché lui non glielo vuole dare».

«Ah!» esclamò Tom trionfalmente «è qui che sta il problema! Mi ha spennato. Ma posso andare a guadagnarmi qualcos’altro quando voglio; non è così, Fagin?»

“Certo che puoi, e prima vai meglio è, Tom; quindi accetta subito la tua perdita e non sprecare altro tempo. Dodger! Charley! È ora di mettersi al lavoro. Su, sono quasi le dieci e ancora niente fatto.”

Obbedendo a questo cenno, i ragazzi, salutando Nancy con un cenno del capo, presero i loro cappelli e lasciarono la stanza; il Dodger e il suo amico vivace si divertivano, mentre uscivano, facendo molti scherzi a spese di Mr. Chitling; la cui condotta, è giusto dirlo, non aveva nulla di molto evidente o peculiare: in quanto ci sono un gran numero di giovani scapestrati in città che pagano un prezzo molto più alto di quello di Mr. Chitling per essere visti nella buona società; e un gran numero di signori (che compongono la suddetta buona società) che si sono fatti una reputazione su basi molto simili a quelle di Toby Crackit.

«Ora», disse Fagin, quando furono usciti dalla stanza, «vado a prenderti quei soldi, Nancy. Questa è solo la chiave di un piccolo armadio dove tengo alcune cose strane che i ragazzi trovano, mia cara. Non metto mai sotto chiave il mio denaro, perché non ne ho da mettere sotto chiave, mia cara—ha! ha! ha!—nessuno da mettere sotto chiave. È un commercio misero, Nancy, e nessun ringraziamento; ma mi piace vedere i giovani intorno a me; e sopporto tutto, sopporto tutto. Silenzio!», disse, nascondendo in fretta la chiave nel suo petto; «chi è? Ascolta!»

La ragazza, seduta al tavolo con le braccia incrociate, non sembrava affatto interessata all’arrivo: o alla presenza della persona, chiunque fosse, che veniva o andava: finché il mormorio di una voce maschile giunse alle sue orecchie. Nel momento in cui colse quel suono, si tolse cappello e scialle con la rapidità del fulmine e li infilò sotto il tavolo. Il vecchio ebreo, voltandosi subito dopo, lei mormorò un lamento per il caldo: in tono languido che contrastava notevolmente con l’estrema fretta e violenza di quell’azione: che tuttavia era passata inosservata al Fagin, che le dava le spalle nel momento.

«Bah!» sussurrò, come se fosse irritato dall’interruzione; «è l’uomo che aspettavo prima; sta scendendo le scale. Non una parola sul denaro mentre è qui, Nance. Non si fermerà a lungo. Meno di dieci minuti, mia cara».

Mettendo il suo magro dito indice sulle labbra, l’ebreo portò una candela alla porta, poiché si sentivano i passi di un uomo sulla scala fuori. La raggiunse nello stesso momento in cui arrivava il visitatore che, entrando frettolosamente nella stanza, era vicino alla ragazza prima ancora di notarla.

Era Monks.

«Solo uno dei miei giovani», disse Fagin, notando che Monks indietreggiava nel vedere un estraneo. «Non muoverti, Nancy.»

La ragazza si avvicinò al tavolo e lanciando un’occhiata a Monks con aria di leggerezza noncurante, distolse lo sguardo; ma quando lui si voltò verso Fagin, lei gli rubò un’altra occhiata; così acuta e scrutatrice, piena di proposito, che se ci fosse stato qualche testimone a osservare il cambiamento, difficilmente avrebbe potuto credere che le due occhiate provenissero dalla stessa persona.

«Qualche novità?» chiese Fagin.

“Grandioso.”

“E—e—bene?” chiese Fagin, esitando come se temesse di irritare l’altro uomo mostrandosi troppo ottimista.

«Non è male comunque», rispose Monks con un sorriso. «Questa volta sono stato abbastanza rapido. Lasciatemi dire una parola con voi».

La ragazza si avvicinò al tavolo e non fece alcun gesto per lasciare la stanza, anche se poteva vedere che Monks stava indicando lei. L’ebreo, forse temendo che potesse dire qualcosa ad alta voce riguardo ai soldi, se avesse cercato di liberarsi di lei, fece un cenno verso l’alto e portò Monks fuori dalla stanza.

«Non quella maledetta buca in cui eravamo prima», sentì dire l’uomo mentre salivano le scale. Fagin rise; e facendo una risposta che non raggiunse la ragazza, sembrò, dal cigolio delle assi, condurre il suo compagno al secondo piano.

Before the sound of their footsteps had ceased to echo through the house, the girl had slipped off her shoes; and drawing her gown loosely over her head, and muffling her arms in it, stood at the door, listening with breathless interest. The moment the noise ceased, she glided from the room; ascended the stairs with incredible softness and silence; and was lost in the gloom above.

The room remained deserted for a quarter of an hour or more; the girl glided back with the same unearthly tread; and, immediately afterwards, the two men were heard descending. Monks went at once into the street; and the Jew crawled upstairs again for the money. When he returned, the girl was adjusting her shawl and bonnet, as if preparing to be gone.

“Why, Nance!” exclaimed the Jew, starting back as he put down the candle, “how pale you are!”

“Pale!” echoed the girl, shading her eyes with her hands, as if to look steadily at him.

“Quite horrible. What have you been doing to yourself?”

“Nothing that I know of, except sitting in this close place for I don’t know how long and all,” replied the girl carelessly. “Come! Let me get back; that’s a dear.”

With a sigh for every piece of money, Fagin told the amount into her hand. They parted without more conversation, merely interchanging a “good-night.”

When the girl got into the open street, she sat down upon a doorstep; and seemed, for a few moments, wholly bewildered and unable to pursue her way. Suddenly she arose; and hurrying on, in a direction quite opposite to that in which Sikes was awaiting her return, quickened her pace, until it gradually resolved into a violent run. After completely exhausting herself, she stopped to take breath: and, as if suddenly recollecting herself, and deploring her inability to do something she was bent upon, wrung her hands, and burst into tears.

It might be that her tears relieved her, or that she felt the full hopelessness of her condition; but she turned back; and hurrying with nearly as great rapidity in the contrary direction; partly to recover lost time, and partly to keep pace with the violent current of her own thoughts: soon reached the dwelling where she had left the housebreaker.

If she betrayed any agitation, when she presented herself to Mr. Sikes, he did not observe it; for merely inquiring if she had brought the money, and receiving a reply in the affirmative, he uttered a growl of satisfaction, and replacing his head upon the pillow, resumed the slumbers which her arrival had interrupted.

It was fortunate for her that the possession of money occasioned him so much employment next day in the way of eating and drinking; and withal had so beneficial an effect in smoothing down the asperities of his temper; that he had neither time nor inclination to be very critical upon her behaviour and deportment. That she had all the abstracted and nervous manner of one who is on the eve of some bold and hazardous step, which it has required no common struggle to resolve upon, would have been obvious to the lynx-eyed Fagin, who would most probably have taken the alarm at once; but Mr. Sikes lacking the niceties of discrimination, and being troubled with no more subtle misgivings than those which resolve themselves into a dogged roughness of behaviour towards everybody; and being, furthermore, in an unusually amiable condition, as has been already observed; saw nothing unusual in her demeanor, and indeed, troubled himself so little about her, that, had her agitation been far more perceptible than it was, it would have been very unlikely to have awakened his suspicions.

As that day closed in, the girl’s excitement increased; and, when night came on, and she sat by, watching until the housebreaker should drink himself asleep, there was an unusual paleness in her cheek, and a fire in her eye, that even Sikes observed with astonishment.

Mr. Sikes being weak from the fever, was lying in bed, taking hot water with his gin to render it less inflammatory; and had pushed his glass towards Nancy to be replenished for the third or fourth time, when these symptoms first struck him.

“Why, burn my body!” said the man, raising himself on his hands as he stared the girl in the face. “You look like a corpse come to life again. What’s the matter?”

“Matter!” replied the girl. “Nothing. What do you look at me so hard for?”

“What foolery is this?” demanded Sikes, grasping her by the arm, and shaking her roughly. “What is it? What do you mean? What are you thinking of?”

“Of many things, Bill,” replied the girl, shivering, and as she did so, pressing her hands upon her eyes. “But, Lord! What odds in that?”

The tone of forced gaiety in which the last words were spoken, seemed to produce a deeper impression on Sikes than the wild and rigid look which had preceded them.

“I tell you wot it is,” said Sikes; “if you haven’t caught the fever, and got it comin’ on, now, there’s something more than usual in the wind, and something dangerous too. You’re not a-going to—. No, damme! you wouldn’t do that!”

“Do what?” asked the girl.

“There ain’t,” said Sikes, fixing his eyes upon her, and muttering the words to himself; “there ain’t a stauncher-hearted gal going, or I’d have cut her throat three months ago. She’s got the fever coming on; that’s it.”

Fortifying himself with this assurance, Sikes drained the glass to the bottom, and then, with many grumbling oaths, called for his physic. The girl jumped up, with great alacrity; poured it quickly out, but with her back towards him; and held the vessel to his lips, while he drank off the contents.

“Now,” said the robber, “come and sit aside of me, and put on your own face; or I’ll alter it so, that you won’t know it agin when you do want it.”

The girl obeyed. Sikes, locking her hand in his, fell back upon the pillow: turning his eyes upon her face. They closed; opened again; closed once more; again opened. He shifted his position restlessly; and, after dozing again, and again, for two or three minutes, and as often springing up with a look of terror, and gazing vacantly about him, was suddenly stricken, as it were, while in the very attitude of rising, into a deep and heavy sleep. The grasp of his hand relaxed; the upraised arm fell languidly by his side; and he lay like one in a profound trance.

Prima che il suono dei loro passi avesse smesso di riecheggiare attraverso la casa, la ragazza si era tolta le scarpe; e tirandosi l’abito sopra la testa, avvolgendovi dentro le braccia, rimase in piedi sulla porta ad ascoltare con un interesse senza respiro. Nel momento stesso in cui il rumore cessò, scivolò fuori dalla stanza; salì le scale con una morbidezza e silenzio incredibili; e si perse nell’oscurità sopra di lei.

La stanza rimase deserta per un quarto d’ora o più; la ragazza tornò indietro con lo stesso passo ultraterreno e subito dopo si sentirono i due uomini scendere. Monks andò subito in strada, mentre l’ebreo risalì di sopra a prendere il denaro. Quando tornò, la ragazza stava sistemando lo scialle e il cappello come se si preparasse ad andarsene.

«Ma, Nance!» esclamò l’ebreo, indietreggiando mentre posava la candela «come sei pallida!»

«Pallido!» fece eco la ragazza, schermandosi gli occhi con le mani come se volesse guardarlo attentamente.

“Assolutamente orribile. Cosa ti sei fatto?”

«Nulla che io sappia, tranne stare seduta in questo posto angusto per non so quanto tempo», rispose la ragazza con indifferenza. «Su, lasciami tornare indietro, tesoro».

Con un sospiro per ogni pezzo di moneta, Fagin contò la somma nella sua mano. Si separarono senza altre conversazioni, scambiandosi solo un “buona notte.”

Quando la ragazza si trovò in strada aperta, si sedette su uno scalino; e sembrò, per qualche istante, completamente disorientata e incapace di proseguire. All’improvviso si alzò; e affrettandosi in una direzione del tutto opposta a quella in cui Sikes attendeva il suo ritorno, accelerò l’andatura fino a trasformarla gradualmente in una corsa furiosa. Dopo essersi completamente esausta, si fermò per riprendere fiato: e, come se all’improvviso si fosse ricordata di qualcosa e deplorasse la sua incapacità di fare qualcosa che aveva in mente, strinse le mani a pugno e scoppiò in lacrime.

Forse le sue lacrime l’avevano sollevata, o forse aveva preso piena coscienza della disperazione in cui versava; ma tornò indietro e si affrettò con quasi la stessa rapidità nella direzione opposta; in parte per recuperare il tempo perso e in parte per tenere il passo con l’impetuoso flusso dei suoi pensieri: ben presto raggiunse la dimora dove aveva lasciato il ladro.

Se lei tradì qualche agitazione quando si presentò al signor Sikes, egli non se ne accorse; poiché limitandosi a chiedere se aveva portato i soldi e ricevendo una risposta affermativa, emise un grugnito di soddisfazione, e riposando la testa sul cuscino, riprese il sonno che il suo arrivo aveva interrotto.

Fu fortunata lei che il possesso di denaro gli procurò tanto da fare il giorno dopo in termini di mangiare e bere; e per giunta ebbe un effetto così benefico nel levigare le asperità del suo carattere, che non aveva né tempo né voglia di essere molto critico sul suo comportamento. Che lei avesse tutto il modo astratto e nervoso di chi è alla vigilia di qualche passo audace e rischioso, per decidere il quale era stato necessario uno sforzo non comune, sarebbe stato ovvio al Fagin dallo sguardo da lince, che molto probabilmente avrebbe dato subito l’allarme; ma Mr. Sikes mancava delle finezze di discriminazione e non era tormentato da dubbi più sottili di quelli che si risolvono in una ruvidità ostinata nel comportamento verso tutti; ed essendo, per giunta, in uno stato insolitamente amabile, come già osservato; non vide nulla di straordinario nel suo contegno e anzi, se ne preoccupò così poco che, anche se la sua agitazione fosse stata molto più evidente di quanto non fosse, sarebbe stato molto improbabile che destasse i suoi sospetti.

Quando quel giorno volgeva al termine, l’agitazione della ragazza aumentava; e quando la notte calò e lei si sedette accanto a lui in attesa che il ladro di case si ubriacasse fino ad addormentarsi, apparve un pallore insolito sulle sue guance e una fiamma negli occhi che persino Sikes osservò con stupore.

Il signor Sikes, essendo debole per la febbre, giaceva a letto, prendendo acqua calda con il suo gin per renderlo meno infiammatorio; e aveva spinto il bicchiere verso Nancy perché lo riempisse per la terza o quarta volta, quando questi sintomi lo colpirono per la prima volta.

«Perbacco!» esclamò l’uomo, sollevandosi sulle mani mentre fissava il volto della ragazza. «Hai l’aria di un cadavere tornato in vita. Che succede?»

“Che cosa?” rispose la ragazza. “Nulla. Perché mi guardi così intensamente?”

«Che follia è questa?» chiese Sikes afferrandola per il braccio e scrollandola con violenza. «Cosa succede? Cosa intendi dire? A cosa stai pensando?»

«Di molte cose, Bill», rispose la ragazza rabbrividendo e mentre lo faceva si premeva le mani sugli occhi. «Ma, Signore Iddio! Che importanza ha?»

Il tono di gaiezza forzata con cui erano state pronunciate le ultime parole sembrò produrre un’impressione più profonda su Sykes che non lo sguardo selvaggio e rigido che le aveva precedute.

«Le dico io qual è la situazione», disse Sikes; «se non ha preso la febbre, e non l’ha in arrivo adesso, allora c’è qualcosa di più del solito nel vento, e qualcosa di pericoloso anche. Non starà per—. No, dannazione! non farebbe mai una cosa del genere!»

«Fare cosa?» chiese la ragazza.

«Non c’è», disse Sikes fissandola e borbottando tra sé le parole; «non c’è una ragazza più fedele di lei, altrimenti l’avrei strozzata tre mesi fa. Sta venendole la febbre; ecco cos’è».

Fortificandosi con questa assicurazione, Sikes svuotò il bicchiere fino in fondo, e poi, tra molti brontolii e imprecazioni, chiese la sua medicina. La ragazza balzò su, con grande alacrità; lo versò rapidamente, ma tenendo le spalle rivolte verso di lui; e gli portò il contenitore alle labbra mentre beveva il contenuto.

«Ora», disse il bandito, «vieni a sederti accanto a me e assumi la tua espressione normale; altrimenti te la modifico in modo tale che non la riconoscerai più quando ne avrai bisogno.»

La ragazza obbedì. Sikes, serrando la sua mano nella propria, si abbandonò sul cuscino: fissando i suoi occhi sul suo viso. Li chiuse; li riaprì; li richiuse ancora una volta; e di nuovo li aprì. Cambiò posizione irrequietamente; e dopo essersi assopito più volte per due o tre minuti, e ogni volta balzando in piedi con un’espressione di terrore, guardandosi intorno senza meta, fu improvvisamente colpito, come se fosse stato proprio nel momento di alzarsi, da un profondo e pesante sonno. La presa della sua mano si allentò; il braccio sollevato cadde languidamente lungo i fianchi; e giacque come uno in un profondo trance.

“The laudanum has taken effect at last,” murmured the girl, as she rose from the bedside. “I may be too late, even now.”

She hastily dressed herself in her bonnet and shawl: looking fearfully round, from time to time, as if, despite the sleeping draught, she expected every moment to feel the pressure of Sikes’s heavy hand upon her shoulder; then, stooping softly over the bed, she kissed the robber’s lips; and then opening and closing the room-door with noiseless touch, hurried from the house.

A watchman was crying half-past nine, down a dark passage through which she had to pass, in gaining the main thoroughfare.

“Has it long gone the half-hour?” asked the girl.

“It’ll strike the hour in another quarter,” said the man: raising his lantern to her face.

“And I cannot get there in less than an hour or more,” muttered Nancy: brushing swiftly past him, and gliding rapidly down the street.

Many of the shops were already closing in the back lanes and avenues through which she tracked her way, in making from Spitalfields towards the West-End of London. The clock struck ten, increasing her impatience. She tore along the narrow pavement: elbowing the passengers from side to side; and darting almost under the horses’ heads, crossed crowded streets, where clusters of persons were eagerly watching their opportunity to do the like.

“The woman is mad!” said the people, turning to look after her as she rushed away.

When she reached the more wealthy quarter of the town, the streets were comparatively deserted; and here her headlong progress excited a still greater curiosity in the stragglers whom she hurried past. Some quickened their pace behind, as though to see whither she was hastening at such an unusual rate; and a few made head upon her, and looked back, surprised at her undiminished speed; but they fell off one by one; and when she neared her place of destination, she was alone.

It was a family hotel in a quiet but handsome street near Hyde Park. As the brilliant light of the lamp which burnt before its door, guided her to the spot, the clock struck eleven. She had loitered for a few paces as though irresolute, and making up her mind to advance; but the sound determined her, and she stepped into the hall. The porter’s seat was vacant. She looked round with an air of incertitude, and advanced towards the stairs.

“Now, young woman!” said a smartly-dressed female, looking out from a door behind her, “who do you want here?”

“A lady who is stopping in this house,” answered the girl.

“A lady!” was the reply, accompanied with a scornful look. “What lady?”

“Miss Maylie,” said Nancy.

The young woman, who had by this time, noted her appearance, replied only by a look of virtuous disdain; and summoned a man to answer her. To him, Nancy repeated her request.

“What name am I to say?” asked the waiter.

“It’s of no use saying any,” replied Nancy.

“Nor business?” said the man.

“No, nor that neither,” rejoined the girl. “I must see the lady.”

“Come!” said the man, pushing her towards the door. “None of this. Take yourself off.”

“I shall be carried out if I go!” said the girl violently; “and I can make that a job that two of you won’t like to do. Isn’t there anybody here,” she said, looking round, “that will see a simple message carried for a poor wretch like me?”

This appeal produced an effect on a good-tempered-faced man-cook, who with some of the other servants was looking on, and who stepped forward to interfere.

“Take it up for her, Joe; can’t you?” said this person.

“What’s the good?” replied the man. “You don’t suppose the young lady will see such as her; do you?”

This allusion to Nancy’s doubtful character, raised a vast quantity of chaste wrath in the bosoms of four housemaids, who remarked, with great fervour, that the creature was a disgrace to her sex; and strongly advocated her being thrown, ruthlessly, into the kennel.

“Do what you like with me,” said the girl, turning to the men again; “but do what I ask you first, and I ask you to give this message for God Almighty’s sake.”

The soft-hearted cook added his intercession, and the result was that the man who had first appeared undertook its delivery.

“What’s it to be?” said the man, with one foot on the stairs.

“That a young woman earnestly asks to speak to Miss Maylie alone,” said Nancy; “and that if the lady will only hear the first word she has to say, she will know whether to hear her business, or to have her turned out of doors as an impostor.”

“I say,” said the man, “you’re coming it strong!”

“You give the message,” said the girl firmly; “and let me hear the answer.”

The man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless, listening with quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn, of which the chaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they became still more so, when the man returned, and said the young woman was to walk upstairs.

“It’s no good being proper in this world,” said the first housemaid.

“Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire,” said the second.

The third contented herself with wondering “what ladies was made of”; and the fourth took the first in a quartette of “Shameful!” with which the Dianas concluded.

Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired.

“Finalmente il laudano ha fatto effetto”, mormorò la ragazza mentre si alzava dal capezzale del letto. “Forse anche adesso è troppo tardi”.

Si vestì in fretta con il cappello e lo scialle: guardandosi intorno con timore, di tanto in tanto, come se, nonostante la pozione per dormire, si aspettasse di sentire da un momento all’altro la pressione della pesante mano di Sikes sulla sua spalla; poi, chinandosi dolcemente sul letto, baciò le labbra del ladro; e quindi aprendo e chiudendo la porta della stanza con un tocco silenzioso, fuggì dalla casa.

Un guardiano stava annunciando le nove e mezza giù per un vicolo buio che lei doveva attraversare per raggiungere la strada principale.

«È passata da molto la mezz’ora?» chiese la ragazza.

«Suonerà l’ora tra un quarto d’ora», disse l’uomo, sollevando la lanterna verso il suo viso.

“E non posso arrivare lì in meno di un’ora o più”, borbottò Nancy, passandogli velocemente accanto e scivolando rapidamente lungo la strada.

Molti negozi erano già chiusi nei vicoli e nelle strade laterali in cui si faceva strada mentre andava da Spitalfields verso il West End di Londra. Il orologio batté le dieci, aumentando la sua impazienza. Si fece strada lungo il marciapiede stretto: spingendo i passanti da una parte e dall’altra; e sfrecciando quasi sotto le teste dei cavalli, attraversò strade affollate dove gruppi di persone stavano aspettando con impazienza l’occasione per fare lo stesso.

«Questa donna è pazza!», dissero le persone, voltandosi a guardarla mentre correva via.

Quando raggiunse il quartiere più ricco della città, le strade erano relativamente deserte e qui la sua corsa sfrenata suscitò ancora maggiore curiosità negli stragglatori che superava di corsa. Alcuni accelerarono il passo per vedere dove stesse andando con un ritmo così insolito; alcuni le si pararono davanti, e guardarono indietro, sorpresi dalla sua velocità inalterata; ma uno dopo l’altro li superò; e quando si avvicinò alla sua destinazione, era sola.

Era un albergo di famiglia in una strada tranquilla ma elegante vicino a Hyde Park. Mentre la luce brillante della lampada che ardeva davanti alla porta la guidava verso il luogo, suonarono le undici all’orologio. Aveva esitato per qualche passo come se fosse incerta e stesse decidendo di avanzare; ma quel suono l’aveva decisa e lei entrò nell’atrio. Il posto del portiere era vuoto. Guardandosi intorno con aria incerta, si avvicinò alle scale.

«Ora, giovane donna!» disse una signora elegante che la guardava da dietro una porta «a chi vuoi parlare qui?»

“Una signora che soggiorna in questa casa”, rispose la ragazza.

“Una signora!” fu la risposta, accompagnata da uno sguardo sprezzante. “Quale signora?”

«Signorina Maylie», disse Nancy.

La giovane donna, che nel frattempo aveva osservato il suo aspetto, rispose solo con uno sguardo di virtuoso disprezzo e chiamò un uomo per farle da portavoce. A lui Nancy ripeté la sua richiesta.

«Che nome devo dire?» chiese il cameriere.

«Non serve dire nulla», rispose Nancy.

«Nemmeno affari?» disse l’uomo.

“No, nemmeno quello,” ribatté la ragazza. “Devo vedere la signora.”

“Vieni!” disse l’uomo, spingendola verso la porta. “Niente di tutto questo. Vattene.”

«Mi porteranno fuori se vado!» disse la ragazza con violenza; «e posso rendere questo compito tale che due di voi non vorranno farlo. Non c’è nessuno qui,» disse guardandosi intorno, «che voglia farsi carico di un semplice messaggio per una povera disgraziata come me?»

Questo appello produsse un effetto su un cuoco dall’aspetto bonario, che insieme ad alcuni altri domestici stava osservando la scena e che si fece avanti per intervenire.

«Raccoglila per lei, Joe; non puoi?» disse questa persona.

«A che serve?» rispose l’uomo. «Non penserai mica che la giovane signora vorrà vedere qualcuno come lei, vero?»

Questa allusione al carattere dubbio di Nancy suscitò una grande quantità di indignazione casta nei petti di quattro cameriere, le quali osservarono con grande fervore che la creatura era un disonore per il suo sesso e si dichiararono fortemente a favore del fatto che venisse gettata senza pietà nel canile.

«Fate di me quello che volete», disse la ragazza rivolgendosi nuovamente agli uomini, «ma prima fate come vi chiedo io: ve ne prego per l’amor di Dio, portate questo messaggio.»

Il cuoco dal cuore tenero aggiunse la sua intercessione e il risultato fu che l’uomo che era apparso per primo si assunse la consegna.

«Cosa sarà?» disse l’uomo con un piede sulle scale.

«Che una giovane donna chieda seriamente di parlare con la signorina Maylie da sola», disse Nancy; «e che se la signora vorrà solo sentire la prima parola che ha da dire, saprà se ascoltare il suo racconto o farla cacciare fuori come un’impostora.»

“Ti dico,” disse l’uomo, “stai esagerando!”

“Trasmetti il messaggio,” disse la ragazza con fermezza, “e lascia che io senta la risposta.”

L’uomo corse al piano di sopra. Nancy rimase lì, pallida e quasi senza fiato, ascoltando con labbra tremanti le espressioni di disprezzo molto udibili, di cui le caste cameriere erano molto prolifiche; e di cui divennero ancora più prodighe quando l’uomo tornò e disse che la giovane donna doveva salire al piano di sopra.

«Non serve a nulla essere corretti in questo mondo», disse la prima cameriera.

«Il rame può fare meglio dell’oro quello che ha resistito al fuoco», disse il secondo.

La terza si accontentò di chiedersi “di che cosa fossero fatte le donne”; e la quarta prese parte al quartetto di esclamazioni “Svergognate!” con cui le Dianas conclusero.

Nonostante tutto ciò: perché aveva questioni più gravi da risolvere: Nancy seguì l’uomo, con le membra tremanti, fino a un piccolo anteriore, illuminato da una lampada appesa al soffitto. Qui la lasciò e si ritirò.

CHAPTER XL. A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER

The girl’s life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman’s original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview.

But struggling with these better feelings was pride,—the vice of the lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself,—even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child.

She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said:

“It’s a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you’d have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason either.”

“I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you,” replied Rose. “Do not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you inquired for.”

The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl completely by surprise, and she burst into tears.

“Oh, lady, lady!” she said, clasping her hands passionately before her face, “if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me,—there would—there would!”

“Sit down,” said Rose, earnestly. “If you are in poverty or affliction I shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can,—I shall indeed. Sit down.”

“Let me stand, lady,” said the girl, still weeping, “and do not speak to me so kindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is—is—that door shut?”

“Yes,” said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance in case she should require it. “Why?”

“Because,” said the girl, “I am about to put my life and the lives of others in your hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old Fagin’s on the night he went out from the house in Pentonville.”

“You!” said Rose Maylie.

“I, lady!” replied the girl. “I am the infamous creature you have heard of, that lives among the thieves, and that never from the first moment I can recollect my eyes and senses opening on London streets have known any better life, or kinder words than they have given me, so help me God! Do not mind shrinking openly from me, lady. I am younger than you would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement.”

“What dreadful things are these!” said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion.

“Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady,” cried the girl, “that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and—and—something worse than all—as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed.”

“I pity you!” said Rose, in a broken voice. “It wrings my heart to hear you!”

“Heaven bless you for your goodness!” rejoined the girl. “If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?”

“No,” said Rose.

“He knows you,” replied the girl; “and knew you were here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out.”

“I never heard the name,” said Rose.

“Then he goes by some other amongst us,” rejoined the girl, “which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I—suspecting this man—listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks—the man I asked you about, you know—”

“Yes,” said Rose, “I understand.”

“—That Monks,” pursued the girl, “had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn’t make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own.”

“For what purpose?” asked Rose.

“He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out,” said the girl; “and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night.”

“And what occurred then?”

“I’ll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these: ‘So the only proofs of the boy’s identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.’ They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had got the young devil’s money safely now, he’d rather have had it the other way; for, what a game it would have been to have brought down the boast of the father’s will, by driving him through every jail in town, and then hauling him up for some capital felony which Fagin could easily manage, after having made a good profit of him besides.”

CAPITOLO XL. UN INCONTRO STRANO, CHE È LA CONSEGUENZA DELL’ULTIMA STANZA

La vita della ragazza era stata sprecata per le strade e tra i posti più squallidi e malsani di Londra, ma in lei c’era ancora qualcosa dell’originaria natura femminile; quando udì un passo leggero avvicinarsi alla porta opposta a quella da cui era entrata, e pensò al grande contrasto che la piccola stanza avrebbe contenuto nel momento successivo, si sentì gravare dal senso della propria profonda vergogna e si ritrasse come se non potesse sopportare la presenza di colei con cui aveva cercato questo incontro.

Ma lottava con questi sentimenti migliori l’orgoglio,—il vizio delle creature più basse e degradate non meno che di quelle alte e auto-confidenti. La misera compagna di ladri e teppisti, la caduta emarginata dei bassifondi, l’associata degli scarti delle carceri e dei penitenziari, vivendo nell’ombra della forca stessa,—anche questa essere degradato si sentiva troppo orgoglioso per tradire un tenue barlume del sentimento femminile che lei considerava una debolezza, ma che solo la collegava a quell’umanità di cui la sua vita sprecata aveva cancellato così tante tracce quando era ancora una bambina.

Lei alzò gli occhi abbastanza per notare che la figura che si presentava era quella di una ragazza snella e bella; poi, abbassandoli a terra, scosse il capo con finta noncuranza mentre diceva:

«È difficile riuscire a vedervi, signora. Se mi fossi offeso e me ne fossi andato, come avrebbero fatto molti altri, un giorno ve ne sareste pentita, e non senza motivo».

«Mi dispiace molto se qualcuno si è comportato duramente con voi», rispose Rose. «Non pensateci più. Ditemi perché volevate vedermi. Sono io la persona che cercavate».

Il tono gentile di questa risposta, la voce dolce, i modi affabili, l’assenza di qualsiasi accento di alterigia o disappunto, presero completamente alla sprovvista la ragazza e lei scoppiò in singhiozzi.

«Oh, signora, signora!» disse lei, stringendosi le mani con passione davanti al viso «se ci fossero più persone come voi, ce ne sarebbero di meno come me, ce ne sarebbero, ce ne sarebbero!»

«Si sieda», disse Rosa, con fervore. «Se è in povertà o afflizione, sarò davvero felice di aiutarla se posso, — lo farò senz’altro. Si sieda».

«Lasciatemi in piedi, signora», disse la ragazza, ancora piangendo, «e non parlatemi così gentilmente finché non mi conoscerete meglio. Sta facendosi tardi. Quella porta è—è—chiusa?»

“Sì”, disse Rosa, arretrando di qualche passo, come se volesse essere più vicina all’aiuto nel caso ne avesse bisogno. “Perché?”

«Perché», disse la ragazza, «sto per mettere nelle tue mani la mia vita e quella degli altri. Sono io la ragazza che ha riportato il piccolo Oliver da vecchio Fagin nella notte in cui è uscito dalla casa di Pentonville».

“Lei!” disse Rose Maylie.

“Io, signora!” rispose la ragazza. “Sono quella creatura infame di cui avete sentito parlare, che vive tra i ladri e che fin dal primo momento in cui posso ricordare di aver aperto gli occhi e le mie facoltà sui marciapiedi di Londra non ha mai conosciuto una vita migliore, né parole più gentili di quelle che mi hanno rivolto loro, così mi aiuti Dio! Non vi preoccupate di ritrarvi apertamente da me, signora. Sono più giovane di quanto pensiate guardandomi, ma ci sono abituata. Anche le donne più povere si tirano indietro quando cerco di farmi strada lungo i marciapiedi affollati.”

“Che cose terribili sono queste!” disse Rose, cadendo involontariamente dalla sua strana compagna.

«Ringrazi il Cielo in ginocchio, cara signora», esclamò la ragazza, «di avere avuto amici che si sono presi cura di te e ti hanno protetto durante la tua infanzia, e di non essere mai stata nel mezzo del freddo e della fame, dei tumulti e dell’ubriachezza, e—e—qualcosa di peggio di tutto questo—come è stato per me fin dalla culla. Posso usare questa parola, perché il vicolo e la fogna sono stati i miei unici rifugi, come saranno anche il mio letto di morte».

“Mi dispiace per te!” disse Rose con voce rotta. “Mi stringe il cuore sentirti parlare così!”

“Il cielo vi benedica per la vostra bontà!” rispose la ragazza. “Se sapeste com’è che io sono talvolta, mi compiangete davvero. Ma sono scappata via da coloro che certamente mi ucciderebbero se sapessero ch’io son stata qui per dirvi quel che ho udito. Conoscete un uomo di nome Monks?”

“No”, disse Rose.

«Vi conosce», rispose la ragazza «e sapeva che eravate qui, perché è stato sentendolo descrivere il posto che ho potuto trovarvi.»

“Non ho mai sentito quel nome”, disse Rose.

«Allora passa da qualcun altro di noi», replicò la ragazza, «e lo pensavo già prima. Qualche tempo fa, poco dopo che Oliver fu portato nella vostra casa la notte del furto, io — sospettando di quest’uomo — ascoltai una conversazione tra lui e Fagin al buio. Da quello che sentii scoprii che Monks — l’uomo di cui vi ho chiesto notizie, sapete —»

«Sì», disse Rosa, «capisco».

«—Quel Monks,» continuò la ragazza, «l’aveva visto per caso con due dei nostri ragazzi il giorno in cui lo abbiamo perso per la prima volta e l’ha riconosciuto subito come lo stesso bambino che stava cercando, anche se non sono mai riuscita a capire perché. È stato stretto un accordo con Fagin, secondo cui se Oliver fosse stato riportato indietro avrebbe ricevuto una certa somma; e ne avrebbe ricevuta di più per averlo reso un ladro, cosa che a questo Monks interessava per qualche suo scopo personale.»

“A quale scopo?”, chiese Rose.

«Mi vide proiettare la mia ombra sulla parete mentre ascoltavo, nella speranza di scoprire qualcosa», disse la ragazza; «e non ci sono molte persone oltre me che avrebbero potuto allontanarsi in tempo per evitare di essere scoperte. Ma io ce l’ho fatta, e non lo vidi più fino alla scorsa notte.»

“E cosa accadde poi?”

“Glielo dico io, signora. Ieri sera è tornato. Di nuovo sono saliti di sopra e io, avvolgendomi in modo che la mia ombra non mi tradisse, ho ascoltato ancora una volta alla porta. Le prime parole che ho sentito dire a Monks erano queste: ‘Quindi le uniche prove dell’identità del ragazzo giacciono in fondo al fiume, e la vecchia strega che le ha ricevute dalla madre sta marcendo nella sua bara.’ Hanno riso, parlando del suo successo nell’aver fatto questo; e Monks, continuando a parlare del ragazzo ed eccitandosi sempre più, disse che anche se aveva ottenuto il denaro del giovane diavolo in modo sicuro ora, avrebbe preferito farlo diversamente; perché quale gioco sarebbe stato abbattere la pretesa della volontà del padre, spingendolo attraverso ogni carcere della città e poi trascinandolo su per qualche reato capitale che Fagin poteva facilmente organizzare, dopo aver fatto anche un buon profitto da lui.”

“What is all this!” said Rose.

“The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips,” replied the girl. “Then, he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that if he could gratify his hatred by taking the boy’s life without bringing his own neck in danger, he would; but, as he couldn’t, he’d be upon the watch to meet him at every turn in life; and if he took advantage of his birth and history, he might harm him yet. ‘In short, Fagin,’ he says, ‘Jew as you are, you never laid such snares as I’ll contrive for my young brother, Oliver.’”

“His brother!” exclaimed Rose.

“Those were his words,” said Nancy, glancing uneasily round, as she had scarcely ceased to do, since she began to speak, for a vision of Sikes haunted her perpetually. “And more. When he spoke of you and the other lady, and said it seemed contrived by Heaven, or the devil, against him, that Oliver should come into your hands, he laughed, and said there was some comfort in that too, for how many thousands and hundreds of thousands of pounds would you not give, if you had them, to know who your two-legged spaniel was.”

“You do not mean,” said Rose, turning very pale, “to tell me that this was said in earnest?”

“He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man ever did,” replied the girl, shaking her head. “He is an earnest man when his hatred is up. I know many who do worse things; but I’d rather listen to them all a dozen times, than to that Monks once. It is growing late, and I have to reach home without suspicion of having been on such an errand as this. I must get back quickly.”

“But what can I do?” said Rose. “To what use can I turn this communication without you? Back! Why do you wish to return to companions you paint in such terrible colors? If you repeat this information to a gentleman whom I can summon in an instant from the next room, you can be consigned to some place of safety without half an hour’s delay.”

“I wish to go back,” said the girl. “I must go back, because—how can I tell such things to an innocent lady like you?—because among the men I have told you of, there is one: the most desperate among them all; that I can’t leave: no, not even to be saved from the life I am leading now.”

“Your having interfered in this dear boy’s behalf before,” said Rose; “your coming here, at so great a risk, to tell me what you have heard; your manner, which convinces me of the truth of what you say; your evident contrition, and sense of shame; all lead me to believe that you might yet be reclaimed. Oh!” said the earnest girl, folding her hands as the tears coursed down her face, “do not turn a deaf ear to the entreaties of one of your own sex; the first—the first, I do believe, who ever appealed to you in the voice of pity and compassion. Do hear my words, and let me save you yet, for better things.”

“Lady,” cried the girl, sinking on her knees, “dear, sweet, angel lady, you are the first that ever blessed me with such words as these, and if I had heard them years ago, they might have turned me from a life of sin and sorrow; but it is too late, it is too late!”

“It is never too late,” said Rose, “for penitence and atonement.”

“It is,” cried the girl, writhing in agony of her mind; “I cannot leave him now! I could not be his death.”

“Why should you be?” asked Rose.

“Nothing could save him,” cried the girl. “If I told others what I have told you, and led to their being taken, he would be sure to die. He is the boldest, and has been so cruel!”

“Is it possible,” cried Rose, “that for such a man as this, you can resign every future hope, and the certainty of immediate rescue? It is madness.”

“I don’t know what it is,” answered the girl; “I only know that it is so, and not with me alone, but with hundreds of others as bad and wretched as myself. I must go back. Whether it is God’s wrath for the wrong I have done, I do not know; but I am drawn back to him through every suffering and ill usage; and I should be, I believe, if I knew that I was to die by his hand at last.”

“What am I to do?” said Rose. “I should not let you depart from me thus.”

“You should, lady, and I know you will,” rejoined the girl, rising. “You will not stop my going because I have trusted in your goodness, and forced no promise from you, as I might have done.”

“Of what use, then, is the communication you have made?” said Rose. “This mystery must be investigated, or how will its disclosure to me, benefit Oliver, whom you are anxious to serve?”

“You must have some kind gentleman about you that will hear it as a secret, and advise you what to do,” rejoined the girl.

“But where can I find you again when it is necessary?” asked Rose. “I do not seek to know where these dreadful people live, but where will you be walking or passing at any settled period from this time?”

“Will you promise me that you will have my secret strictly kept, and come alone, or with the only other person that knows it; and that I shall not be watched or followed?” asked the girl.

“I promise you solemnly,” answered Rose.

“Every Sunday night, from eleven until the clock strikes twelve,” said the girl without hesitation, “I will walk on London Bridge if I am alive.”

“Stay another moment,” interposed Rose, as the girl moved hurriedly towards the door. “Think once again on your own condition, and the opportunity you have of escaping from it. You have a claim on me: not only as the voluntary bearer of this intelligence, but as a woman lost almost beyond redemption. Will you return to this gang of robbers, and to this man, when a word can save you? What fascination is it that can take you back, and make you cling to wickedness and misery? Oh! is there no chord in your heart that I can touch! Is there nothing left, to which I can appeal against this terrible infatuation!”

“When ladies as young, and good, and beautiful as you are,” replied the girl steadily, “give away your hearts, love will carry you all lengths—even such as you, who have home, friends, other admirers, everything, to fill them. When such as I, who have no certain roof but the coffinlid, and no friend in sickness or death but the hospital nurse, set our rotten hearts on any man, and let him fill the place that has been a blank through all our wretched lives, who can hope to cure us? Pity us, lady—pity us for having only one feeling of the woman left, and for having that turned, by a heavy judgment, from a comfort and a pride, into a new means of violence and suffering.”

“You will,” said Rose, after a pause, “take some money from me, which may enable you to live without dishonesty—at all events until we meet again?”

“Not a penny,” replied the girl, waving her hand.

“Do not close your heart against all my efforts to help you,” said Rose, stepping gently forward. “I wish to serve you indeed.”

“You would serve me best, lady,” replied the girl, wringing her hands, “if you could take my life at once; for I have felt more grief to think of what I am, tonight, than I ever did before, and it would be something not to die in the hell in which I have lived. God bless you, sweet lady, and send as much happiness on your head as I have brought shame on mine!”

Thus speaking, and sobbing aloud, the unhappy creature turned away; while Rose Maylie, overpowered by this extraordinary interview, which had more the semblance of a rapid dream than an actual occurrence, sank into a chair, and endeavoured to collect her wandering thoughts.

“Che cosa è tutto questo!” disse Rose.

«La verità, signora, anche se viene dalle mie labbra», rispose la ragazza. «Allora, disse, con giuramenti abbastanza comuni alle mie orecchie, ma strani per le tue, che se potesse soddisfare il suo odio togliendo la vita al ragazzo senza mettere in pericolo il proprio collo, lo avrebbe fatto; ma, dato che non poteva, sarebbe stato all’erta per incontrarlo a ogni passo nella vita; e se lui approfittava della sua nascita e del suo passato, poteva ancora fargli del male. ‘In breve, Fagin’, disse, ‘ebreo come sei, non hai mai teso trappole come quelle che escogiterò per mio fratello minore, Oliver.’»

“Suo fratello!” esclamò Rose.

«Queste furono le sue parole», disse Nancy, guardandosi intorno con inquietudine, come aveva fatto quasi senza sosta da quando aveva cominciato a parlare, perché un’immagine di Sikes la perseguitava continuamente. «E non solo. Quando parlò di te e dell’altra signora, e disse che sembrava una cosa combinata dal Cielo o dal demonio contro di lui, che Oliver fosse finito nelle tue mani, rise e disse che anche in questo c’era un po’ di conforto, perché quante migliaia e centinaia di migliaia di sterline non dareste, se le aveste, per sapere chi è il vostro cane a due zampe.»

“Non vorrete dire”, disse Rose, impallidendo molto, “che questo è stato detto sul serio?”

«Ha parlato con un’ostinazione dura e arrabbiata, se mai un uomo lo ha fatto», rispose la ragazza scuotendo il capo. «È un uomo ostinato quando si lascia prendere dall’odio. Ne conosco molti che fanno cose peggiori; ma preferirei ascoltarli tutti una dozzina di volte, piuttosto che sentire quell’uomo Monks anche solo una volta. Sta diventando tardi e devo arrivare a casa senza destare sospetti per essere stata in un’impresa come questa. Devo tornare indietro velocemente».

«Ma che cosa posso fare?» disse Rose. «A quale scopo posso utilizzare questa comunicazione senza di voi? Tornare indietro! Perché desiderate tornare da compagni che descrivete in colori così terribili? Se ripetete queste informazioni a un gentiluomo che posso chiamare istantaneamente dalla stanza accanto, potrete essere affidati a un luogo sicuro senza neanche mezz’ora di ritardo.»

“Voglio tornare indietro”, disse la ragazza. “Devo tornare indietro, perché—come posso dire certe cose a una signora innocente come voi?—perché tra gli uomini di cui vi ho parlato ce n’è uno: il più disperato di tutti; quello che non posso lasciare: no, nemmeno per essere salvata dalla vita che sto conducendo ora.”

«Il fatto che tu ti sia già intromessa per conto di questo caro ragazzo», disse Rose; «che tu sia venuta qui, correndo un rischio così grande, per dirmi ciò che hai sentito; il tuo modo di fare, che mi convince della verità delle tue parole; il tuo evidente pentimento e senso di vergogna; tutto questo mi porta a credere che tu potresti ancora essere redenta. Oh!», disse la ragazza sincera, giungendo le mani mentre le lacrime scorrevano lungo il suo viso, «non voltare l’orecchio sordo alle suppliche di una del tuo stesso sesso; della prima—della prima, ne sono certa, che ti abbia mai fatto appello con la voce della pietà e della compassione. Ascolta le mie parole e lascia che io ti salvi ancora, per cose migliori».

«Signora», gridò la ragazza, cadendo in ginocchio, «cara, dolce, angelica signora, siete la prima che mi abbia mai benedetta con parole come queste e se le avessi ascoltate anni fa, forse mi avrebbero allontanata da una vita di peccato e dolore; ma è troppo tardi, è troppo tardi!»

“Non è mai troppo tardi”, disse Rose, “per pentimento e espiazione”.

«È così», gridò la ragazza, contorcendosi per l’angoscia che le attanagliava il cuore; «non posso lasciarlo ora! Non potrei essere la sua morte.»

«Perché dovresti?» chiese Rose.

«Nulla potrebbe salvarlo», gridò la ragazza. «Se dicessi agli altri ciò che ho detto a voi e li portassi alla cattura, lui morirebbe sicuramente. È il più audace ed è stato così crudele!»

«È possibile», esclamò Rosa, «che per un uomo come questo tu possa rinunciare a ogni futura speranza e alla certezza di essere immediatamente salvata? È una pazzia.»

“Non so cosa sia,” rispose la ragazza; “so solo che è così e non succede solo a me sola, ma anche ad altre centinaia di persone altrettanto malvagie e infelici come me. Devo tornare indietro. Non so se sia la collera di Dio per il male che ho fatto; ma sono attratta da lui attraverso ogni sofferenza e trattamento crudele; e credo che lo sarei anche se sapessi che alla fine dovrò morire a causa sua.”

«Cosa devo fare?» disse Rose. «Non dovresti lasciarmi partire così.»

«Dovreste, signora, e so che lo farete», replicò la ragazza alzandosi. «Non vi fermerete dal venire perché ho confidato nella vostra bontà e non vi ho costretto a darmi una promessa, come avrei potuto fare».

«A quale scopo, dunque, è la comunicazione che avete fatto?» disse Rose. «Questo mistero deve essere indagato, altrimenti come potrà giovare a me la sua rivelazione, e in che modo gioverà a Oliver, per il quale vi preoccupate tanto di fare qualcosa?»

«Deve esserci qualche gentiluomo vicino a voi che vi possa ascoltare come un segreto e consigliarvi cosa fare», replicò la ragazza.

«Ma dove potrò ritrovarla quando sarà necessario?» chiese Rose. «Non cerco di sapere dove vivono queste persone terribili, ma dove si troverà lei a camminare o passare in un momento stabilito da questo momento in poi?»

«Mi promettete che manterrete il mio segreto e verrete da solo o con l’unica altra persona a conoscenza di esso, e che non sarò spiata né seguita?» chiese la ragazza.

«Ve lo prometto solennemente», rispose Rose.

«Ogni domenica sera, dalle undici fino a quando l’orologio batte le dodici», disse la ragazza senza esitazione, «camminerò sul ponte di Londra se sarò ancora viva.»

«Resta ancora un momento», intervenne Rose, mentre la ragazza si dirigeva affrettata verso la porta. «Rifletti ancora una volta sulla tua condizione e sull’opportunità che hai di sfuggirle. Hai un diritto su di me: non solo come portatrice volontaria di questa notizia, ma come donna perduta quasi oltre ogni redenzione. Tornerai a quella banda di ladri e a quell’uomo, quando una parola può salvarti? Che fascino è mai questo che ti riporta indietro e ti fa aggrappare al male e alla miseria? Oh! non c’è nessuna corda nel tuo cuore che io possa toccare! Non rimane nulla a cui io possa appellarmi contro questa terribile infatuazione!»

«Quando signore giovani e buone e belle come voi», rispose la ragazza con fermezza, «dono il proprio cuore, l’amore vi spingerà a ogni estremo - anche a voi che avete una casa, amici, altri ammiratori, tutto per riempirli. Quando qualcuno come me, che non ha altro tetto sicuro se non il coperchio della bara e nessun amico in malattia o in morte se non l’infermiera dell’ospedale, si affeziona a un uomo e gli permette di riempire il vuoto che ha caratterizzato tutta la nostra misera esistenza, chi può aspettarsi di guarirci? Abbia pietà di noi, signora - abbia pietà per il fatto che ci resta solo un sentimento femminile e che questo è stato trasformato, da un severo giudizio, da conforto e orgoglio in un nuovo strumento di violenza e sofferenza.»

«Prenderete», disse Rose dopo una pausa, «un po’ di denaro da me, che vi permetterà di vivere senza disonestà — almeno fino a quando ci rivedremo?»

«Neanche un soldo», rispose la ragazza agitando una mano.

«Non chiudere il tuo cuore contro tutti i miei sforzi per aiutarti», disse Rose, facendo un passo avanti con delicatezza, «desidero davvero servirti».

«Mi servirebbe meglio, signora», rispose la ragazza torcendosi le mani, «se potesse togliermi subito la vita; perché ho provato più dolore nel pensare a quello che sono questa sera di quanto non abbia mai fatto prima, e sarebbe un sollievo non morire nell’inferno in cui ho vissuto. Dio la benedica, gentile signora, e mandi sulla sua testa tanta felicità quanta ne ho portata disonore sulla mia!»

Così parlando e singhiozzando ad alta voce, la povera creatura si allontanò; mentre Rose Maylie, sopraffatta da questo straordinario colloquio, che aveva più l’aspetto di un sogno rapido che di un fatto reale, si lasciò cadere su una sedia e cercò di raccogliere i suoi pensieri vaganti.

CHAPTER XLI. CONTAINING FRESH DISCOVERIES, AND SHOWING THAT SUPRISES, LIKE MISFORTUNES, SELDOM COME ALONE

Her situation was, indeed, one of no common trial and difficulty. While she felt the most eager and burning desire to penetrate the mystery in which Oliver’s history was enveloped, she could not but hold sacred the confidence which the miserable woman with whom she had just conversed, had reposed in her, as a young and guileless girl. Her words and manner had touched Rose Maylie’s heart; and, mingled with her love for her young charge, and scarcely less intense in its truth and fervour, was her fond wish to win the outcast back to repentance and hope.

They purposed remaining in London only three days, prior to departing for some weeks to a distant part of the coast. It was now midnight of the first day. What course of action could she determine upon, which could be adopted in eight-and-forty hours? Or how could she postpone the journey without exciting suspicion?

Mr. Losberne was with them, and would be for the next two days; but Rose was too well acquainted with the excellent gentleman’s impetuosity, and foresaw too clearly the wrath with which, in the first explosion of his indignation, he would regard the instrument of Oliver’s recapture, to trust him with the secret, when her representations in the girl’s behalf could be seconded by no experienced person. These were all reasons for the greatest caution and most circumspect behaviour in communicating it to Mrs. Maylie, whose first impulse would infallibly be to hold a conference with the worthy doctor on the subject. As to resorting to any legal adviser, even if she had known how to do so, it was scarcely to be thought of, for the same reason. Once the thought occurred to her of seeking assistance from Harry; but this awakened the recollection of their last parting, and it seemed unworthy of her to call him back, when—the tears rose to her eyes as she pursued this train of reflection—he might have by this time learnt to forget her, and to be happier away.

Disturbed by these different reflections; inclining now to one course and then to another, and again recoiling from all, as each successive consideration presented itself to her mind; Rose passed a sleepless and anxious night. After more communing with herself next day, she arrived at the desperate conclusion of consulting Harry.

“If it be painful to him,” she thought, “to come back here, how painful it will be to me! But perhaps he will not come; he may write, or he may come himself, and studiously abstain from meeting me—he did when he went away. I hardly thought he would; but it was better for us both.” And here Rose dropped the pen, and turned away, as though the very paper which was to be her messenger should not see her weep.

She had taken up the same pen, and laid it down again fifty times, and had considered and reconsidered the first line of her letter without writing the first word, when Oliver, who had been walking in the streets, with Mr. Giles for a body-guard, entered the room in such breathless haste and violent agitation, as seemed to betoken some new cause of alarm.

“What makes you look so flurried?” asked Rose, advancing to meet him.

“I hardly know how; I feel as if I should be choked,” replied the boy. “Oh dear! To think that I should see him at last, and you should be able to know that I have told you the truth!”

“I never thought you had told us anything but the truth,” said Rose, soothing him. “But what is this?—of whom do you speak?”

“I have seen the gentleman,” replied Oliver, scarcely able to articulate, “the gentleman who was so good to me—Mr. Brownlow, that we have so often talked about.”

“Where?” asked Rose.

“Getting out of a coach,” replied Oliver, shedding tears of delight, “and going into a house. I didn’t speak to him—I couldn’t speak to him, for he didn’t see me, and I trembled so, that I was not able to go up to him. But Giles asked, for me, whether he lived there, and they said he did. Look here,” said Oliver, opening a scrap of paper, “here it is; here’s where he lives—I’m going there directly! Oh, dear me, dear me! What shall I do when I come to see him and hear him speak again!”

With her attention not a little distracted by these and a great many other incoherent exclamations of joy, Rose read the address, which was Craven Street, in the Strand. She very soon determined upon turning the discovery to account.

“Quick!” she said. “Tell them to fetch a hackney-coach, and be ready to go with me. I will take you there directly, without a minute’s loss of time. I will only tell my aunt that we are going out for an hour, and be ready as soon as you are.”

Oliver needed no prompting to despatch, and in little more than five minutes they were on their way to Craven Street. When they arrived there, Rose left Oliver in the coach, under pretence of preparing the old gentleman to receive him; and sending up her card by the servant, requested to see Mr. Brownlow on very pressing business. The servant soon returned, to beg that she would walk upstairs; and following him into an upper room, Miss Maylie was presented to an elderly gentleman of benevolent appearance, in a bottle-green coat. At no great distance from whom, was seated another old gentleman, in nankeen breeches and gaiters; who did not look particularly benevolent, and who was sitting with his hands clasped on the top of a thick stick, and his chin propped thereupon.

“Dear me,” said the gentleman, in the bottle-green coat, hastily rising with great politeness, “I beg your pardon, young lady—I imagined it was some importunate person who—I beg you will excuse me. Be seated, pray.”

“Mr. Brownlow, I believe, sir?” said Rose, glancing from the other gentleman to the one who had spoken.

CAPITOLO XLI. CONTENENTE NUOVE SCOPERTE E MOSTRANDO CHE LE SORPRESE, COME LE DISGRAZIE, RARAMENTE VENGONO DA SOLE

La sua situazione era infatti una prova e un’impresa non comuni. Mentre sentiva il più vivo e ardente desiderio di penetrare nel mistero in cui era avvolta la storia di Oliver, non poteva che considerare sacra la fiducia riposta in lei, come giovane ragazza ingenua, dalla misera donna con cui aveva appena parlato. Le sue parole e il suo comportamento avevano toccato il cuore di Rose Maylie; e, mescolato al suo amore per la sua giovane protetta, e quasi altrettanto intenso nella sua verità e fervore, c’era il suo tenero desiderio di riportare l’emarginata alla penitenza e alla speranza.

Avevano deciso di rimanere a Londra solo tre giorni prima di partire per alcune settimane verso una zona lontana della costa. Era ora mezzanotte del primo giorno. Quale linea d’azione poteva decidere di adottare, che potesse essere messa in atto entro quarantotto ore? O come avrebbe potuto rimandare il viaggio senza destare sospetti?

Il signor Losberne era con loro e lo sarebbe stato per i due giorni successivi; ma Rose conosceva troppo bene l’impulsività dell’eccellente gentiluomo e prevedeva con troppa chiarezza la collera con cui, nella prima esplosione della sua indignazione, avrebbe guardato lo strumento del ricatturare di Oliver, per affidargli il segreto, quando le sue rappresentazioni in favore della ragazza non potevano essere sostenute da nessuna persona esperta. Queste erano tutte ragioni per la massima cautela e il comportamento più circospetto nel comunicarlo alla signora Maylie, il cui primo impulso sarebbe stato infallibilmente quello di tenere una conferenza con il degno dottore sull’argomento. Per quanto riguarda il ricorrere a un consulente legale, anche se avesse saputo come farlo, era appena pensabile, per la stessa ragione. Una volta le venne in mente di cercare assistenza da Harry; ma questo risvegliò il ricordo della loro ultima separazione, e sembrava indegno di lei richiamarlo indietro, quando—le lacrime salivano agli occhi mentre proseguiva in questa catena di riflessioni—avrebbe potuto imparare entro questo tempo a dimenticarla e ad essere più felice lontano.

Inquieta per queste diverse riflessioni, ora inclinata verso un’opzione e poi verso l’altra, e ancora ritraendosi da tutte, man mano che ogni considerazione successiva le si presentava alla mente; Rose trascorse una notte insonne e preoccupata. Dopo aver riflettuto ulteriormente su se stessa il giorno dopo, giunse alla disperata conclusione di consultare Harry.

“Se per lui è doloroso,” pensò, “tornare qui, quanto sarà doloroso per me! Ma forse non verrà; potrebbe scrivere, o potrebbe venire di persona e fare attenzione a evitarmi—lo fece quando se ne andò. A malapena credevo che l’avrebbe fatto; ma era meglio così per entrambi.” E qui Rose depose la penna, e si voltò via, come se anche solo il foglio che doveva essere suo messaggero non dovesse vederla piangere.

Aveva preso la stessa penna e l’aveva riposta cinquanta volte, e aveva considerato e ricontemplato la prima riga della sua lettera senza scrivere la prima parola, quando Oliver, che era stato a passeggiare per le strade con il signor Giles come guardia del corpo, entrò nella stanza in un tale affanno e agitazione violenta da sembrare presagio di qualche nuova causa d’allarme.

«Che cosa ti fa sembrare così agitato?» chiese Rose, avvicinandosi per incontrarlo.

«A malapena so come fare; mi sento come se dovessi soffocare», rispose il ragazzo. «Oh, mio Dio! Pensare che alla fine lo avrei visto e tu saresti stato in grado di sapere che ti ho detto la verità!»

“Non ho mai pensato che ci aveste detto altro che la verità”, disse Rose, calmandolo. “Ma di cosa si tratta? — di chi state parlando?”

«Ho visto il signore», rispose Oliver, a malapena in grado di articolare le parole, «il signore che è stato così buono con me - Mr. Brownlow, di cui abbiamo tanto parlato».

«Dove?» chiese Rose.

“Scendere da una diligenza”, rispose Oliver, versando lacrime di gioia, “e entrare in una casa. Non gli ho parlato, non potevo parlargli perché lui non mi ha visto e io tremavo così tanto che non ero capace di avvicinarmi. Ma Giles ha chiesto per me se abitava lì, e loro hanno detto di sì. Guardate qui”, disse Oliver, aprendo un pezzetto di carta, “ecco qua; qui c’è dove vive. Ci vado subito! Oh, mio Dio, mio Dio! Cosa farò quando lo vedrò e lo sentirò parlare ancora!”

Con la sua attenzione non poco distratta da queste e molte altre esclamazioni incoerenti di gioia, Rose lesse l’indirizzo, che era Craven Street, nel Strand. Decise molto presto di sfruttare la scoperta a proprio vantaggio.

«Svelto!» disse lei «Dì loro di chiamare una carrozza pubblica e preparati ad accompagnarmi. Ti porterò lì subito, senza perdere un minuto di tempo. Dirò solo a mia zia che usciamo per un’ora e sarò pronta non appena lo sarai tu».

Oliver non aveva bisogno di incoraggiamenti per mettersi in cammino e in poco più di cinque minuti erano già diretti verso Craven Street. Quando arrivarono là, Rose lasciò Oliver nella carrozza, fingendo di voler preparare il vecchio gentiluomo a riceverlo; e mandando su il suo biglietto da visita tramite il domestico, chiese di vedere Mr. Brownlow per una faccenda molto urgente. Il domestico tornò presto indietro, pregandola di salire al piano superiore; e seguendolo in una stanza all’ultimo piano, Miss Maylie fu presentata a un anziano gentiluomo dall’aspetto benevolo, con un abito verde bottiglia. A non molta distanza da lui, era seduto un altro vecchio signore, con i calzoni di nankeen e gli stivali alti; che non aveva un aspetto particolarmente benevolo e che stava seduto con le mani incrociate sulla cima di un bastone spesso, appoggiandovi sopra il mento.

«Oh, perdoni», disse il signore con la giacca verde bottiglia alzandosi in fretta con grande cortesia, «mi scusi, giovane signora: pensavo che fosse qualche persona importuna che, mi scusi ancora. Si accomodi, prego».

«Signor Brownlow, credo, signore?» disse Rose, guardando dall’altro gentiluomo a quello che aveva parlato.

“That is my name,” said the old gentleman. “This is my friend, Mr. Grimwig. Grimwig, will you leave us for a few minutes?”

“I believe,” interposed Miss Maylie, “that at this period of our interview, I need not give that gentleman the trouble of going away. If I am correctly informed, he is cognizant of the business on which I wish to speak to you.”

Mr. Brownlow inclined his head. Mr. Grimwig, who had made one very stiff bow, and risen from his chair, made another very stiff bow, and dropped into it again.

“I shall surprise you very much, I have no doubt,” said Rose, naturally embarrassed; “but you once showed great benevolence and goodness to a very dear young friend of mine, and I am sure you will take an interest in hearing of him again.”

“Indeed!” said Mr. Brownlow.

“Oliver Twist you knew him as,” replied Rose.

The words no sooner escaped her lips, than Mr. Grimwig, who had been affecting to dip into a large book that lay on the table, upset it with a great crash, and falling back in his chair, discharged from his features every expression but one of unmitigated wonder, and indulged in a prolonged and vacant stare; then, as if ashamed of having betrayed so much emotion, he jerked himself, as it were, by a convulsion into his former attitude, and looking out straight before him emitted a long deep whistle, which seemed, at last, not to be discharged on empty air, but to die away in the innermost recesses of his stomach.

Mr. Browlow was no less surprised, although his astonishment was not expressed in the same eccentric manner. He drew his chair nearer to Miss Maylie’s, and said,

“Do me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the question that goodness and benevolence of which you speak, and of which nobody else knows anything; and if you have it in your power to produce any evidence which will alter the unfavourable opinion I was once induced to entertain of that poor child, in Heaven’s name put me in possession of it.”

“A bad one! I’ll eat my head if he is not a bad one,” growled Mr. Grimwig, speaking by some ventriloquial power, without moving a muscle of his face.

“He is a child of a noble nature and a warm heart,” said Rose, colouring; “and that Power which has thought fit to try him beyond his years, has planted in his breast affections and feelings which would do honour to many who have numbered his days six times over.”

“I’m only sixty-one,” said Mr. Grimwig, with the same rigid face. “And, as the devil’s in it if this Oliver is not twelve years old at least, I don’t see the application of that remark.”

“Do not heed my friend, Miss Maylie,” said Mr. Brownlow; “he does not mean what he says.”

“Yes, he does,” growled Mr. Grimwig.

“No, he does not,” said Mr. Brownlow, obviously rising in wrath as he spoke.

“He’ll eat his head, if he doesn’t,” growled Mr. Grimwig.

“He would deserve to have it knocked off, if he does,” said Mr. Brownlow.

“And he’d uncommonly like to see any man offer to do it,” responded Mr. Grimwig, knocking his stick upon the floor.

Having gone thus far, the two old gentlemen severally took snuff, and afterwards shook hands, according to their invariable custom.

“Now, Miss Maylie,” said Mr. Brownlow, “to return to the subject in which your humanity is so much interested. Will you let me know what intelligence you have of this poor child: allowing me to promise that I exhausted every means in my power of discovering him, and that since I have been absent from this country, my first impression that he had imposed upon me, and had been persuaded by his former associates to rob me, has been considerably shaken.”

Rose, who had had time to collect her thoughts, at once related, in a few natural words, all that had befallen Oliver since he left Mr. Brownlow’s house; reserving Nancy’s information for that gentleman’s private ear, and concluding with the assurance that his only sorrow, for some months past, had been not being able to meet with his former benefactor and friend.

“Thank God!” said the old gentleman. “This is great happiness to me, great happiness. But you have not told me where he is now, Miss Maylie. You must pardon my finding fault with you,—but why not have brought him?”

“He is waiting in a coach at the door,” replied Rose.

“At this door!” cried the old gentleman. With which he hurried out of the room, down the stairs, up the coachsteps, and into the coach, without another word.

When the room-door closed behind him, Mr. Grimwig lifted up his head, and converting one of the hind legs of his chair into a pivot, described three distinct circles with the assistance of his stick and the table; sitting in it all the time. After performing this evolution, he rose and limped as fast as he could up and down the room at least a dozen times, and then stopping suddenly before Rose, kissed her without the slightest preface.

“Hush!” he said, as the young lady rose in some alarm at this unusual proceeding. “Don’t be afraid. I’m old enough to be your grandfather. You’re a sweet girl. I like you. Here they are!”

In fact, as he threw himself at one dexterous dive into his former seat, Mr. Brownlow returned, accompanied by Oliver, whom Mr. Grimwig received very graciously; and if the gratification of that moment had been the only reward for all her anxiety and care in Oliver’s behalf, Rose Maylie would have been well repaid.

“There is somebody else who should not be forgotten, by the bye,” said Mr. Brownlow, ringing the bell. “Send Mrs. Bedwin here, if you please.”

The old housekeeper answered the summons with all dispatch; and dropping a curtsey at the door, waited for orders.

“Why, you get blinder every day, Bedwin,” said Mr. Brownlow, rather testily.

“Well, that I do, sir,” replied the old lady. “People’s eyes, at my time of life, don’t improve with age, sir.”

«Questo è il mio nome», disse il vecchio signore. «Questi è il mio amico, signor Grimwig. Grimwig, vuoi lasciarci per qualche minuto?»

«Credo» intervenne la signorina Maylie «che a questo punto del nostro colloquio non sia necessario dare a quel gentiluomo il disturbo di andarsene. Se sono stata correttamente informata, egli è al corrente degli affari per i quali desidero parlarvi».

Il signor Brownlow inclinò il capo. Il signor Grimwig, che aveva fatto un inchino molto rigido e si era alzato dalla sedia, fece un altro inchino molto rigido e vi ricadde di nuovo sopra.

«Sono sicura che la sorprenderò molto», disse Rose, naturalmente imbarazzata; «ma una volta ha dimostrato grande benevolenza e gentilezza verso un giovane amico carissimo di mia, e sono certa che le interesserà avere sue notizie.»

«Davvero!» disse il signor Brownlow.

«Oliver Twist, lo conoscevate come tale», rispose Rose.

Non erano ancora uscite le parole dalle sue labbra che il signor Grimwig, che fingeva di sfogliare un grosso libro posato sul tavolo, lo rovesciò con gran fracasso e, cadendo all’indietro sulla sedia, cancellò dal suo volto ogni espressione tranne quella di meraviglia incontenibile, e si abbandonò a uno sguardo prolungato e vacuo; poi, come se gli fosse dispiaciuto di aver tradito tanta emozione, con un movimento convulso riacquistò la sua posizione precedente, guardando dritto davanti a sé emise un lungo fischio profondo che sembrava infine non sfuggire nell’aria vuota ma morire nelle pieghe più interne del suo stomaco.

Il signor Brownlow non fu meno sorpreso, sebbene la sua meraviglia non si manifestasse nello stesso modo stravagante. Avvicinò la sedia a quella della signorina Maylie e disse:

«Faccia il favore, mia cara giovane signora, di escludere completamente dalla questione quella bontà e benevolenza di cui parla e che nessun altro conosce; e se ha la possibilità di produrre qualche prova in grado di modificare l’opinione sfavorevole che un tempo mi sono formato riguardo a quel povero bambino, per amor del cielo, metta pure a mia disposizione tale prova.»

«Un cattivo soggetto! Mi mangio la testa se non è un cattivo soggetto», brontolò il signor Grimwig, parlando per virtù di qualche potere ventriloquo senza muovere un muscolo del viso.

“È un bambino di nobile natura e dal cuore caldo”, disse Rose, arrossendo; “e quella Potenza che ha voluto metterlo alla prova oltre la sua età, gli ha messo nel petto affetti e sentimenti che farebbero onore a molti che hanno contato i suoi giorni sei volte.”

«Ho solo sessantun anni», disse il signor Grimwig con la stessa faccia rigida. «E, se non c’è il diavolo in questo affare, se Oliver non ha almeno dodici anni, io non vedo l’applicazione di quell’osservazione».

“Non date retta al mio amico, signorina Maylie,” disse il signor Brownlow; “non intende dire quello che dice.”

«Sì, lo fa», brontolò il signor Grimwig.

«No, non lo fa», disse il signor Brownlow, alzandosi visibilmente in preda alla collera mentre parlava.

«Mangerà la sua testa se non lo farà», ringhiò il signor Grimwig.

«Meriterebbe di farselo rompere in testa se lo facesse», disse il signor Brownlow.

«E gli piacerebbe non poco vedere qualcuno che si offrisse di farlo», rispose il signor Grimwig battendo il bastone sul pavimento.

Avendo raggiunto questo punto, i due vecchi signori presero separatamente del tabacco da fiuto e poi si strinsero la mano secondo il loro immutabile costume.

«Ora, Miss Maylie», disse il signor Brownlow, «tornando all’argomento che tanto interessa la sua umanità. Mi dica quali notizie ha di questo povero bambino: permettendomi di prometterle che ho esaurito ogni mezzo in mio potere per scoprirlo, e che da quando sono assente da questo paese, la mia prima impressione che mi avesse ingannato e fosse stato persuaso dai suoi ex complici a derubarmi è stata notevolmente scossa.»

Rosa, che aveva avuto tempo di raccogliere i suoi pensieri, raccontò subito, in poche parole naturali, tutto ciò che era successo a Oliver da quando aveva lasciato la casa del signor Brownlow; riservando le informazioni di Nancy all’orecchio privato di quel gentiluomo, e concludendo con l’assicurazione che il suo unico dolore, per alcuni mesi passati, era stato quello di non essere in grado di incontrare il suo precedente benefattore e amico.

«Grazie a Dio!» disse il vecchio signore. «Questa è una grande felicità per me, una grande felicità. Ma non mi avete detto dove si trova ora, Miss Maylie. Dovete scusarmi se vi faccio un rimprovero, — ma perché non l’avete portato?»

«È in attesa su una carrozza davanti alla porta», rispose la Rosa.

«A questa porta!» esclamò il vecchio signore. E con ciò uscì in fretta dalla stanza, scese le scale, salì i gradini del calesse e vi entrò senza dire un’altra parola.

Quando la porta della stanza si chiuse dietro di lui, il signor Grimwig alzò la testa e trasformando una delle gambe posteriori della sua sedia in un perno descrisse tre cerchi distinti con l’aiuto del suo bastone e del tavolo; sedendovi dentro tutto il tempo. Dopo aver eseguito questa evoluzione, si alzò e zoppicò più velocemente che poté su e giù per la stanza almeno una dozzina di volte, poi fermandosi improvvisamente davanti a Rose, la baciò senza il minimo preambolo.

«Silenzio!», disse mentre la giovane signora si alzava con un certo allarme per questa procedura insolita. «Non aver paura. Sono abbastanza vecchio da essere tuo nonno. Sei una ragazza dolce. Mi piaci. Eccoli qui!»

Infatti, mentre si gettava con un agile balzo sul suo posto precedente, il signor Brownlow tornò accompagnato da Oliver, che il signor Grimwig accolse molto cordialmente; e se la soddisfazione di quel momento fosse stata l’unica ricompensa per tutta la sua ansia e cura nei confronti di Oliver, Rose Maylie sarebbe stata ben ripagata.

«C’è qualcun altro che non dovrebbe essere dimenticato, tra l’altro», disse il signor Brownlow suonando il campanello. «Invii qui la signora Bedwin, per favore».

La vecchia governante rispose alla chiamata con la massima sollecitudine e, inchinandosi sulla porta, attese gli ordini.

«Ma siete sempre più cieco ogni giorno che passa, Bedwin», disse il signor Brownlow in tono piuttosto irritato.

«Beh, lo faccio, signore», rispose la vecchia signora. «Gli occhi della gente, alla mia età, non migliorano con l’età, signore».

“I could have told you that,” rejoined Mr. Brownlow; “but put on your glasses, and see if you can’t find out what you were wanted for, will you?”

The old lady began to rummage in her pocket for her spectacles. But Oliver’s patience was not proof against this new trial; and yielding to his first impulse, he sprang into her arms.

“God be good to me!” cried the old lady, embracing him; “it is my innocent boy!”

“My dear old nurse!” cried Oliver.

“He would come back—I knew he would,” said the old lady, holding him in her arms. “How well he looks, and how like a gentleman’s son he is dressed again! Where have you been, this long, long while? Ah! the same sweet face, but not so pale; the same soft eye, but not so sad. I have never forgotten them or his quiet smile, but have seen them every day, side by side with those of my own dear children, dead and gone since I was a lightsome young creature.” Running on thus, and now holding Oliver from her to mark how he had grown, now clasping him to her and passing her fingers fondly through his hair, the good soul laughed and wept upon his neck by turns.

Leaving her and Oliver to compare notes at leisure, Mr. Brownlow led the way into another room; and there, heard from Rose a full narration of her interview with Nancy, which occasioned him no little surprise and perplexity. Rose also explained her reasons for not confiding in her friend Mr. Losberne in the first instance. The old gentleman considered that she had acted prudently, and readily undertook to hold solemn conference with the worthy doctor himself. To afford him an early opportunity for the execution of this design, it was arranged that he should call at the hotel at eight o’clock that evening, and that in the meantime Mrs. Maylie should be cautiously informed of all that had occurred. These preliminaries adjusted, Rose and Oliver returned home.

Rose had by no means overrated the measure of the good doctor’s wrath. Nancy’s history was no sooner unfolded to him, than he poured forth a shower of mingled threats and execrations; threatened to make her the first victim of the combined ingenuity of Messrs. Blathers and Duff; and actually put on his hat preparatory to sallying forth to obtain the assistance of those worthies. And, doubtless, he would, in this first outbreak, have carried the intention into effect without a moment’s consideration of the consequences, if he had not been restrained, in part, by corresponding violence on the side of Mr. Brownlow, who was himself of an irascible temperament, and partly by such arguments and representations as seemed best calculated to dissuade him from his hotbrained purpose.

“Then what the devil is to be done?” said the impetuous doctor, when they had rejoined the two ladies. “Are we to pass a vote of thanks to all these vagabonds, male and female, and beg them to accept a hundred pounds, or so, apiece, as a trifling mark of our esteem, and some slight acknowledgment of their kindness to Oliver?”

“Not exactly that,” rejoined Mr. Brownlow, laughing; “but we must proceed gently and with great care.”

“Gentleness and care,” exclaimed the doctor. “I’d send them one and all to—”

“Never mind where,” interposed Mr. Brownlow. “But reflect whether sending them anywhere is likely to attain the object we have in view.”

“What object?” asked the doctor.

“Simply, the discovery of Oliver’s parentage, and regaining for him the inheritance of which, if this story be true, he has been fraudulently deprived.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Losberne, cooling himself with his pocket-handkerchief; “I almost forgot that.”

“You see,” pursued Mr. Brownlow; “placing this poor girl entirely out of the question, and supposing it were possible to bring these scoundrels to justice without compromising her safety, what good should we bring about?”

“Hanging a few of them at least, in all probability,” suggested the doctor, “and transporting the rest.”

“Very good,” replied Mr. Brownlow, smiling; “but no doubt they will bring that about for themselves in the fulness of time, and if we step in to forestall them, it seems to me that we shall be performing a very Quixotic act, in direct opposition to our own interest—or at least to Oliver’s, which is the same thing.”

“How?” inquired the doctor.

“Thus. It is quite clear that we shall have extreme difficulty in getting to the bottom of this mystery, unless we can bring this man, Monks, upon his knees. That can only be done by stratagem, and by catching him when he is not surrounded by these people. For, suppose he were apprehended, we have no proof against him. He is not even (so far as we know, or as the facts appear to us) concerned with the gang in any of their robberies. If he were not discharged, it is very unlikely that he could receive any further punishment than being committed to prison as a rogue and vagabond; and of course ever afterwards his mouth would be so obstinately closed that he might as well, for our purposes, be deaf, dumb, blind, and an idiot.”

“Then,” said the doctor impetuously, “I put it to you again, whether you think it reasonable that this promise to the girl should be considered binding; a promise made with the best and kindest intentions, but really—”

“Do not discuss the point, my dear young lady, pray,” said Mr. Brownlow, interrupting Rose as she was about to speak. “The promise shall be kept. I don’t think it will, in the slightest degree, interfere with our proceedings. But, before we can resolve upon any precise course of action, it will be necessary to see the girl; to ascertain from her whether she will point out this Monks, on the understanding that he is to be dealt with by us, and not by the law; or, if she will not, or cannot do that, to procure from her such an account of his haunts and description of his person, as will enable us to identify him. She cannot be seen until next Sunday night; this is Tuesday. I would suggest that in the meantime, we remain perfectly quiet, and keep these matters secret even from Oliver himself.”

«Avrei potuto dirglielo io», replicò il signor Brownlow; «ma metta gli occhiali e veda se non riesce a scoprire per quale motivo la si cercava, vuole?»

La vecchia signora cominciò a frugare nelle sue tasche per cercare gli occhiali. Ma la pazienza di Oliver non resistette a questa nuova prova; e cedendo al suo primo impulso, si gettò tra le sue braccia.

«Dio mi sia buono!» esclamò la vecchia signora abbracciandolo «è il mio ragazzo innocente!»

“Mia cara vecchia balia!” esclamò Oliver.

«Tornerà — sapevo che sarebbe tornato», disse la vecchia signora tenendolo tra le braccia. «Com’è in forma e come è di nuovo vestito da figlio di un gentiluomo! Dove sei stato, per tutto questo lungo, lunghissimo periodo? Ah! Lo stesso dolce viso, ma non così pallido; lo stesso tenero sguardo, ma non più triste. Non li ho mai dimenticati né il suo tranquillo sorriso, ma li ho visti ogni giorno, fianco a fianco con quelli dei miei cari bambini, morti e sepolti da quando ero una giovane creatura allegra». Continuando così, ora tenendo Oliver lontano da sé per notare quanto fosse cresciuto, ora stringendolo a sé e passandogli affettuosamente le dita tra i capelli, la buona anima rideva e piangeva sul suo collo a turno.

Dopo aver lasciato lei e Oliver a confrontarsi con calma, il signor Brownlow li condusse in un’altra stanza; lì ascoltò da Rose una narrazione completa del suo colloquio con Nancy, che gli causò non poco stupore e perplessità. Rose spiegò anche le ragioni per cui non si era confidata in un primo momento col suo amico, il signor Losberne. Il vecchio gentiluomo ritenne che avesse agito con prudenza e si offrì subito di tenere una solenne conferenza proprio col degno dottore. Per concedergli presto l’opportunità di mettere in atto questo proposito, fu stabilito che lui sarebbe passato all’albergo alle otto di sera e che nel frattempo la signora Maylie sarebbe stata cautamente informata di tutto ciò che era accaduto. Dopo aver sistemato questi preliminari, Rose e Oliver fecero ritorno a casa.

Rose non aveva affatto sopravvalutato la misura dell’ira del buon dottore. Non appena gli fu svelata la storia di Nancy, egli riversò su di lei una pioggia di minacce e imprecazioni; le promise che sarebbe stata la prima vittima dell’ingegno combinato dei signori Blathers e Duff; e addirittura si mise il cappello in preparazione per uscire a cercare l’aiuto di quei personaggi. E, senza dubbio, avrebbe messo in atto la sua intenzione in questo primo scoppio, senza un attimo di considerazione delle conseguenze, se non fosse stato trattenuto, in parte, dalla corrispondente violenza da parte del signor Brownlow, che aveva lui stesso un temperamento irascibile, e in parte da tali argomenti e rappresentazioni che sembravano meglio calcolati per dissuaderlo dal suo proposito impulsivo.

«Allora che diavolo si deve fare?» disse il dottore impulsivo, quando ebbero raggiunto le due signore. «Dovremo votare un voto di ringraziamento a tutti questi vagabondi, maschi e femmine, e chiedere loro di accettare cento sterline, o giù di lì, per persona, come un piccolo segno del nostro apprezzamento e un modesto riconoscimento della loro gentilezza verso Oliver?»

«Non esattamente questo», replicò ridendo il signor Brownlow, «ma dobbiamo procedere con cautela e grande attenzione».

“Dolcezza e cura,” esclamò il dottore, “li manderei tutti quanti a, ”

«Non importa dove», intervenne il signor Brownlow, «ma pensate se mandarli da qualche parte possa aiutarci a raggiungere lo scopo che abbiamo in mente.»

«Quale oggetto?» chiese il dottore.

«Semplicemente la scoperta della famiglia di Oliver e il recupero per lui dell’eredità di cui, se questa storia è vera, gli hanno fraudolentamente privato.»

«Ah!» disse il signor Losberne, rinfrescandosi con il fazzoletto da taschino «quasi mi dimenticavo di questo».

«Vedete», continuò il signor Brownlow, «mettendo da parte questa povera ragazza e supponendo che fosse possibile portare questi furfanti davanti alla giustizia senza mettere a repentaglio la sua sicurezza, quale bene otterremmo?»

«Impicarne almeno alcuni, con ogni probabilità», suggerì il dottore, «e deportare gli altri.»

“Molto bene”, rispose il signor Brownlow sorridendo; “ma non c’è dubbio che ci arriveranno da soli a tempo debito, e se interveniamo per anticiparli, mi sembra che compiremo un atto molto donchisciottesco, in diretta opposizione al nostro stesso interesse — o almeno all’interesse di Oliver, che è la stessa cosa.”

«Come?» chiese il dottore.

«Dunque. È chiaro che avremo estreme difficoltà a scoprire il fondo di questo mistero, a meno che non riusciamo a mettere in ginocchio quest’uomo, Monks. Questo può essere fatto solo con l’astuzia e cogliendolo quando non è circondato da quelle persone. Infatti, anche se venisse arrestato, non abbiamo prove contro di lui. Non è nemmeno (per quanto ne sappiamo o per come ci appaiono i fatti) coinvolto nelle rapine della banda. Se non fosse scarcerato, è molto improbabile che possa ricevere una punizione diversa dall’essere rinchiuso in prigione come un furfante e vagabondo; e naturalmente da quel momento la sua bocca sarebbe così ostinatamente chiusa che, per i nostri scopi, potrebbe anche essere sordo, muto, cieco e idiota.»

«Allora», disse il dottore con impeto, «le ripeto la domanda: crede che sia ragionevole considerare vincolante questa promessa fatta alla ragazza? Una promessa fatta con le migliori e più gentili intenzioni, ma in realtà—»

«Non discutiamo di questo, mia cara giovane signora, vi prego», disse il signor Brownlow, interrompendo Rose mentre stava per parlare. «La promessa verrà mantenuta. Non credo che interferirà minimamente con le nostre azioni. Ma prima di poter decidere un piano d’azione preciso, sarà necessario vedere la ragazza; accertarci da lei se è disposta a indicare questo Monks, con l’intesa che verrà trattato da noi e non dalla legge; o, se non vuole o non può farlo, ottenere da lei un resoconto dei suoi nascondigli e una descrizione della sua persona tale da permetterci di identificarlo. Non potrà essere vista prima della prossima domenica sera; oggi è martedì. Propongo che nel frattempo restiamo perfettamente tranquilli e manteniamo questi fatti segreti anche a Oliver stesso».

Although Mr. Losberne received with many wry faces a proposal involving a delay of five whole days, he was fain to admit that no better course occurred to him just then; and as both Rose and Mrs. Maylie sided very strongly with Mr. Brownlow, that gentleman’s proposition was carried unanimously.

“I should like,” he said, “to call in the aid of my friend Grimwig. He is a strange creature, but a shrewd one, and might prove of material assistance to us; I should say that he was bred a lawyer, and quitted the Bar in disgust because he had only one brief and a motion of course, in twenty years, though whether that is recommendation or not, you must determine for yourselves.”

“I have no objection to your calling in your friend if I may call in mine,” said the doctor.

“We must put it to the vote,” replied Mr. Brownlow, “who may he be?”

“That lady’s son, and this young lady’s—very old friend,” said the doctor, motioning towards Mrs. Maylie, and concluding with an expressive glance at her niece.

Rose blushed deeply, but she did not make any audible objection to this motion (possibly she felt in a hopeless minority); and Harry Maylie and Mr. Grimwig were accordingly added to the committee.

“We stay in town, of course,” said Mrs. Maylie, “while there remains the slightest prospect of prosecuting this inquiry with a chance of success. I will spare neither trouble nor expense in behalf of the object in which we are all so deeply interested, and I am content to remain here, if it be for twelve months, so long as you assure me that any hope remains.”

“Good!” rejoined Mr. Brownlow. “And as I see on the faces about me, a disposition to inquire how it happened that I was not in the way to corroborate Oliver’s tale, and had so suddenly left the kingdom, let me stipulate that I shall be asked no questions until such time as I may deem it expedient to forestall them by telling my own story. Believe me, I make this request with good reason, for I might otherwise excite hopes destined never to be realised, and only increase difficulties and disappointments already quite numerous enough. Come! Supper has been announced, and young Oliver, who is all alone in the next room, will have begun to think, by this time, that we have wearied of his company, and entered into some dark conspiracy to thrust him forth upon the world.”

With these words, the old gentleman gave his hand to Mrs. Maylie, and escorted her into the supper-room. Mr. Losberne followed, leading Rose; and the council was, for the present, effectually broken up.

Sebbene il signor Losberne accogliesse con molte smorfie una proposta che comportava un ritardo di cinque giorni interi, fu costretto ad ammettere che non gli veniva in mente nulla di meglio al momento; e poiché sia Rose che la signora Maylie si schierarono con grande forza dalla parte del signor Brownlow, la proposta di quest’ultimo fu approvata all’unanimità.

«Mi piacerebbe», disse, «chiamare in aiuto il mio amico Grimwig. È una creatura strana, ma astuta, e potrebbe rivelarsi di grande utilità per noi; direi che è stato educato come avvocato e ha abbandonato la professione disgustato perché in vent’anni aveva solo un incarico e una mozione ovvia, anche se non saprei dire se questo sia raccomandabile o meno, dovete giudicare voi stessi.»

«Non ho nulla da obiettare se chiamate il vostro amico, purché io possa chiamare il mio», disse il dottore.

“Dobbiamo metterlo ai voti,” rispose il signor Brownlow, “chiunque egli sia?”

«Il figlio di quella signora e l’amico molto vecchio di questa giovane signorina», disse il dottore indicando la signora Maylie e concludendo con uno sguardo eloquente alla nipote.

Rosa arrossì profondamente, ma non fece alcuna obiezione udibile a questo provvedimento (forse si sentiva una minoranza senza speranze); e Harry Maylie e il signor Grimwig furono di conseguenza aggiunti al comitato.

«Restiamo in città, naturalmente», disse la signora Maylie, «finché rimane il più piccolo prospetto di condurre questa indagine a compimento con una possibilità di successo. Non risparmierò né fatica né spese per l’oggetto che ci interessa così profondamente e sono contenta di restare qui, anche se dovessero essere dodici mesi, finché mi assicurate che rimane ancora una speranza.»

“Bene!” riprese il signor Brownlow. “E poiché vedo sulle facce intorno a me una certa curiosità di sapere come mai non ero in grado di confermare la storia di Oliver e avevo così bruscamente lasciato il paese, permettetemi di stabilire che nessuno mi farà domande fino al momento in cui riterrò opportuno prevenirle raccontando io stesso la mia storia. Credetemi, faccio questa richiesta per un buon motivo, perché altrimenti potrei suscitare speranze destinate a non realizzarsi mai e solo aumentare difficoltà e delusioni già abbastanza numerose. Avanti! È stato annunciato il pranzo, e il giovane Oliver, che è tutto solo nella stanza accanto, avrà cominciato a pensare, a quest’ora, che ci siamo stancati della sua compagnia ed abbiamo tramato qualche oscuro complotto per cacciarlo nel mondo.”

Con queste parole il vecchio gentiluomo porse la mano a Mrs. Maylie e la scortò nella sala da pranzo. Mr. Losberne seguì, conducendo Rose; e per il momento il consiglio fu efficacemente sciolto.

CHAPTER XLII. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE OF OLIVER’S, EXHIBITING DECIDED MARKS OF GENIUS, BECOMES A PUBLIC CHARACTER IN THE METROPOLIS

Upon the night when Nancy, having lulled Mr. Sikes to sleep, hurried on her self-imposed mission to Rose Maylie, there advanced towards London, by the Great North Road, two persons, upon whom it is expedient that this history should bestow some attention.

They were a man and woman; or perhaps they would be better described as a male and female: for the former was one of those long-limbed, knock-kneed, shambling, bony people, to whom it is difficult to assign any precise age,—looking as they do, when they are yet boys, like undergrown men, and when they are almost men, like overgrown boys. The woman was young, but of a robust and hardy make, as she need have been to bear the weight of the heavy bundle which was strapped to her back. Her companion was not encumbered with much luggage, as there merely dangled from a stick which he carried over his shoulder, a small parcel wrapped in a common handkerchief, and apparently light enough. This circumstance, added to the length of his legs, which were of unusual extent, enabled him with much ease to keep some half-dozen paces in advance of his companion, to whom he occasionally turned with an impatient jerk of the head: as if reproaching her tardiness, and urging her to greater exertion.

Thus, they had toiled along the dusty road, taking little heed of any object within sight, save when they stepped aside to allow a wider passage for the mail-coaches which were whirling out of town, until they passed through Highgate archway; when the foremost traveller stopped and called impatiently to his companion,

“Come on, can’t yer? What a lazybones yer are, Charlotte.”

“It’s a heavy load, I can tell you,” said the female, coming up, almost breathless with fatigue.

“Heavy! What are yer talking about? What are yer made for?” rejoined the male traveller, changing his own little bundle as he spoke, to the other shoulder. “Oh, there yer are, resting again! Well, if yer ain’t enough to tire anybody’s patience out, I don’t know what is!”

“Is it much farther?” asked the woman, resting herself against a bank, and looking up with the perspiration streaming from her face.

“Much farther! Yer as good as there,” said the long-legged tramper, pointing out before him. “Look there! Those are the lights of London.”

“They’re a good two mile off, at least,” said the woman despondingly.

“Never mind whether they’re two mile off, or twenty,” said Noah Claypole; for he it was; “but get up and come on, or I’ll kick yer, and so I give yer notice.”

As Noah’s red nose grew redder with anger, and as he crossed the road while speaking, as if fully prepared to put his threat into execution, the woman rose without any further remark, and trudged onward by his side.

“Where do you mean to stop for the night, Noah?” she asked, after they had walked a few hundred yards.

“How should I know?” replied Noah, whose temper had been considerably impaired by walking.

“Near, I hope,” said Charlotte.

“No, not near,” replied Mr. Claypole. “There! Not near; so don’t think it.”

“Why not?”

“When I tell yer that I don’t mean to do a thing, that’s enough, without any why or because either,” replied Mr. Claypole with dignity.

“Well, you needn’t be so cross,” said his companion.

“A pretty thing it would be, wouldn’t it to go and stop at the very first public-house outside the town, so that Sowerberry, if he come up after us, might poke in his old nose, and have us taken back in a cart with handcuffs on,” said Mr. Claypole in a jeering tone. “No! I shall go and lose myself among the narrowest streets I can find, and not stop till we come to the very out-of-the-wayest house I can set eyes on. Cod, yer may thanks yer stars I’ve got a head; for if we hadn’t gone, at first, the wrong road a purpose, and come back across country, yer’d have been locked up hard and fast a week ago, my lady. And serve yer right for being a fool.”

“I know I ain’t as cunning as you are,” replied Charlotte; “but don’t put all the blame on me, and say I should have been locked up. You would have been if I had been, any way.”

“Yer took the money from the till, yer know yer did,” said Mr. Claypole.

“I took it for you, Noah, dear,” rejoined Charlotte.

“Did I keep it?” asked Mr. Claypole.

“No; you trusted in me, and let me carry it like a dear, and so you are,” said the lady, chucking him under the chin, and drawing her arm through his.

This was indeed the case; but as it was not Mr. Claypole’s habit to repose a blind and foolish confidence in anybody, it should be observed, in justice to that gentleman, that he had trusted Charlotte to this extent, in order that, if they were pursued, the money might be found on her: which would leave him an opportunity of asserting his innocence of any theft, and would greatly facilitate his chances of escape. Of course, he entered at this juncture, into no explanation of his motives, and they walked on very lovingly together.

In pursuance of this cautious plan, Mr. Claypole went on, without halting, until he arrived at the Angel at Islington, where he wisely judged, from the crowd of passengers and numbers of vehicles, that London began in earnest. Just pausing to observe which appeared the most crowded streets, and consequently the most to be avoided, he crossed into Saint John’s Road, and was soon deep in the obscurity of the intricate and dirty ways, which, lying between Gray’s Inn Lane and Smithfield, render that part of the town one of the lowest and worst that improvement has left in the midst of London.

Through these streets, Noah Claypole walked, dragging Charlotte after him; now stepping into the kennel to embrace at a glance the whole external character of some small public-house; now jogging on again, as some fancied appearance induced him to believe it too public for his purpose. At length, he stopped in front of one, more humble in appearance and more dirty than any he had yet seen; and, having crossed over and surveyed it from the opposite pavement, graciously announced his intention of putting up there, for the night.

CAPITOLO XLII. UN VECCHIO CONOSCIUTO DI OLIVER, MOSTRANDO MARCHE EVIDENTI DI GENIO, DIVENTA UN PERSONAGGIO PUBBLICO NELLA METROPOLI

Nella notte in cui Nancy, dopo aver addormentato il signor Sikes, si affrettò nella sua missione autoimposta verso Rose Maylie, due persone avanzavano verso Londra per la Grande Strada del Nord, su cui è opportuno che questa storia soffermi l’attenzione.

Erano un uomo e una donna; o forse sarebbe meglio descriverli come un maschio e una femmina: poiché il primo era uno di quegli individui con arti lunghi, ginocchia varose, goffi ed emaciati, ai quali è difficile attribuire un’età precisa, dato che quando sono ancora ragazzi sembrano uomini sottosviluppati, e quando sono quasi uomini appaiono come ragazzini cresciuti troppo. La donna era giovane, ma di costituzione robusta e vigorosa, com’era necessario per sopportare il peso del pesante fagotto che le era assicurato sulla schiena. Il suo compagno non aveva molto bagaglio: gli pendeva soltanto dal bastone che portava in spalla un piccolo pacco avvolto in un comune fazzoletto, apparentemente abbastanza leggero. Questa circostanza, unita alla lunghezza delle sue gambe, di misura insolita, gli permetteva con molta facilità di tenersi a una mezza dozzina di passi davanti al suo compagno, verso il quale si voltava occasionalmente con un impaziente scatto del capo: come se lo rimproverasse per la sua lentezza e lo esortasse ad uno sforzo maggiore.

Così avevano faticato lungo la polverosa strada, prestando poca attenzione a qualsiasi oggetto in vista, tranne quando si spostavano di lato per lasciare un passaggio più ampio ai corrieri postali che uscivano vorticando dalla città, fino a quando non passarono sotto l’arco di Highgate; allora il viaggiatore più avanti si fermò e chiamò impazientemente il suo compagno.

“Su, non puoi? Che pigrona sei, Charlotte.”

«È un carico pesante, ve lo posso dire», disse la donna avvicinandosi, quasi senza fiato per la fatica.

“Pesante! Di che cosa state parlando? A che cosa siete fatto?” ribatté il viaggiatore maschio, cambiando la sua piccola borsa su un’altra spalla mentre parlava. “Oh, eccovi di nuovo a riposare! Beh, se non siete voi a mettere alla prova la pazienza di chiunque, non so proprio cosa possa farlo!”

«È ancora molto lontano?» chiese la donna, appoggiandosi contro un terrapieno e guardando in su con il sudore che le scorreva sul viso.

«Molto più lontano! Siete già quasi arrivati», disse il vagabondo dalle lunghe gambe, indicando davanti a sé. «Guardate là! Quelle sono le luci di Londra.»

«Sono lontani almeno due miglia buone», disse la donna con aria scoraggiata.

«Non importa se sono a due miglia di distanza o a venti», disse Noah Claypole (era proprio lui), «ma alzati e vieni avanti, oppure ti do un calcio, e te lo dico chiaro».

Mentre il naso rosso di Noè diventava sempre più rosso per la rabbia e mentre attraversava la strada parlando come se fosse pienamente pronto a mettere in atto la sua minaccia, la donna si alzò senza ulteriori commenti e proseguì faticosamente al suo fianco.

«Dove intendi fermarti per la notte, Noah?» gli chiese dopo che ebbero camminato qualche centinaio di metri.

«Come faccio a saperlo?» rispose Noah, il cui umore era stato notevolmente guastato dalla camminata.

«Vicino, spero», disse Charlotte.

“No, non è vicino,” rispose il signor Claypole. “Ecco! Non è vicino; quindi non pensateci.”

“Perché no?”

«Quando vi dico che non ho intenzione di fare una cosa, è sufficiente, senza nessun perché o perche», rispose il signor Claypole con dignità.

«Beh, non c’è bisogno di essere così irritato», disse il suo compagno.

“Sarebbe una bella cosa, no? Fermarci proprio alla prima taverna fuori città, così Sowerberry, se ci venisse dietro, potrebbe ficcare il suo vecchio naso e farci riportare indietro in un carro con le manette,” disse Claypole in tono beffardo. “No! Io andrò a perdermi tra le strade più strette che trovo, e non mi fermerò finché non arriveremo alla casa più fuori mano su cui posso mettere gli occhi. Accidenti, dovresti ringraziare le tue stelle di avere un cervello; perché se all’inizio non fossimo andati per la strada sbagliata apposta e tornati attraverso la campagna, ti avrebbero chiusa a chiave una settimana fa, mia signora. E te lo meriti per essere stata una sciocca.”

«So di non essere astuta come te», rispose Carlotta, «ma non addossarmi tutta la colpa e dire che avrebbero dovuto rinchiudermi in prigione. Avresti finito anche tu dentro se lo fossi stata io».

«Avete preso i soldi dal cassetto della cassa, sapete di averlo fatto», disse il signor Claypole.

«L’ho preso per te, caro Noah», replicò Charlotte.

«L’ho tenuto?» chiese il signor Claypole.

«No; tu hai avuto fiducia in me e mi hai lasciato portarlo come un tesoro, ed è così che sei», disse la signora, dandogli una pacca sotto il mento e passando il braccio sotto al suo.

E così era infatti; ma poiché non era abitudine del signor Claypole di riporre una fiducia cieca e sciocca in chicchessia, è giusto osservare che aveva affidato a Charlotte la somma per il semplice motivo che, se fossero stati inseguitori, i soldi sarebbero stati trovati su di lei: ciò gli avrebbe dato l’opportunità di dichiarare la propria innocenza da qualsiasi furto e facilitato enormemente le sue possibilità di fuga. Naturalmente in quel momento non si soffermò a spiegare i propri motivi, e continuarono ad andare avanti molto amorevolmente insieme.

In conformità a questo piano prudente, il signor Claypole proseguì senza fermarsi finché non giunse all’Angel di Islington, dove saggiamente dedusse, dalla folla di passeggeri e dal numero di veicoli, che Londra cominciava sul serio. Si fermò solo per un attimo a osservare quali sembravano le strade più affollate, e quindi quelle da evitare maggiormente, poi attraversò in Saint John’s Road, e ben presto si ritrovò immerso nell’oscurità delle vie intricate e sporche che, situate tra Gray’s Inn Lane e Smithfield, rendono quella parte della città una delle più basse e peggiori che il progresso abbia lasciato nel cuore di Londra.

Per queste strade camminava Noah Claypole trascinandosi dietro Charlotte; ora entrando nel canile per abbracciare con un solo sguardo l’intero aspetto esterno di qualche piccolo pub; ora riprendendo a camminare, poiché qualche apparenza immaginaria lo induceva a credere che fosse troppo pubblico per il suo scopo. Alla fine si fermò davanti a uno più umile nell’aspetto e più sporco di qualsiasi altro avesse visto finora; e, dopo aver attraversato la strada e osservatolo dal marciapiede opposto, annunciò con grazia la sua intenzione di alloggiare lì per la notte.

“So give us the bundle,” said Noah, unstrapping it from the woman’s shoulders, and slinging it over his own; “and don’t yer speak, except when yer spoke to. What’s the name of the house—t-h-r—three what?”

“Cripples,” said Charlotte.

“Three Cripples,” repeated Noah, “and a very good sign too. Now, then! Keep close at my heels, and come along.” With these injunctions, he pushed the rattling door with his shoulder, and entered the house, followed by his companion.

There was nobody in the bar but a young Jew, who, with his two elbows on the counter, was reading a dirty newspaper. He stared very hard at Noah, and Noah stared very hard at him.

If Noah had been attired in his charity-boy’s dress, there might have been some reason for the Jew opening his eyes so wide; but as he had discarded the coat and badge, and wore a short smock-frock over his leathers, there seemed no particular reason for his appearance exciting so much attention in a public-house.

“Is this the Three Cripples?” asked Noah.

“That is the dabe of this ’ouse,” replied the Jew.

“A gentleman we met on the road, coming up from the country, recommended us here,” said Noah, nudging Charlotte, perhaps to call her attention to this most ingenious device for attracting respect, and perhaps to warn her to betray no surprise. “We want to sleep here tonight.”

“I’b dot certaid you cad,” said Barney, who was the attendant sprite; “but I’ll idquire.”

“Show us the tap, and give us a bit of cold meat and a drop of beer while yer inquiring, will yer?” said Noah.

Barney complied by ushering them into a small back-room, and setting the required viands before them; having done which, he informed the travellers that they could be lodged that night, and left the amiable couple to their refreshment.

Now, this back-room was immediately behind the bar, and some steps lower, so that any person connected with the house, undrawing a small curtain which concealed a single pane of glass fixed in the wall of the last-named apartment, about five feet from its flooring, could not only look down upon any guests in the back-room without any great hazard of being observed (the glass being in a dark angle of the wall, between which and a large upright beam the observer had to thrust himself), but could, by applying his ear to the partition, ascertain with tolerable distinctness, their subject of conversation. The landlord of the house had not withdrawn his eye from this place of espial for five minutes, and Barney had only just returned from making the communication above related, when Fagin, in the course of his evening’s business, came into the bar to inquire after some of his young pupils.

“Hush!” said Barney: “stradegers id the next roob.”

“Strangers!” repeated the old man in a whisper.

“Ah! Ad rub uds too,” added Barney. “Frob the cuttry, but subthig in your way, or I’b bistaked.”

Fagin appeared to receive this communication with great interest.

Mounting a stool, he cautiously applied his eye to the pane of glass, from which secret post he could see Mr. Claypole taking cold beef from the dish, and porter from the pot, and administering homeopathic doses of both to Charlotte, who sat patiently by, eating and drinking at his pleasure.

“Aha!” he whispered, looking round to Barney, “I like that fellow’s looks. He’d be of use to us; he knows how to train the girl already. Don’t make as much noise as a mouse, my dear, and let me hear ’em talk—let me hear ’em.”

He again applied his eye to the glass, and turning his ear to the partition, listened attentively: with a subtle and eager look upon his face, that might have appertained to some old goblin.

“So I mean to be a gentleman,” said Mr. Claypole, kicking out his legs, and continuing a conversation, the commencement of which Fagin had arrived too late to hear. “No more jolly old coffins, Charlotte, but a gentleman’s life for me: and, if yer like, yer shall be a lady.”

“I should like that well enough, dear,” replied Charlotte; “but tills ain’t to be emptied every day, and people to get clear off after it.”

“Tills be blowed!” said Mr. Claypole; “there’s more things besides tills to be emptied.”

“What do you mean?” asked his companion.

“Pockets, women’s ridicules, houses, mail-coaches, banks!” said Mr. Claypole, rising with the porter.

“But you can’t do all that, dear,” said Charlotte.

“I shall look out to get into company with them as can,” replied Noah. “They’ll be able to make us useful some way or another. Why, you yourself are worth fifty women; I never see such a precious sly and deceitful creetur as yer can be when I let yer.”

“Lor, how nice it is to hear yer say so!” exclaimed Charlotte, imprinting a kiss upon his ugly face.

“There, that’ll do: don’t yer be too affectionate, in case I’m cross with yer,” said Noah, disengaging himself with great gravity. “I should like to be the captain of some band, and have the whopping of ’em, and follering ’em about, unbeknown to themselves. That would suit me, if there was good profit; and if we could only get in with some gentleman of this sort, I say it would be cheap at that twenty-pound note you’ve got,—especially as we don’t very well know how to get rid of it ourselves.”

After expressing this opinion, Mr. Claypole looked into the porter-pot with an aspect of deep wisdom; and having well shaken its contents, nodded condescendingly to Charlotte, and took a draught, wherewith he appeared greatly refreshed. He was meditating another, when the sudden opening of the door, and the appearance of a stranger, interrupted him.

The stranger was Mr. Fagin. And very amiable he looked, and a very low bow he made, as he advanced, and setting himself down at the nearest table, ordered something to drink of the grinning Barney.

“A pleasant night, sir, but cool for the time of year,” said Fagin, rubbing his hands. “From the country, I see, sir?”

“E allora dateci il fagotto”, disse Noah, slegandolo dalle spalle della donna e passandoselo sulle proprie; “e non parlate se prima non ve lo chiedono. Come si chiama la casa—t-h-r—three cosa?”

«Zoppi», disse Carlotta.

«Tre Zoppi», ripeté Noah, «e un segno davvero promettente. Ora, tenetevi stretti alle mie calcagna e venite con me». Con queste raccomandazioni, spinse la porta cigolante con la spalla ed entrò nella casa, seguito dal suo compagno.

Non c’era nessuno al banco se non un giovane ebreo che, con i gomiti sul bancone, stava leggendo un giornale sporco. Fissò molto intensamente Noè, e Noè lo fissò altrettanto intensamente.

Se Noè fosse stato vestito con l’abito da ragazzo della carità, ci sarebbe potuto essere qualche motivo per cui l’ebreo spalancasse tanto gli occhi; ma dato che aveva scartato la giacca e il distintivo, e indossava una corta veste di tela sopra i suoi abiti di pelle, non sembrava esserci un motivo particolare per cui la sua apparenza suscitasse tanta attenzione in un pub.

«Questo è il Tre Zoppi?» chiese Noah.

«Questo è il nome di questa casa», rispose l’ebreo.

«Un signore che abbiamo incontrato sulla strada, mentre veniva dalla campagna, ci ha consigliato questo posto», disse Noah, gomitate Charlotte, forse per attirare la sua attenzione su quell’ingegnoso stratagemma per ottenere rispetto e forse per avvertirla di non mostrare sorpresa. «Vogliamo dormire qui stanotte».

“Sono sicuro che puoi,” disse Barney, lo spirito presente; “ma chiederò.”

«Mostrateci il rubinetto e dateci un pezzetto di carne fredda e una sorsata di birra mentre state indagando, volete?» disse Noah.

Barney acconsentì facendoli accomodare in una piccola stanza sul retro e servendo loro i cibi richiesti; fatto ciò, informò i viaggiatori che avrebbero potuto alloggiare quella notte, lasciando la simpatica coppia ai suoi rinfreschi.

Ora, questa stanza sul retro si trovava immediatamente dietro il bancone e alcuni gradini più in basso, così che chiunque fosse legato alla casa, aprendo una piccola tenda che nascondeva un singolo vetro fissato nella parete dell’ultima stanza menzionata, a circa cinque piedi dal pavimento, non solo poteva guardare giù verso gli ospiti della stanza sul retro senza correre il rischio di essere visto (il vetro si trovava in un angolo buio della parete, tra cui e una grande trave verticale l’osservatore doveva infilarsi), ma poteva anche, appoggiando l’orecchio alla parete divisoria, ascoltare con sufficiente chiarezza il loro argomento di conversazione. Il proprietario della casa non aveva tolto gli occhi da questo posto di spionaggio per cinque minuti e Barney era appena tornato dal fare la comunicazione sopra menzionata, quando Fagin, nel corso delle sue faccende serali, entrò al bar per chiedere notizie di alcuni dei suoi giovani allievi.

“Silenzio!” disse Barney: “c’è un ladro nella stanza accanto.”

«Forestieri!» ripeté il vecchio sussurrando.

«Ah! Anche voi dovreste rubare», aggiunse Barney. «Dalla campagna, ma con discrezione, o vi becco».

Fagin sembrò ricevere questa comunicazione con grande interesse.

Salendo su uno sgabello, egli applicò cautamente l’occhio al vetro, da quel nascondiglio poteva vedere il signor Claypole che prendeva carne fredda dal piatto e birra dal bollitore, e somministrava dosi omeopatiche di entrambi a Charlotte, la quale sedeva pazientemente accanto, mangiando e bevendo secondo i suoi desideri.

«Ah!» sussurrò, guardando Barney «mi piace l’aspetto di quel tizio. Ci sarebbe utile; sa già come addestrare la ragazza. Non fare rumore più di un topo, mia cara, e lascia che li senta parlare, lascia che li senta».

Appoggiò di nuovo l’occhio al vetro e, avvicinando l’orecchio alla parete divisoria, ascoltò attentamente: con uno sguardo astuto ed avido sul volto che poteva essere quello di un vecchio goblin.

“Quindi intendo diventare un gentiluomo”, disse il signor Claypole, agitando le gambe e continuando una conversazione di cui Fagin era arrivato troppo tardi per sentire l’inizio. “Niente più allegri vecchi cofani, Charlotte, ma la vita da gentiluomo per me: e, se ti piace, potrai essere una signora.”

“Mi piacerebbe molto quel pozzo, caro”, rispose Charlotte; “ma questi pozzi non vanno svuotati ogni giorno e le persone devono poterli lasciare dopo averlo fatto”.

“I cassetti siano dannati!” disse il signor Claypole, “ci sono più cose oltre ai cassetti da svuotare.”

«Cosa intendete?» chiese il suo compagno.

«Tasche, ridicoli delle donne, case, corriere postale, banche!» disse il signor Claypole alzandosi con il facchino.

«Ma non puoi fare tutto questo, caro», disse Charlotte.

«Farò del mio meglio per mettermi in compagnia con loro», rispose Noah. «Sapranno trovarci un’occupazione o l’altra. Perché, tu da solo vali cinquanta donne; non ho mai visto una creatura così preziosamente furba e ingannevole come puoi essere quando ti lascio fare».

«Oh, che bello sentirvelo dire!» esclamò Charlotte, stampando un bacio sulla sua brutta faccia.

«Va bene così: non essere troppo affettuoso, nel caso io sia irritato con te», disse Noah, liberandosi con grande gravità. «Mi piacerebbe essere il capo di qualche banda e poterli picchiare e seguirli in giro, senza che loro lo sappiano. Questo mi andrebbe bene, se ci fosse un buon guadagno; e se solo riuscissimo a metterci d’accordo con qualche signore di questo tipo, dico che sarebbe una bella occasione per quella banconota da venti sterline che hai, soprattutto perché non sappiamo molto bene come liberarcene da soli.»

Dopo aver espresso questo parere, il signor Claypole scrutò la brocca della birra scura con un’aria di profonda saggezza; e avendo ben agitato il contenuto, fece un cenno condiscendente a Charlotte e bevve un sorso che sembrò rinvigorirlo parecchio. Stava meditando un altro sorso quando l’improvvisa apertura della porta e la comparsa di uno sconosciuto lo interruppero.

Lo sconosciuto era il signor Fagin. E aveva un’aria molto amichevole e fece un inchino molto profondo mentre si avvicinava; poi sedette al tavolo più vicino e ordinò da bere a Barney, che sogghignava.

“Una piacevole serata, signore, ma fresca per l’epoca dell’anno”, disse Fagin, strofinandosi le mani. “Vedo che viene dalla campagna, vero?”

“How do yer see that?” asked Noah Claypole.

“We have not so much dust as that in London,” replied Fagin, pointing from Noah’s shoes to those of his companion, and from them to the two bundles.

“Yer a sharp feller,” said Noah. “Ha! ha! only hear that, Charlotte!”

“Why, one need be sharp in this town, my dear,” replied the Jew, sinking his voice to a confidential whisper; “and that’s the truth.”

Fagin followed up this remark by striking the side of his nose with his right forefinger,—a gesture which Noah attempted to imitate, though not with complete success, in consequence of his own nose not being large enough for the purpose. However, Mr. Fagin seemed to interpret the endeavour as expressing a perfect coincidence with his opinion, and put about the liquor which Barney reappeared with, in a very friendly manner.

“Good stuff that,” observed Mr. Claypole, smacking his lips.

“Dear!” said Fagin. “A man need be always emptying a till, or a pocket, or a woman’s reticule, or a house, or a mail-coach, or a bank, if he drinks it regularly.”

Mr. Claypole no sooner heard this extract from his own remarks than he fell back in his chair, and looked from the Jew to Charlotte with a countenance of ashy paleness and excessive terror.

“Don’t mind me, my dear,” said Fagin, drawing his chair closer. “Ha! ha! it was lucky it was only me that heard you by chance. It was very lucky it was only me.”

“I didn’t take it,” stammered Noah, no longer stretching out his legs like an independent gentleman, but coiling them up as well as he could under his chair; “it was all her doing; yer’ve got it now, Charlotte, yer know yer have.”

“No matter who’s got it, or who did it, my dear,” replied Fagin, glancing, nevertheless, with a hawk’s eye at the girl and the two bundles. “I’m in that way myself, and I like you for it.”

“In what way?” asked Mr. Claypole, a little recovering.

“In that way of business,” rejoined Fagin; “and so are the people of the house. You’ve hit the right nail upon the head, and are as safe here as you could be. There is not a safer place in all this town than is the Cripples; that is, when I like to make it so. And I have taken a fancy to you and the young woman; so I’ve said the word, and you may make your minds easy.”

Noah Claypole’s mind might have been at ease after this assurance, but his body certainly was not; for he shuffled and writhed about, into various uncouth positions: eyeing his new friend meanwhile with mingled fear and suspicion.

“I’ll tell you more,” said Fagin, after he had reassured the girl, by dint of friendly nods and muttered encouragements. “I have got a friend that I think can gratify your darling wish, and put you in the right way, where you can take whatever department of the business you think will suit you best at first, and be taught all the others.”

“Yer speak as if yer were in earnest,” replied Noah.

“What advantage would it be to me to be anything else?” inquired Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. “Here! Let me have a word with you outside.”

“There’s no occasion to trouble ourselves to move,” said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again. “She’ll take the luggage upstairs the while. Charlotte, see to them bundles.”

This mandate, which had been delivered with great majesty, was obeyed without the slightest demur; and Charlotte made the best of her way off with the packages while Noah held the door open and watched her out.

“She’s kept tolerably well under, ain’t she?” he asked as he resumed his seat: in the tone of a keeper who had tamed some wild animal.

“Quite perfect,” rejoined Fagin, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re a genius, my dear.”

“Why, I suppose if I wasn’t, I shouldn’t be here,” replied Noah. “But, I say, she’ll be back if yer lose time.”

“Now, what do you think?” said Fagin. “If you was to like my friend, could you do better than join him?”

“Is he in a good way of business; that’s where it is!” responded Noah, winking one of his little eyes.

“The top of the tree; employs a power of hands; has the very best society in the profession.”

“Regular town-maders?” asked Mr. Claypole.

“Not a countryman among ’em; and I don’t think he’d take you, even on my recommendation, if he didn’t run rather short of assistants just now,” replied Fagin.

“Should I have to hand over?” said Noah, slapping his breeches-pocket.

“It couldn’t possibly be done without,” replied Fagin, in a most decided manner.

“Twenty pound, though—it’s a lot of money!”

“Not when it’s in a note you can’t get rid of,” retorted Fagin. “Number and date taken, I suppose? Payment stopped at the Bank? Ah! It’s not worth much to him. It’ll have to go abroad, and he couldn’t sell it for a great deal in the market.”

“When could I see him?” asked Noah doubtfully.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“Um!” said Noah. “What’s the wages?”

“Live like a gentleman—board and lodging, pipes and spirits free—half of all you earn, and half of all the young woman earns,” replied Mr. Fagin.

Whether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of the least comprehensive, would have acceded even to these glowing terms, had he been a perfectly free agent, is very doubtful; but as he recollected that, in the event of his refusal, it was in the power of his new acquaintance to give him up to justice immediately (and more unlikely things had come to pass), he gradually relented, and said he thought that would suit him.

“But, yer see,” observed Noah, “as she will be able to do a good deal, I should like to take something very light.”

“A little fancy work?” suggested Fagin.

“Ah! something of that sort,” replied Noah. “What do you think would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, you know. That’s the sort of thing!”

“I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear,” said Fagin. “My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much.”

“Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn’t mind turning my hand to it sometimes,” rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; “but it wouldn’t pay by itself, you know.”

“That’s true!” observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate. “No, it might not.”

“What do you think, then?” asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. “Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being at home.”

“What do you think of the old ladies?” asked Fagin. “There’s a good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner.”

“Don’t they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?” asked Noah, shaking his head. “I don’t think that would answer my purpose. Ain’t there any other line open?”

“Stop!” said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah’s knee. “The kinchin lay.”

“What’s that?” demanded Mr. Claypole.

“The kinchins, my dear,” said Fagin, “is the young children that’s sent on errands by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the lay is just to take their money away—they’ve always got it ready in their hands,—then knock ’em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there were nothing else the matter but a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!”

“Ha! ha!” roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy. “Lord, that’s the very thing!”

“To be sure it is,” replied Fagin; “and you can have a few good beats chalked out in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and neighborhoods like that, where they’re always going errands; and you can upset as many kinchins as you want, any hour in the day. Ha! ha! ha!”

With this, Fagin poked Mr. Claypole in the side, and they joined in a burst of laughter both long and loud.

“Well, that’s all right!” said Noah, when he had recovered himself, and Charlotte had returned. “What time tomorrow shall we say?”

“Will ten do?” asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded assent, “What name shall I tell my good friend.”

“Mr. Bolter,” replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such emergency. “Mr. Morris Bolter. This is Mrs. Bolter.”

“Mrs. Bolter’s humble servant,” said Fagin, bowing with grotesque politeness. “I hope I shall know her better very shortly.”

“Do you hear the gentleman, Charlotte?” thundered Mr. Claypole.

“Yes, Noah, dear!” replied Mrs. Bolter, extending her hand.

“She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking,” said Mr. Morris Bolter, late Claypole, turning to Fagin. “You understand?”

“Oh yes, I understand—perfectly,” replied Fagin, telling the truth for once. “Good-night! Good-night!”

With many adieus and good wishes, Mr. Fagin went his way. Noah Claypole, bespeaking his good lady’s attention, proceeded to enlighten her relative to the arrangement he had made, with all that haughtiness and air of superiority, becoming, not only a member of the sterner sex, but a gentleman who appreciated the dignity of a special appointment on the kinchin lay, in London and its vicinity.

CHAPTER XLIII. WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE ARTFUL DODGER GOT INTO TROUBLE

“And so it was you that was your own friend, was it?” asked Mr. Claypole, otherwise Bolter, when, by virtue of the compact entered into between them, he had removed next day to Fagin’s house. “Cod, I thought as much last night!”

“Every man’s his own friend, my dear,” replied Fagin, with his most insinuating grin. “He hasn’t as good a one as himself anywhere.”

“Except sometimes,” replied Morris Bolter, assuming the air of a man of the world. “Some people are nobody’s enemies but their own, yer know.”

“Don’t believe that,” said Fagin. “When a man’s his own enemy, it’s only because he’s too much his own friend; not because he’s careful for everybody but himself. Pooh! pooh! There ain’t such a thing in nature.”

“There oughn’t to be, if there is,” replied Mr. Bolter.

“That stands to reason. Some conjurers say that number three is the magic number, and some say number seven. It’s neither, my friend, neither. It’s number one.”

“Ha! ha!” cried Mr. Bolter. “Number one for ever.”

“In a little community like ours, my dear,” said Fagin, who felt it necessary to qualify this position, “we have a general number one, without considering me too as the same, and all the other young people.”

“Oh, the devil!” exclaimed Mr. Bolter.

“You see,” pursued Fagin, affecting to disregard this interruption, “we are so mixed up together, and identified in our interests, that it must be so. For instance, it’s your object to take care of number one—meaning yourself.”

“Certainly,” replied Mr. Bolter. “Yer about right there.”

“Well! You can’t take care of yourself, number one, without taking care of me, number one.”

“Number two, you mean,” said Mr. Bolter, who was largely endowed with the quality of selfishness.

“No, I don’t!” retorted Fagin. “I’m of the same importance to you, as you are to yourself.”

“I say,” interrupted Mr. Bolter, “yer a very nice man, and I’m very fond of yer; but we ain’t quite so thick together, as all that comes to.”

“Only think,” said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders, and stretching out his hands; “only consider. You’ve done what’s a very pretty thing, and what I love you for doing; but what at the same time would put the cravat round your throat, that’s so very easily tied and so very difficult to unloose—in plain English, the halter!”

Mr. Bolter put his hand to his neckerchief, as if he felt it inconveniently tight; and murmured an assent, qualified in tone but not in substance.

“The gallows,” continued Fagin, “the gallows, my dear, is an ugly finger-post, which points out a very short and sharp turning that has stopped many a bold fellow’s career on the broad highway. To keep in the easy road, and keep it at a distance, is object number one with you.”

“Of course it is,” replied Mr. Bolter. “What do yer talk about such things for?”

“Only to show you my meaning clearly,” said the Jew, raising his eyebrows. “To be able to do that, you depend upon me. To keep my little business all snug, I depend upon you. The first is your number one, the second my number one. The more you value your number one, the more careful you must be of mine; so we come at last to what I told you at first—that a regard for number one holds us all together, and must do so, unless we would all go to pieces in company.”

“That’s true,” rejoined Mr. Bolter, thoughtfully. “Oh! yer a cunning old codger!”

Mr. Fagin saw, with delight, that this tribute to his powers was no mere compliment, but that he had really impressed his recruit with a sense of his wily genius, which it was most important that he should entertain in the outset of their acquaintance. To strengthen an impression so desirable and useful, he followed up the blow by acquainting him, in some detail, with the magnitude and extent of his operations; blending truth and fiction together, as best served his purpose; and bringing both to bear, with so much art, that Mr. Bolter’s respect visibly increased, and became tempered, at the same time, with a degree of wholesome fear, which it was highly desirable to awaken.

“It’s this mutual trust we have in each other that consoles me under heavy losses,” said Fagin. “My best hand was taken from me, yesterday morning.”

“You don’t mean to say he died?” cried Mr. Bolter.

“No, no,” replied Fagin, “not so bad as that. Not quite so bad.”

“What, I suppose he was—”

“Wanted,” interposed Fagin. “Yes, he was wanted.”

“Very particular?” inquired Mr. Bolter.

“No,” replied Fagin, “not very. He was charged with attempting to pick a pocket, and they found a silver snuff-box on him,—his own, my dear, his own, for he took snuff himself, and was very fond of it. They remanded him till today, for they thought they knew the owner. Ah! he was worth fifty boxes, and I’d give the price of as many to have him back. You should have known the Dodger, my dear; you should have known the Dodger.”

“Well, but I shall know him, I hope; don’t yer think so?” said Mr. Bolter.

“I’m doubtful about it,” replied Fagin, with a sigh. “If they don’t get any fresh evidence, it’ll only be a summary conviction, and we shall have him back again after six weeks or so; but, if they do, it’s a case of lagging. They know what a clever lad he is; he’ll be a lifer. They’ll make the Artful nothing less than a lifer.”

“What do you mean by lagging and a lifer?” demanded Mr. Bolter. “What’s the good of talking in that way to me; why don’t yer speak so as I can understand yer?”

Fagin was about to translate these mysterious expressions into the vulgar tongue; and, being interpreted, Mr. Bolter would have been informed that they represented that combination of words, “transportation for life,” when the dialogue was cut short by the entry of Master Bates, with his hands in his breeches-pockets, and his face twisted into a look of semi-comical woe.

“It’s all up, Fagin,” said Charley, when he and his new companion had been made known to each other.

“What do you mean?”

“They’ve found the gentleman as owns the box; two or three more’s a coming to ’dentify him; and the Artful’s booked for a passage out,” replied Master Bates. “I must have a full suit of mourning, Fagin, and a hatband, to wisit him in, afore he sets out upon his travels. To think of Jack Dawkins—lummy Jack—the Dodger—the Artful Dodger—going abroad for a common twopenny-halfpenny sneeze-box! I never thought he’d a done it under a gold watch, chain, and seals, at the lowest. Oh, why didn’t he rob some rich old gentleman of all his walables, and go out as a gentleman, and not like a common prig, without no honour nor glory!”

With this expression of feeling for his unfortunate friend, Master Bates sat himself on the nearest chair with an aspect of chagrin and despondency.

“What do you talk about his having neither honour nor glory for!” exclaimed Fagin, darting an angry look at his pupil. “Wasn’t he always the top-sawyer among you all! Is there one of you that could touch him or come near him on any scent! Eh?”

“Not one,” replied Master Bates, in a voice rendered husky by regret; “not one.”

“Then what do you talk of?” replied Fagin angrily; “what are you blubbering for?”

“’Cause it isn’t on the rec-ord, is it?” said Charley, chafed into perfect defiance of his venerable friend by the current of his regrets; “’cause it can’t come out in the ’dictment; ’cause nobody will never know half of what he was. How will he stand in the Newgate Calendar? P’raps not be there at all. Oh, my eye, my eye, wot a blow it is!”

“Ha! ha!” cried Fagin, extending his right hand, and turning to Mr. Bolter in a fit of chuckling which shook him as though he had the palsy; “see what a pride they take in their profession, my dear. Ain’t it beautiful?”

Mr. Bolter nodded assent, and Fagin, after contemplating the grief of Charley Bates for some seconds with evident satisfaction, stepped up to that young gentleman and patted him on the shoulder.

“Never mind, Charley,” said Fagin soothingly; “it’ll come out, it’ll be sure to come out. They’ll all know what a clever fellow he was; he’ll show it himself, and not disgrace his old pals and teachers. Think how young he is too! What a distinction, Charley, to be lagged at his time of life!”

“Well, it is a honour that is!” said Charley, a little consoled.

“He shall have all he wants,” continued the Jew. “He shall be kept in the Stone Jug, Charley, like a gentleman. Like a gentleman! With his beer every day, and money in his pocket to pitch and toss with, if he can’t spend it.”

“No, shall he though?” cried Charley Bates.

“Ay, that he shall,” replied Fagin, “and we’ll have a big-wig, Charley: one that’s got the greatest gift of the gab: to carry on his defence; and he shall make a speech for himself too, if he likes; and we’ll read it all in the papers—‘Artful Dodger—shrieks of laughter—here the court was convulsed’—eh, Charley, eh?”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Master Bates, “what a lark that would be, wouldn’t it, Fagin? I say, how the Artful would bother ’em wouldn’t he?”

“Would!” cried Fagin. “He shall—he will!”

“Ah, to be sure, so he will,” repeated Charley, rubbing his hands.

“I think I see him now,” cried the Jew, bending his eyes upon his pupil.

“So do I,” cried Charley Bates. “Ha! ha! ha! so do I. I see it all afore me, upon my soul I do, Fagin. What a game! What a regular game! All the big-wigs trying to look solemn, and Jack Dawkins addressing of ’em as intimate and comfortable as if he was the judge’s own son making a speech arter dinner—ha! ha! ha!”

In fact, Mr. Fagin had so well humoured his young friend’s eccentric disposition, that Master Bates, who had at first been disposed to consider the imprisoned Dodger rather in the light of a victim, now looked upon him as the chief actor in a scene of most uncommon and exquisite humour, and felt quite impatient for the arrival of the time when his old companion should have so favourable an opportunity of displaying his abilities.

“We must know how he gets on today, by some handy means or other,” said Fagin. “Let me think.”

“Shall I go?” asked Charley.

“Not for the world,” replied Fagin. “Are you mad, my dear, stark mad, that you’d walk into the very place where—No, Charley, no. One is enough to lose at a time.”

“You don’t mean to go yourself, I suppose?” said Charley with a humorous leer.

“That wouldn’t quite fit,” replied Fagin shaking his head.

“Then why don’t you send this new cove?” asked Master Bates, laying his hand on Noah’s arm. “Nobody knows him.”

“Why, if he didn’t mind—” observed Fagin.

“Mind!” interposed Charley. “What should he have to mind?”

“Really nothing, my dear,” said Fagin, turning to Mr. Bolter, “really nothing.”

“Oh, I dare say about that, yer know,” observed Noah, backing towards the door, and shaking his head with a kind of sober alarm. “No, no—none of that. It’s not in my department, that ain’t.”

“Wot department has he got, Fagin?” inquired Master Bates, surveying Noah’s lank form with much disgust. “The cutting away when there’s anything wrong, and the eating all the wittles when there’s everything right; is that his branch?”

“Never mind,” retorted Mr. Bolter; “and don’t yer take liberties with yer superiors, little boy, or yer’ll find yerself in the wrong shop.”

Master Bates laughed so vehemently at this magnificent threat, that it was some time before Fagin could interpose, and represent to Mr. Bolter that he incurred no possible danger in visiting the police-office; that, inasmuch as no account of the little affair in which he had engaged, nor any description of his person, had yet been forwarded to the metropolis, it was very probable that he was not even suspected of having resorted to it for shelter; and that, if he were properly disguised, it would be as safe a spot for him to visit as any in London, inasmuch as it would be, of all places, the very last, to which he could be supposed likely to resort of his own free will.

Persuaded, in part, by these representations, but overborne in a much greater degree by his fear of Fagin, Mr. Bolter at length consented, with a very bad grace, to undertake the expedition. By Fagin’s directions, he immediately substituted for his own attire, a waggoner’s frock, velveteen breeches, and leather leggings: all of which articles the Jew had at hand. He was likewise furnished with a felt hat well garnished with turnpike tickets; and a carter’s whip. Thus equipped, he was to saunter into the office, as some country fellow from Covent Garden market might be supposed to do for the gratification of his curiousity; and as he was as awkward, ungainly, and raw-boned a fellow as need be, Mr. Fagin had no fear but that he would look the part to perfection.

These arrangements completed, he was informed of the necessary signs and tokens by which to recognise the Artful Dodger, and was conveyed by Master Bates through dark and winding ways to within a very short distance of Bow Street. Having described the precise situation of the office, and accompanied it with copious directions how he was to walk straight up the passage, and when he got into the side, and pull off his hat as he went into the room, Charley Bates bade him hurry on alone, and promised to bide his return on the spot of their parting.

Noah Claypole, or Morris Bolter as the reader pleases, punctually followed the directions he had received, which—Master Bates being pretty well acquainted with the locality—were so exact that he was enabled to gain the magisterial presence without asking any question, or meeting with any interruption by the way.

He found himself jostled among a crowd of people, chiefly women, who were huddled together in a dirty frowsy room, at the upper end of which was a raised platform railed off from the rest, with a dock for the prisoners on the left hand against the wall, a box for the witnesses in the middle, and a desk for the magistrates on the right; the awful locality last named, being screened off by a partition which concealed the bench from the common gaze, and left the vulgar to imagine (if they could) the full majesty of justice.

There were only a couple of women in the dock, who were nodding to their admiring friends, while the clerk read some depositions to a couple of policemen and a man in plain clothes who leant over the table. A jailer stood reclining against the dock-rail, tapping his nose listlessly with a large key, except when he repressed an undue tendency to conversation among the idlers, by proclaiming silence; or looked sternly up to bid some woman “Take that baby out,” when the gravity of justice was disturbed by feeble cries, half-smothered in the mother’s shawl, from some meagre infant. The room smelt close and unwholesome; the walls were dirt-discoloured; and the ceiling blackened. There was an old smoky bust over the mantel-shelf, and a dusty clock above the dock—the only thing present, that seemed to go on as it ought; for depravity, or poverty, or an habitual acquaintance with both, had left a taint on all the animate matter, hardly less unpleasant than the thick greasy scum on every inanimate object that frowned upon it.

Noah looked eagerly about him for the Dodger; but although there were several women who would have done very well for that distinguished character’s mother or sister, and more than one man who might be supposed to bear a strong resemblance to his father, nobody at all answering the description given him of Mr. Dawkins was to be seen. He waited in a state of much suspense and uncertainty until the women, being committed for trial, went flaunting out; and then was quickly relieved by the appearance of another prisoner who he felt at once could be no other than the object of his visit.

It was indeed Mr. Dawkins, who, shuffling into the office with the big coat sleeves tucked up as usual, his left hand in his pocket, and his hat in his right hand, preceded the jailer, with a rolling gait altogether indescribable, and, taking his place in the dock, requested in an audible voice to know what he was placed in that ’ere disgraceful sitivation for.

“Hold your tongue, will you?” said the jailer.

“I’m an Englishman, ain’t I?” rejoined the Dodger. “Where are my priwileges?”

“You’ll get your privileges soon enough,” retorted the jailer, “and pepper with ’em.”

“We’ll see wot the Secretary of State for the Home Affairs has got to say to the beaks, if I don’t,” replied Mr. Dawkins. “Now then! Wot is this here business? I shall thank the madg’strates to dispose of this here little affair, and not to keep me while they read the paper, for I’ve got an appointment with a genelman in the City, and as I am a man of my word and wery punctual in business matters, he’ll go away if I ain’t there to my time, and then pr’aps ther won’t be an action for damage against them as kep me away. Oh no, certainly not!”

At this point, the Dodger, with a show of being very particular with a view to proceedings to be had thereafter, desired the jailer to communicate “the names of them two files as was on the bench.” Which so tickled the spectators, that they laughed almost as heartily as Master Bates could have done if he had heard the request.

“Silence there!” cried the jailer.

“What is this?” inquired one of the magistrates.

“A pick-pocketing case, your worship.”

“Has the boy ever been here before?”

“He ought to have been, a many times,” replied the jailer. “He has been pretty well everywhere else. I know him well, your worship.”

“Oh! you know me, do you?” cried the Artful, making a note of the statement. “Wery good. That’s a case of deformation of character, any way.”

Here there was another laugh, and another cry of silence.

“Now then, where are the witnesses?” said the clerk.

“Ah! that’s right,” added the Dodger. “Where are they? I should like to see ’em.”

This wish was immediately gratified, for a policeman stepped forward who had seen the prisoner attempt the pocket of an unknown gentleman in a crowd, and indeed take a handkerchief therefrom, which, being a very old one, he deliberately put back again, after trying it on his own countenance. For this reason, he took the Dodger into custody as soon as he could get near him, and the said Dodger, being searched, had upon his person a silver snuff-box, with the owner’s name engraved upon the lid. This gentleman had been discovered on reference to the Court Guide, and being then and there present, swore that the snuff-box was his, and that he had missed it on the previous day, the moment he had disengaged himself from the crowd before referred to. He had also remarked a young gentleman in the throng, particularly active in making his way about, and that young gentleman was the prisoner before him.

“Have you anything to ask this witness, boy?” said the magistrate.

“I wouldn’t abase myself by descending to hold no conversation with him,” replied the Dodger.

“Have you anything to say at all?”

“Do you hear his worship ask if you’ve anything to say?” inquired the jailer, nudging the silent Dodger with his elbow.

“I beg your pardon,” said the Dodger, looking up with an air of abstraction. “Did you redress yourself to me, my man?”

“I never see such an out-and-out young wagabond, your worship,” observed the officer with a grin. “Do you mean to say anything, you young shaver?”

“No,” replied the Dodger, “not here, for this ain’t the shop for justice: besides which, my attorney is a-breakfasting this morning with the Wice President of the House of Commons; but I shall have something to say elsewhere, and so will he, and so will a wery numerous and ’spectable circle of acquaintance as’ll make them beaks wish they’d never been born, or that they’d got their footmen to hang ’em up to their own hat-pegs, afore they let ’em come out this morning to try it on upon me. I’ll—”

“There! He’s fully committed!” interposed the clerk. “Take him away.”

“Come on,” said the jailer.

“Oh ah! I’ll come on,” replied the Dodger, brushing his hat with the palm of his hand. “Ah! (to the Bench) it’s no use your looking frightened; I won’t show you no mercy, not a ha’porth of it. You’ll pay for this, my fine fellers. I wouldn’t be you for something! I wouldn’t go free, now, if you was to fall down on your knees and ask me. Here, carry me off to prison! Take me away!”

With these last words, the Dodger suffered himself to be led off by the collar; threatening, till he got into the yard, to make a parliamentary business of it; and then grinning in the officer’s face, with great glee and self-approval.

Having seen him locked up by himself in a little cell, Noah made the best of his way back to where he had left Master Bates. After waiting here some time, he was joined by that young gentleman, who had prudently abstained from showing himself until he had looked carefully abroad from a snug retreat, and ascertained that his new friend had not been followed by any impertinent person.

The two hastened back together, to bear to Mr. Fagin the animating news that the Dodger was doing full justice to his bringing-up, and establishing for himself a glorious reputation.

CHAPTER XLIV. THE TIME ARRIVES FOR NANCY TO REDEEM HER PLEDGE TO ROSE MAYLIE. SHE FAILS.

Adept as she was, in all the arts of cunning and dissimulation, the girl Nancy could not wholly conceal the effect which the knowledge of the step she had taken, wrought upon her mind. She remembered that both the crafty Jew and the brutal Sikes had confided to her schemes, which had been hidden from all others: in the full confidence that she was trustworthy and beyond the reach of their suspicion. Vile as those schemes were, desperate as were their originators, and bitter as were her feelings towards Fagin, who had led her, step by step, deeper and deeper down into an abyss of crime and misery, whence was no escape; still, there were times when, even towards him, she felt some relenting, lest her disclosure should bring him within the iron grasp he had so long eluded, and he should fall at last—richly as he merited such a fate—by her hand.

But, these were the mere wanderings of a mind unable wholly to detach itself from old companions and associations, though enabled to fix itself steadily on one object, and resolved not to be turned aside by any consideration. Her fears for Sikes would have been more powerful inducements to recoil while there was yet time; but she had stipulated that her secret should be rigidly kept, she had dropped no clue which could lead to his discovery, she had refused, even for his sake, a refuge from all the guilt and wretchedness that encompasses her—and what more could she do! She was resolved.

Though all her mental struggles terminated in this conclusion, they forced themselves upon her, again and again, and left their traces too. She grew pale and thin, even within a few days. At times, she took no heed of what was passing before her, or no part in conversations where once, she would have been the loudest. At other times, she laughed without merriment, and was noisy without a moment afterwards—she sat silent and dejected, brooding with her head upon her hands, while the very effort by which she roused herself, told, more forcibly than even these indications, that she was ill at ease, and that her thoughts were occupied with matters very different and distant from those in the course of discussion by her companions.

It was Sunday night, and the bell of the nearest church struck the hour. Sikes and the Jew were talking, but they paused to listen. The girl looked up from the low seat on which she crouched, and listened too. Eleven.

“An hour this side of midnight,” said Sikes, raising the blind to look out and returning to his seat. “Dark and heavy it is too. A good night for business this.”

“Ah!” replied Fagin. “What a pity, Bill, my dear, that there’s none quite ready to be done.”

“You’re right for once,” replied Sikes gruffly. “It is a pity, for I’m in the humour too.”

Fagin sighed, and shook his head despondingly.

“We must make up for lost time when we’ve got things into a good train. That’s all I know,” said Sikes.

“That’s the way to talk, my dear,” replied Fagin, venturing to pat him on the shoulder. “It does me good to hear you.”

“Does you good, does it!” cried Sikes. “Well, so be it.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Fagin, as if he were relieved by even this concession. “You’re like yourself tonight, Bill. Quite like yourself.”

“I don’t feel like myself when you lay that withered old claw on my shoulder, so take it away,” said Sikes, casting off the Jew’s hand.

“It make you nervous, Bill,—reminds you of being nabbed, does it?” said Fagin, determined not to be offended.

“Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil,” returned Sikes. “There never was another man with such a face as yours, unless it was your father, and I suppose he is singeing his grizzled red beard by this time, unless you came straight from the old ’un without any father at all betwixt you; which I shouldn’t wonder at, a bit.”

Fagin offered no reply to this compliment: but, pulling Sikes by the sleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room.

“Hallo!” cried Sikes. “Nance. Where’s the gal going to at this time of night?”

“Not far.”

“What answer’s that?” retorted Sikes. “Do you hear me?”

“I don’t know where,” replied the girl.

“Then I do,” said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. “Nowhere. Sit down.”

“I’m not well. I told you that before,” rejoined the girl. “I want a breath of air.”

“Put your head out of the winder,” replied Sikes.

“There’s not enough there,” said the girl. “I want it in the street.”

“Then you won’t have it,” replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press. “There,” said the robber. “Now stop quietly where you are, will you?”

“It’s not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me,” said the girl turning very pale. “What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Know what I’m—Oh!” cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, “she’s out of her senses, you know, or she daren’t talk to me in that way.”

“You’ll drive me on the something desperate,” muttered the girl placing both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. “Let me go, will you,—this minute—this instant.”

“No!” said Sikes.

“Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It’ll be better for him. Do you hear me?” cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground.

“Hear you!” repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her. “Aye! And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a grip on your throat as’ll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has come over you, you jade! Wot is it?”

“Let me go,” said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself down on the floor, before the door, she said, “Bill, let me go; you don’t know what you are doing. You don’t, indeed. For only one hour—do—do!”

“Cut my limbs off one by one!” cried Sikes, seizing her roughly by the arm, “If I don’t think the gal’s stark raving mad. Get up.”

“Not till you let me go—not till you let me go—Never—never!” screamed the girl. Sikes looked on, for a minute, watching his opportunity, and suddenly pinioning her hands dragged her, struggling and wrestling with him by the way, into a small room adjoining, where he sat himself on a bench, and thrusting her into a chair, held her down by force. She struggled and implored by turns until twelve o’clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest the point any further. With a caution, backed by many oaths, to make no more efforts to go out that night, Sikes left her to recover at leisure and rejoined Fagin.

“Whew!” said the housebreaker wiping the perspiration from his face. “Wot a precious strange gal that is!”

“You may say that, Bill,” replied Fagin thoughtfully. “You may say that.”

“Wot did she take it into her head to go out tonight for, do you think?” asked Sikes. “Come; you should know her better than me. Wot does it mean?”

“Obstinacy; woman’s obstinacy, I suppose, my dear.”

“Well, I suppose it is,” growled Sikes. “I thought I had tamed her, but she’s as bad as ever.”

“Worse,” said Fagin thoughtfully. “I never knew her like this, for such a little cause.”

“Nor I,” said Sikes. “I think she’s got a touch of that fever in her blood yet, and it won’t come out—eh?”

“Like enough.”

“I’ll let her a little blood, without troubling the doctor, if she’s took that way again,” said Sikes.

Fagin nodded an expressive approval of this mode of treatment.

“She was hanging about me all day, and night too, when I was stretched on my back; and you, like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept yourself aloof,” said Sikes. “We was poor too, all the time, and I think, one way or other, it’s worried and fretted her; and that being shut up here so long has made her restless—eh?”

“That’s it, my dear,” replied the Jew in a whisper. “Hush!”

As he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared and resumed her former seat. Her eyes were swollen and red; she rocked herself to and fro; tossed her head; and, after a little time, burst out laughing.

“Why, now she’s on the other tack!” exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of excessive surprise on his companion.

Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.

“Light him down,” said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. “It’s a pity he should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light.”

Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the girl, said, in a whisper.

“What is it, Nancy, dear?”

“What do you mean?” replied the girl, in the same tone.

“The reason of all this,” replied Fagin. “If he”—he pointed with his skinny fore-finger up the stairs—“is so hard with you (he’s a brute, Nance, a brute-beast), why don’t you—”

“Well?” said the girl, as Fagin paused, with his mouth almost touching her ear, and his eyes looking into hers.

“No matter just now. We’ll talk of this again. You have a friend in me, Nance; a staunch friend. I have the means at hand, quiet and close. If you want revenge on those that treat you like a dog—like a dog! worse than his dog, for he humours him sometimes—come to me. I say, come to me. He is the mere hound of a day, but you know me of old, Nance.”

“I know you well,” replied the girl, without manifesting the least emotion. “Good-night.”

She shrank back, as Fagin offered to lay his hand on hers, but said good-night again, in a steady voice, and, answering his parting look with a nod of intelligence, closed the door between them.

Fagin walked towards his home, intent upon the thoughts that were working within his brain. He had conceived the idea—not from what had just passed though that had tended to confirm him, but slowly and by degrees—that Nancy, wearied of the housebreaker’s brutality, had conceived an attachment for some new friend. Her altered manner, her repeated absences from home alone, her comparative indifference to the interests of the gang for which she had once been so zealous, and, added to these, her desperate impatience to leave home that night at a particular hour, all favoured the supposition, and rendered it, to him at least, almost matter of certainty. The object of this new liking was not among his myrmidons. He would be a valuable acquisition with such an assistant as Nancy, and must (thus Fagin argued) be secured without delay.

There was another, and a darker object, to be gained. Sikes knew too much, and his ruffian taunts had not galled Fagin the less, because the wounds were hidden. The girl must know, well, that if she shook him off, she could never be safe from his fury, and that it would be surely wreaked—to the maiming of limbs, or perhaps the loss of life—on the object of her more recent fancy.

“With a little persuasion,” thought Fagin, “what more likely than that she would consent to poison him? Women have done such things, and worse, to secure the same object before now. There would be the dangerous villain: the man I hate: gone; another secured in his place; and my influence over the girl, with a knowledge of this crime to back it, unlimited.”

These things passed through the mind of Fagin, during the short time he sat alone, in the housebreaker’s room; and with them uppermost in his thoughts, he had taken the opportunity afterwards afforded him, of sounding the girl in the broken hints he threw out at parting. There was no expression of surprise, no assumption of an inability to understand his meaning. The girl clearly comprehended it. Her glance at parting showed that.

But perhaps she would recoil from a plot to take the life of Sikes, and that was one of the chief ends to be attained. “How,” thought Fagin, as he crept homeward, “can I increase my influence with her? What new power can I acquire?”

Such brains are fertile in expedients. If, without extracting a confession from herself, he laid a watch, discovered the object of her altered regard, and threatened to reveal the whole history to Sikes (of whom she stood in no common fear) unless she entered into his designs, could he not secure her compliance?

“I can,” said Fagin, almost aloud. “She durst not refuse me then. Not for her life, not for her life! I have it all. The means are ready, and shall be set to work. I shall have you yet!”

He cast back a dark look, and a threatening motion of the hand, towards the spot where he had left the bolder villain; and went on his way: busying his bony hands in the folds of his tattered garment, which he wrenched tightly in his grasp, as though there were a hated enemy crushed with every motion of his fingers.

«Lasciami andare», disse la ragazza con grande serietà; poi sedendosi sul pavimento davanti alla porta, disse: «Bill, lasciami andare; non sai quello che fai. Non lo sai davvero. Per solo un’ora — per favore — per favore!»

«Tagliami le membra una dopo l’altra!» gridò Sikes afferrandola brutalmente per il braccio «se non credessi che la ragazza è completamente fuori di testa. Alzati».

“Non prima che mi lasciate andare—non prima che mi lasciate andare—Mai—mai!” gridò la ragazza. Sikes osservò per un minuto, aspettando l’occasione giusta e poi, immobilizzandole le mani, la trascinò nella stanza accanto mentre lei si dibatteva e cercava di liberarsi; una volta dentro, lui si sedette su uno sgabello e la spinse su una sedia, tenendola ferma con la forza. Lei continuò a lottare e a supplicare fino alle dodici in punto, quando, esausta e sfinita, smise di opporre resistenza. Con un avvertimento, accompagnato da molti giuramenti, di non fare altri tentativi per uscire quella sera, Sikes la lasciò riprendersi a suo agio e tornò da Fagin.

«Uff!», disse il ladro di case asciugandosi la fronte sudata. «Che ragazza straordinariamente strana è quella!»

«Puoi dire questo, Bill», rispose Fagin pensieroso. «Puoi dire questo.»

«Perché mai le è venuto in mente di uscire stasera, secondo te?» chiese Sikes. «Su, tu dovresti conoscerla meglio di me. Che cosa vuol dire?»

“Testardaggine; testardaggine femminile, immagino, mia cara.”

«Beh, immagino che sia così», brontolò Sikes. «Pensavo di averla domata, ma è ancora peggio di prima».

“Peggio,” disse Fagin pensieroso. “Non l’ho mai vista così per una sciocchezza del genere.”

«Nemmeno io», disse Sikes. «Penso che abbia ancora un po’ di quella febbre nel suo sangue, e non vuole uscire - eh?»

“Proprio così.”

«Le farò perdere un po’ di sangue senza disturbare il dottore, se dovesse riprendere quel comportamento», disse Sikes.

Fagin annuì approvando in modo espressivo questo metodo di trattamento.

«Mi stava addosso tutto il giorno e anche di notte quando ero disteso sulla schiena; e tu, come un lupo senza cuore che sei, ti tenevi in disparte», disse Sikes. «Eravamo poveri pure per tutto il tempo, e credo che, in un modo o nell’altro, l’abbia preoccupata e tormentata; e che essere rinchiusa qui così a lungo l’ha resa irrequieta—eh?»

“È così, mia cara,” rispose l’ebreo sussurrando. “Silenzio!”

Mentre pronunciava queste parole, la ragazza stessa apparve e riprese il suo posto di prima. Gli occhi erano gonfi e rossi; si dondolava avanti e indietro; scuoteva la testa; e dopo un po’ di tempo, scoppiò a ridere.

«Ebbene, ora ha cambiato idea!» esclamò Sikes, rivolgendo uno sguardo di estrema sorpresa al suo compagno.

Fagin gli fece cenno di non prestare ulteriore attenzione in quel momento; e, dopo pochi minuti, la ragazza riprese il suo comportamento abituale. Sussurrando a Sikes che non c’era paura che lei ricadesse, Fagin prese il suo cappello e lo salutò con un buon notte. Si fermò quando raggiunse la porta della stanza e, guardandosi intorno, chiese se qualcuno poteva accompagnarla giù per le scale buie.

«Fagli luce», disse Sikes che stava riempiendo la pipa «è un peccato che si rompa il collo da solo e deluda i curiosi. Fagli luce».

Nancy seguì il vecchio al piano di sotto con una candela. Quando arrivarono nel corridoio, lui si mise un dito sulle labbra e avvicinandosi alla ragazza le disse sottovoce:

“Che cosa c’è, cara Nancy?”

«Cosa intendete?» rispose la ragazza nello stesso tono.

«La ragione di tutto questo», rispose Fagin. «Se lui» — indicò con il suo dito indice magro su per le scale — «è così duro con te (è un bruto, Nance, una bestia), perché non lo fai tu, »

«Bene?», disse la ragazza mentre Fagin si fermò con la bocca quasi a toccarle l’orecchio e gli occhi che le scrutavano quelli di lei.

“Non importa in questo momento. Ne riparleremo. Hai un amico in me, Nance; un amico fedele. Ho i mezzi a portata di mano, tranquilli e vicini. Se vuoi vendetta su coloro che ti trattano come un cane—come un cane! peggio del suo cane, perché lui lo umorizza qualche volta—vieni da me. Dico, vieni da me. Lui è solo il cane di un giorno, ma tu mi conosci da tempo, Nance.”

“Vi conosco bene”, rispose la ragazza senza mostrare il minimo turbamento. “Buona notte.”

Si ritrasse quando Fagin si offrì di posare la mano sulla sua, ma gli disse ancora buon notte con voce ferma e, rispondendo al suo sguardo d’addio con un cenno di intesa, chiuse la porta tra loro.

Fagin si diresse verso la sua casa, immerso nei pensieri che gli frullavano per il cervello. Aveva concepito l’idea, non tanto in seguito a quanto era appena accaduto (anche se ciò aveva contribuito a rafforzare le sue convinzioni), ma lentamente e gradualmente: Nancy, stanca della brutalità del ladro, aveva concepito un attaccamento per qualche nuovo amico. Il suo comportamento alterato, i suoi ripetuti allontanamenti dalla casa da sola, la sua relativa indifferenza agli interessi della banda per cui era stata un tempo così zelante, e, aggiunto a tutto ciò, il suo disperato impulso ad andarsene di casa quella sera in un’ora precisa, tutti questi fattori favorivano la supposizione e la rendevano quasi certa per lui. L’oggetto di questo nuovo affetto non era tra i suoi scagnozzi. Sarebbe stata una preziosa acquisizione avere un assistente come Nancy, e (così ragionava Fagin) andava assicurato senza indugio.

C’era un altro scopo da raggiungere, e più oscuro. Sikes ne sapeva troppo, e le sue canzonature da delinquente non avevano irritato meno Fagin, perché le ferite erano nascoste. La ragazza doveva sapere, bene, che se lo avesse lasciato non sarebbe mai stata al sicuro dalla sua furia e che questa si sarebbe certamente sfogata - fino a mutilarle gli arti o forse toglierle la vita - sull’oggetto del suo più recente capriccio.

“Con un po’ di persuasione,” pensò Fagin, “non è affatto improbabile che lei acconsenta ad avvelenarlo. Le donne hanno già fatto cose simili, e peggio, per raggiungere lo stesso scopo. Scomparirebbe il pericoloso mascalzone: l’uomo che odio; al suo posto ne avrei un altro; e la mia influenza sulla ragazza, con la consapevolezza di questo crimine a sostenerla, sarebbe illimitata.”

Queste cose attraversarono la mente di Fagin durante il breve tempo che trascorse solo, nella stanza del scassinatore; e con queste idee in primo piano nei suoi pensieri, aveva colto l’occasione successivamente offertagli di sondare la ragazza con i suggerimenti frammentari che lanciò al momento della separazione. Non vi fu alcuna espressione di sorpresa, nessun atteggiamento di incapacità a comprendere il suo significato. La ragazza lo aveva chiaramente compreso. Il suo sguardo al momento della partenza lo dimostrava.

Ma forse si sarebbe ritratta da un complotto per togliere la vita a Sikes, e questo era uno degli scopi principali da raggiungere. “Come”, pensò Fagin, mentre strisciava verso casa, “posso aumentare la mia influenza su di lei? Qual nuovo potere posso acquisire?”

Cervelli del genere sono fertili di espedienti. Se, senza estorcerle una confessione, lui la sorvegliasse, scoprisse l’oggetto del suo cambiato affetto e minacciasse di rivelare tutta la storia a Sikes (di cui lei aveva un timore non comune) a meno che non si mettesse al servizio dei suoi piani, non avrebbe potuto assicurarsi la sua obbedienza?

«Posso», disse Fagin, quasi ad alta voce. «Allora non osò rifiutarmi. Non per la sua vita, no, non per la sua vita! Ho tutto. Gli strumenti sono pronti e saranno messi all’opera. Vi avrò ancora!»

Gettò uno sguardo torvo e un gesto minaccioso della mano verso il punto dove aveva lasciato l’uomo più audace; e proseguì per la sua strada: tenendo le sue ossute mani occupate tra le pieghe del suo logoro abito, che stringeva con forza nel pugno, come se ci fosse un nemico odiato schiacciato ad ogni movimento delle sue dita.

CHAPTER XLV. NOAH CLAYPOLE IS EMPLOYED BY FAGIN ON A SECRET MISSION

The old man was up, betimes, next morning, and waited impatiently for the appearance of his new associate, who after a delay that seemed interminable, at length presented himself, and commenced a voracious assault on the breakfast.

“Bolter,” said Fagin, drawing up a chair and seating himself opposite Morris Bolter.

“Well, here I am,” returned Noah. “What’s the matter? Don’t yer ask me to do anything till I have done eating. That’s a great fault in this place. Yer never get time enough over yer meals.”

“You can talk as you eat, can’t you?” said Fagin, cursing his dear young friend’s greediness from the very bottom of his heart.

“Oh yes, I can talk. I get on better when I talk,” said Noah, cutting a monstrous slice of bread. “Where’s Charlotte?”

“Out,” said Fagin. “I sent her out this morning with the other young woman, because I wanted us to be alone.”

“Oh!” said Noah. “I wish yer’d ordered her to make some buttered toast first. Well. Talk away. Yer won’t interrupt me.”

There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he had evidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of business.

“You did well yesterday, my dear,” said Fagin. “Beautiful! Six shillings and ninepence halfpenny on the very first day! The kinchin lay will be a fortune to you.”

“Don’t you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can,” said Mr. Bolter.

“No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the milk-can was a perfect masterpiece.”

“Pretty well, I think, for a beginner,” remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. “The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!”

Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his laugh out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second.

“I want you, Bolter,” said Fagin, leaning over the table, “to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution.”

“I say,” rejoined Bolter, “don’t yer go shoving me into danger, or sending me any more o’ yer police-offices. That don’t suit me, that don’t; and so I tell yer.”

“That’s not the smallest danger in it—not the very smallest,” said the Jew; “it’s only to dodge a woman.”

“An old woman?” demanded Mr. Bolter.

“A young one,” replied Fagin.

“I can do that pretty well, I know,” said Bolter. “I was a regular cunning sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to—”

“Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, if possible, what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street, or the house, if it is a house; and to bring me back all the information you can.”

“What’ll yer give me?” asked Noah, setting down his cup, and looking his employer, eagerly, in the face.

“If you do it well, a pound, my dear. One pound,” said Fagin, wishing to interest him in the scent as much as possible. “And that’s what I never gave yet, for any job of work where there wasn’t valuable consideration to be gained.”

“Who is she?” inquired Noah.

“One of us.”

“Oh Lor!” cried Noah, curling up his nose. “Yer doubtful of her, are yer?”

“She has found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they are,” replied Fagin.

“I see,” said Noah. “Just to have the pleasure of knowing them, if they’re respectable people, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I’m your man.”

“I knew you would be,” cried Fagin, elated by the success of his proposal.

“Of course, of course,” replied Noah. “Where is she? Where am I to wait for her? Where am I to go?”

“All that, my dear, you shall hear from me. I’ll point her out at the proper time,” said Fagin. “You keep ready, and leave the rest to me.”

That night, and the next, and the next again, the spy sat booted and equipped in his carter’s dress: ready to turn out at a word from Fagin. Six nights passed—six long weary nights—and on each, Fagin came home with a disappointed face, and briefly intimated that it was not yet time. On the seventh, he returned earlier, and with an exultation he could not conceal. It was Sunday.

“She goes abroad tonight,” said Fagin, “and on the right errand, I’m sure; for she has been alone all day, and the man she is afraid of will not be back much before daybreak. Come with me. Quick!”

Noah started up without saying a word; for the Jew was in a state of such intense excitement that it infected him. They left the house stealthily, and hurrying through a labyrinth of streets, arrived at length before a public-house, which Noah recognised as the same in which he had slept, on the night of his arrival in London.

It was past eleven o’clock, and the door was closed. It opened softly on its hinges as Fagin gave a low whistle. They entered, without noise; and the door was closed behind them.

Scarcely venturing to whisper, but substituting dumb show for words, Fagin, and the young Jew who had admitted them, pointed out the pane of glass to Noah, and signed to him to climb up and observe the person in the adjoining room.

“Is that the woman?” he asked, scarcely above his breath.

Fagin nodded yes.

“I can’t see her face well,” whispered Noah. “She is looking down, and the candle is behind her.”

“Stay there,” whispered Fagin. He signed to Barney, who withdrew. In an instant, the lad entered the room adjoining, and, under pretence of snuffing the candle, moved it in the required position, and, speaking to the girl, caused her to raise her face.

“I see her now,” cried the spy.

“Plainly?”

“I should know her among a thousand.”

He hastily descended, as the room-door opened, and the girl came out. Fagin drew him behind a small partition which was curtained off, and they held their breaths as she passed within a few feet of their place of concealment, and emerged by the door at which they had entered.

“Hist!” cried the lad who held the door. “Dow.”

Noah exchanged a look with Fagin, and darted out.

“To the left,” whispered the lad; “take the left had, and keep od the other side.”

He did so; and, by the light of the lamps, saw the girl’s retreating figure, already at some distance before him. He advanced as near as he considered prudent, and kept on the opposite side of the street, the better to observe her motions. She looked nervously round, twice or thrice, and once stopped to let two men who were following close behind her, pass on. She seemed to gather courage as she advanced, and to walk with a steadier and firmer step. The spy preserved the same relative distance between them, and followed: with his eye upon her.

CHAPTER XLVI. THE APPOINTMENT KEPT

The church clocks chimed three quarters past eleven, as two figures emerged on London Bridge. One, which advanced with a swift and rapid step, was that of a woman who looked eagerly about her as though in quest of some expected object; the other figure was that of a man, who slunk along in the deepest shadow he could find, and, at some distance, accommodated his pace to hers: stopping when she stopped: and as she moved again, creeping stealthily on: but never allowing himself, in the ardour of his pursuit, to gain upon her footsteps. Thus, they crossed the bridge, from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore, when the woman, apparently disappointed in her anxious scrutiny of the foot-passengers, turned back. The movement was sudden; but he who watched her, was not thrown off his guard by it; for, shrinking into one of the recesses which surmount the piers of the bridge, and leaning over the parapet the better to conceal his figure, he suffered her to pass on the opposite pavement. When she was about the same distance in advance as she had been before, he slipped quietly down, and followed her again. At nearly the centre of the bridge, she stopped. The man stopped too.

It was a very dark night. The day had been unfavourable, and at that hour and place there were few people stirring. Such as there were, hurried quickly past: very possibly without seeing, but certainly without noticing, either the woman, or the man who kept her in view. Their appearance was not calculated to attract the importunate regards of such of London’s destitute population, as chanced to take their way over the bridge that night in search of some cold arch or doorless hovel wherein to lay their heads; they stood there in silence: neither speaking nor spoken to, by any one who passed.

A mist hung over the river, deepening the red glare of the fires that burnt upon the small craft moored off the different wharfs, and rendering darker and more indistinct the murky buildings on the banks. The old smoke-stained storehouses on either side, rose heavy and dull from the dense mass of roofs and gables, and frowned sternly upon water too black to reflect even their lumbering shapes. The tower of old Saint Saviour’s Church, and the spire of Saint Magnus, so long the giant-warders of the ancient bridge, were visible in the gloom; but the forest of shipping below bridge, and the thickly scattered spires of churches above, were nearly all hidden from sight.

The girl had taken a few restless turns to and fro—closely watched meanwhile by her hidden observer—when the heavy bell of St. Paul’s tolled for the death of another day. Midnight had come upon the crowded city. The palace, the night-cellar, the jail, the madhouse: the chambers of birth and death, of health and sickness, the rigid face of the corpse and the calm sleep of the child: midnight was upon them all.

The hour had not struck two minutes, when a young lady, accompanied by a grey-haired gentleman, alighted from a hackney-carriage within a short distance of the bridge, and, having dismissed the vehicle, walked straight towards it. They had scarcely set foot upon its pavement, when the girl started, and immediately made towards them.

They walked onward, looking about them with the air of persons who entertained some very slight expectation which had little chance of being realised, when they were suddenly joined by this new associate. They halted with an exclamation of surprise, but suppressed it immediately; for a man in the garments of a countryman came close up—brushed against them, indeed—at that precise moment.

“Not here,” said Nancy hurriedly, “I am afraid to speak to you here. Come away—out of the public road—down the steps yonder!”

As she uttered these words, and indicated, with her hand, the direction in which she wished them to proceed, the countryman looked round, and roughly asking what they took up the whole pavement for, passed on.

The steps to which the girl had pointed, were those which, on the Surrey bank, and on the same side of the bridge as Saint Saviour’s Church, form a landing-stairs from the river. To this spot, the man bearing the appearance of a countryman, hastened unobserved; and after a moment’s survey of the place, he began to descend.

These stairs are a part of the bridge; they consist of three flights. Just below the end of the second, going down, the stone wall on the left terminates in an ornamental pilaster facing towards the Thames. At this point the lower steps widen: so that a person turning that angle of the wall, is necessarily unseen by any others on the stairs who chance to be above him, if only a step. The countryman looked hastily round, when he reached this point; and as there seemed no better place of concealment, and, the tide being out, there was plenty of room, he slipped aside, with his back to the pilaster, and there waited: pretty certain that they would come no lower, and that even if he could not hear what was said, he could follow them again, with safety.

So tardily stole the time in this lonely place, and so eager was the spy to penetrate the motives of an interview so different from what he had been led to expect, that he more than once gave the matter up for lost, and persuaded himself, either that they had stopped far above, or had resorted to some entirely different spot to hold their mysterious conversation. He was on the point of emerging from his hiding-place, and regaining the road above, when he heard the sound of footsteps, and directly afterwards of voices almost close at his ear.

He drew himself straight upright against the wall, and, scarcely breathing, listened attentively.

“This is far enough,” said a voice, which was evidently that of the gentleman. “I will not suffer the young lady to go any farther. Many people would have distrusted you too much to have come even so far, but you see I am willing to humour you.”

CAPITOLO XLVI. L’APPUNTAMENTO RISPETTATO

Gli orologi delle chiese suonarono tre quarti dopo le undici mentre due figure apparvero sul ponte di Londra. Una, che avanzava con un passo rapido e veloce, era quella di una donna che guardava intorno con ansia come se cercasse qualche oggetto atteso; l’altra figura era quella di un uomo che si muoveva furtivamente nell’ombra più profonda che poteva trovare e, a una certa distanza, adattava il suo passo al suo: si fermava quando lei si fermava e, quando lei riprendeva a camminare, la seguiva di nascosto; ma non permetteva mai, nell’ardore del suo inseguimento, di avvicinarsi ai suoi passi. Così attraversarono il ponte dalla riva di Middlesex a quella di Surrey, quando la donna, apparentemente delusa nella sua attenta ispezione dei pedoni, fece dietrofront. Il movimento fu improvviso; ma colui che la osservava non ne fu sconcertato; perché, ritraendosi in una delle nicchie che sovrastano i piloni del ponte e appoggiandosi al parapetto per meglio nascondere la sua figura, le permise di passare sul marciapiede opposto. Quando lei si fu allontanata della stessa distanza di prima, scese silenziosamente e la seguì di nuovo. Pressappoco a metà del ponte, lei si fermò. L’uomo si fermò anche lui.

Era una notte molto buia. La giornata era stata sfavorevole e a quell’ora e in quel luogo c’erano poche persone in giro. Quelle che c’erano passavano di corsa: molto probabilmente senza vedere, ma certamente senza notare né la donna né l’uomo che la teneva d’occhio. Il loro aspetto non era tale da attirare le insistente occhiate della parte più indigente della popolazione di Londra che per caso si recava sul ponte quella notte in cerca di qualche fredda arcata o baracca senza porta dove riposarsi; stavano lì in silenzio, né parlando né parlati da chiunque passasse.

Una nebbia aleggiava sul fiume, intensificando il bagliore rosso dei fuochi che ardevano sulle piccole imbarcazioni ormeggiate ai diversi moli e rendendo più scure e indistinte le torbide costruzioni lungo le rive. Le vecchie magazzini anneriti dal fumo sui due lati, si ergevano pesanti e opachi dalla densa massa di tetti e guglie, e si scagliavano contro il fiume troppo nero per riflettere anche le loro goffe forme. La torre della vecchia chiesa di San Salvatore e la guglia di San Magnus, da tanto tempo i giganteschi guardiani del ponte antico, erano visibili nell’oscurità; ma la foresta di navi sotto il ponte e le guglie delle chiese sparse fittamente sopra di esso, erano quasi tutte nascoste alla vista.

La ragazza aveva fatto qualche irrequieta passeggiata avanti e indietro — osservata attentamente nel frattempo dal suo nascosto osservatore — quando la pesante campana di San Paolo suonò a morto per la morte di un altro giorno. La mezzanotte era calata sulla affollata città. Il palazzo, il locale notturno, la prigione, il manicomio: le camere della nascita e della morte, della salute e della malattia, il volto rigido del cadavere e il calmo sonno del bambino: la mezzanotte era sopra tutti loro.

L’ora non aveva battuto da due minuti quando una giovane signorina, accompagnata da un gentiluomo dai capelli grigi, scese da una carrozza pubblica a poca distanza dal ponte e, avendo congedato il veicolo, si diressero dritti verso di esso. Non avevano appena messo piede sul suo selciato che la ragazza trasalì e subito andò loro incontro.

Proseguirono, guardandosi intorno con l’aria di chi nutriva qualche vaga speranza che aveva poche probabilità di realizzarsi, quando furono improvvisamente raggiunti da questo nuovo compagno. Si fermarono con un’esclamazione di sorpresa, ma la soffocarono subito; perché in quel preciso istante si avvicinò loro un uomo vestito come un contadino, che li sfiorò addirittura.

«Non qui», disse Nancy in fretta, «ho paura di parlarti qui. Vieni via, fuori dalla strada pubblica, scendi quegli scalini laggiù!»

Mentre pronunciava queste parole e indicava con la mano la direzione in cui voleva che proseguissero, il contadino si guardò intorno e chiese rudemente perché occupavano tutto il marciapiede, dopodiché andò via.

I gradini indicati dalla ragazza erano quelli che sulla riva del Surrey e sullo stesso lato del ponte della chiesa di San Salvatore formavano una scala d’approdo dal fiume. A questo punto, l’uomo dall’aspetto di un contadino si affrettò inosservato; e dopo aver osservato il luogo per qualche istante, cominciò a scendere.

Queste scale fanno parte del ponte; sono costituite da tre rampe. Proprio sotto la fine della seconda rampa, scendendo, il muro di pietra sulla sinistra termina in un pilastro decorativo rivolto verso il Tamigi. A questo punto gli scalini inferiori si allargano: così che una persona che gira quell’angolo del muro è necessariamente invisibile a chiunque altro sia sulle scale sopra di lui, anche solo di un gradino. Il contadino guardò in fretta intorno quando raggiunse quel punto; e poiché non sembrava esserci un posto migliore per nascondersi, e la marea era bassa, c’era molto spazio, si mise da parte, con le spalle al pilastro, e lì aspettò: abbastanza sicuro che loro non sarebbero scesi più in basso, e che anche se non avesse potuto sentire cosa dicevano, li avrebbe potuti seguire di nuovo, in tutta sicurezza.

Così il tempo passava lentamente in quel luogo solitario e così ansioso era lo spia di penetrare le motivazioni di un incontro tanto diverso da ciò che si aspettava, che più volte rinunciò a perseguire l’obiettivo, persuadendosi che o fossero rimasti ben più in alto oppure avessero scelto un luogo completamente diverso per tenere la loro misteriosa conversazione. Era sul punto di uscire dal suo nascondiglio e tornare sulla strada più in alto, quando udì il rumore di passi e subito dopo delle voci quasi all’orecchio.

Si raddrizzò contro il muro e, a malapena respirando, ascoltò con attenzione.

«Questo è abbastanza lontano», disse una voce che era evidentemente quella del gentiluomo. «Non permetterò alla giovane signora di andare oltre. Molte persone si sarebbero fidate troppo poco di lei per arrivare anche solo fin qui, ma vede che sono disposto a accontentarla.»

“To humour me!” cried the voice of the girl whom he had followed. “You’re considerate, indeed, sir. To humour me! Well, well, it’s no matter.”

“Why, for what,” said the gentleman in a kinder tone, “for what purpose can you have brought us to this strange place? Why not have let me speak to you, above there, where it is light, and there is something stirring, instead of bringing us to this dark and dismal hole?”

“I told you before,” replied Nancy, “that I was afraid to speak to you there. I don’t know why it is,” said the girl, shuddering, “but I have such a fear and dread upon me tonight that I can hardly stand.”

“A fear of what?” asked the gentleman, who seemed to pity her.

“I scarcely know of what,” replied the girl. “I wish I did. Horrible thoughts of death, and shrouds with blood upon them, and a fear that has made me burn as if I was on fire, have been upon me all day. I was reading a book tonight, to wile the time away, and the same things came into the print.”

“Imagination,” said the gentleman, soothing her.

“No imagination,” replied the girl in a hoarse voice. “I’ll swear I saw ‘coffin’ written in every page of the book in large black letters,—aye, and they carried one close to me, in the streets tonight.”

“There is nothing unusual in that,” said the gentleman. “They have passed me often.”

“Real ones,” rejoined the girl. “This was not.”

There was something so uncommon in her manner, that the flesh of the concealed listener crept as he heard the girl utter these words, and the blood chilled within him. He had never experienced a greater relief than in hearing the sweet voice of the young lady as she begged her to be calm, and not allow herself to become the prey of such fearful fancies.

“Speak to her kindly,” said the young lady to her companion. “Poor creature! She seems to need it.”

“Your haughty religious people would have held their heads up to see me as I am tonight, and preached of flames and vengeance,” cried the girl. “Oh, dear lady, why ar’n’t those who claim to be God’s own folks as gentle and as kind to us poor wretches as you, who, having youth, and beauty, and all that they have lost, might be a little proud instead of so much humbler?”

“Ah!” said the gentleman. “A Turk turns his face, after washing it well, to the East, when he says his prayers; these good people, after giving their faces such a rub against the World as to take the smiles off, turn with no less regularity, to the darkest side of Heaven. Between the Mussulman and the Pharisee, commend me to the first!”

These words appeared to be addressed to the young lady, and were perhaps uttered with the view of affording Nancy time to recover herself. The gentleman, shortly afterwards, addressed himself to her.

“You were not here last Sunday night,” he said.

“I couldn’t come,” replied Nancy; “I was kept by force.”

“By whom?”

“Him that I told the young lady of before.”

“You were not suspected of holding any communication with anybody on the subject which has brought us here tonight, I hope?” asked the old gentleman.

“No,” replied the girl, shaking her head. “It’s not very easy for me to leave him unless he knows why; I couldn’t give him a drink of laudanum before I came away.”

“Did he awake before you returned?” inquired the gentleman.

“No; and neither he nor any of them suspect me.”

“Good,” said the gentleman. “Now listen to me.”

“I am ready,” replied the girl, as he paused for a moment.

“This young lady,” the gentleman began, “has communicated to me, and to some other friends who can be safely trusted, what you told her nearly a fortnight since. I confess to you that I had doubts, at first, whether you were to be implicitly relied upon, but now I firmly believe you are.”

“I am,” said the girl earnestly.

“I repeat that I firmly believe it. To prove to you that I am disposed to trust you, I tell you without reserve, that we propose to extort the secret, whatever it may be, from the fear of this man Monks. But if—if—” said the gentleman, “he cannot be secured, or, if secured, cannot be acted upon as we wish, you must deliver up the Jew.”

“Fagin,” cried the girl, recoiling.

“That man must be delivered up by you,” said the gentleman.

“I will not do it! I will never do it!” replied the girl. “Devil that he is, and worse than devil as he has been to me, I will never do that.”

“You will not?” said the gentleman, who seemed fully prepared for this answer.

“Never!” returned the girl.

“Tell me why?”

“For one reason,” rejoined the girl firmly, “for one reason, that the lady knows and will stand by me in, I know she will, for I have her promise: and for this other reason, besides, that, bad life as he has led, I have led a bad life too; there are many of us who have kept the same courses together, and I’ll not turn upon them, who might—any of them—have turned upon me, but didn’t, bad as they are.”

“Then,” said the gentleman, quickly, as if this had been the point he had been aiming to attain; “put Monks into my hands, and leave him to me to deal with.”

“What if he turns against the others?”

“I promise you that in that case, if the truth is forced from him, there the matter will rest; there must be circumstances in Oliver’s little history which it would be painful to drag before the public eye, and if the truth is once elicited, they shall go scot free.”

“And if it is not?” suggested the girl.

“Then,” pursued the gentleman, “this Fagin shall not be brought to justice without your consent. In such a case I could show you reasons, I think, which would induce you to yield it.”

“Have I the lady’s promise for that?” asked the girl.

“You have,” replied Rose. “My true and faithful pledge.”

“Monks would never learn how you knew what you do?” said the girl, after a short pause.

“Never,” replied the gentleman. “The intelligence should be brought to bear upon him, that he could never even guess.”

“I have been a liar, and among liars from a little child,” said the girl after another interval of silence, “but I will take your words.”

After receiving an assurance from both, that she might safely do so, she proceeded in a voice so low that it was often difficult for the listener to discover even the purport of what she said, to describe, by name and situation, the public-house whence she had been followed that night. From the manner in which she occasionally paused, it appeared as if the gentleman were making some hasty notes of the information she communicated. When she had thoroughly explained the localities of the place, the best position from which to watch it without exciting observation, and the night and hour on which Monks was most in the habit of frequenting it, she seemed to consider for a few moments, for the purpose of recalling his features and appearances more forcibly to her recollection.

“He is tall,” said the girl, “and a strongly made man, but not stout; he has a lurking walk; and as he walks, constantly looks over his shoulder, first on one side, and then on the other. Don’t forget that, for his eyes are sunk in his head so much deeper than any other man’s, that you might almost tell him by that alone. His face is dark, like his hair and eyes; and, although he can’t be more than six or eight and twenty, withered and haggard. His lips are often discoloured and disfigured with the marks of teeth; for he has desperate fits, and sometimes even bites his hands and covers them with wounds—why did you start?” said the girl, stopping suddenly.

The gentleman replied, in a hurried manner, that he was not conscious of having done so, and begged her to proceed.

“Part of this,” said the girl, “I have drawn out from other people at the house I tell you of, for I have only seen him twice, and both times he was covered up in a large cloak. I think that’s all I can give you to know him by. Stay though,” she added. “Upon his throat: so high that you can see a part of it below his neckerchief when he turns his face: there is—”

“A broad red mark, like a burn or scald?” cried the gentleman.

“How’s this?” said the girl. “You know him!”

The young lady uttered a cry of surprise, and for a few moments they were so still that the listener could distinctly hear them breathe.

“I think I do,” said the gentleman, breaking silence. “I should by your description. We shall see. Many people are singularly like each other. It may not be the same.”

As he expressed himself to this effect, with assumed carelessness, he took a step or two nearer the concealed spy, as the latter could tell from the distinctness with which he heard him mutter, “It must be he!”

“Now,” he said, returning: so it seemed by the sound: to the spot where he had stood before, “you have given us most valuable assistance, young woman, and I wish you to be the better for it. What can I do to serve you?”

“Nothing,” replied Nancy.

“You will not persist in saying that,” rejoined the gentleman, with a voice and emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder and more obdurate heart. “Think now. Tell me.”

“Nothing, sir,” rejoined the girl, weeping. “You can do nothing to help me. I am past all hope, indeed.”

“You put yourself beyond its pale,” said the gentleman. “The past has been a dreary waste with you, of youthful energies mis-spent, and such priceless treasures lavished, as the Creator bestows but once and never grants again, but, for the future, you may hope. I do not say that it is in our power to offer you peace of heart and mind, for that must come as you seek it; but a quiet asylum, either in England, or, if you fear to remain here, in some foreign country, it is not only within the compass of our ability but our most anxious wish to secure you. Before the dawn of morning, before this river wakes to the first glimpse of day-light, you shall be placed as entirely beyond the reach of your former associates, and leave as utter an absence of all trace behind you, as if you were to disappear from the earth this moment. Come! I would not have you go back to exchange one word with any old companion, or take one look at any old haunt, or breathe the very air which is pestilence and death to you. Quit them all, while there is time and opportunity!”

“She will be persuaded now,” cried the young lady. “She hesitates, I am sure.”

“I fear not, my dear,” said the gentleman.

“No sir, I do not,” replied the girl, after a short struggle. “I am chained to my old life. I loathe and hate it now, but I cannot leave it. I must have gone too far to turn back,—and yet I don’t know, for if you had spoken to me so, some time ago, I should have laughed it off. But,” she said, looking hastily round, “this fear comes over me again. I must go home.”

“Home!” repeated the young lady, with great stress upon the word.

“Home, lady,” rejoined the girl. “To such a home as I have raised for myself with the work of my whole life. Let us part. I shall be watched or seen. Go! Go! If I have done you any service all I ask is, that you leave me, and let me go my way alone.”

“It is useless,” said the gentleman, with a sigh. “We compromise her safety, perhaps, by staying here. We may have detained her longer than she expected already.”

“Yes, yes,” urged the girl. “You have.”

“What,” cried the young lady, “can be the end of this poor creature’s life!”

“What!” repeated the girl. “Look before you, lady. Look at that dark water. How many times do you read of such as I who spring into the tide, and leave no living thing, to care for, or bewail them. It may be years hence, or it may be only months, but I shall come to that at last.”

“Do not speak thus, pray,” returned the young lady, sobbing.

“It will never reach your ears, dear lady, and God forbid such horrors should!” replied the girl. “Good-night, good-night!”

The gentleman turned away.

“This purse,” cried the young lady. “Take it for my sake, that you may have some resource in an hour of need and trouble.”

“No!” replied the girl. “I have not done this for money. Let me have that to think of. And yet—give me something that you have worn: I should like to have something—no, no, not a ring—your gloves or handkerchief—anything that I can keep, as having belonged to you, sweet lady. There. Bless you! God bless you. Good-night, good-night!”

The violent agitation of the girl, and the apprehension of some discovery which would subject her to ill-usage and violence, seemed to determine the gentleman to leave her, as she requested.

The sound of retreating footsteps were audible and the voices ceased.

The two figures of the young lady and her companion soon afterwards appeared upon the bridge. They stopped at the summit of the stairs.

“Hark!” cried the young lady, listening. “Did she call! I thought I heard her voice.”

“No, my love,” replied Mr. Brownlow, looking sadly back. “She has not moved, and will not till we are gone.”

Rose Maylie lingered, but the old gentleman drew her arm through his, and led her, with gentle force, away. As they disappeared, the girl sunk down nearly at her full length upon one of the stone stairs, and vented the anguish of her heart in bitter tears.

After a time she arose, and with feeble and tottering steps ascended the street. The astonished listener remained motionless on his post for some minutes afterwards, and having ascertained, with many cautious glances round him, that he was again alone, crept slowly from his hiding-place, and returned, stealthily and in the shade of the wall, in the same manner as he had descended.

Peeping out, more than once, when he reached the top, to make sure that he was unobserved, Noah Claypole darted away at his utmost speed, and made for the Jew’s house as fast as his legs would carry him.

«Mai», rispose il signore. «Si dovrebbe far capire a lui che non potrebbe nemmeno indovinare».

«Sono stata una bugiarda e tra bugiardi fin da quando ero una piccola bambina», disse la ragazza dopo un altro intervallo di silenzio, «ma accetto le tue parole».

Dopo aver ricevuto da entrambi l’assicurazione che poteva farlo senza rischi, proseguì con una voce così bassa che spesso era difficile per chi ascoltava capire anche il senso di ciò che diceva, descrivendo, per nome e posizione, la bettoia da cui era stata seguita quella notte. Dal modo in cui si fermava occasionalmente, sembrava che l’uomo stesse prendendo qualche appunto frettoloso delle informazioni che gli comunicava. Quando ebbe spiegato a fondo le località del posto, la posizione migliore da cui osservarlo senza attirare l’attenzione e la notte e l’ora in cui Monks aveva maggiormente l’abitudine di frequentarlo, sembrò riflettere per alcuni istanti allo scopo di richiamare più vivamente alla memoria i suoi tratti e il suo aspetto.

«È alto», disse la ragazza, «e un uomo di corporatura robusta, ma non grasso; ha una camminata furtiva; e mentre cammina, guarda costantemente alle sue spalle, prima da un lato, poi dall’altro. Non dimenticate questo, perché i suoi occhi sono infossati nella testa molto più profondamente di quelli di qualsiasi altro uomo, tanto che potreste quasi riconoscerlo solo per quello solo. Il suo viso è scuro, come i suoi capelli e gli occhi; e, sebbene non possa avere più di ventisei o ventotto anni, è avvizzito e smunto. Le sue labbra sono spesso decolorate e deturpate dalle tracce dei denti; perché ha attacchi disperati, e a volte addirittura si morde le mani e le ricopre di ferite—perché avete sobbalzato?» disse la ragazza, fermandosi improvvisamente.

Il signore rispose, con tono affrettato, che non era consapevole di averlo fatto e la pregò di continuare.

«Parte di questo,» disse la ragazza «l’ho saputo da altre persone nella casa che vi ho descritto, perché l’ho visto solo due volte e entrambe le volte era avvolto in un grande mantello. Penso che sia tutto ciò che posso dirvi per riconoscerlo. Ma aspettate», aggiunse «sulla sua gola: così alto che se ne può vedere una parte sotto il fazzoletto quando si volta la faccia: c’è—»

«Un ampio segno rosso, come una bruciatura o un’ustione?» esclamò il signore.

“Come sta?” disse la ragazza. “Lo conosci!”

La giovane signora emise un grido di sorpresa e per alcuni istanti rimasero così immobili che l’ascoltatore poteva udire distintamente il loro respiro.

«Penso di sì», disse il signore, rompendo il silenzio. «Dovrei esserlo dalla tua descrizione. Vedremo. Molte persone sono singolarmente simili l’una all’altra. Potrebbe non essere la stessa persona».

Mentre si esprimeva in questo modo con un’apparente noncuranza, fece uno o due passi verso lo spia nascosto, come quest’ultimo poté capire dalla chiarezza con cui sentì mormorare: «Deve essere lui!»

«Ora», disse tornando, almeno così sembrava dal rumore, nel punto in cui si era fermato prima, «ci avete reso un aiuto davvero prezioso, giovane donna, e vorrei che ne traeste vantaggio. Cosa posso fare per voi?»

«Nulla», rispose Nancy.

«Non continuerà a dire questo», replicò il gentiluomo con una voce e un tono di gentilezza che avrebbero potuto commuovere un cuore molto più duro e ostinato. «Ci pensi su. Mi dica».

«Nulla, signore», rispose la ragazza piangendo. «Non potete fare nulla per aiutarmi. Sono oltre ogni speranza, davvero».

“Vi siete messo al di là del suo limite”, disse il gentiluomo. “Il passato è stato per voi un desolato deserto di energie giovanili sprecate e di tesori inestimabili dissipati, doni che il Creatore concede una volta sola e mai più ripete; ma per il futuro potrete sperare. Non dico che sia in nostro potere offrirvi la pace del cuore e della mente, perché questa deve venire da voi stessi nella ricerca; ma un rifugio tranquillo, o in Inghilterra, o, se qui vi sentite paura di rimanere, in qualche paese straniero, non solo è alla portata delle nostre possibilità, ma è il nostro più fervido desiderio assicurarvelo. Prima dell’alba del mattino, prima che questo fiume si risvegli al primo barlume di luce, sarete messo completamente fuori dalla portata dei vostri vecchi compagni e lascerete dietro di voi un’assoluta assenza di ogni traccia, come se doveste scomparire dalla terra in questo momento. Venite! Non vorrei che tornaste indietro per scambiare una sola parola con qualche vecchio compagno, o dare uno sguardo a qualche vecchio luogo, o respirare l’aria stessa che è peste e morte per voi. Lasciateli tutti, finché c’è ancora tempo e opportunità!”

“Ora la convinceranno,” esclamò la giovane signora. “Esita, ne sono sicura.”

“Non ho paura, mia cara”, disse il gentiluomo.

“No signore, non lo faccio”, rispose la ragazza dopo una breve lotta. “Sono legata alla mia vecchia vita. Ora la detesto e la odio, ma non posso lasciarla. Devo essermi spinta troppo oltre per tornare indietro, —eppure non ne sono sicura, perché se mi aveste parlato così qualche tempo fa, me ne sarei fatta una risata. Ma”, disse guardandosi intorno in fretta, “questa paura mi assale di nuovo. Devo andare a casa.”

«Casa!», ripeté la giovane signora, con grande enfasi sulla parola.

«Casa, signora», rispose la ragazza. «A una casa come quella che ho costruito per me stessa con il lavoro di tutta la mia vita. Andiamocene. Sarò sorvegliata o vista. Vada! Vada! Se le sono stata utile, tutto ciò che chiedo è che mi lasci andare e mi permetta di proseguire da sola.»

«È inutile», disse il signore con un sospiro. «Compromettiamo la sua sicurezza, forse, rimanendo qui. Potremmo averla già trattenuta più a lungo di quanto si aspettasse».

“Sì, sì”, insistette la ragazza. “L’hai fatto.”

“Qual sarà la fine di questa povera creatura?” esclamò la giovane signora.

“Che cosa!” ripeté la ragazza. “Guardi davanti a sé, signora. Guardi quell’acqua scura. Quante volte legge di persone come me che si gettano nella corrente e non lasciano nulla di vivente per cui preoccuparsi o piangerle? Potrebbero essere anni, oppure solo mesi, ma alla fine ci arriverò anch’io.”

«Non parlate così, vi prego», rispose la giovane signora singhiozzando.

«Non arriverà mai alle vostre orecchie, cara signora, e Dio non voglia che tali orrori accadano!» rispose la ragazza. «Buona notte, buona notte!»

Il signore si allontanò.

“Questa borsa”, esclamò la giovane signora, “prendetela per amor mio, affinché possiate avere qualche risorsa in un momento di bisogno e difficoltà”.

“No!” rispose la ragazza. “Non l’ho fatto per denaro. Lasciatemi questo da ricordare. Eppure, datemi qualcosa che avete indossato: mi piacerebbe avere qualcosa, no, no, non un anello, i vostri guanti o il fazzoletto, qualsiasi cosa io possa conservare come appartenuta a voi, dolce signora. Ecco fatto. Dio vi benedica! Buona sera, buona sera!”

L’agitazione della ragazza e la paura di qualche scoperta che l’avrebbe esposta a maltrattamenti e violenza sembrarono indurre il gentiluomo ad accontentare la sua richiesta di andarsene.

Si sentirono dei passi allontanarsi e le voci tacquero.

Le due figure della giovane signora e della sua compagna apparvero poco dopo sul ponte. Si fermarono in cima alle scale.

«Ascolta!» esclamò la giovane signora, ascoltando «Ha chiamato? Mi è sembrato di sentire la sua voce».

“No, mio amore”, rispose il signor Brownlow guardando indietro con tristezza. “Non si è mossa e non lo farà finché non ce ne saremo andati”.

Rosa Maylie indugiò, ma il vecchio gentiluomo le passò il braccio sotto al suo e la condusse via con dolce fermezza. Mentre scomparivano, la ragazza si lasciò cadere quasi in ginocchio su uno dei gradini di pietra e sfogò l’angoscia del proprio cuore in amare lacrime.

Dopo un po’ di tempo si alzò e con passi deboli e vacillanti risalì la strada. Il sorpreso ascoltatore rimase immobile nel suo posto per alcuni minuti dopo, e avendo accertato, con molti sguardi cauti intorno a sé, che era di nuovo solo, si allontanò lentamente dal suo nascondiglio e tornò furtivamente, al riparo del muro, nello stesso modo in cui era sceso.

Affacciandosi più di una volta quando raggiunse la cima per assicurarsi che non fosse osservato, Noah Claypole scappò via alla massima velocità e si diresse verso la casa dell’ebreo il più velocemente possibile.

CHAPTER XLVII. FATAL CONSEQUENCES

It was nearly two hours before day-break; that time which in the autumn of the year, may be truly called the dead of night; when the streets are silent and deserted; when even sounds appear to slumber, and profligacy and riot have staggered home to dream; it was at this still and silent hour, that Fagin sat watching in his old lair, with face so distorted and pale, and eyes so red and blood-shot, that he looked less like a man, than like some hideous phantom, moist from the grave, and worried by an evil spirit.

He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an old torn coverlet, with his face turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table by his side. His right hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed in thought, he bit his long black nails, he disclosed among his toothless gums a few such fangs as should have been a dog’s or rat’s.

Stretched upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah Claypole, fast asleep. Towards him the old man sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, and then brought them back again to the candle; which with a long-burnt wick drooping almost double, and hot grease falling down in clots upon the table, plainly showed that his thoughts were busy elsewhere.

Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow of his notable scheme; hatred of the girl who had dared to palter with strangers; and utter distrust of the sincerity of her refusal to yield him up; bitter disappointment at the loss of his revenge on Sikes; the fear of detection, and ruin, and death; and a fierce and deadly rage kindled by all; these were the passionate considerations which, following close upon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot through the brain of Fagin, as every evil thought and blackest purpose lay working at his heart.

He sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to take the smallest heed of time, until his quick ear seemed to be attracted by a footstep in the street.

“At last,” he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. “At last!”

The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, and presently returned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a bundle under one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the man displayed the burly frame of Sikes.

“There!” he said, laying the bundle on the table. “Take care of that, and do the most you can with it. It’s been trouble enough to get; I thought I should have been here, three hours ago.”

Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.

“Wot now?” cried Sikes. “Wot do you look at a man so for?”

Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone.

“Damme!” said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. “He’s gone mad. I must look to myself here.”

“No, no,” rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. “It’s not—you’re not the person, Bill. I’ve no—no fault to find with you.”

“Oh, you haven’t, haven’t you?” said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket. “That’s lucky—for one of us. Which one that is, don’t matter.”

“I’ve got that to tell you, Bill,” said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer, “will make you worse than me.”

“Aye?” returned the robber with an incredulous air. “Tell away! Look sharp, or Nance will think I’m lost.”

“Lost!” cried Fagin. “She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind, already.”

Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew’s face, and reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat collar in his huge hand and shook him soundly.

“Speak, will you!” he said; “or if you don’t, it shall be for want of breath. Open your mouth and say wot you’ve got to say in plain words. Out with it, you thundering old cur, out with it!”

“Suppose that lad that’s laying there—” Fagin began.

Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not previously observed him. “Well!” he said, resuming his former position.

“Suppose that lad,” pursued Fagin, “was to peach—to blow upon us all—first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with ’em in the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they might know us by, and the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow upon a plan we’ve all been in, more or less—of his own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and brought to it on bread and water,—but of his own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?” cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. “Suppose he did all this, what then?”

“What then!” replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. “If he was left alive till I came, I’d grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs upon his head.”

“What if I did it!” cried Fagin almost in a yell. “I, that knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!”

“I don’t know,” replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. “I’d do something in the jail that ’ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I’d fall upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength,” muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, “that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it.”

“You would?”

“Would I!” said the housebreaker. “Try me.”

“If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or—”

“I don’t care who,” replied Sikes impatiently. “Whoever it was, I’d serve them the same.”

Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in.

“Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!” said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. “He’s tired—tired with watching for her so long,—watching for her, Bill.”

“Wot d’ye mean?” asked Sikes, drawing back.

Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him.

“Tell me that again—once again, just for him to hear,” said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke.

“Tell yer what?” asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly.

“That about— Nancy,” said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. “You followed her?”

“Yes.”

“To London Bridge?”

“Yes.”

“Where she met two people.”

“So she did.”

“A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did—and to describe him, which she did—and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did—and where it could be best watched from, which she did—and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur—she did—did she not?” cried Fagin, half mad with fury.

“All right,” replied Noah, scratching his head. “That’s just what it was!”

“What did they say, about last Sunday?”

“About last Sunday!” replied Noah, considering. “Why I told yer that before.”

“Again. Tell it again!” cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips.

“They asked her,” said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, “they asked her why she didn’t come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn’t.”

“Why—why? Tell him that.”

“Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before,” replied Noah.

“What more of him?” cried Fagin. “What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that.”

“Why, that she couldn’t very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to,” said Noah; “and so the first time she went to see the lady, she—ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did—she gave him a drink of laudanum.”

“Hell’s fire!” cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. “Let me go!”

Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs.

“Bill, Bill!” cried Fagin, following him hastily. “A word. Only a word.”

The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to open the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when the Jew came panting up.

“Let me out,” said Sikes. “Don’t speak to me; it’s not safe. Let me out, I say!”

“Hear me speak a word,” rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. “You won’t be—”

“Well,” replied the other.

“You won’t be—too—violent, Bill?”

The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see each other’s faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a fire in the eyes of both, which could not be mistaken.

“I mean,” said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguise was now useless, “not too violent for safety. Be crafty, Bill, and not too bold.”

Sikes made no reply; but, pulling open the door, of which Fagin had turned the lock, dashed into the silent streets.

Without one pause, or moment’s consideration; without once turning his head to the right or left, or raising his eyes to the sky, or lowering them to the ground, but looking straight before him with savage resolution: his teeth so tightly compressed that the strained jaw seemed starting through his skin; the robber held on his headlong course, nor muttered a word, nor relaxed a muscle, until he reached his own door. He opened it, softly, with a key; strode lightly up the stairs; and entering his own room, double-locked the door, and lifting a heavy table against it, drew back the curtain of the bed.

The girl was lying, half-dressed, upon it. He had roused her from her sleep, for she raised herself with a hurried and startled look.

“Get up!” said the man.

“It is you, Bill!” said the girl, with an expression of pleasure at his return.

“It is,” was the reply. “Get up.”

There was a candle burning, but the man hastily drew it from the candlestick, and hurled it under the grate. Seeing the faint light of early day without, the girl rose to undraw the curtain.

“Let it be,” said Sikes, thrusting his hand before her. “There’s enough light for wot I’ve got to do.”

“Bill,” said the girl, in the low voice of alarm, “why do you look like that at me!”

The robber sat regarding her, for a few seconds, with dilated nostrils and heaving breast; and then, grasping her by the head and throat, dragged her into the middle of the room, and looking once towards the door, placed his heavy hand upon her mouth.

“Bill, Bill!” gasped the girl, wrestling with the strength of mortal fear,—“I—I won’t scream or cry—not once—hear me—speak to me—tell me what I have done!”

“You know, you she devil!” returned the robber, suppressing his breath. “You were watched tonight; every word you said was heard.”

“Then spare my life for the love of Heaven, as I spared yours,” rejoined the girl, clinging to him. “Bill, dear Bill, you cannot have the heart to kill me. Oh! think of all I have given up, only this one night, for you. You shall have time to think, and save yourself this crime; I will not loose my hold, you cannot throw me off. Bill, Bill, for dear God’s sake, for your own, for mine, stop before you spill my blood! I have been true to you, upon my guilty soul I have!”

The man struggled violently, to release his arms; but those of the girl were clasped round his, and tear her as he would, he could not tear them away.

“Bill,” cried the girl, striving to lay her head upon his breast, “the gentleman and that dear lady, told me tonight of a home in some foreign country where I could end my days in solitude and peace. Let me see them again, and beg them, on my knees, to show the same mercy and goodness to you; and let us both leave this dreadful place, and far apart lead better lives, and forget how we have lived, except in prayers, and never see each other more. It is never too late to repent. They told me so—I feel it now—but we must have time—a little, little time!”

The housebreaker freed one arm, and grasped his pistol. The certainty of immediate detection if he fired, flashed across his mind even in the midst of his fury; and he beat it twice with all the force he could summon, upon the upturned face that almost touched his own.

She staggered and fell: nearly blinded with the blood that rained down from a deep gash in her forehead; but raising herself, with difficulty, on her knees, drew from her bosom a white handkerchief—Rose Maylie’s own—and holding it up, in her folded hands, as high towards Heaven as her feeble strength would allow, breathed one prayer for mercy to her Maker.

It was a ghastly figure to look upon. The murderer staggering backward to the wall, and shutting out the sight with his hand, seized a heavy club and struck her down.

“Lo faresti?”

“Lo farei!” disse il ladro di case. “Provateci.”

“Se fosse stato Charley, o il Dodger, o Bet, o, ”

“Non mi interessa chi,” rispose Sikes con impazienza. “Chiunque fosse, gli farei lo stesso.”

Fagin scrutò attentamente il bandito e, facendogli cenno di tacere, si chinò sul letto a terra e scosse il dormiente per svegliarlo. Sikes si sporse in avanti sulla sedia, osservando con le mani sulle ginocchia, come se si chiedesse cosa sarebbe stato il risultato di tutte quelle domande e quei preparativi.

«Bolter, Bolter! Povero ragazzo!» disse Fagin, alzando lo sguardo con un’espressione di anticipazione demoniaca e parlando lentamente con enfasi marcata. «È stanco - stanco di aspettarla così a lungo, - aspettare lei, Bill.»

«Cosa intendi?» chiese Sikes, indietreggiando.

Fagin non rispose nulla, ma chinandosi di nuovo su il dormiente, lo tirò in una posizione seduta. Quando il suo nome fittizio fu ripetuto diverse volte, Noah si strofinò gli occhi e, sbadigliando pesantemente, guardò intorno a sé con sonnolenza.

«Ripetitemelo ancora — una volta ancora, solo perché lui possa sentire», disse l’ebreo, indicando Sikes mentre parlava.

«Che cosa?» chiese il sonnolento Noah scuotendosi con irritazione.

«Quello riguardo a, Nancy», disse Fagin, afferrando Sikes per il polso, come se volesse impedirgli di lasciare la casa prima che avesse sentito abbastanza. «Lei l’ha seguita?»

“Sì, davvero.”

“Al ponte di Londra?”

“Sì, davvero.”

“Incontrò due persone.”

“E così fece.”

«Un signore e una signora da cui era andata di sua spontanea volontà prima, che le chiesero di abbandonare tutti i suoi amici, e Monks per primo, cosa che fece—e di descriverlo, cosa che fece—e di dire qual era la casa in cui ci incontravamo e andavamo, cosa che fece—e da dove si poteva sorvegliare meglio, cosa che fece—e a quale ora le persone andavano lì, cosa che fece. Ha fatto tutto questo. Ha raccontato ogni parola senza minacce, senza un lamento—l’ha fatto—non l’ha fatto?» gridò Fagin, mezzo pazzo di rabbia.

“Va bene,” rispose Noah, grattandosi la testa. “E’ proprio quello che era!”

«Cosa hanno detto riguardo alla scorsa domenica?»

«Quello dello scorso domenica!» rispose Noah, riflettendo. «Perché te l’ho già detto prima».

«Ancora! Raccontalo ancora!» gridò Fagin, stringendo la presa su Sikes e agitando l’altra mano in alto mentre la schiuma gli usciva dalle labbra.

«Le hanno chiesto», disse Noah, che sembrava avere una crescente percezione di chi fosse Sikes man mano che si svegliava, «le hanno chiesto perché non era venuta la domenica scorsa, come aveva promesso. Lei ha detto che non poteva».

“Perché-perché? Diglielo.”

«Perché era costretta a rimanere in casa da Bill, l’uomo di cui aveva parlato loro prima», rispose Noah.

“Che altro c’è su di lui?” gridò Fagin. “Che altro c’è sull’uomo di cui lei aveva parlato prima? Diteglielo, diteglielo.”

«Perché non poteva uscire di casa molto facilmente senza che lui sapesse dove stava andando», disse Noah; «e così la prima volta che è andata a trovare la signora, lei—ha! ha! ha! mi fece ridere quando lo disse, davvero—gli diede da bere del laudano.»

«Fuoco dell’inferno!» gridò Sikes, liberandosi con violenza dall’ebreo. «Lasciami andare!»

Scagliando lontano il vecchio, egli corse fuori dalla stanza e si lanciò su per le scale in modo selvaggio e furioso.

«Bill, Bill!» gridò Fagin, seguendolo affannosamente. «Una parola. Solo una parola.»

Non si sarebbe scambiata una parola se il ladro non fosse stato incapace di aprire la porta; e mentre lui sprecava invettive e violenza senza risultato, arrivò ansimante l’ebreo.

“Lasciami uscire”, disse Sikes. “Non parlarmi; non è sicuro. Lasciami uscire, dico io!”

«Sentitemi dire una parola», riprese Fagin posando la mano sulla serratura. «Non vorrete, »

«Bene,» rispose l’altro.

“Non sarai, troppo violento, Bill?”

Il giorno stava sorgendo e c’era abbastanza luce perché gli uomini potessero vedersi i volti. Scambiarono uno sguardo breve; c’era un fuoco negli occhi di entrambi, che non poteva essere frainteso.

“Voglio dire”, disse Fagin, mostrando di ritenere che ogni travestimento fosse ormai inutile, “non troppo violento per la sicurezza. Sii astuto, Bill, e non troppo audace.”

Sikes non rispose; ma aprendo la porta, di cui Fagin aveva girato la serratura, si lanciò nelle strade silenziose.

Senza una pausa o un attimo di riflessione; senza voltare mai la testa a destra o a sinistra, né alzare gli occhi al cielo, né abbassarli a terra, ma guardando dritto davanti a sé con selvaggia risolutezza: i denti così stretti che la mascella tesa sembrava sporgere attraverso la pelle; il bandito proseguì nella sua corsa sfrenata senza mormorare una parola né rilassare un muscolo, finché non raggiunse la propria porta. La aprì dolcemente con una chiave; salì leggermente le scale e, entrato nella sua stanza, doppiamente chiuse a chiave la porta, sollevò un pesante tavolo contro di essa e tirò indietro il tendaggio del letto.

La ragazza giaceva mezza vestita sopra di esso. L’aveva svegliata dal suo sonno, perché si alzò con uno sguardo affrettato e spaventato.

«Alzati!» disse l’uomo.

«Sei tu, Bill!» disse la ragazza con un’espressione di piacere per il suo ritorno.

“È così,” fu la risposta. “Alzati.”

C’era una candela accesa, ma l’uomo la tolse in fretta dal candelabro e la gettò sotto il termosifone. Vedendo la fioca luce dell’alba all’esterno, la ragazza si alzò per scostare la tenda.

«Lascia stare», disse Sikes, mettendo la mano davanti a lei. «C’è abbastanza luce per quello che devo fare».

«Bill», disse la ragazza con voce bassa e allarmata, «perché mi guardi così?»

Il bandito la guardò per alcuni secondi con le narici dilatate e il petto ansante; poi, afferrandola per la testa e la gola, la trascinò al centro della stanza e, lanciando un’occhiata alla porta, le mise la sua pesante mano sulla bocca.

«Bill, Bill!» ansimò la ragazza, lottando con la forza della morteleale, «Io, io non griderò né piangerò, neanche una volta, ascoltami, parla con me, dimmi cosa ho fatto!»

«Lo sai, tu diavola!» rispose il bandito, trattenendo il respiro. «Stasera sei stata sorvegliata; ogni parola che hai detto è stata ascoltata.»

«Allora risparmia la mia vita per l’amore del Cielo, come io ho risparmiato la tua», replicò la ragazza, aggrappandosi a lui. «Bill, caro Bill, non puoi avere il cuore di uccidermi. Oh! pensa a tutto ciò che ho rinunciato, solo questa notte, per te. Tu avrai del tempo per riflettere e salvarti da questo crimine; non lascerò la presa, non puoi liberarti di me. Bill, Bill, per l’amor di Dio, per il tuo bene, per il mio, fermati prima di versare il mio sangue! Sono stata fedele a te, sulla mia colpevole anima lo giuro!»

L’uomo si dibatteva violentemente per liberare le braccia; ma quelle della ragazza erano strette intorno alle sue e, quanto lei non volesse strapparle via, lui non poteva farlo.

«Bill», esclamò la ragazza cercando di appoggiare il capo sul suo petto, «il signore e quella cara signora mi hanno detto stasera che c’è una casa in un paese straniero dove potrei trascorrere i miei giorni in solitudine e pace. Lascia che li veda di nuovo, e supplicarli in ginocchio di mostrare la stessa misericordia e bontà anche verso di te; e lasciamo insieme questo terribile posto, conducendo vite migliori lontani l’uno dall’altra, dimenticando come abbiamo vissuto, tranne nelle preghiere, e senza mai più rivederci. Non è mai troppo tardi per pentirsi. Me lo hanno detto loro—lo sento ora—ma dobbiamo avere tempo—un po’ di tempo, poco, poco tempo!»

Il scassinatore liberò un braccio e afferrò la sua pistola. La certezza di essere immediatamente scoperto se avesse sparato gli balenò nella mente anche nel mezzo della sua furia; e la colpì due volte con tutta la forza che poteva radunare, sul volto rivolto verso l’alto che quasi toccava il suo.

Lei vacillò e cadde: quasi accecata dal sangue che le pioveva addosso da una profonda ferita sulla fronte; ma rialzandosi, con fatica, sulle ginocchia, estrasse dal seno un fazzoletto bianco — quello di Rose Maylie — e tenendolo sollevato, tra le mani giunte, quanto più in alto verso il Cielo poteva la sua debole forza, recitò una preghiera per chiedere pietà al suo Creatore.

Era una figura spaventosa da vedere. L’assassino barcollò all’indietro fino alla parete e, coprendosi gli occhi con la mano per non vederla più, afferrò un pesante bastone e la colpì a terra.

CHAPTER XLVIII. THE FLIGHT OF SIKES

Of all bad deeds that, under cover of the darkness, had been committed within wide London’s bounds since night hung over it, that was the worst. Of all the horrors that rose with an ill scent upon the morning air, that was the foulest and most cruel.

The sun—the bright sun, that brings back, not light alone, but new life, and hope, and freshness to man—burst upon the crowded city in clear and radiant glory. Through costly-coloured glass and paper-mended window, through cathedral dome and rotten crevice, it shed its equal ray. It lighted up the room where the murdered woman lay. It did. He tried to shut it out, but it would stream in. If the sight had been a ghastly one in the dull morning, what was it, now, in all that brilliant light!

He had not moved; he had been afraid to stir. There had been a moan and motion of the hand; and, with terror added to rage, he had struck and struck again. Once he threw a rug over it; but it was worse to fancy the eyes, and imagine them moving towards him, than to see them glaring upward, as if watching the reflection of the pool of gore that quivered and danced in the sunlight on the ceiling. He had plucked it off again. And there was the body—mere flesh and blood, no more—but such flesh, and so much blood!

He struck a light, kindled a fire, and thrust the club into it. There was hair upon the end, which blazed and shrunk into a light cinder, and, caught by the air, whirled up the chimney. Even that frightened him, sturdy as he was; but he held the weapon till it broke, and then piled it on the coals to burn away, and smoulder into ashes. He washed himself, and rubbed his clothes; there were spots that would not be removed, but he cut the pieces out, and burnt them. How those stains were dispersed about the room! The very feet of the dog were bloody.

All this time he had, never once, turned his back upon the corpse; no, not for a moment. Such preparations completed, he moved, backward, towards the door: dragging the dog with him, lest he should soil his feet anew and carry out new evidence of the crime into the streets. He shut the door softly, locked it, took the key, and left the house.

He crossed over, and glanced up at the window, to be sure that nothing was visible from the outside. There was the curtain still drawn, which she would have opened to admit the light she never saw again. It lay nearly under there. He knew that. God, how the sun poured down upon the very spot!

The glance was instantaneous. It was a relief to have got free of the room. He whistled on the dog, and walked rapidly away.

He went through Islington; strode up the hill at Highgate on which stands the stone in honour of Whittington; turned down to Highgate Hill, unsteady of purpose, and uncertain where to go; struck off to the right again, almost as soon as he began to descend it; and taking the foot-path across the fields, skirted Caen Wood, and so came on Hampstead Heath. Traversing the hollow by the Vale of Heath, he mounted the opposite bank, and crossing the road which joins the villages of Hampstead and Highgate, made along the remaining portion of the heath to the fields at North End, in one of which he laid himself down under a hedge, and slept.

Soon he was up again, and away,—not far into the country, but back towards London by the high-road—then back again—then over another part of the same ground as he already traversed—then wandering up and down in fields, and lying on ditches’ brinks to rest, and starting up to make for some other spot, and do the same, and ramble on again.

Where could he go, that was near and not too public, to get some meat and drink? Hendon. That was a good place, not far off, and out of most people’s way. Thither he directed his steps,—running sometimes, and sometimes, with a strange perversity, loitering at a snail’s pace, or stopping altogether and idly breaking the hedges with a stick. But when he got there, all the people he met—the very children at the doors—seemed to view him with suspicion. Back he turned again, without the courage to purchase bit or drop, though he had tasted no food for many hours; and once more he lingered on the Heath, uncertain where to go.

He wandered over miles and miles of ground, and still came back to the old place. Morning and noon had passed, and the day was on the wane, and still he rambled to and fro, and up and down, and round and round, and still lingered about the same spot. At last he got away, and shaped his course for Hatfield.

It was nine o’clock at night, when the man, quite tired out, and the dog, limping and lame from the unaccustomed exercise, turned down the hill by the church of the quiet village, and plodding along the little street, crept into a small public-house, whose scanty light had guided them to the spot. There was a fire in the tap-room, and some country-labourers were drinking before it.

They made room for the stranger, but he sat down in the furthest corner, and ate and drank alone, or rather with his dog: to whom he cast a morsel of food from time to time.

The conversation of the men assembled here, turned upon the neighbouring land, and farmers; and when those topics were exhausted, upon the age of some old man who had been buried on the previous Sunday; the young men present considering him very old, and the old men present declaring him to have been quite young—not older, one white-haired grandfather said, than he was—with ten or fifteen year of life in him at least—if he had taken care; if he had taken care.

There was nothing to attract attention, or excite alarm in this. The robber, after paying his reckoning, sat silent and unnoticed in his corner, and had almost dropped asleep, when he was half wakened by the noisy entrance of a new comer.

CAPITOLO XLVIII. LA FUGA DI SIKE

Di tutti i cattivi gesti che, sotto copertura di oscurità, erano stati commessi entro i vasti confini della Londra da quando la notte si era abbassata su di essa, quello fu il peggiore. Di tutti gli orrori che sorsero con un cattivo odore nell’aria del mattino, quello fu il più spregevole e crudele.

Il sole — il luminoso sole che riporta non solo la luce sola, ma nuova vita, speranza e freschezza agli uomini — sorse sulla affollata città in un fulgore chiaro e radioso. Attraversò vetri costosi e colorati, e finestre rattoppate con la carta, attraverso il cupolone della cattedrale e le fessure marce, spandendo i suoi raggi uguali. Illuminò la stanza dove giaceva la donna assassinata. Lo fece davvero. Egli cercò di escluderlo, ma continuava a penetrare. Se lo spettacolo era stato orribile nella grigia luce del mattino, che cosa sarebbe stato ora in quella luminosità accecante!

Non si era mosso; aveva avuto paura di muoversi. C’era stato un gemito e un movimento della mano; e, con il terrore aggiunto alla rabbia, aveva colpito e colpito ancora. Una volta aveva gettato una coperta sopra; ma era peggio immaginare gli occhi, e immaginarli che si muovevano verso di lui, piuttosto che vederli fissi in alto, come se stessero osservando il riflesso della pozza di sangue che tremava e danzava alla luce del sole sul soffitto. L’aveva tolta di nuovo. E c’era il corpo—solo carne e sangue, nient’altro—ma quella carne, e tanto sangue!

Accese un fiammifero, accese una fiamma e vi gettò dentro il bastone. C’era del pelo all’estremità che prese fuoco e si ridusse in cenere, e, trascinata dal vento, salì su per la canna fumaria. Anche questo lo spaventò, nonostante tutto il suo coraggio; ma tenne l’arma finché non si spezzò, e poi la gettò sulle braci perché si consumasse, riducendosi in cenere. Si lavò, strofinò i vestiti; c’erano delle macchie che non andavano via, allora le tagliò e le bruciò. Come erano sparse quelle macchie per la stanza! Anche le zampe del cane erano insanguinate.

Durante tutto questo tempo non si era mai voltato le spalle al cadavere; no, neanche per un momento. Completate queste operazioni, si mosse all’indietro, verso la porta: trascinando con sé il cane, affinché non si sporcase di nuovo i piedi e portasse fuori nuove prove del crimine nelle strade. Chiuse la porta dolcemente, la chiuse a chiave, prese la chiave e lasciò la casa.

Attraversò e lanciò un’occhiata alla finestra, per assicurarsi che nulla fosse visibile dall’esterno. La tenda era ancora tirata, quella che lei avrebbe aperto per far entrare la luce che non vide mai più. Era quasi proprio sotto di essa. Lui lo sapeva. Dio, come il sole riversava i suoi raggi su quel punto esatto!

Lo sguardo fu istantaneo. Fu un sollievo essersi liberato della stanza. Fischiò al cane e si allontanò rapidamente.

Attraversò Islington; salì a passo svelto la collina di Highgate su cui si trova la pietra eretta in onore di Whittington; svoltò verso Highgate Hill, incerto sulle sue intenzioni e non sapendo dove andare; ripartì a destra quasi subito dopo aver cominciato a scendere, e prendendo il sentiero pedonale attraverso i campi, costeggiò Caen Wood, arrivando così fino a Hampstead Heath. Attraversando la conca del Vale of Heath, salì sul versante opposto, e passando sulla strada che collega i villaggi di Hampstead e Highgate, si incamminò lungo il resto della brughiera verso i campi a North End, in uno dei quali si sdraiò sotto una siepe e dormì.

Poco dopo si rimise in piedi e ripartì: non per la campagna, ma verso Londra lungo la strada principale — poi tornò indietro — quindi attraversò un’altra parte dello stesso terreno che aveva già percorso — poi vagabondò tra i campi, si sdraiò ai bordi dei fossati per riposarsi e si rialzò di scatto dirigendosi verso un altro punto, facendo la stessa cosa e continuando a vagare.

Dove poteva andare, nelle vicinanze e non troppo in pubblico, per procurarsi qualcosa da mangiare e da bere? Hendon. Era un buon posto, non lontano e fuori dalle strade più frequentate. Vi si diresse a piedi, correndo talvolta e altre volte, con una strana perversione, procedendo al passo di una lumaca o fermandosi del tutto per spezzare oziosamente le siepi con un bastone. Ma quando vi arrivò, tutte le persone che incontrava — persino i bambini alle porte — sembravano guardarlo con sospetto. Tornò indietro senza il coraggio di acquistare qualcosa da mangiare o da bere, nonostante non avesse assaggiato cibo per molte ore; e ancora una volta rimase nel Heath, incerto su dove andare.

Egli vagò per miglia e miglia di terreno, e continuava a tornare al vecchio posto. Mattina e mezzogiorno erano passati, e il giorno volgeva al termine, e ancora egli girovagava avanti e indietro, su e giù, intorno e intorno, e continuava a trattenersi nello stesso punto. Alla fine se ne andò, e prese la via per Hatfield.

Erano le nove di sera quando l’uomo, completamente esausto, e il cane, zoppicante e storpio per lo sforzo insolito, svoltarono sulla collina della chiesa del tranquillo villaggio e avanzando faticosamente lungo la stradina si infilarono in un piccolo locale pubblico, la cui luce fioca li aveva guidati fino a quel punto. C’era un fuoco nella sala da tè e alcuni braccianti rurali stavano bevendo davanti ad esso.

Fecero spazio allo straniero, ma lui si sedette nell’angolo più lontano e mangiò e bevve da solo, o meglio con il suo cane: a cui lanciava un boccone di cibo di tanto in tanto.

La conversazione degli uomini riuniti qui verteva sulla terra circostante e sui contadini; e quando questi argomenti furono esauriti, si passò all’età di un vecchio che era stato sepolto la domenica precedente; i giovani presenti lo consideravano molto anziano, mentre gli uomini più anziani affermavano che fosse stato piuttosto giovane - non più vecchio, disse un nonno dai capelli bianchi, di quanto lui fosse - con ancora dieci o quindici anni di vita davanti a sé almeno - se avesse fatto attenzione; se avesse fatto attenzione.

Non c’era nulla che attirasse l’attenzione o destasse allarme in questo. Il ladro, dopo aver pagato il conto, sedeva silenzioso e inosservato nel suo angolo, e stava quasi per addormentarsi quando fu mezzo svegliato dall’ingresso rumoroso di un nuovo arrivato.

This was an antic fellow, half pedlar and half mountebank, who travelled about the country on foot to vend hones, strops, razors, washballs, harness-paste, medicine for dogs and horses, cheap perfumery, cosmetics, and such-like wares, which he carried in a case slung to his back. His entrance was the signal for various homely jokes with the countrymen, which slackened not until he had made his supper, and opened his box of treasures, when he ingeniously contrived to unite business with amusement.

“And what be that stoof? Good to eat, Harry?” asked a grinning countryman, pointing to some composition-cakes in one corner.

“This,” said the fellow, producing one, “this is the infallible and invaluable composition for removing all sorts of stain, rust, dirt, mildew, spick, speck, spot, or spatter, from silk, satin, linen, cambric, cloth, crape, stuff, carpet, merino, muslin, bombazeen, or woollen stuff. Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains, any stains, all come out at one rub with the infallible and invaluable composition. If a lady stains her honour, she has only need to swallow one cake and she’s cured at once—for it’s poison. If a gentleman wants to prove this, he has only need to bolt one little square, and he has put it beyond question—for it’s quite as satisfactory as a pistol-bullet, and a great deal nastier in the flavour, consequently the more credit in taking it. One penny a square. With all these virtues, one penny a square!”

There were two buyers directly, and more of the listeners plainly hesitated. The vendor observing this, increased in loquacity.

“It’s all bought up as fast as it can be made,” said the fellow. “There are fourteen water-mills, six steam-engines, and a galvanic battery, always a-working upon it, and they can’t make it fast enough, though the men work so hard that they die off, and the widows is pensioned directly, with twenty pound a-year for each of the children, and a premium of fifty for twins. One penny a square! Two half-pence is all the same, and four farthings is received with joy. One penny a square! Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains, mud-stains, blood-stains! Here is a stain upon the hat of a gentleman in company, that I’ll take clean out, before he can order me a pint of ale.”

“Hah!” cried Sikes starting up. “Give that back.”

“I’ll take it clean out, sir,” replied the man, winking to the company, “before you can come across the room to get it. Gentlemen all, observe the dark stain upon this gentleman’s hat, no wider than a shilling, but thicker than a half-crown. Whether it is a wine-stain, fruit-stain, beer-stain, water-stain, paint-stain, pitch-stain, mud-stain, or blood-stain—”

The man got no further, for Sikes with a hideous imprecation overthrew the table, and tearing the hat from him, burst out of the house.

With the same perversity of feeling and irresolution that had fastened upon him, despite himself, all day, the murderer, finding that he was not followed, and that they most probably considered him some drunken sullen fellow, turned back up the town, and getting out of the glare of the lamps of a stage-coach that was standing in the street, was walking past, when he recognised the mail from London, and saw that it was standing at the little post-office. He almost knew what was to come; but he crossed over, and listened.

The guard was standing at the door, waiting for the letter-bag. A man, dressed like a game-keeper, came up at the moment, and he handed him a basket which lay ready on the pavement.

“That’s for your people,” said the guard. “Now, look alive in there, will you. Damn that ’ere bag, it warn’t ready night afore last; this won’t do, you know!”

“Anything new up in town, Ben?” asked the game-keeper, drawing back to the window-shutters, the better to admire the horses.

“No, nothing that I knows on,” replied the man, pulling on his gloves. “Corn’s up a little. I heerd talk of a murder, too, down Spitalfields way, but I don’t reckon much upon it.”

“Oh, that’s quite true,” said a gentleman inside, who was looking out of the window. “And a dreadful murder it was.”

“Was it, sir?” rejoined the guard, touching his hat. “Man or woman, pray, sir?”

“A woman,” replied the gentleman. “It is supposed—”

“Now, Ben,” replied the coachman impatiently.

“Damn that ’ere bag,” said the guard; “are you gone to sleep in there?”

“Coming!” cried the office keeper, running out.

“Coming,” growled the guard. “Ah, and so’s the young ’ooman of property that’s going to take a fancy to me, but I don’t know when. Here, give hold. All ri—ight!”

The horn sounded a few cheerful notes, and the coach was gone.

Sikes remained standing in the street, apparently unmoved by what he had just heard, and agitated by no stronger feeling than a doubt where to go. At length he went back again, and took the road which leads from Hatfield to St. Albans.

He went on doggedly; but as he left the town behind him, and plunged into the solitude and darkness of the road, he felt a dread and awe creeping upon him which shook him to the core. Every object before him, substance or shadow, still or moving, took the semblance of some fearful thing; but these fears were nothing compared to the sense that haunted him of that morning’s ghastly figure following at his heels. He could trace its shadow in the gloom, supply the smallest item of the outline, and note how stiff and solemn it seemed to stalk along. He could hear its garments rustling in the leaves, and every breath of wind came laden with that last low cry. If he stopped it did the same. If he ran, it followed—not running too: that would have been a relief: but like a corpse endowed with the mere machinery of life, and borne on one slow melancholy wind that never rose or fell.

Questo era un buffone, metà venditore ambulante e metà ciarlatano, che viaggiava a piedi per il paese per vendere cinghie, strops, rasoi, saponette, pasta per finimenti, medicine per cani e cavalli, profumeria economica, cosmetici e merci simili, che trasportava in una valigia appesa alla schiena. Il suo arrivo era il segnale di varie battute semplici con i contadini, che non si placavano finché non aveva fatto la sua cena e aperto la sua scatola di tesori, quando riusciva abilmente a unire affari e divertimento.

«E che cos’è quella roba? È buona da mangiare, Harry?» chiese un contadino sorridente, indicando alcuni dolci decorati in un angolo.

“Questo”, disse il tizio tirandone fuori uno, “questo è l’infallibile e preziosa composizione per rimuovere ogni tipo di macchia, ruggine, sporco, muffa, spicchio, puntino, chiazza o spruzzo da seta, raso, lino, batista, stoffa, crespo, tessuto, tappeto, merino, mussola, bombasina o tessuto di lana. Macchie di vino, macchie di frutta, macchie di birra, macchie d’acqua, macchie di vernice, macchie di pece, qualsiasi tipo di macchia, tutto viene via con un solo strofinio dell’infallibile e preziosa composizione. Se una signora si macchia il suo onore, deve semplicemente mangiare una pastiglia e sarà subito guarita, perché è veleno. Se un gentiluomo vuole provarlo, gli basta inghiottire un quadratino e la questione è chiusa, perché è altrettanto soddisfacente di un colpo di pistola e ha un sapore molto più disgustoso, quindi prendere questa decisione merita ancora più rispetto. Un penny a quadrato. Con tutte queste virtù, un penny a quadrato!”

C’erano due acquirenti diretti e molti degli ascoltatori esitavano palesemente. Il venditore, notando ciò, aumentò la sua verbosità.

«Tutto viene acquistato appena prodotto», disse il ragazzo. «Ci sono quattordici mulini ad acqua, sei motori a vapore e una batteria galvanica che lavorano senza sosta, ma non riescono a produrre abbastanza in fretta, anche se gli operai lavorano così duramente da morire, e le vedove ricevono subito una pensione di venti sterline l’anno per ciascuno dei figli, più un premio di cinquanta per i gemelli. Un penny al quadrato! Due mezzi penny sono la stessa cosa, e quattro quarti vengono accettati con gioia. Un penny al quadrato! Macchie di vino, macchie di frutta, macchie di birra, macchie d’acqua, macchie di vernice, macchie di pece, macchie di fango, macchie di sangue! Ecco una macchia sul cappello di un gentiluomo presente che rimuoverò completamente prima ancora che possa ordinarmi una pinta di birra.»

“Ah!” gridò Sikes alzandosi. “Ridammelo.”

«La toglierò completamente, signore», rispose l’uomo, strizzando l’occhio alla compagnia, «prima che lei possa attraversare la stanza per prenderla. Signori tutti, osservate la macchia scura sul cappello di questo gentiluomo, non più larga di uno scellino, ma più spessa di una mezza corona. Che sia una macchia di vino, di frutta, di birra, di acqua, di vernice, di pece, di fango o di sangue—»

L’uomo non riuscì ad andare oltre, perché Sikes con una terribile imprecazione rovesciò il tavolo e strappandogli il cappello di mano, esplose fuori dalla casa.

Con la stessa perversità di sentimenti e irresolutezza che lo avevano assalito, malgrado lui, per tutto il giorno, l’assassino, accorgendosi di non essere seguito e che molto probabilmente lo consideravano un ubriacone scontroso, tornò indietro verso la città; evitando la luce accecante delle lampade di una diligenza ferma in strada, stava passando quando riconobbe il postale da Londra e vide che era fermo presso la piccola posta. Quasi sapeva cosa sarebbe successo; ma attraversò comunque la strada e ascoltò.

Il guardiano stava in piedi alla porta ad aspettare la borsa della posta. In quel momento arrivò un uomo vestito come un guardiacaccia e gli consegnò un cesto che era stato preparato sul marciapiede.

«Questo è per la vostra gente», disse il guardiano. «Ora, fatevi vedere lì dentro, intesi? Dannata borsa, non era pronta notte prima di ieri; questo non va bene, sapete!»

«C’è qualcosa di nuovo in città, Ben?» chiese il guardiacaccia, aprendo meglio gli scuri della finestra, per ammirare meglio i cavalli.

«No, niente che io sappia», rispose l’uomo infilando i guanti. «Il grano è salito un po’. Ho sentito parlare anche di un omicidio a Spitalfields, ma non ci credo molto.»

«Oh, è assolutamente vero», disse un signore all’interno che stava guardando fuori dalla finestra. «E l’omicidio era terribile.»

“Era così, signore?” rispose il guardiano toccandosi il cappello. “Uomo o donna, per favore, signore?”

“Una donna”, rispose il signore. “Si suppone che, ”

«Ora, Ben», rispose l’autista con impazienza.

«Maledetta quella borsa», disse il guardiano; «ti sei messo a dormire lì dentro?»

«Arrivo!» gridò il custode dell’ufficio correndo fuori.

«Arrivo», brontolò la guardia. «Ah, e anche la giovane donna di proprietà che prenderà una smania per me, ma non so quando. Ecco, prendi. Tutto a p-p-posto!»

La tromba suonò alcune note allegre e la diligenza se ne andò.

Sikes rimase in piedi per la strada, apparentemente impassibile di fronte a quanto aveva appena udito e non agitato da alcun sentimento più forte di un dubbio su dove andare. Alla fine tornò indietro e prese la strada che conduce da Hatfield a St. Albans.

Proseguì ostinatamente; ma mentre lasciava la città alle sue spalle e si inoltrava nella solitudine e nell’oscurità della strada, sentì un timore e una soggezione che lo assalivano, scuotendolo fino al midollo. Ogni oggetto davanti a lui, sostanza o ombra, immobile o in movimento, assumeva l’aspetto di qualcosa di spaventoso; ma queste paure non erano nulla rispetto alla sensazione che lo perseguitava della figura spettrale di quella mattina che lo seguiva sui talloni. Poteva scorgere la sua ombra nell’oscurità, completare il più piccolo dettaglio del contorno e notare quanto sembrasse rigida e solenne nel camminare. Poteva sentire i suoi vestiti frusciare tra le foglie, e ogni soffio di vento arrivava carico di quell’ultimo flebile grido. Se si fermava, faceva lo stesso anche la figura. Se correva, lo seguiva - non correndo anch’essa: questo sarebbe stato un sollievo; ma come un cadavere dotato solo della meccanica della vita, trasportato da una lenta malinconica brezza che non si alzava né si abbassava mai.

At times, he turned, with desperate determination, resolved to beat this phantom off, though it should look him dead; but the hair rose on his head, and his blood stood still, for it had turned with him and was behind him then. He had kept it before him that morning, but it was behind now—always. He leaned his back against a bank, and felt that it stood above him, visibly out against the cold night-sky. He threw himself upon the road—on his back upon the road. At his head it stood, silent, erect, and still—a living grave-stone, with its epitaph in blood.

Let no man talk of murderers escaping justice, and hint that Providence must sleep. There were twenty score of violent deaths in one long minute of that agony of fear.

There was a shed in a field he passed, that offered shelter for the night. Before the door, were three tall poplar trees, which made it very dark within; and the wind moaned through them with a dismal wail. He could not walk on, till daylight came again; and here he stretched himself close to the wall—to undergo new torture.

For now, a vision came before him, as constant and more terrible than that from which he had escaped. Those widely staring eyes, so lustreless and so glassy, that he had better borne to see them than think upon them, appeared in the midst of the darkness: light in themselves, but giving light to nothing. There were but two, but they were everywhere. If he shut out the sight, there came the room with every well-known object—some, indeed, that he would have forgotten, if he had gone over its contents from memory—each in its accustomed place. The body was in its place, and its eyes were as he saw them when he stole away. He got up, and rushed into the field without. The figure was behind him. He re-entered the shed, and shrunk down once more. The eyes were there, before he had laid himself along.

And here he remained in such terror as none but he can know, trembling in every limb, and the cold sweat starting from every pore, when suddenly there arose upon the night-wind the noise of distant shouting, and the roar of voices mingled in alarm and wonder. Any sound of men in that lonely place, even though it conveyed a real cause of alarm, was something to him. He regained his strength and energy at the prospect of personal danger; and springing to his feet, rushed into the open air.

The broad sky seemed on fire. Rising into the air with showers of sparks, and rolling one above the other, were sheets of flame, lighting the atmosphere for miles round, and driving clouds of smoke in the direction where he stood. The shouts grew louder as new voices swelled the roar, and he could hear the cry of Fire! mingled with the ringing of an alarm-bell, the fall of heavy bodies, and the crackling of flames as they twined round some new obstacle, and shot aloft as though refreshed by food. The noise increased as he looked. There were people there—men and women—light, bustle. It was like new life to him. He darted onward—straight, headlong—dashing through brier and brake, and leaping gate and fence as madly as his dog, who careered with loud and sounding bark before him.

He came upon the spot. There were half-dressed figures tearing to and fro, some endeavouring to drag the frightened horses from the stables, others driving the cattle from the yard and out-houses, and others coming laden from the burning pile, amidst a shower of falling sparks, and the tumbling down of red-hot beams. The apertures, where doors and windows stood an hour ago, disclosed a mass of raging fire; walls rocked and crumbled into the burning well; the molten lead and iron poured down, white hot, upon the ground. Women and children shrieked, and men encouraged each other with noisy shouts and cheers. The clanking of the engine-pumps, and the spirting and hissing of the water as it fell upon the blazing wood, added to the tremendous roar. He shouted, too, till he was hoarse; and flying from memory and himself, plunged into the thickest of the throng. Hither and thither he dived that night: now working at the pumps, and now hurrying through the smoke and flame, but never ceasing to engage himself wherever noise and men were thickest. Up and down the ladders, upon the roofs of buildings, over floors that quaked and trembled with his weight, under the lee of falling bricks and stones, in every part of that great fire was he; but he bore a charmed life, and had neither scratch nor bruise, nor weariness nor thought, till morning dawned again, and only smoke and blackened ruins remained.

This mad excitement over, there returned, with ten-fold force, the dreadful consciousness of his crime. He looked suspiciously about him, for the men were conversing in groups, and he feared to be the subject of their talk. The dog obeyed the significant beck of his finger, and they drew off, stealthily, together. He passed near an engine where some men were seated, and they called to him to share in their refreshment. He took some bread and meat; and as he drank a draught of beer, heard the firemen, who were from London, talking about the murder. “He has gone to Birmingham, they say,” said one: “but they’ll have him yet, for the scouts are out, and by tomorrow night there’ll be a cry all through the country.”

He hurried off, and walked till he almost dropped upon the ground; then lay down in a lane, and had a long, but broken and uneasy sleep. He wandered on again, irresolute and undecided, and oppressed with the fear of another solitary night.

Suddenly, he took the desperate resolution to going back to London.

“There’s somebody to speak to there, at all event,” he thought. “A good hiding-place, too. They’ll never expect to nab me there, after this country scent. Why can’t I lie by for a week or so, and, forcing blunt from Fagin, get abroad to France? Damme, I’ll risk it.”

He acted upon this impulse without delay, and choosing the least frequented roads began his journey back, resolved to lie concealed within a short distance of the metropolis, and, entering it at dusk by a circuitous route, to proceed straight to that part of it which he had fixed on for his destination.

The dog, though. If any description of him were out, it would not be forgotten that the dog was missing, and had probably gone with him. This might lead to his apprehension as he passed along the streets. He resolved to drown him, and walked on, looking about for a pond: picking up a heavy stone and tying it to his handkerchief as he went.

The animal looked up into his master’s face while these preparations were making; whether his instinct apprehended something of their purpose, or the robber’s sidelong look at him was sterner than ordinary, he skulked a little farther in the rear than usual, and cowered as he came more slowly along. When his master halted at the brink of a pool, and looked round to call him, he stopped outright.

“Do you hear me call? Come here!” cried Sikes.

The animal came up from the very force of habit; but as Sikes stooped to attach the handkerchief to his throat, he uttered a low growl and started back.

“Come back!” said the robber.

The dog wagged his tail, but moved not. Sikes made a running noose and called him again.

The dog advanced, retreated, paused an instant, and scoured away at his hardest speed.

The man whistled again and again, and sat down and waited in the expectation that he would return. But no dog appeared, and at length he resumed his journey.

A volte si voltava con disperata determinazione, deciso a scacciare questo fantasma, anche se lo avesse guardato morire; ma i capelli gli si rizzarono sulla testa e il suo sangue si fermò, perché esso si era voltato con lui ed ora era dietro di lui. Quella mattina l’aveva tenuto davanti a sé, ma adesso era dietro — sempre. Si appoggiò con la schiena contro un terrapieno e sentì che esso stava sopra di lui, visibile contro il freddo cielo notturno. Si gettò sulla strada — sulla strada, a pancia in su. Alla sua testa esso si ergeva, silenzioso, diritto e immobile — una vivente pietra tombale con il suo epitaffio scritto in sangue.

Che nessuno parli di assassini che sfuggono alla giustizia e insinui che la Provvidenza debba dormire. Ci furono quaranta morti violente in un lungo minuto di quell’agonia di paura.

C’era un capanno in un campo che attraversò, che offriva riparo per la notte. Davanti alla porta c’erano tre alti pioppi, che rendevano l’interno molto buio; e il vento gemeva tra di essi con un lamento lugubre. Non poteva proseguire finché non fosse tornata la luce del giorno; e qui si sdraiò vicino al muro, per subire nuove torture.

Per ora gli apparve una visione, costante e più terribile di quella da cui era fuggito. Quegli occhi spalancati, così spenti e vitrei, che aveva preferito vedere piuttosto che immaginare, apparvero nel buio: luminosi in sé, ma senza illuminare nulla. Erano solo due, ma erano ovunque. Se cercava di non guardarli, gli appariva la stanza con ogni oggetto noto—alcuni dei quali avrebbe dimenticato se ne avesse ricordato il contenuto dalla memoria—ogni cosa al suo posto abituale. Il corpo era al suo posto, e i suoi occhi erano come li aveva visti quando era scappato. Si alzò e corse nel campo esterno. La figura era dietro di lui. Rientrò nella baracca e si accucciò nuovamente. Gli occhi erano lì, prima ancora che si sdraiasse.

E qui rimase in un terrore che nessuno tranne lui poteva conoscere, tremante in ogni membro e con il sudore freddo che gli sgorgava da ogni poro, quando improvvisamente sull’aria-notturna si levò il rumore di grida lontane e il ruggito delle voci mescolate in allarme e meraviglia. Qualsiasi suono umano in quel luogo solitario, anche se trasmetteva una reale causa di allarme, era per lui qualcosa. Riacquistò forza ed energia alla prospettiva del pericolo personale; e balzando in piedi, si precipitò all’aria aperta.

Il vasto cielo sembrava in fiamme. Sorgendo nell’aria con sciami di scintille e rotolando l’uno sopra l’altro, c’erano lenzuoli di fiamma che illuminavano l’atmosfera per miglia intorno, spingendo nuvole di fumo nella direzione in cui lui si trovava. Gli urli crebbero d’intensità mentre nuove voci gonfiavano il fragore e lui poteva udire il grido di Fuoco! mescolato al suono di una campana d’allarme, alla caduta di pesanti corpi e allo scoppiettio delle fiamme mentre si avvolgevano intorno a qualche nuovo ostacolo e si scagliavano in alto come se fossero state rinvigorite dal cibo. Il rumore aumentava man mano che lui guardava. C’erano persone lì - uomini e donne - luce, trambusto. Era per lui come una nuova vita. Si lanciò avanti - dritto, a precipizio - schizzando attraverso rovi e sterpi e saltando cancelli e recinzioni con la stessa follia del suo cane che gli correva davanti abbaiando forte e sonoramente.

Egli giunse sul posto. C’erano figure mezze vestite che correvano avanti e indietro: alcuni cercavano di trascinare i cavalli spaventati fuori dalle stalle, altri scacciavano il bestiame dal cortile e dagli annessi, e altri ancora tornavano carichi dalla pila in fiamme, tra una pioggia di scintille cadenti e il crollo delle travi incandescenti. Le aperture, dove un’ora prima si trovavano porte e finestre, rivelavano una massa di fuoco furioso; le pareti ondeggiavano e crollavano nel bruciante pozzo; il piombo e il ferro fusi cadevano a terra bianchi e roventi. Donne e bambini urlavano, e gli uomini si incoraggiavano a vicenda con grida rumorose ed evviva. Il clangore delle pompe dei motori e lo spruzzo e il sibilo dell’acqua che cadeva sul legno in fiamme aggiungevano al tremendo ruggito. Egli gridò anche lui, fino a rimanere raucò; e fuggendo dal ricordo e da se stesso, si tuffò nella massa più fitta della folla. Quella notte egli si immerse ovunque: ora lavorando alle pompe, ora affrettandosi attraverso il fumo e le fiamme, ma senza mai smettere di impegnarsi dove il rumore e gli uomini erano più folti. Su e giù per le scale, sui tetti degli edifici, sopra pavimenti che tremavano e vibravano sotto il suo peso, al riparo delle mattoni e pietre cadenti, in ogni parte di quel grande incendio c’era lui; ma egli portava una vita incantata, e non ebbe né graffi né lividi, né stanchezza né pensieri, finché l’alba tornò a sorgere, e rimasero solo fumo e rovine annerite.

Trascorsa questa follia di eccitazione, tornò con una forza decuplicata la terribile consapevolezza del suo crimine. Guardava intorno sospettoso, perché gli uomini conversavano in gruppi e temeva di essere oggetto dei loro discorsi. Il cane obbedì al significativo cenno del dito e si allontanarono insieme furtivamente. Passò vicino a una pompa antincendio dove alcuni uomini erano seduti, e lo chiamarono per condividere il loro ristoro. Prese un po’ di pane e carne; e mentre beveva un sorso di birra, sentì i pompieri, che venivano da Londra, parlare dell’omicidio. “Si dice che sia andato a Birmingham”, disse uno: “ma lo prenderanno comunque, perché gli agenti sono in giro e domani notte ci sarà un allarme in tutto il paese.”

Si affrettò ad allontanarsi e camminò fino a cadere quasi a terra; poi si sdraiò in un vicolo e fece un lungo, ma spezzato e agitato sonno. Riprese a vagare senza meta, incerto e indeciso, oppresso dalla paura di un’altra solitaria notte.

All’improvviso, egli prese la disperata risoluzione di tornare a Londra.

“C’è qualcuno con cui parlare lì, in ogni caso”, pensò. “Un buon nascondiglio, anche. Non si aspetteranno mai di beccarmi là, dopo questo odore di campagna. Perché non posso rimanere nascosto per una settimana o giù di lì e, strappando denaro a Fagin, andare all’estero in Francia? Accidenti, rischierò.”

Agì su questo impulso senza indugio e scegliendo le strade meno frequentate iniziò il suo viaggio di ritorno, risoluto a nascondersi a breve distanza dalla metropoli e, entrando al crepuscolo per un itinerario tortuoso, dirigersi dritto verso quella parte della città che aveva scelto come destinazione.

Il cane, però. Se fosse stata diffusa una sua descrizione, non si sarebbe dimenticato che il cane era scomparso e probabilmente se n’era andato con lui. Questo avrebbe potuto portare al suo arresto mentre passava per le strade. Decise di annegarlo e proseguì camminando, guardandosi intorno in cerca di uno stagno: raccogliendo una pietra pesante e legandola al suo fazzoletto mentre andava.

L’animale guardò il volto del suo padrone mentre venivano fatti questi preparativi; se il suo istinto avesse intuito qualcosa del loro scopo o lo sguardo di traverso che gli rivolgeva il ladro fosse più severo del solito, si tenne un po’ più indietro del consueto e si accucciò mentre avanzava più lentamente. Quando il suo padrone si fermò sul bordo di una pozza d’acqua e guardò intorno per chiamarlo, si fermò del tutto.

«Mi sentite chiamare? Venite qui!» gridò Sikes.

L’animale si alzò per pura forza d’abitudine; ma mentre Sykes si chinava per legargli il fazzoletto alla gola, emise un ringhio soffocato e indietreggiò.

«Torna indietro!» disse il bandito.

Il cane agitò la coda ma non si mosse. Sikes fece un laccio scorsoio e lo chiamò di nuovo.

Il cane avanzò, indietreggiò, si fermò un istante e fuggì via alla sua massima velocità.

L’uomo fischiò più volte e si sedette ad aspettare che tornasse. Ma non apparve nessun cane, e alla fine riprese il suo viaggio.

CHAPTER XLIX. MONKS AND MR. BROWNLOW AT LENGTH MEET. THEIR CONVERSATION, AND THE INTELLIGENCE THAT INTERRUPTS IT

The twilight was beginning to close in, when Mr. Brownlow alighted from a hackney-coach at his own door, and knocked softly. The door being opened, a sturdy man got out of the coach and stationed himself on one side of the steps, while another man, who had been seated on the box, dismounted too, and stood upon the other side. At a sign from Mr. Brownlow, they helped out a third man, and taking him between them, hurried him into the house. This man was Monks.

They walked in the same manner up the stairs without speaking, and Mr. Brownlow, preceding them, led the way into a back-room. At the door of this apartment, Monks, who had ascended with evident reluctance, stopped. The two men looked at the old gentleman as if for instructions.

“He knows the alternative,” said Mr. Browlow. “If he hesitates or moves a finger but as you bid him, drag him into the street, call for the aid of the police, and impeach him as a felon in my name.”

“How dare you say this of me?” asked Monks.

“How dare you urge me to it, young man?” replied Mr. Brownlow, confronting him with a steady look. “Are you mad enough to leave this house? Unhand him. There, sir. You are free to go, and we to follow. But I warn you, by all I hold most solemn and most sacred, that instant will have you apprehended on a charge of fraud and robbery. I am resolute and immoveable. If you are determined to be the same, your blood be upon your own head!”

“By what authority am I kidnapped in the street, and brought here by these dogs?” asked Monks, looking from one to the other of the men who stood beside him.

“By mine,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “Those persons are indemnified by me. If you complain of being deprived of your liberty—you had power and opportunity to retrieve it as you came along, but you deemed it advisable to remain quiet—I say again, throw yourself for protection on the law. I will appeal to the law too; but when you have gone too far to recede, do not sue to me for leniency, when the power will have passed into other hands; and do not say I plunged you down the gulf into which you rushed, yourself.”

Monks was plainly disconcerted, and alarmed besides. He hesitated.

“You will decide quickly,” said Mr. Brownlow, with perfect firmness and composure. “If you wish me to prefer my charges publicly, and consign you to a punishment the extent of which, although I can, with a shudder, foresee, I cannot control, once more, I say, for you know the way. If not, and you appeal to my forbearance, and the mercy of those you have deeply injured, seat yourself, without a word, in that chair. It has waited for you two whole days.”

Monks muttered some unintelligible words, but wavered still.

“You will be prompt,” said Mr. Brownlow. “A word from me, and the alternative has gone for ever.”

Still the man hesitated.

“I have not the inclination to parley,” said Mr. Brownlow, “and, as I advocate the dearest interests of others, I have not the right.”

“Is there—” demanded Monks with a faltering tongue,—“is there—no middle course?”

“None.”

Monks looked at the old gentleman, with an anxious eye; but, reading in his countenance nothing but severity and determination, walked into the room, and, shrugging his shoulders, sat down.

“Lock the door on the outside,” said Mr. Brownlow to the attendants, “and come when I ring.”

The men obeyed, and the two were left alone together.

“This is pretty treatment, sir,” said Monks, throwing down his hat and cloak, “from my father’s oldest friend.”

“It is because I was your father’s oldest friend, young man,” returned Mr. Brownlow; “it is because the hopes and wishes of young and happy years were bound up with him, and that fair creature of his blood and kindred who rejoined her God in youth, and left me here a solitary, lonely man: it is because he knelt with me beside his only sisters’s death-bed when he was yet a boy, on the morning that would—but Heaven willed otherwise—have made her my young wife; it is because my seared heart clung to him, from that time forth, through all his trials and errors, till he died; it is because old recollections and associations filled my heart, and even the sight of you brings with it old thoughts of him; it is because of all these things that I am moved to treat you gently now—yes, Edward Leeford, even now—and blush for your unworthiness who bear the name.”

“What has the name to do with it?” asked the other, after contemplating, half in silence, and half in dogged wonder, the agitation of his companion. “What is the name to me?”

“Nothing,” replied Mr. Brownlow, “nothing to you. But it was hers, and even at this distance of time brings back to me, an old man, the glow and thrill which I once felt, only to hear it repeated by a stranger. I am very glad you have changed it—very—very.”

“This is all mighty fine,” said Monks (to retain his assumed designation) after a long silence, during which he had jerked himself in sullen defiance to and fro, and Mr. Brownlow had sat, shading his face with his hand. “But what do you want with me?”

“You have a brother,” said Mr. Brownlow, rousing himself: “a brother, the whisper of whose name in your ear when I came behind you in the street, was, in itself, almost enough to make you accompany me hither, in wonder and alarm.”

“I have no brother,” replied Monks. “You know I was an only child. Why do you talk to me of brothers? You know that, as well as I.”

“Attend to what I do know, and you may not,” said Mr. Brownlow. “I shall interest you by and by. I know that of the wretched marriage, into which family pride, and the most sordid and narrowest of all ambition, forced your unhappy father when a mere boy, you were the sole and most unnatural issue.”

CAPITOLO XLIX. GLI uomini di chiesa E IL SIGNOR BROWNLLOW SI INCONTRANO FINALMENTE. LA LORO CONVERSAZIONE, E LE NOTIZIE CHE LA INTERROMPONO

Il crepuscolo stava iniziando ad addensarsi quando il signor Brownlow scese da una carrozza pubblica davanti alla sua porta e bussò piano. La porta venne aperta, un uomo robusto scese dalla carrozza e si mise su un lato dei gradini, mentre un altro uomo che era seduto sul predellino smontò anche lui e si fermò sull’altro lato. Su un cenno del signor Brownlow, aiutarono a scendere un terzo uomo e prendendolo tra loro lo affrettarono dentro la casa. Quest’uomo era Monks.

Salirono le scale nello stesso modo senza parlare e il signor Brownlow, precedendoli, li condusse in una stanza sul retro. Alla porta di questa stanza, Monks, che era salito con evidente riluttanza, si fermò. I due uomini guardarono il vecchio gentiluomo come se aspettassero istruzioni.

«Conosce l’alternativa», disse il signor Brownlow. «Se esita o muove un dito senza che tu glielo abbia ordinato, trascinalo per la strada, chiedi aiuto alla polizia e accusalo di essere un criminale in mio nome».

“Come osa dirmi questo?” chiese Monks.

“Come osa sollecitarmi in tal senso, giovane?” rispose il signor Brownlow, affrontandolo con uno sguardo fermo. “È così pazzo da voler lasciare questa casa? Lasciatelo andare. Ecco, signore. Siete libero di andarvene e noi di seguirvi. Ma vi avverto, per tutto ciò che tengo più solenne e sacro, che in quell’istante verrete arrestato con l’accusa di frode e rapina. Io sono risoluto e immobile. Se siete deciso a fare lo stesso, la vostra vita sia sulla vostra stessa testa!”

«Con quale autorità sono rapito per strada e portato qui da questi cani?» chiese Monks, guardando l’uno dopo l’altro gli uomini che si trovavano accanto a lui.

«Per conto mio», rispose il signor Brownlow. «Quelle persone sono indennizzate da me. Se lamenta di essere privato della sua libertà, aveva la possibilità e l’opportunità di recuperarla mentre veniva condotto qui, ma ha ritenuto opportuno rimanere tranquillo: le ripeto, si rivolga alla legge per proteggersi. Anche io farò appello alla legge; ma quando sarà troppo tardi per tornare indietro, non mi chieda clemenza, perché il potere sarà passato ad altre mani; e non dica che sono stato io a spingerla nel baratro in cui si è gettata da sola.»

I monaci erano chiaramente sconcertati e inoltre allarmati. Esitarono.

«Deciderete rapidamente», disse il signor Brownlow con perfetta fermezza e compostezza. «Se desiderate che io presenti le mie accuse pubblicamente e vi condanni a una punizione la cui estensione, sebbene possa prevederla con un brivido, non posso controllare, ancora una volta, dico, perché conoscete la strada. Se no, e fate appello alla mia pazienza e alla pietà di coloro che avete profondamente offeso, sedetevi senza dire una parola su quella sedia. Ha aspettato voi per due giorni interi».

I monaci mormorarono alcune parole incomprensibili, ma esitarono ancora.

«Sarete puntuale», disse il signor Brownlow. «Una parola da parte mia e l’alternativa sarà perduta per sempre».

L’uomo esitava ancora.

«Non ho la minima intenzione di trattare» disse il signor Brownlow «e, poiché difendo gli interessi più cari degli altri, non ne ho nemmeno il diritto.»

«C’è —» chiese Monks con voce incerta, «c’è — forse una via di mezzo?»

“Nessuno.”

I monaci guardarono il vecchio signore con occhi ansiosi; ma non leggendo sul suo volto altro che severità e determinazione, entrarono nella stanza e, stringendosi nelle spalle, si sedettero.

«Chiudete la porta dall’esterno», disse il signor Brownlow agli inservienti, «e venite quando suono».

Gli uomini obbedirono e i due rimasero soli insieme.

“Questo è un trattamento davvero gentile, signore”, disse Monks, gettando a terra il cappello e il mantello, “da parte del più vecchio amico di mio padre”.

«È perché ero l’amico più anziano di vostro padre, giovane uomo», rispose il signor Brownlow; «è perché le speranze e i desideri dei giovani anni felici erano legati a lui, e a quella creatura gentile del suo sangue e della sua famiglia che si è riunita al suo Dio in gioventù, lasciandomi qui un uomo solitario e solo: è perché ha pregato con me accanto al letto di morte dell’unica sorella quando era ancora un ragazzo, la mattina che avrebbe - ma il Cielo volle diversamente - fatto di lei mia giovane moglie; è perché il mio cuore segnato si è aggrappato a lui da quel tempo in poi, attraverso tutte le sue prove e i suoi errori, fino alla sua morte; è perché vecchi ricordi e associazioni hanno riempito il mio cuore, e anche la vista di voi mi porta con sé vecchi pensieri su di lui; è a causa di tutte queste cose che sono spinto a trattarvi gentilmente ora - sì, Edward Leeford, anche ora - e arrossisco per l’indegnità di chi porta il nome.»

“Che importa il nome?” chiese l’altro, dopo aver contemplato, metà nel silenzio e metà nella testarda meraviglia, l’agitazione del suo compagno. “Che cosa è per me il nome?”

«Nulla», rispose il signor Brownlow, «nulla per voi. Ma era sua, e anche dopo tanto tempo mi riporta alla mente, vecchio com’ero, il calore e l’emozione che provavo una volta solo a sentirlo ripetere da uno sconosciuto. Sono davvero felice che lo abbiate cambiato—davvero—davvero».

“Tutto questo è davvero molto bello”, disse Monks (per conservare il nome che si era dato) dopo un lungo silenzio, durante il quale aveva continuato a muoversi avanti e indietro con aria di sfida, mentre Mr. Brownlow era rimasto seduto, coprendosi il volto con la mano. “Ma cosa volete da me?”

«Avete un fratello», disse il signor Brownlow riscuotendosi: «un fratello, il cui nome sussurrato al vostro orecchio quando vi ho sorpreso per strada, è stato di per sé quasi sufficiente a farvi accompagnare me fin qui, in meraviglia e allarme».

«Non ho fratelli», rispose Monks. «Sai che ero l’unico figlio. Perché mi parli di fratelli? Lo sai bene quanto me».

«Presta attenzione a ciò che so e tu forse no», disse il signor Brownlow. «Ti interesserò presto. So che del miserabile matrimonio, in cui l’orgoglio familiare, e la più meschina e ristretta di tutte le ambizioni, costrinse tuo sfortunato padre quando era solo un ragazzo, tu sei il frutto unico e più innaturale.»

“I don’t care for hard names,” interrupted Monks with a jeering laugh. “You know the fact, and that’s enough for me.”

“But I also know,” pursued the old gentleman, “the misery, the slow torture, the protracted anguish of that ill-assorted union. I know how listlessly and wearily each of that wretched pair dragged on their heavy chain through a world that was poisoned to them both. I know how cold formalities were succeeded by open taunts; how indifference gave place to dislike, dislike to hate, and hate to loathing, until at last they wrenched the clanking bond asunder, and retiring a wide space apart, carried each a galling fragment, of which nothing but death could break the rivets, to hide it in new society beneath the gayest looks they could assume. Your mother succeeded; she forgot it soon. But it rusted and cankered at your father’s heart for years.”

“Well, they were separated,” said Monks, “and what of that?”

“When they had been separated for some time,” returned Mr. Brownlow, “and your mother, wholly given up to continental frivolities, had utterly forgotten the young husband ten good years her junior, who, with prospects blighted, lingered on at home, he fell among new friends. This circumstance, at least, you know already.”

“Not I,” said Monks, turning away his eyes and beating his foot upon the ground, as a man who is determined to deny everything. “Not I.”

“Your manner, no less than your actions, assures me that you have never forgotten it, or ceased to think of it with bitterness,” returned Mr. Brownlow. “I speak of fifteen years ago, when you were not more than eleven years old, and your father but one-and-thirty—for he was, I repeat, a boy, when his father ordered him to marry. Must I go back to events which cast a shade upon the memory of your parent, or will you spare it, and disclose to me the truth?”

“I have nothing to disclose,” rejoined Monks. “You must talk on if you will.”

“These new friends, then,” said Mr. Brownlow, “were a naval officer retired from active service, whose wife had died some half-a-year before, and left him with two children—there had been more, but, of all their family, happily but two survived. They were both daughters; one a beautiful creature of nineteen, and the other a mere child of two or three years old.”

“What’s this to me?” asked Monks.

“They resided,” said Mr. Brownlow, without seeming to hear the interruption, “in a part of the country to which your father in his wandering had repaired, and where he had taken up his abode. Acquaintance, intimacy, friendship, fast followed on each other. Your father was gifted as few men are. He had his sister’s soul and person. As the old officer knew him more and more, he grew to love him. I would that it had ended there. His daughter did the same.”

The old gentleman paused; Monks was biting his lips, with his eyes fixed upon the floor; seeing this, he immediately resumed:

“The end of a year found him contracted, solemnly contracted, to that daughter; the object of the first, true, ardent, only passion of a guileless girl.”

“Your tale is of the longest,” observed Monks, moving restlessly in his chair.

“It is a true tale of grief and trial, and sorrow, young man,” returned Mr. Brownlow, “and such tales usually are; if it were one of unmixed joy and happiness, it would be very brief. At length one of those rich relations to strengthen whose interest and importance your father had been sacrificed, as others are often—it is no uncommon case—died, and to repair the misery he had been instrumental in occasioning, left him his panacea for all griefs—Money. It was necessary that he should immediately repair to Rome, whither this man had sped for health, and where he had died, leaving his affairs in great confusion. He went; was seized with mortal illness there; was followed, the moment the intelligence reached Paris, by your mother who carried you with her; he died the day after her arrival, leaving no will—no will—so that the whole property fell to her and you.”

At this part of the recital Monks held his breath, and listened with a face of intense eagerness, though his eyes were not directed towards the speaker. As Mr. Brownlow paused, he changed his position with the air of one who has experienced a sudden relief, and wiped his hot face and hands.

“Before he went abroad, and as he passed through London on his way,” said Mr. Brownlow, slowly, and fixing his eyes upon the other’s face, “he came to me.”

“I never heard of that,” interrupted Monks in a tone intended to appear incredulous, but savouring more of disagreeable surprise.

“He came to me, and left with me, among some other things, a picture—a portrait painted by himself—a likeness of this poor girl—which he did not wish to leave behind, and could not carry forward on his hasty journey. He was worn by anxiety and remorse almost to a shadow; talked in a wild, distracted way, of ruin and dishonour worked by himself; confided to me his intention to convert his whole property, at any loss, into money, and, having settled on his wife and you a portion of his recent acquisition, to fly the country—I guessed too well he would not fly alone—and never see it more. Even from me, his old and early friend, whose strong attachment had taken root in the earth that covered one most dear to both—even from me he withheld any more particular confession, promising to write and tell me all, and after that to see me once again, for the last time on earth. Alas! That was the last time. I had no letter, and I never saw him more.”

“I went,” said Mr. Brownlow, after a short pause, “I went, when all was over, to the scene of his—I will use the term the world would freely use, for worldly harshness or favour are now alike to him—of his guilty love, resolved that if my fears were realised that erring child should find one heart and home to shelter and compassionate her. The family had left that part a week before; they had called in such trifling debts as were outstanding, discharged them, and left the place by night. Why, or whither, none can tell.”

“Non mi piacciono i nomi difficili”, lo interruppe Monks con una risata di scherno. “Conosci il fatto e questo è sufficiente per me”.

«Ma conosco anche», proseguì il vecchio signore, «la miseria, la lenta tortura, l’angoscia prolungata di quell’unione sfortunata. So come quella coppia infelice trascinasse pigramente e stancamente le loro pesanti catene in un mondo che era avvelenato per entrambi. So come fredde formalità furono seguite da aperte offese; come l’indifferenza lasciasse il posto al disprezzo, il disprezzo all’odio, e l’odio allo sdegno, finché alla fine strapparono quel legame che tintinnava e si separarono di molto, portando ciascuno un frammento fastidioso, i cui perni solo la morte poteva spezzare, per nasconderlo in una nuova società sotto le apparenze più gaie che potessero assumere. Vostra madre ci riuscì; lo dimenticò presto. Ma esso arrugginì e corrode il cuore di vostro padre da anni».

«Bene, sono stati separati», disse Monks, «e che importa?»

«Quando furono separati per qualche tempo», riprese il signor Brownlow, «e tua madre, completamente immersa nelle frivolezze continentali, aveva dimenticato del tutto il giovane marito di dieci anni più giovane di lei, che, con le prospettive rovinate, rimase a casa, si fece nuovi amici. Questo episodio, almeno, lo conosci già».

«Non io», disse Monks, distogliendo lo sguardo e battendo il piede per terra come un uomo deciso a negare tutto. «Non io».

«Il vostro comportamento, non meno delle vostre azioni, mi assicura che non l’avete mai dimenticato o smesso di pensarci con amarezza», rispose il signor Brownlow. «Parlo di quindici anni fa, quando voi avevate poco più di undici anni e vostro padre ne aveva solo trentuno — perché lui stesso era, lo ripeto, un ragazzo quando suo padre gli ordinò di sposarsi. Devo tornare a eventi che gettano ombra sulla memoria del vostro genitore, oppure vorrete risparmiarglielo e rivelarmi la verità?»

«Non ho nulla da rivelare», ribatté Monks. «Se vuoi, devi parlare tu.»

“Questi nuovi amici,” disse il signor Brownlow, “erano un ufficiale di marina in pensione dal servizio attivo, la cui moglie era morta da circa mezzo anno e lo aveva lasciato con due figli — ne avevano avuti altri, ma per fortuna solo due erano sopravvissuti. Erano entrambe femmine; una era una splendida creatura di diciannove anni, l’altra una semplice bambina di due o tre anni.”

“Che cosa c’entro io?”, chiese Monks.

«Risiedevano», disse il signor Brownlow senza sembrare di aver udito l’interruzione, «in una parte del paese dove vostro padre si era recato nei suoi vagabondaggi e dove aveva stabilito la sua dimora. Conoscenza, intimità, amicizia, seguirono rapidamente l’una all’altra. Vostro padre era dotato come pochi uomini lo sono. Aveva l’[[]L02|anima]] e il carattere di sua sorella. Man mano che il vecchio ufficiale lo conosceva meglio, più si innamorava di lui. Vorrei che fosse finita lì. Anche sua figlia fece altrettanto».

Il vecchio gentiluomo fece una pausa; Monks si mordeva le labbra, con gli occhi fissi sul pavimento; vedendolo così, riprese subito a parlare:

«Alla fine dell’anno si era fidanzato, ufficialmente fidanzato, con quella figlia; oggetto del primo, vero, ardente e unico amore di una fanciulla ingenua.»

«La tua storia è tra le più lunghe», osservò Monks, muovendosi irrequieto sulla sedia.

«È una vera storia di dolore e tribolazione, e tristezza, giovane uomo», rispose il signor Brownlow, «e tali storie lo sono solitamente; se fosse stata una di gioia e felicità senza mescolanze, sarebbe stata molto breve. Alla fine uno di quei parenti ricchi per rafforzare l’interesse e l’importanza dei quali tuo padre era stato sacrificato, come spesso accade ad altri - non è un caso insolito - morì, e per riparare alla miseria che aveva contribuito a causare, gli lasciò la sua panacea per tutti i dolori: il denaro. Era necessario che si recasse immediatamente a Roma, dove quest’uomo era fuggito per motivi di salute, e dove era morto, lasciando le sue faccende in grande confusione. Andò; fu colto da una malattia mortale lì; fu seguito, nel momento in cui la notizia raggiunse Parigi, dalla tua madre che ti portò con sé; morì il giorno dopo il suo arrivo, senza lasciare un testamento - nessun testamento - così che tutta la proprietà andò a lei e a te.»

A questo punto del racconto Monks trattenne il respiro e ascoltò con un’espressione di intensa curiosità, sebbene i suoi occhi non fossero rivolti verso l’oratore. Quando il signor Brownlow fece una pausa, cambiò posizione come chi ha provato un improvviso sollievo e si asciugò il viso e le mani sudate.

«Prima che partisse per l’estero e mentre passava attraverso Londra sulla sua strada» disse il signor Brownlow lentamente, fissando gli occhi sul volto dell’altro «venne da me.»

“Non ho mai sentito parlare di questo”, lo interruppe Monks con un tono che intendeva sembrare incredulo ma che sapeva più di sgradevole sorpresa.

“È venuto da me e se ne è andato con me, tra le altre cose, un quadro — un ritratto dipinto da lui stesso — una raffigurazione di questa povera ragazza — che non voleva lasciare indietro ma non poteva portare avanti nel suo affrettato viaggio. Era consumato dall’ansia e dal rimorso quasi fino a diventare un ombra; parlava in modo selvaggio, distratto, di rovina e disonore causati da lui stesso; mi confidò la sua intenzione di convertire tutta la sua proprietà, a qualsiasi costo, in denaro, e, avendo stabilito su sua moglie e su di te una parte del suo recente acquisto, di fuggire dal paese — indovinai troppo bene che non sarebbe fuggito solo — e di non vederlo mai più. Anche da me, il suo vecchio e antico amico, al quale un forte attaccamento aveva messo radici nella terra che copriva una persona molto cara a entrambi — anche da me egli trattenne qualsiasi confessione più particolareggiata, promettendo di scrivermi per raccontarmi tutto e dopo di vedermi ancora una volta, per l’ultima volta sulla terra. Ahimè! Quella fu l’ultima volta. Non ricevetti alcuna lettera e non lo vidi mai più.”

«Sono andato», disse il signor Brownlow dopo una breve pausa, «sono andato, quando tutto fu finito, sul luogo del suo—userò il termine che il mondo userebbe liberamente, poiché la durezza o la benevolenza mondane ora gli sono uguali—del suo amore colpevole, risoluto che se i miei timori si fossero realizzati quella errante bambina avrebbe trovato un cuore e una casa per proteggerla e compatirla. La famiglia aveva lasciato quella zona una settimana prima; avevano riscosso i debiti minori in sospeso, li avevano saldati e avevano abbandonato il posto di notte. Perché o dove, nessuno può dirlo.»

Monks drew his breath yet more freely, and looked round with a smile of triumph.

“When your brother,” said Mr. Brownlow, drawing nearer to the other’s chair, “When your brother: a feeble, ragged, neglected child: was cast in my way by a stronger hand than chance, and rescued by me from a life of vice and infamy—”

“What?” cried Monks.

“By me,” said Mr. Brownlow. “I told you I should interest you before long. I say by me—I see that your cunning associate suppressed my name, although for aught he knew, it would be quite strange to your ears. When he was rescued by me, then, and lay recovering from sickness in my house, his strong resemblance to this picture I have spoken of, struck me with astonishment. Even when I first saw him in all his dirt and misery, there was a lingering expression in his face that came upon me like a glimpse of some old friend flashing on one in a vivid dream. I need not tell you he was snared away before I knew his history—”

“Why not?” asked Monks hastily.

“Because you know it well.”

“I!”

“Denial to me is vain,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “I shall show you that I know more than that.”

“You—you—can’t prove anything against me,” stammered Monks. “I defy you to do it!”

“We shall see,” returned the old gentleman with a searching glance. “I lost the boy, and no efforts of mine could recover him. Your mother being dead, I knew that you alone could solve the mystery if anybody could, and as when I had last heard of you you were on your own estate in the West Indies—whither, as you well know, you retired upon your mother’s death to escape the consequences of vicious courses here—I made the voyage. You had left it, months before, and were supposed to be in London, but no one could tell where. I returned. Your agents had no clue to your residence. You came and went, they said, as strangely as you had ever done: sometimes for days together and sometimes not for months: keeping to all appearance the same low haunts and mingling with the same infamous herd who had been your associates when a fierce ungovernable boy. I wearied them with new applications. I paced the streets by night and day, but until two hours ago, all my efforts were fruitless, and I never saw you for an instant.”

“And now you do see me,” said Monks, rising boldly, “what then? Fraud and robbery are high-sounding words—justified, you think, by a fancied resemblance in some young imp to an idle daub of a dead man’s Brother! You don’t even know that a child was born of this maudlin pair; you don’t even know that.”

“I did not,” replied Mr. Brownlow, rising too; “but within the last fortnight I have learnt it all. You have a brother; you know it, and him. There was a will, which your mother destroyed, leaving the secret and the gain to you at her own death. It contained a reference to some child likely to be the result of this sad connection, which child was born, and accidentally encountered by you, when your suspicions were first awakened by his resemblance to your father. You repaired to the place of his birth. There existed proofs—proofs long suppressed—of his birth and parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your own words to your accomplice the Jew, ‘the only proofs of the boy’s identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.’ Unworthy son, coward, liar,—you, who hold your councils with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night,—you, whose plots and wiles have brought a violent death upon the head of one worth millions such as you,—you, who from your cradle were gall and bitterness to your own father’s heart, and in whom all evil passions, vice, and profligacy, festered, till they found a vent in a hideous disease which had made your face an index even to your mind—you, Edward Leeford, do you still brave me!”

“No, no, no!” returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges.

“Every word!” cried the gentleman, “every word that has passed between you and this detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the courage and almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not really a party.”

“No, no,” interposed Monks. “I—I knew nothing of that; I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn’t know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel.”

“It was the partial disclosure of your secrets,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “Will you disclose the whole?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before witnesses?”

“That I promise too.”

“Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?”

“If you insist upon that, I’ll do that also,” replied Monks.

“You must do more than that,” said Mr. Brownlow. “Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please. In this world you need meet no more.”

While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on this proposal and the possibilities of evading it: torn by his fears on the one hand and his hatred on the other: the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman (Mr. Losberne) entered the room in violent agitation.

“The man will be taken,” he cried. “He will be taken tonight!”

“The murderer?” asked Mr. Brownlow.

“Yes, yes,” replied the other. “His dog has been seen lurking about some old haunt, and there seems little doubt that his master either is, or will be, there, under cover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in every direction. I have spoken to the men who are charged with his capture, and they tell me he cannot escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by Government tonight.”

“I will give fifty more,” said Mr. Brownlow, “and proclaim it with my own lips upon the spot, if I can reach it. Where is Mr. Maylie?”

“Harry? As soon as he had seen your friend here, safe in a coach with you, he hurried off to where he heard this,” replied the doctor, “and mounting his horse sallied forth to join the first party at some place in the outskirts agreed upon between them.”

“Fagin,” said Mr. Brownlow; “what of him?”

“When I last heard, he had not been taken, but he will be, or is, by this time. They’re sure of him.”

“Have you made up your mind?” asked Mr. Brownlow, in a low voice, of Monks.

“Yes,” he replied. “You—you—will be secret with me?”

“I will. Remain here till I return. It is your only hope of safety.”

They left the room, and the door was again locked.

“What have you done?” asked the doctor in a whisper.

“All that I could hope to do, and even more. Coupling the poor girl’s intelligence with my previous knowledge, and the result of our good friend’s inquiries on the spot, I left him no loophole of escape, and laid bare the whole villainy which by these lights became plain as day. Write and appoint the evening after tomorrow, at seven, for the meeting. We shall be down there, a few hours before, but shall require rest: especially the young lady, who may have greater need of firmness than either you or I can quite foresee just now. But my blood boils to avenge this poor murdered creature. Which way have they taken?”

“Drive straight to the office and you will be in time,” replied Mr. Losberne. “I will remain here.”

The two gentlemen hastily separated; each in a fever of excitement wholly uncontrollable.

I monaci trassero il respiro ancora più liberamente e si guardarono intorno con un sorriso di trionfo.

«Quando vostro fratello», disse il signor Brownlow avvicinandosi alla sedia dell’altro, «quando vostro fratello: un bambino debole, stracciato e trascurato: fu spinto sulla mia strada da una mano più forte del caso e salvato da me da una vita di vizio e infamia—»

“Cosa?” gridò Monks.

«Per opera mia», disse il signor Brownlow. «Vi avevo detto che vi avrei interessato presto. Dico per opera mia: vedo che quel vostro astuto complice ha taciuto il mio nome, anche se, per quanto ne sapeva lui, poteva essere del tutto sconosciuto alle vostre orecchie. Quando lo salvai io e giaceva nella mia casa in convalescenza da una malattia, la sua forte somiglianza con il ritratto di cui vi ho parlato mi colpì con stupore. Anche quando lo vidi per la prima volta in tutta la sua sporcizia e miseria, c’era un’espressione persistente nel suo volto che mi apparve come un lampo di qualche vecchio amico che ti balena davanti in un sogno vivido. Non ho bisogno di dirvi che fu trascinato via prima che io conoscessi la sua storia—»

«Perché no?» chiese Monks in fretta.

«Perché lo sai bene.»

“I!”

«Negarlo è inutile», rispose il signor Brownlow. «Vi dimostrerò che ne so più di così».

“Voi, voi, non potete provare nulla contro di me”, balbettò Monks. “Vi sfido a farlo!”

«Vedremo», rispose il vecchio gentiluomo con uno sguardo scrutatore. «Ho perso il ragazzo e nessuno dei miei sforzi è riuscito a ritrovarlo. Con la morte di vostra madre, sapevo che solo voi avreste potuto sciogliere l’enigma se qualcuno poteva farlo, e poiché quando ho saputo per l’ultima volta di voi vi trovavate nella vostra proprietà nelle Indie Occidentali — dove, come bene sapete, vi eravate ritirato dopo la morte di vostra madre per sfuggire alle conseguenze dei vostri viziosi comportamenti qui — ho intrapreso il viaggio. Eravate partito da mesi e si pensava foste a Londra, ma nessuno sapeva dove. Sono tornato. I vostri agenti non avevano alcuna traccia della vostra residenza. Venivate e andavate, dicevano, in modo altrettanto strano come avete sempre fatto: a volte per giorni di seguito e altre volte per mesi: frequentando apparentemente gli stessi bassifondi e mescolandovi con la stessa infame banda che erano stati i vostri compagni quando eravate un ragazzo feroce e indomabile. Li ho importunati con nuove richieste. Ho camminato per le strade di notte e di giorno, ma fino a due ore fa tutti i miei sforzi sono stati vani e non vi ho mai visto neanche per un istante».

«E ora che mi vedete», disse Monks, alzandosi con fare audace, «che cosa importa? Frode e rapina sono parole di grande effetto, giustificate, secondo voi, da una presunta somiglianza tra un giovane moccioso e uno scarabocchio fatto da un fratello morto! Non sapete nemmeno che a questa coppia sentimentale è nato un bambino; non lo sapete neanche.»

“Non l’ho fatto,” rispose il signor Brownlow, alzandosi anche lui; “ma nelle ultime due settimane ho scoperto tutto. Avete un fratello; lo sapete e conoscete anche lui. Esisteva un testamento che vostra madre ha distrutto, lasciando a voi il segreto e i benefici alla sua morte. Conteneva un riferimento a un certo figlio che poteva essere il risultato di questa triste relazione, e questo figlio è nato ed è stato incontrato accidentalmente da voi quando i vostri sospetti sono stati destati dalla sua somiglianza con vostro padre. Siete andato al luogo della sua nascita. Esistevano prove—prove a lungo sopite—della sua nascita e del suo lignaggio. Queste prove sono state distrutte da voi, e ora, nelle vostre stesse parole rivolte al vostro complice il Giudeo, ‘le uniche prove dell’identità del ragazzo giacciono nel fondo del fiume, e la vecchia strega che le ha ricevute dalla madre sta marcendo nella sua bara.’ Figlio indegno, codardo, bugiardo,—voi, che tenete i vostri consigli con ladri e assassini in stanze buie di notte,—voi, le cui trame e astuzie hanno portato una violenta morte sulla testa di uno degno di milioni come voi,—voi, che fin dalla culla siete stati veleno e amarezza nel cuore stesso di vostro padre, e in cui tutte le passioni malvagie, il vizio e la dissolutezza si sono infettate, fino a trovare sfogo in una terribile malattia che ha reso il vostro volto un indice persino della vostra mente—voi, Edward Leeford, avete ancora il coraggio di sfidarmi!”

«No, no, no!», rispose il codardo, sopraffatto da queste accuse accumulate.

«Ogni parola!» gridò il gentiluomo «ogni singola parola che è passata tra te e questo detestabile villano mi è nota. Le ombre sul muro hanno catturato i tuoi sussurri e li hanno portati alle mie orecchie; la vista del bambino perseguitato ha trasformato il vizio stesso, conferendogli il coraggio e quasi gli attributi della virtù. È stato commesso un omicidio al quale tu sei stato moralmente, se non realmente, complice».

“No, no”, intervenne Monks. “Io, io non ne sapevo nulla; stavo per scoprire la verità della storia quando mi avete raggiunto. Non conoscevo il motivo. Pensavo fosse una semplice lite.”

«È stata la parziale rivelazione dei tuoi segreti», rispose il signor Brownlow. «Rivelerai tutto?»

“Sì, lo farò.”

«Mettere la mano su una dichiarazione di verità e fatti, e ripeterla davanti ai testimoni?»

“Anch’io prometto.”

«Rimanete tranquillamente qui finché non sarà redatto un tale documento e accompagnatemi in un luogo che io riterrò più opportuno per attestarlo?»

«Se insistete in questo, lo farò anch’io», rispose Monks.

«Dovete fare più di così», disse il signor Brownlow. «Riparate a un innocente e inoffensivo bambino, perché tale è, sebbene frutto di un colpevole e miserabile amore. Non avete dimenticato le disposizioni del testamento. Mettetele in esecuzione per quanto riguarda vostro fratello, e poi andate dove vi pare. In questo mondo non dovete incontrarvi più».

Mentre Monks camminava avanti e indietro meditando con sguardi torbidi e malvagi su questa proposta e sulle possibilità di eluderla, straziato dalle sue paure da un lato e dall’odio dall’altro, la porta fu aperta in fretta ed entrò nella stanza un signore (il dottor Losberne) in violenta agitazione.

“L’uomo sarà catturato,” gridò. “Sarà preso stasera!”

«L’assassino?» chiese il signor Brownlow.

“Sì, sì”, rispose l’altro. “Il suo cane è stato visto aggirarsi nei vecchi luoghi di ritrovo e sembra che ci sia poco dubbio che il padrone sia o sarà lì, al riparo dell’oscurità. Spie si aggirano dappertutto. Ho parlato con gli uomini incaricati della sua cattura e mi hanno detto che non può sfuggire. Una ricompensa di cento sterline è stata proclamata dal Governo stasera.”

«Ne darò altri cinquanta», disse il signor Brownlow, «e lo proclamerò con le mie stesse labbra sul posto, se ci arriverò. Dov’è il signor Maylie?»

«Harry? Appena ebbe visto il vostro amico qui, al sicuro in una carrozza con voi, si affrettò a recarsi dove aveva sentito questa notizia», rispose il dottore, «e montando la sua cavalcatura si mise in cammino per raggiungere il primo gruppo in un luogo delle periferie concordato tra loro.»

«Fagin», disse il signor Brownlow; «che ne è di lui?»

«Quando l’ho saputo l’ultima volta, non era stato catturato, ma lo sarà, o lo è già, entro questo periodo. Ne sono sicuri.»

«Avete preso una decisione?» chiese il signor Brownlow con voce bassa a Monks.

“Sì,” rispose lui. “Tu, terrai il segreto con me?”

«Lo farò. Resta qui finché non torno. È la tua unica speranza di salvezza».

Uscirono dalla stanza e la porta fu di nuovo chiusa a chiave.

«Cosa avete fatto?» chiese il dottore sussurrando.

«Tutto ciò che potevo sperare di fare, e anche più. Unendo l’intelligenza della povera ragazza alle mie conoscenze precedenti, e al risultato delle indagini del nostro buon amico sul posto, non gli ho lasciato via d’uscita, e ho svelato tutta la malvagità che alla luce di questi fatti è diventata chiara come il giorno. Scrivi e fissa per domani sera alle sette l’incontro. Ci saremo già laggiù alcune ore prima, ma avremo bisogno di riposo: soprattutto la giovane signora, che potrebbe aver bisogno di più fermezza di quanto tu o io possiamo prevedere in questo momento. Ma il mio sangue bolle dal desiderio di vendicare questa povera creatura assassinata. Quale strada hanno preso?»

«Andate dritto all’ufficio e sarete in tempo», rispose il signor Losberne, «io rimarrò qui».

I due signori si separarono precipitosamente; ciascuno in uno stato di febbrile eccitazione del tutto incontrollabile.

CHAPTER L. THE PURSUIT AND ESCAPE

Near to that part of the Thames on which the church at Rotherhithe abuts, where the buildings on the banks are dirtiest and the vessels on the river blackest with the dust of colliers and the smoke of close-built low-roofed houses, there exists the filthiest, the strangest, the most extraordinary of the many localities that are hidden in London, wholly unknown, even by name, to the great mass of its inhabitants.

To reach this place, the visitor has to penetrate through a maze of close, narrow, and muddy streets, thronged by the roughest and poorest of waterside people, and devoted to the traffic they may be supposed to occasion. The cheapest and least delicate provisions are heaped in the shops; the coarsest and commonest articles of wearing apparel dangle at the salesman’s door, and stream from the house-parapet and windows. Jostling with unemployed labourers of the lowest class, ballast-heavers, coal-whippers, brazen women, ragged children, and the raff and refuse of the river, he makes his way with difficulty along, assailed by offensive sights and smells from the narrow alleys which branch off on the right and left, and deafened by the clash of ponderous waggons that bear great piles of merchandise from the stacks of warehouses that rise from every corner. Arriving, at length, in streets remoter and less-frequented than those through which he has passed, he walks beneath tottering house-fronts projecting over the pavement, dismantled walls that seem to totter as he passes, chimneys half crushed half hesitating to fall, windows guarded by rusty iron bars that time and dirt have almost eaten away, every imaginable sign of desolation and neglect.

In such a neighborhood, beyond Dockhead in the Borough of Southwark, stands Jacob’s Island, surrounded by a muddy ditch, six or eight feet deep and fifteen or twenty wide when the tide is in, once called Mill Pond, but known in the days of this story as Folly Ditch. It is a creek or inlet from the Thames, and can always be filled at high water by opening the sluices at the Lead Mills from which it took its old name. At such times, a stranger, looking from one of the wooden bridges thrown across it at Mill Lane, will see the inhabitants of the houses on either side lowering from their back doors and windows, buckets, pails, domestic utensils of all kinds, in which to haul the water up; and when his eye is turned from these operations to the houses themselves, his utmost astonishment will be excited by the scene before him. Crazy wooden galleries common to the backs of half a dozen houses, with holes from which to look upon the slime beneath; windows, broken and patched, with poles thrust out, on which to dry the linen that is never there; rooms so small, so filthy, so confined, that the air would seem too tainted even for the dirt and squalor which they shelter; wooden chambers thrusting themselves out above the mud, and threatening to fall into it—as some have done; dirt-besmeared walls and decaying foundations; every repulsive lineament of poverty, every loathsome indication of filth, rot, and garbage; all these ornament the banks of Folly Ditch.

In Jacob’s Island, the warehouses are roofless and empty; the walls are crumbling down; the windows are windows no more; the doors are falling into the streets; the chimneys are blackened, but they yield no smoke. Thirty or forty years ago, before losses and chancery suits came upon it, it was a thriving place; but now it is a desolate island indeed. The houses have no owners; they are broken open, and entered upon by those who have the courage; and there they live, and there they die. They must have powerful motives for a secret residence, or be reduced to a destitute condition indeed, who seek a refuge in Jacob’s Island.

In an upper room of one of these houses—a detached house of fair size, ruinous in other respects, but strongly defended at door and window: of which house the back commanded the ditch in manner already described—there were assembled three men, who, regarding each other every now and then with looks expressive of perplexity and expectation, sat for some time in profound and gloomy silence. One of these was Toby Crackit, another Mr. Chitling, and the third a robber of fifty years, whose nose had been almost beaten in, in some old scuffle, and whose face bore a frightful scar which might probably be traced to the same occasion. This man was a returned transport, and his name was Kags.

“I wish,” said Toby turning to Mr. Chitling, “that you had picked out some other crib when the two old ones got too warm, and had not come here, my fine feller.”

“Why didn’t you, blunder-head!” said Kags.

“Well, I thought you’d have been a little more glad to see me than this,” replied Mr. Chitling, with a melancholy air.

“Why, look’e, young gentleman,” said Toby, “when a man keeps himself so very ex-clusive as I have done, and by that means has a snug house over his head with nobody a prying and smelling about it, it’s rather a startling thing to have the honour of a wisit from a young gentleman (however respectable and pleasant a person he may be to play cards with at conweniency) circumstanced as you are.”

“Especially, when the exclusive young man has got a friend stopping with him, that’s arrived sooner than was expected from foreign parts, and is too modest to want to be presented to the Judges on his return,” added Mr. Kags.

There was a short silence, after which Toby Crackit, seeming to abandon as hopeless any further effort to maintain his usual devil-may-care swagger, turned to Chitling and said,

“When was Fagin took then?”

“Just at dinner-time—two o’clock this afternoon. Charley and I made our lucky up the wash-us chimney, and Bolter got into the empty water-butt, head downwards; but his legs were so precious long that they stuck out at the top, and so they took him too.”

“And Bet?”

“Poor Bet! She went to see the Body, to speak to who it was,” replied Chitling, his countenance falling more and more, “and went off mad, screaming and raving, and beating her head against the boards; so they put a strait-weskut on her and took her to the hospital—and there she is.”

“Wot’s come of young Bates?” demanded Kags.

“He hung about, not to come over here afore dark, but he’ll be here soon,” replied Chitling. “There’s nowhere else to go to now, for the people at the Cripples are all in custody, and the bar of the ken—I went up there and see it with my own eyes—is filled with traps.”

“This is a smash,” observed Toby, biting his lips. “There’s more than one will go with this.”

“The sessions are on,” said Kags: “if they get the inquest over, and Bolter turns King’s evidence: as of course he will, from what he’s said already: they can prove Fagin an accessory before the fact, and get the trial on on Friday, and he’ll swing in six days from this, by G—!”

“You should have heard the people groan,” said Chitling; “the officers fought like devils, or they’d have torn him away. He was down once, but they made a ring round him, and fought their way along. You should have seen how he looked about him, all muddy and bleeding, and clung to them as if they were his dearest friends. I can see ’em now, not able to stand upright with the pressing of the mob, and draggin him along amongst ’em; I can see the people jumping up, one behind another, and snarling with their teeth and making at him; I can see the blood upon his hair and beard, and hear the cries with which the women worked themselves into the centre of the crowd at the street corner, and swore they’d tear his heart out!”

The horror-stricken witness of this scene pressed his hands upon his ears, and with his eyes closed got up and paced violently to and fro, like one distracted.

While he was thus engaged, and the two men sat by in silence with their eyes fixed upon the floor, a pattering noise was heard upon the stairs, and Sikes’s dog bounded into the room. They ran to the window, downstairs, and into the street. The dog had jumped in at an open window; he made no attempt to follow them, nor was his master to be seen.

“What’s the meaning of this?” said Toby when they had returned. “He can’t be coming here. I—I—hope not.”

“If he was coming here, he’d have come with the dog,” said Kags, stooping down to examine the animal, who lay panting on the floor. “Here! Give us some water for him; he has run himself faint.”

“He’s drunk it all up, every drop,” said Chitling after watching the dog some time in silence. “Covered with mud—lame—half blind—he must have come a long way.”

“Where can he have come from!” exclaimed Toby. “He’s been to the other kens of course, and finding them filled with strangers come on here, where he’s been many a time and often. But where can he have come from first, and how comes he here alone without the other!”

“He”—(none of them called the murderer by his old name)—“He can’t have made away with himself. What do you think?” said Chitling.

Toby shook his head.

“If he had,” said Kags, “the dog ’ud want to lead us away to where he did it. No. I think he’s got out of the country, and left the dog behind. He must have given him the slip somehow, or he wouldn’t be so easy.”

This solution, appearing the most probable one, was adopted as the right; the dog, creeping under a chair, coiled himself up to sleep, without more notice from anybody.

It being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a candle lighted and placed upon the table. The terrible events of the last two days had made a deep impression on all three, increased by the danger and uncertainty of their own position. They drew their chairs closer together, starting at every sound. They spoke little, and that in whispers, and were as silent and awe-stricken as if the remains of the murdered woman lay in the next room.

They had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was heard a hurried knocking at the door below.

“Young Bates,” said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself.

The knocking came again. No, it wasn’t he. He never knocked like that.

Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.

“We must let him in,” he said, taking up the candle.

“Isn’t there any help for it?” asked the other man in a hoarse voice.

“None. He must come in.”

“Don’t leave us in the dark,” said Kags, taking down a candle from the chimney-piece, and lighting it, with such a trembling hand that the knocking was twice repeated before he had finished.

Crackit went down to the door, and returned followed by a man with the lower part of his face buried in a handkerchief, and another tied over his head under his hat. He drew them slowly off. Blanched face, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, beard of three days’ growth, wasted flesh, short thick breath; it was the very ghost of Sikes.

He laid his hand upon a chair which stood in the middle of the room, but shuddering as he was about to drop into it, and seeming to glance over his shoulder, dragged it back close to the wall—as close as it would go—and ground it against it—and sat down.

Not a word had been exchanged. He looked from one to another in silence. If an eye were furtively raised and met his, it was instantly averted. When his hollow voice broke silence, they all three started. They seemed never to have heard its tones before.

“How came that dog here?” he asked.

“Alone. Three hours ago.”

“Tonight’s paper says that Fagin’s took. Is it true, or a lie?”

“True.”

They were silent again.

“Damn you all!” said Sikes, passing his hand across his forehead. “Have you nothing to say to me?”

“E di Bet?”

“Povera Bet! È andata a vedere il corpo per parlare con chi era”, rispose Chitling, sempre più abbattuto in volto, “e poi è impazzita, urlando e strepitando, battendo la testa contro le tavole; così l’hanno messa nel corsetto di forza e portata all’ospedale, ed eccola là.”

«Che fine ha fatto il giovane Bates?» chiese Kags.

«Non è venuto qui prima del buio perché si teneva nascosto, ma arriverà presto», rispose Chitling. «Adesso non c’è altro posto dove andare, perché la gente dei Cripples è tutta in custodia e il bar della ken - ci sono stato di persona e l’ho visto con i miei occhi - è pieno di sbirri».

«Questa è una sconfitta», osservò Toby, mordendosi le labbra. «Ci sarà più di uno che ci rimetterà qualcosa».

«Le udienze sono fissate», disse Kags; «se riescono a concludere l’inchiesta e Bolter diventa il testimone della Corona: come farà di sicuro, da quello che ha già detto: possono dimostrare che Fagin è un complice prima del fatto, portare avanti il processo venerdì e lui sarà impiccato entro sei giorni da oggi, per Dio!»

«Avreste dovuto sentire la gente gemere», disse Chitling; «gli ufficiali combattevano come diavoli, altrimenti l’avrebbero strappato via. Era caduto una volta, ma loro gli avevano formato un cerchio intorno e si erano fatti largo combattendo. Avreste dovuto vedere come guardava intorno a sé, tutto imbrattato di fango e insanguinato, e come si aggrappava a loro come se fossero i suoi più cari amici. Li vedo ancora adesso, incapaci di stare in piedi per la pressione della folla, che lo trascinavano con sé; vedo la gente saltare su, uno dopo l’altro, ringhiando con i denti e lanciandosi contro di lui; vedo il sangue sui suoi capelli e sulla barba, e sento le grida con cui le donne si facevano strada al centro della folla all’angolo della strada, giurando che gli avrebbero strappato il cuore!»

L’orrore-stretto testimone di questa scena si premette le mani sulle orecchie e con gli occhi chiusi si alzò e camminò violentemente avanti e indietro, come uno distratto.

Mentre era così occupato e i due uomini sedevano in silenzio con gli occhi fissi sul pavimento, si udì un rumore di passi affrettati sulle scale, e il cane di Sikes balzò nella stanza. Corsero alla finestra, al piano terra e in strada. Il cane era saltato dentro da una finestra aperta; non fece alcun tentativo di seguirli, né si vedeva il suo padrone.

“Che cosa significa tutto questo?” disse Toby quando furono tornati. “Non può venire qui. Io io spero di no”.

«Se stava venendo qui, sarebbe arrivato con il cane», disse Kags, chinandosi per esaminare l’animale che giaceva ansimante sul pavimento. «Ehi! Dateci un po’ di acqua per lui; si è svenuto dal correre.»

«Ha bevuto tutto, fino all’ultima goccia», disse Chitling dopo aver osservato il cane per un po’ di tempo in silenzio. «Coperto di fango, zoppo e quasi cieco: deve essere venuto da lontano.»

«Da dove può essere venuto!» esclamò Toby. «È stato naturalmente negli altri kens e, trovandoli pieni di estranei, è venuto qui, dove è stato molte volte e spesso. Ma da dove sarà venuto per la prima volta, e come mai è arrivato qui solo senza l’altro!»

«Lui» — (nessuno di loro chiamava l’assassino col suo vecchio nome) — «non può essersi tolto la vita. Che ne pensate?», disse Chitling.

Toby scosse la testa.

«Se lo avesse fatto», disse Kags, «il cane vorrebbe portarci dove l’ha fatto. No. Penso che sia fuggito dal paese e abbia lasciato il cane indietro. Deve essersi liberato di lui in qualche modo, altrimenti non sarebbe così facile».

Questa soluzione, che sembrava la più probabile, fu adottata come quella giusta; il cane, strisciando sotto una sedia, si arrotolò per dormire, senza ulteriore attenzione da parte di nessuno.

Essendo ormai buio, la persiana fu chiusa e una candela accesa e posta sul tavolo. I terribili eventi degli ultimi due giorni avevano lasciato un’impressione profonda su tutti e tre, accentuata dal pericolo e dall’incertezza della loro stessa situazione. Si avvicinarono le sedie l’una all’altra, sobbalzando a ogni rumore. Parlavano poco, e sussurravano, ed erano silenziosi e intimoriti come se i resti della donna assassinata si trovassero nella stanza accanto.

Erano seduti così da qualche tempo quando improvvisamente si udì un bussare affrettato alla porta di sotto.

«Giovane Bates», disse Kags, guardandosi intorno con rabbia per reprimere la paura che provava lui stesso.

Bussarono di nuovo alla porta. No, non era lui. Lui non bussava mai in quel modo.

Crackit si avvicinò alla finestra e ritirò la testa all’interno, tremando tutto. Non c’era bisogno di dire loro chi fosse; il suo volto pallido era sufficiente. Anche il cane fu subito in allerta e corse lamentandosi verso la porta.

«Dobbiamo farlo entrare», disse prendendo la candela.

«Non c’è alcun rimedio?» chiese l’altro uomo con voce rauca.

“Nessuno. Deve entrare.”

«Non ci lasciate al buio», disse Kags, prendendo una candela dal caminetto e accendendola con mano così tremante che il bussare fu ripetuto due volte prima che avesse finito.

Crackit scese alla porta e tornò seguito da un uomo con la parte inferiore del viso nascosta in un fazzoletto e un altro annodato sulla testa sotto il cappello. Se li tolse lentamente. Viso pallido, occhi infossati, guance scavate, barba di tre giorni, carne emaciata, respiro corto e affannoso; era il vero fantasma di Sikes.

Egli posò la mano su una sedia che stava nel mezzo della stanza, ma rabbrividendo mentre stava per sedervisi e sembrando dare un’occhiata alle spalle, la trascinò indietro vicino al muro—tanto vicino quanto possibile—andandolo quasi a sfregare contro di esso—e si sedette.

Non una parola era stata scambiata. Egli guardava l’uno e l’altro nel silenzio. Se un occhio si alzava furtivamente e incontrava il suo, veniva immediatamente distolto. Quando la sua voce roca ruppe il silenzio, tutti e tre trasalirono. Sembravano di non aver mai sentito prima i suoi toni.

“Come è arrivato questo cane qui?”, chiese.

«Solo. Tre ore fa».

«Il giornale di stasera dice che hanno preso Fagin. È vero o è una bugia?»

“Vero.”

Tacquero di nuovo.

«Maledetti tutti quanti!» disse Sikes passandosi la mano sulla fronte. «Non avete nulla da dirmi?»

There was an uneasy movement among them, but nobody spoke.

“You that keep this house,” said Sikes, turning his face to Crackit, “do you mean to sell me, or to let me lie here till this hunt is over?”

“You may stop here, if you think it safe,” returned the person addressed, after some hesitation.

Sikes carried his eyes slowly up the wall behind him: rather trying to turn his head than actually doing it: and said, “Is—it—the body—is it buried?”

They shook their heads.

“Why isn’t it!” he retorted with the same glance behind him. “Wot do they keep such ugly things above the ground for?—Who’s that knocking?”

Crackit intimated, by a motion of his hand as he left the room, that there was nothing to fear; and directly came back with Charley Bates behind him. Sikes sat opposite the door, so that the moment the boy entered the room he encountered his figure.

“Toby,” said the boy falling back, as Sikes turned his eyes towards him, “why didn’t you tell me this, downstairs?”

There had been something so tremendous in the shrinking off of the three, that the wretched man was willing to propitiate even this lad. Accordingly he nodded, and made as though he would shake hands with him.

“Let me go into some other room,” said the boy, retreating still farther.

“Charley!” said Sikes, stepping forward. “Don’t you—don’t you know me?”

“Don’t come nearer me,” answered the boy, still retreating, and looking, with horror in his eyes, upon the murderer’s face. “You monster!”

The man stopped half-way, and they looked at each other; but Sikes’s eyes sunk gradually to the ground.

“Witness you three,” cried the boy shaking his clenched fist, and becoming more and more excited as he spoke. “Witness you three—I’m not afraid of him—if they come here after him, I’ll give him up; I will. I tell you out at once. He may kill me for it if he likes, or if he dares, but if I am here I’ll give him up. I’d give him up if he was to be boiled alive. Murder! Help! If there’s the pluck of a man among you three, you’ll help me. Murder! Help! Down with him!”

Pouring out these cries, and accompanying them with violent gesticulation, the boy actually threw himself, single-handed, upon the strong man, and in the intensity of his energy and the suddenness of his surprise, brought him heavily to the ground.

The three spectators seemed quite stupefied. They offered no interference, and the boy and man rolled on the ground together; the former, heedless of the blows that showered upon him, wrenching his hands tighter and tighter in the garments about the murderer’s breast, and never ceasing to call for help with all his might.

The contest, however, was too unequal to last long. Sikes had him down, and his knee was on his throat, when Crackit pulled him back with a look of alarm, and pointed to the window. There were lights gleaming below, voices in loud and earnest conversation, the tramp of hurried footsteps—endless they seemed in number—crossing the nearest wooden bridge. One man on horseback seemed to be among the crowd; for there was the noise of hoofs rattling on the uneven pavement. The gleam of lights increased; the footsteps came more thickly and noisily on. Then, came a loud knocking at the door, and then a hoarse murmur from such a multitude of angry voices as would have made the boldest quail.

“Help!” shrieked the boy in a voice that rent the air. “He’s here! Break down the door!”

“In the King’s name,” cried the voices without; and the hoarse cry arose again, but louder.

“Break down the door!” screamed the boy. “I tell you they’ll never open it. Run straight to the room where the light is. Break down the door!”

Strokes, thick and heavy, rattled upon the door and lower window-shutters as he ceased to speak, and a loud huzzah burst from the crowd; giving the listener, for the first time, some adequate idea of its immense extent.

“Open the door of some place where I can lock this screeching Hell-babe,” cried Sikes fiercely; running to and fro, and dragging the boy, now, as easily as if he were an empty sack. “That door. Quick!” He flung him in, bolted it, and turned the key. “Is the downstairs door fast?”

“Double-locked and chained,” replied Crackit, who, with the other two men, still remained quite helpless and bewildered.

“The panels—are they strong?”

“Lined with sheet-iron.”

“And the windows too?”

“Yes, and the windows.”

“Damn you!” cried the desperate ruffian, throwing up the sash and menacing the crowd. “Do your worst! I’ll cheat you yet!”

Of all the terrific yells that ever fell on mortal ears, none could exceed the cry of the infuriated throng. Some shouted to those who were nearest to set the house on fire; others roared to the officers to shoot him dead. Among them all, none showed such fury as the man on horseback, who, throwing himself out of the saddle, and bursting through the crowd as if he were parting water, cried, beneath the window, in a voice that rose above all others, “Twenty guineas to the man who brings a ladder!”

The nearest voices took up the cry, and hundreds echoed it. Some called for ladders, some for sledge-hammers; some ran with torches to and fro as if to seek them, and still came back and roared again; some spent their breath in impotent curses and execrations; some pressed forward with the ecstasy of madmen, and thus impeded the progress of those below; some among the boldest attempted to climb up by the water-spout and crevices in the wall; and all waved to and fro, in the darkness beneath, like a field of corn moved by an angry wind: and joined from time to time in one loud furious roar.

“The tide,” cried the murderer, as he staggered back into the room, and shut the faces out, “the tide was in as I came up. Give me a rope, a long rope. They’re all in front. I may drop into the Folly Ditch, and clear off that way. Give me a rope, or I shall do three more murders and kill myself.”

Ci fu un movimento inquieto tra loro, ma nessuno parlò.

«Voi che tenete questa casa», disse Sikes, rivolgendo il volto a Crackit, «volete vendermi o lasciarmi qui fino alla fine di questa caccia?»

«Potete fermarvi qui, se ritenete che sia sicuro», rispose la persona interpellata dopo un attimo di esitazione.

Sikes portò lentamente gli occhi lungo la parete dietro di lui, cercando piuttosto di girare il capo che farlo realmente, e disse: «È, è il corpo, è sepolto?»

Scossero la testa.

«E perché non dovrebbe esserlo!» ribatté con lo stesso sguardo alle spalle. «Perché tengono in giro cose così brutte? — Chi bussa?»

Crackit fece capire con un gesto della mano mentre usciva dalla stanza che non c’era nulla da temere; e subito tornò con Charley Bates dietro di lui. Sikes era seduto di fronte alla porta, così che nel momento in cui il ragazzo entrava nella stanza si trovava davanti la sua figura.

«Toby», disse il ragazzo arretrando mentre Sykes rivolgeva lo sguardo verso di lui, «perché non me l’hai detto prima, al piano di sotto?»

C’era stato qualcosa di così tremendo nel ritirarsi dei tre che l’uomo infelice era disposto a placare anche quel ragazzo. Di conseguenza annuì e fece come se volesse stringergli la mano.

«Lasciatemi andare in qualche altra stanza», disse il ragazzo, ritirandosi ancora più indietro.

“Charley!” disse Sikes, facendo un passo avanti. “Non mi riconosci?”

«Non ti avvicinare a me», rispose il ragazzo, continuando ad arretrare e guardando con orrore negli occhi il volto dell’assassino. «Sei un mostro!»

L’uomo si fermò a metà strada e si guardarono l’un l’altro; ma gli occhi di Sikes si abbassarono gradualmente al suolo.

«Testimoniate voi tre», gridò il ragazzo agitando il pugno chiuso e diventando sempre più eccitato mentre parlava. «Testimoniate voi tre: non ho paura di lui; se vengono qui a cercarlo, lo consegnerò; lo farò. Ve lo dico subito. Può uccidermi per questo, se gli piace o se osa, ma se ci sono io, lo consegnerò. Lo consegnerei anche se dovesse essere bollito vivo. Omicidio! Aiuto! Se c’è un po’ di coraggio tra voi tre, mi aiuterete. Omicidio! Aiuto! Abbasso lui!»

Eiaculando questi gridi e accompagnandoli con gesti furiosi, il ragazzo si scagliò da solo contro l’uomo robusto e, per la violenza del suo slancio e la fulmineità della sua sorpresa, lo fece cadere pesantemente a terra.

I tre spettatori sembravano completamente stupiti. Non intervennero e il ragazzo e l’uomo rotolarono insieme a terra; quest’ultimo, senza curarsi dei colpi che gli piovevano addosso, stringeva sempre più forte le mani sui vestiti sul petto dell’assassino, e non smetteva di chiedere aiuto con tutte le sue forze.

La lotta, tuttavia, era troppo sbilanciata per durare a lungo. Sikes lo aveva inchiodato al suolo e gli premeva il ginocchio sulla gola quando Crackit lo tirò indietro con un’espressione allarmata e indicò la finestra. Si vedevano luci che brillavano in basso, si udivano voci impegnate in una conversazione animata e appassionata, il rumore di passi affrettati - sembravano infiniti nel loro numero - che attraversavano il ponte di legno più vicino. Tra la folla pareva esserci un uomo a cavallo; perché si udiva il rumore degli zoccoli che rimbombavano sul selciato irregolare. Le luci brillavano sempre più intensamente, i passi si facevano più frequenti e rumorosi. Poi ci fu un forte bussare alla porta, seguito da un mormorio roco di una moltitudine di voci arrabbiate che avrebbe fatto impallidire anche il più coraggioso.

“Aiuto!” gridò il ragazzo con una voce che squarciava l’aria. “È qui! Abbattete la porta!”

«In nome del Re», gridarono le voci fuori; e il rauco grido si levò di nuovo, ma più forte.

«Abbattete la porta!» gridò il ragazzo «Vi dico che non l’apriranno mai. Correte subito nella stanza dove c’è la luce. Abbattete la porta!»

Colpi pesanti e violenti scossero la porta e gli scuri delle finestre inferiori mentre smetteva di parlare, e un fragoroso evviva scoppiò dalla folla; dando all’ascoltatore, per la prima volta, qualche idea adeguata della sua immensa estensione.

«Aprite la porta di un posto dove posso rinchiudere questo bambino infernale che strilla» gridò Sikes con furore; correndo avanti e indietro, trascinando il ragazzo ora con altrettanta facilità come se fosse un sacco vuoto. «Quella porta. In fretta!» Lo scaraventò dentro, la chiuse a chiave e girò la serratura. «La porta di sotto è chiusa?»

«Doppia serratura e catenaccio», rispose Crackit, che insieme agli altri due uomini era ancora del tutto impotente e disorientato.

“I pannelli - sono robusti?”

“Rivestito di lamiera.”

“E anche le finestre?”

“Sì, e le finestre.”

«Maledetto voi!» gridò il disperato malvivente, alzando la finestra e minacciando la folla. «Fate pure del vostro peggio! Vi ingannerò ancora!»

Di tutti i terribili urli che mai abbiano colpito orecchie umane, nessuno poteva superare il grido della folla infuriata. Alcuni gridavano ai più vicini di dare alle fiamme la casa; altri ruggivano agli agenti di sparargli addosso e ucciderlo. Tra tutti loro, nessuno mostrò una furia pari a quella dell’uomo a cavallo, che, buttandosi fuori dalla sella e aprendosi un varco tra la folla come se stesse separando acqua, gridò sotto la finestra con voce che si levava al di sopra di tutte le altre: “Venti ghinee a chi porta una scala!”

Le voci più vicine ripresero il grido e centinaia lo fecero eco. Alcuni chiedevano scale, altri magli; alcuni correvano avanti e indietro con torce come per cercarle, ma tornavano sempre indietro e ruggivano di nuovo; alcuni sprecavano il fiato in maledizioni impotenti ed esecrazioni; alcuni si facevano strada in preda all’estasi dei pazzi, ostacolando così l’avanzata di quelli che stavano sotto; i più audaci tentarono di arrampicarsi usando lo scarico dell’acqua e le fessure nel muro; tutti ondeggiavano avanti e indietro, nell’oscurità sottostante, come un campo di grano mosso da un vento furioso: e si univano a volte in un unico ruggito feroce.

«La marea», gridò l’assassino mentre barcollava indietro nella stanza e chiudeva fuori i volti, «la marea era alta quando sono salito. Datemi una corda, una lunga corda. Sono tutti davanti. Potrei cadere nel fossato della Follia e svignarmela da quella parte. Datemi una corda o farò altri tre omicidi e poi mi ucciderò».

The panic-stricken men pointed to where such articles were kept; the murderer, hastily selecting the longest and strongest cord, hurried up to the house-top.

All the windows in the rear of the house had been long ago bricked up, except one small trap in the room where the boy was locked, and that was too small even for the passage of his body. But, from this aperture, he had never ceased to call on those without, to guard the back; and thus, when the murderer emerged at last on the house-top by the door in the roof, a loud shout proclaimed the fact to those in front, who immediately began to pour round, pressing upon each other in an unbroken stream.

He planted a board, which he had carried up with him for the purpose, so firmly against the door that it must be matter of great difficulty to open it from the inside; and creeping over the tiles, looked over the low parapet.

The water was out, and the ditch a bed of mud.

The crowd had been hushed during these few moments, watching his motions and doubtful of his purpose, but the instant they perceived it and knew it was defeated, they raised a cry of triumphant execration to which all their previous shouting had been whispers. Again and again it rose. Those who were at too great a distance to know its meaning, took up the sound; it echoed and re-echoed; it seemed as though the whole city had poured its population out to curse him.

On pressed the people from the front—on, on, on, in a strong struggling current of angry faces, with here and there a glaring torch to lighten them up, and show them out in all their wrath and passion. The houses on the opposite side of the ditch had been entered by the mob; sashes were thrown up, or torn bodily out; there were tiers and tiers of faces in every window; cluster upon cluster of people clinging to every house-top. Each little bridge (and there were three in sight) bent beneath the weight of the crowd upon it. Still the current poured on to find some nook or hole from which to vent their shouts, and only for an instant see the wretch.

“They have him now,” cried a man on the nearest bridge. “Hurrah!”

The crowd grew light with uncovered heads; and again the shout uprose.

“I will give fifty pounds,” cried an old gentleman from the same quarter, “to the man who takes him alive. I will remain here, till he come to ask me for it.”

There was another roar. At this moment the word was passed among the crowd that the door was forced at last, and that he who had first called for the ladder had mounted into the room. The stream abruptly turned, as this intelligence ran from mouth to mouth; and the people at the windows, seeing those upon the bridges pouring back, quitted their stations, and running into the street, joined the concourse that now thronged pell-mell to the spot they had left: each man crushing and striving with his neighbor, and all panting with impatience to get near the door, and look upon the criminal as the officers brought him out. The cries and shrieks of those who were pressed almost to suffocation, or trampled down and trodden under foot in the confusion, were dreadful; the narrow ways were completely blocked up; and at this time, between the rush of some to regain the space in front of the house, and the unavailing struggles of others to extricate themselves from the mass, the immediate attention was distracted from the murderer, although the universal eagerness for his capture was, if possible, increased.

The man had shrunk down, thoroughly quelled by the ferocity of the crowd, and the impossibility of escape; but seeing this sudden change with no less rapidity than it had occurred, he sprang upon his feet, determined to make one last effort for his life by dropping into the ditch, and, at the risk of being stifled, endeavouring to creep away in the darkness and confusion.

Roused into new strength and energy, and stimulated by the noise within the house which announced that an entrance had really been effected, he set his foot against the stack of chimneys, fastened one end of the rope tightly and firmly round it, and with the other made a strong running noose by the aid of his hands and teeth almost in a second. He could let himself down by the cord to within a less distance of the ground than his own height, and had his knife ready in his hand to cut it then and drop.

At the very instant when he brought the loop over his head previous to slipping it beneath his arm-pits, and when the old gentleman before-mentioned (who had clung so tight to the railing of the bridge as to resist the force of the crowd, and retain his position) earnestly warned those about him that the man was about to lower himself down—at that very instant the murderer, looking behind him on the roof, threw his arms above his head, and uttered a yell of terror.

“The eyes again!” he cried in an unearthly screech.

Staggering as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbled over the parapet. The noose was on his neck. It ran up with his weight, tight as a bow-string, and swift as the arrow it speeds. He fell for five-and-thirty feet. There was a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion of the limbs; and there he hung, with the open knife clenched in his stiffening hand.

The old chimney quivered with the shock, but stood it bravely. The murderer swung lifeless against the wall; and the boy, thrusting aside the dangling body which obscured his view, called to the people to come and take him out, for God’s sake.

A dog, which had lain concealed till now, ran backwards and forwards on the parapet with a dismal howl, and collecting himself for a spring, jumped for the dead man’s shoulders. Missing his aim, he fell into the ditch, turning completely over as he went; and striking his head against a stone, dashed out his brains.

CHAPTER LI. AFFORDING AN EXPLANATION OF MORE MYSTERIES THAN ONE, AND COMPREHENDING A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE WITH NO WORD OF SETTLEMENT OR PIN-MONEY

The events narrated in the last chapter were yet but two days old, when Oliver found himself, at three o’clock in the afternoon, in a travelling-carriage rolling fast towards his native town. Mrs. Maylie, and Rose, and Mrs. Bedwin, and the good doctor were with him: and Mr. Brownlow followed in a post-chaise, accompanied by one other person whose name had not been mentioned.

They had not talked much upon the way; for Oliver was in a flutter of agitation and uncertainty which deprived him of the power of collecting his thoughts, and almost of speech, and appeared to have scarcely less effect on his companions, who shared it, in at least an equal degree. He and the two ladies had been very carefully made acquainted by Mr. Brownlow with the nature of the admissions which had been forced from Monks; and although they knew that the object of their present journey was to complete the work which had been so well begun, still the whole matter was enveloped in enough of doubt and mystery to leave them in endurance of the most intense suspense.

The same kind friend had, with Mr. Losberne’s assistance, cautiously stopped all channels of communication through which they could receive intelligence of the dreadful occurrences that had so recently taken place. “It was quite true,” he said, “that they must know them before long, but it might be at a better time than the present, and it could not be at a worse.” So, they travelled on in silence: each busied with reflections on the object which had brought them together: and no one disposed to give utterance to the thoughts which crowded upon all.

But if Oliver, under these influences, had remained silent while they journeyed towards his birth-place by a road he had never seen, how the whole current of his recollections ran back to old times, and what a crowd of emotions were wakened up in his breast, when they turned into that which he had traversed on foot: a poor houseless, wandering boy, without a friend to help him, or a roof to shelter his head.

“See there, there!” cried Oliver, eagerly clasping the hand of Rose, and pointing out at the carriage window; “that’s the stile I came over; there are the hedges I crept behind, for fear any one should overtake me and force me back! Yonder is the path across the fields, leading to the old house where I was a little child! Oh Dick, Dick, my dear old friend, if I could only see you now!”

“You will see him soon,” replied Rose, gently taking his folded hands between her own. “You shall tell him how happy you are, and how rich you have grown, and that in all your happiness you have none so great as the coming back to make him happy too.”

“Yes, yes,” said Oliver, “and we’ll—we’ll take him away from here, and have him clothed and taught, and send him to some quiet country place where he may grow strong and well,—shall we?”

Rose nodded “yes,” for the boy was smiling through such happy tears that she could not speak.

“You will be kind and good to him, for you are to every one,” said Oliver. “It will make you cry, I know, to hear what he can tell; but never mind, never mind, it will be all over, and you will smile again—I know that too—to think how changed he is; you did the same with me. He said ‘God bless you’ to me when I ran away,” cried the boy with a burst of affectionate emotion; “and I will say ‘God bless you’ now, and show him how I love him for it!”

As they approached the town, and at length drove through its narrow streets, it became matter of no small difficulty to restrain the boy within reasonable bounds. There was Sowerberry’s the undertaker’s just as it used to be, only smaller and less imposing in appearance than he remembered it—there were all the well-known shops and houses, with almost every one of which he had some slight incident connected—there was Gamfield’s cart, the very cart he used to have, standing at the old public-house door—there was the workhouse, the dreary prison of his youthful days, with its dismal windows frowning on the street—there was the same lean porter standing at the gate, at sight of whom Oliver involuntarily shrunk back, and then laughed at himself for being so foolish, then cried, then laughed again—there were scores of faces at the doors and windows that he knew quite well—there was nearly everything as if he had left it but yesterday, and all his recent life had been but a happy dream.

But it was pure, earnest, joyful reality. They drove straight to the door of the chief hotel (which Oliver used to stare up at, with awe, and think a mighty palace, but which had somehow fallen off in grandeur and size); and here was Mr. Grimwig all ready to receive them, kissing the young lady, and the old one too, when they got out of the coach, as if he were the grandfather of the whole party, all smiles and kindness, and not offering to eat his head—no, not once; not even when he contradicted a very old postboy about the nearest road to London, and maintained he knew it best, though he had only come that way once, and that time fast asleep. There was dinner prepared, and there were bedrooms ready, and everything was arranged as if by magic.

Notwithstanding all this, when the hurry of the first half-hour was over, the same silence and constraint prevailed that had marked their journey down. Mr. Brownlow did not join them at dinner, but remained in a separate room. The two other gentlemen hurried in and out with anxious faces, and, during the short intervals when they were present, conversed apart. Once, Mrs. Maylie was called away, and after being absent for nearly an hour, returned with eyes swollen with weeping. All these things made Rose and Oliver, who were not in any new secrets, nervous and uncomfortable. They sat wondering, in silence; or, if they exchanged a few words, spoke in whispers, as if they were afraid to hear the sound of their own voices.

At length, when nine o’clock had come, and they began to think they were to hear no more that night, Mr. Losberne and Mr. Grimwig entered the room, followed by Mr. Brownlow and a man whom Oliver almost shrieked with surprise to see; for they told him it was his brother, and it was the same man he had met at the market-town, and seen looking in with Fagin at the window of his little room. Monks cast a look of hate, which, even then, he could not dissemble, at the astonished boy, and sat down near the door. Mr. Brownlow, who had papers in his hand, walked to a table near which Rose and Oliver were seated.

“This is a painful task,” said he, “but these declarations, which have been signed in London before many gentlemen, must be in substance repeated here. I would have spared you the degradation, but we must hear them from your own lips before we part, and you know why.”

“Go on,” said the person addressed, turning away his face. “Quick. I have almost done enough, I think. Don’t keep me here.”

“This child,” said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his hand upon his head, “is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving him birth.”

“Yes,” said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy: the beating of whose heart he might have heard. “That is the bastard child.”

“The term you use,” said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, “is a reproach to those long since passed beyond the feeble censure of the world. It reflects disgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this town.”

“In the workhouse of this town,” was the sullen reply. “You have the story there.” He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke.

“I must have it here, too,” said Mr. Brownlow, looking round upon the listeners.

“Listen then! You!” returned Monks. “His father being taken ill at Rome, was joined by his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long separated, who went from Paris and took me with her—to look after his property, for what I know, for she had no great affection for him, nor he for her. He knew nothing of us, for his senses were gone, and he slumbered on till next day, when he died. Among the papers in his desk, were two, dated on the night his illness first came on, directed to yourself”; he addressed himself to Mr. Brownlow; “and enclosed in a few short lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of the package that it was not to be forwarded till after he was dead. One of these papers was a letter to this girl Agnes; the other a will.”

“What of the letter?” asked Mr. Brownlow.

“The letter?—A sheet of paper crossed and crossed again, with a penitent confession, and prayers to God to help her. He had palmed a tale on the girl that some secret mystery—to be explained one day—prevented his marrying her just then; and so she had gone on, trusting patiently to him, until she trusted too far, and lost what none could ever give her back. She was, at that time, within a few months of her confinement. He told her all he had meant to do, to hide her shame, if he had lived, and prayed her, if he died, not to curse his memory, or think the consequences of their sin would be visited on her or their young child; for all the guilt was his. He reminded her of the day he had given her the little locket and the ring with her christian name engraved upon it, and a blank left for that which he hoped one day to have bestowed upon her—prayed her yet to keep it, and wear it next her heart, as she had done before—and then ran on, wildly, in the same words, over and over again, as if he had gone distracted. I believe he had.”

“The will,” said Mr. Brownlow, as Oliver’s tears fell fast.

Monks was silent.

“The will,” said Mr. Brownlow, speaking for him, “was in the same spirit as the letter. He talked of miseries which his wife had brought upon him; of the rebellious disposition, vice, malice, and premature bad passions of you his only son, who had been trained to hate him; and left you, and your mother, each an annuity of eight hundred pounds. The bulk of his property he divided into two equal portions—one for Agnes Fleming, and the other for their child, if it should be born alive, and ever come of age. If it were a girl, it was to inherit the money unconditionally; but if a boy, only on the stipulation that in his minority he should never have stained his name with any public act of dishonour, meanness, cowardice, or wrong. He did this, he said, to mark his confidence in the mother, and his conviction—only strengthened by approaching death—that the child would share her gentle heart, and noble nature. If he were disappointed in this expectation, then the money was to come to you: for then, and not till then, when both children were equal, would he recognise your prior claim upon his purse, who had none upon his heart, but had, from an infant, repulsed him with coldness and aversion.”

“My mother,” said Monks, in a louder tone, “did what a woman should have done. She burnt this will. The letter never reached its destination; but that, and other proofs, she kept, in case they ever tried to lie away the blot. The girl’s father had the truth from her with every aggravation that her violent hate—I love her for it now—could add. Goaded by shame and dishonour he fled with his children into a remote corner of Wales, changing his very name that his friends might never know of his retreat; and here, no great while afterwards, he was found dead in his bed. The girl had left her home, in secret, some weeks before; he had searched for her, on foot, in every town and village near; it was on the night when he returned home, assured that she had destroyed herself, to hide her shame and his, that his old heart broke.”

Alla fine, quando le nove e mezza erano passate e cominciavano a pensare che non avrebbero più sentito nulla quella sera, il signor Losberne e il signor Grimwig entrarono nella stanza seguiti dal signor Brownlow e da un uomo alla vista del quale Oliver mandò quasi un urlo di sorpresa; perché gli dissero che era suo fratello, ed era lo stesso uomo che aveva incontrato in città al mercato e visto guardare con Fagin dalla finestra della sua piccola stanza. Monks lanciò uno sguardo di odio, che nemmeno allora riuscì a dissimulare, al ragazzo stupito e si sedette vicino alla porta. Il signor Brownlow, che aveva dei documenti in mano, andò verso un tavolo presso il quale erano seduti Rose e Oliver.

«Questo è un compito doloroso», disse lui, «ma queste dichiarazioni, che sono state firmate a Londra davanti a molti signori, devono essere sostanzialmente ripetute qui. Vi avrei risparmiato questa umiliazione, ma dobbiamo sentirle dalle vostre stesse labbra prima di separarci, e sapete perché».

«Continua», disse la persona a cui era rivolta la parola, voltando il viso dall’altra parte. «Sbrigati. Penso di aver fatto quasi abbastanza. Non farmi restare qui».

“Questo bambino”, disse il signor Brownlow attirando a sé Oliver e posandogli la mano sulla testa, “è tuo fratellastro; il figlio illegittimo di tuo padre, mio caro amico Edwin Leeford, dalla povera giovane Agnes Fleming che morì dandolo alla luce.”

“Sì”, disse Monks, aggrottando la fronte verso il ragazzo tremante, i cui battiti del cuore avrebbe potuto sentire. “Questo è il figlio illegittimo.”

«Il termine che usate», disse il signor Brownlow con severità, «è un rimprovero per coloro che da tempo sono oltre la debole censura del mondo. Non riflette disonore su nessuno dei viventi, tranne voi che lo usate. Lasciamo perdere. È nato in questa città».

«Nell’ospizio di questa città», fu la risposta burbera. «Avete la storia lì». Indicò impazientemente i documenti mentre parlava.

«Devo averlo anche qui», disse il signor Brownlow guardandosi intorno tra gli ascoltatori.

«Allora ascoltami! Tu!» rispose Monks. «Il padre, essendo caduto malato a Roma, fu raggiunto dalla moglie, mia madre, da cui era separato da tempo, che venne da Parigi e mi portò con sé — per badare ai suoi affari, per quel che ne so, perché lei non nutriva grande affetto per lui né lui per lei. Non sapeva nulla di noi, perché i sensi gli erano venuti meno ed egli dormì fino al giorno dopo, quando morì. Tra i documenti nella sua scrivania ce n’erano due, datati alla notte in cui la malattia era scoppiata, indirizzati a lei»; si rivolse a Mr. Brownlow; «e racchiusi in poche righe indirizzate a lui, con l’indicazione sulla busta che non dovevano essere inviate prima della sua morte. Uno di questi documenti era una lettera alla ragazza Agnes, l’altro un testamento.»

«E la lettera?» chiese il signor Brownlow.

«La lettera? — Un foglio di carta scritto e riscritto con una confessione pentita e preghiere a Dio affinché la aiutasse. Le aveva raccontato alla ragazza che un mistero segreto, da spiegare un giorno, gli impediva di sposarla proprio allora; così lei era andata avanti, confidando pazientemente in lui, finché non si fidò troppo e perse ciò che nessuno le avrebbe mai potuto restituire. Era, a quel tempo, a pochi mesi dal suo parto. Le raccontò tutto quello che aveva inteso fare per nascondere la sua vergogna, se fosse vissuto, e la pregò, se fosse morto, di non maledire il suo ricordo o pensare che le conseguenze del loro peccato sarebbero ricadute su di lei o sul loro giovane figlio; perché tutta la colpa era sua. Le rammentò il giorno in cui le aveva dato il piccolo medaglione e l’anello con il suo nome battesimale inciso sopra, lasciando uno spazio vuoto per quello che sperava un giorno di poterle donare — la pregò ancora una volta di tenerli e portarli vicino al cuore, come aveva fatto prima — e poi continuò a scrivere, in modo selvaggio, con le stesse parole, più e più volte, come se fosse impazzito. Credo che lo fosse».

«Il testamento», disse il signor Brownlow mentre le lacrime di Oliver cadevano copiose.

I monaci tacevano.

«Il testamento», disse il signor Brownlow parlando per lui, «era nello stesso spirito della lettera. Parlava delle miserie che sua moglie gli aveva inflitto; del carattere ribelle, dei vizi, della malizia e delle precoci passioni negative di te suo unico figlio, che era stato educato a odiarlo; e ti lasciò, così come alla tua madre, una rendita annua di ottocento sterline. La maggior parte del suo patrimonio la divise in due parti uguali: una per Agnes Fleming e l’altra per il loro figlio, se fosse nato vivo e avesse raggiunto la maggiore età. Se fosse stata una bambina, doveva ereditare i soldi senza condizioni; ma se un maschio, solo a patto che nella sua minorità non avesse mai macchiato il suo nome con alcun atto pubblico di disonore, meschinità, codardia o ingiustizia. Fece questo, disse, per dimostrare la sua fiducia nella madre e la sua convinzione — rafforzata solo dall’avvicinarsi della morte — che il figlio avrebbe condiviso il suo cuore gentile e la sua nobile natura. Se fosse stato deluso in questa aspettativa, allora i soldi sarebbero passati a te: perché solo allora, e non prima, quando entrambi i figli erano uguali, avrebbe riconosciuto il tuo diritto precedente sulla sua borsa, che non aveva alcun diritto sul suo cuore, ma ti aveva respinto fin da bambino con freddezza e avversione.»

“Mia madre”, disse Monks, con un tono più alto, “fece quello che una donna avrebbe dovuto fare. Bruciò questo testamento. La lettera non raggiunse mai la sua destinazione; ma quella e altre prove le conservò, nel caso in cui avessero cercato di nascondere il disonore. Il padre della ragazza apprese da lei la verità con ogni aggravante che il suo violento odio — ora gliene sono grato — poté aggiungere. Spinto dalla vergogna e dall’onta, fuggì con i suoi figli in un angolo remoto del Galles, cambiando persino nome affinché i suoi amici non venissero mai a conoscenza della sua reclusione; e qui, poco tempo dopo, fu trovato morto nel suo letto. La ragazza aveva lasciato la casa di nascosto alcune settimane prima; lui l’aveva cercata a piedi in ogni città e villaggio vicino; fu nella notte del suo ritorno a casa, convinto che si fosse uccisa per nascondere la sua vergogna e quella di lui, che il suo vecchio cuore cedette.”

There was a short silence here, until Mr. Brownlow took up the thread of the narrative.

“Years after this,” he said, “this man’s—Edward Leeford’s—mother came to me. He had left her, when only eighteen; robbed her of jewels and money; gambled, squandered, forged, and fled to London: where for two years he had associated with the lowest outcasts. She was sinking under a painful and incurable disease, and wished to recover him before she died. Inquiries were set on foot, and strict searches made. They were unavailing for a long time, but ultimately successful; and he went back with her to France.”

“There she died,” said Monks, “after a lingering illness; and, on her death-bed, she bequeathed these secrets to me, together with her unquenchable and deadly hatred of all whom they involved—though she need not have left me that, for I had inherited it long before. She would not believe that the girl had destroyed herself, and the child too, but was filled with the impression that a male child had been born, and was alive. I swore to her, if ever it crossed my path, to hunt it down; never to let it rest; to pursue it with the bitterest and most unrelenting animosity; to vent upon it the hatred that I deeply felt, and to spit upon the empty vaunt of that insulting will by dragging it, if I could, to the very gallows-foot. She was right. He came in my way at last. I began well; and, but for babbling drabs, I would have finished as I began!”

As the villain folded his arms tight together, and muttered curses on himself in the impotence of baffled malice, Mr. Brownlow turned to the terrified group beside him, and explained that the Jew, who had been his old accomplice and confidant, had a large reward for keeping Oliver ensnared: of which some part was to be given up, in the event of his being rescued: and that a dispute on this head had led to their visit to the country house for the purpose of identifying him.

“The locket and ring?” said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Monks.

“I bought them from the man and woman I told you of, who stole them from the nurse, who stole them from the corpse,” answered Monks without raising his eyes. “You know what became of them.”

Mr. Brownlow merely nodded to Mr. Grimwig, who disappearing with great alacrity, shortly returned, pushing in Mrs. Bumble, and dragging her unwilling consort after him.

“Do my hi’s deceive me!” cried Mr. Bumble, with ill-feigned enthusiasm, “or is that little Oliver? Oh O-li-ver, if you know’d how I’ve been a-grieving for you—”

“Hold your tongue, fool,” murmured Mrs. Bumble.

“Isn’t natur, natur, Mrs. Bumble?” remonstrated the workhouse master. “Can’t I be supposed to feel—I as brought him up porochially—when I see him a-setting here among ladies and gentlemen of the very affablest description! I always loved that boy as if he’d been my—my—my own grandfather,” said Mr. Bumble, halting for an appropriate comparison. “Master Oliver, my dear, you remember the blessed gentleman in the white waistcoat? Ah! he went to heaven last week, in a oak coffin with plated handles, Oliver.”

“Come, sir,” said Mr. Grimwig, tartly; “suppress your feelings.”

“I will do my endeavours, sir,” replied Mr. Bumble. “How do you do, sir? I hope you are very well.”

This salutation was addressed to Mr. Brownlow, who had stepped up to within a short distance of the respectable couple. He inquired, as he pointed to Monks,

“Do you know that person?”

“No,” replied Mrs. Bumble flatly.

“Perhaps you don’t?” said Mr. Brownlow, addressing her spouse.

“I never saw him in all my life,” said Mr. Bumble.

“Nor sold him anything, perhaps?”

“No,” replied Mrs. Bumble.

“You never had, perhaps, a certain gold locket and ring?” said Mr. Brownlow.

“Certainly not,” replied the matron. “Why are we brought here to answer to such nonsense as this?”

Again Mr. Brownlow nodded to Mr. Grimwig; and again that gentleman limped away with extraordinary readiness. But not again did he return with a stout man and wife; for this time, he led in two palsied women, who shook and tottered as they walked.

“You shut the door the night old Sally died,” said the foremost one, raising her shrivelled hand, “but you couldn’t shut out the sound, nor stop the chinks.”

“No, no,” said the other, looking round her and wagging her toothless jaws. “No, no, no.”

“We heard her try to tell you what she’d done, and saw you take a paper from her hand, and watched you too, next day, to the pawnbroker’s shop,” said the first.

“Yes,” added the second, “and it was a ‘locket and gold ring.’ We found out that, and saw it given you. We were by. Oh! we were by.”

“And we know more than that,” resumed the first, “for she told us often, long ago, that the young mother had told her that, feeling she should never get over it, she was on her way, at the time that she was taken ill, to die near the grave of the father of the child.”

“Would you like to see the pawnbroker himself?” asked Mr. Grimwig with a motion towards the door.

“No,” replied the woman; “if he”—she pointed to Monks—“has been coward enough to confess, as I see he has, and you have sounded all these hags till you have found the right ones, I have nothing more to say. I did sell them, and they’re where you’ll never get them. What then?”

“Nothing,” replied Mr. Brownlow, “except that it remains for us to take care that neither of you is employed in a situation of trust again. You may leave the room.”

“I hope,” said Mr. Bumble, looking about him with great ruefulness, as Mr. Grimwig disappeared with the two old women: “I hope that this unfortunate little circumstance will not deprive me of my porochial office?”

“Indeed it will,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “You may make up your mind to that, and think yourself well off besides.”

Ci fu un breve silenzio, finché il signor Brownlow riprese il filo del racconto.

«Anni dopo», disse, «la madre di quell’uomo — Edward Leeford — venne da me. Lo aveva lasciato quando ne aveva solo diciotto; lo aveva derubata di gioielli e denaro; aveva giocato d’azzardo, sperperato, falsificato e fuggito a Londra: dove per due anni si era associato ai più bassi fuorilegge. Stava soccombendo sotto una malattia dolorosa e incurabile, e desiderava recuperarlo prima di morire. Furono avviate indagini e condotte ricerche approfondite. Non ebbero successo per un lungo periodo, ma alla fine furono coronate da buon esito; e lui tornò con lei in Francia».

«Morì lì», disse Monks, «dopo una lunga malattia; e sul suo letto di morte mi lasciò in eredità questi segreti insieme al suo odio implacabile e mortale per tutti coloro che ne erano coinvolti, anche se non avrebbe dovuto lasciarmelo perché l’avevo già ereditato da tempo. Non voleva credere che la ragazza si fosse uccisa, così come il bambino, ma era convinta che un maschio bambino fosse nato e fosse ancora vivo. Giurai a lei che se mai mi fossi imbattuto in lui lo avrei perseguitato senza tregua, non gli avrei dato pace, l’avrei inseguito con la più amara e implacabile ostilità, sfogando su di lui il profondo odio che provavo e sputando sulle vane fanfaronate di quel testamento oltraggioso trascinandolo, se possibile, fino al patibolo. Aveva ragione. Alla fine mi sono imbattuto in lui. Ho cominciato bene; e senza le chiacchiere delle donne avrei concluso come ho iniziato!»

Mentre il miserabile stringeva le braccia al petto e borbottava maledizioni contro se stesso nell’impotenza di una malizia sventata, il signor Brownlow si rivolse al gruppo terrorizzato accanto a lui e spiegò che l’ebreo, che era stato suo vecchio complice e confidente, aveva un grosso premio per tenere Oliver intrappolato: di cui una parte doveva essere ceduta nel caso in cui fosse stato salvato; e che una disputa su questo argomento li aveva portati a visitare la casa di campagna allo scopo di identificarlo.

“La catenina e l’anello?” disse il signor Brownlow, rivolgendosi a Monks.

“Li ho comprati dall’uomo e dalla donna di cui ti parlai, che li rubarono alla balia, la quale a sua volta li aveva sottratti al cadavere”, rispose Monks senza sollevare gli occhi. “Tu sai cosa ne è stato.”

Il signor Brownlow si limitò ad annuire al signor Grimwig che sparì con grande solerzia e poco dopo tornò spingendo dentro la signora Bumble e trascinandosi dietro suo marito, riluttante.

«Le mie speranze mi ingannano!» esclamò il signor Bumble con un entusiasmo mal simulato, «o è quel piccolo Oliver? Oh O-li-ver, se sapessi quanto ho pianto per te—»

«Tieni a freno la lingua, sciocco», mormorò la signora Bumble.

«Non è naturale, naturale, signora Bumble?» obiettò il direttore del ricovero. «Non si può supporre che io provi qualcosa—io, che l’ho cresciuto parrocchialmente—quando lo vedo seduto qui tra signori e signore di una cortesia squisita! Ho sempre amato quel ragazzo come se fosse stato il mio—il mio—il mio proprio nonno», disse Bumble, esitando alla ricerca di un confronto adeguato. «Oliver, caro, ti ricordi del beato signore con la giacca bianca? Ah! è andato in paradiso la settimana scorsa, in una bara di quercia con maniglie metalliche, Oliver.»

“Avanti, signore,” disse il signor Grimwig con asprezza: “reprimi i tuoi sentimenti.”

“Farò del mio meglio, signore”, rispose il signor Bumble. “Come state, signore? Spero che stiate molto bene.”

Questo saluto era rivolto al signor Brownlow, che si era avvicinato fino a una breve distanza dalla rispettabile coppia. Egli chiese, mentre indicava Monks,

“Conosci quella persona?”

«No», rispose la signora Bumble in tono perentorio.

«Forse voi non lo fate?» disse il signor Brownlow, rivolgendosi al marito di lei.

«Non l’ho mai visto in tutta la mia vita», disse il signor Bumble.

“O forse non gli ha venduto nulla?”

«No», rispose la signora Bumble.

«Non avete mai posseduto forse un certo ciondolo d’oro e un anello?» disse il signor Brownlow.

«Certamente no», rispose la matrona. «Perché siamo state portate qui per rispondere a tali sciocchezze?»

Ancora una volta il signor Brownlow fece un cenno al signor Grimwig, e ancora una volta quel gentiluomo si allontanò con straordinaria prontezza. Ma non tornò di nuovo con un uomo robusto e sua moglie; perché questa volta, condusse dentro due donne paralizzate che tremavano e vacillavano mentre camminavano.

«Avete chiuso la porta la notte in cui morì vecchia Sally», disse quella più avanti, alzando la sua mano raggrinzita, «ma non siete riuscita a chiudere fuori il rumore né a fermare le fessure.»

“No, no”, disse l’altra, guardandosi intorno e muovendo le sue fauci senza denti. “No, no, no.”

«Abbiamo sentito che cercava di dirvi quello che aveva fatto e abbiamo visto prendere un foglio dalla sua mano; vi abbiamo seguito anche il giorno dopo fino al negozio dell’usuraio», disse il primo.

«Sì», aggiunse il secondo, «e si trattava di un “medaglione e anello d’oro”. Abbiamo scoperto questo e abbiamo visto che te li davano. Eravamo lì vicino. Oh! eravamo proprio lì».

«E ne sappiamo anche di più», riprese il primo, «perché ci raccontò spesso, tempo fa, che la giovane madre le aveva detto che, sentendo che non se lo sarebbe mai superato, era in viaggio, al momento della sua malattia, per morire vicino alla tomba del padre del bambino.»

«Vorreste vedere il monte di pietà in persona?» chiese il signor Grimwig con un gesto verso la porta.

“No”, rispose la donna; “se lui” — indicò Monks — “è stato abbastanza codardo da confessare, come vedo che ha fatto, e voi avete interrogato tutte queste streghe finché non ne avete trovate le giuste, non ho più nulla da dire. Le ho vendute, e sono dove non le troverete mai. E allora?”

«Nulla», rispose il signor Brownlow, «se non che ci resta da fare attenzione che nessuno di voi due venga mai più impiegato in una posizione di fiducia. Potete lasciare la stanza».

“Spero,” disse il signor Bumble, guardandosi intorno con grande malinconia, mentre il signor Grimwig scompariva insieme alle due vecchie: “spero che questa sfortunata piccola circostanza non mi privi della mia carica parrocchiale?”

«Infatti lo sarà», rispose il signor Brownlow. «Può starne certo e considerarsi anche molto fortunato.»

“It was all Mrs. Bumble. She would do it,” urged Mr. Bumble; first looking round to ascertain that his partner had left the room.

“That is no excuse,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “You were present on the occasion of the destruction of these trinkets, and indeed are the more guilty of the two, in the eye of the law; for the law supposes that your wife acts under your direction.”

“If the law supposes that,” said Mr. Bumble, squeezing his hat emphatically in both hands, “the law is a ass—a idiot. If that’s the eye of the law, the law is a bachelor; and the worst I wish the law is, that his eye may be opened by experience—by experience.”

Laying great stress on the repetition of these two words, Mr. Bumble fixed his hat on very tight, and putting his hands in his pockets, followed his helpmate downstairs.

“Young lady,” said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Rose, “give me your hand. Do not tremble. You need not fear to hear the few remaining words we have to say.”

“If they have—I do not know how they can, but if they have—any reference to me,” said Rose, “pray let me hear them at some other time. I have not strength or spirits now.”

“Nay,” returned the old gentleman, drawing her arm through his; “you have more fortitude than this, I am sure. Do you know this young lady, sir?”

“Yes,” replied Monks.

“I never saw you before,” said Rose faintly.

“I have seen you often,” returned Monks.

“The father of the unhappy Agnes had two daughters,” said Mr. Brownlow. “What was the fate of the other—the child?”

“The child,” replied Monks, “when her father died in a strange place, in a strange name, without a letter, book, or scrap of paper that yielded the faintest clue by which his friends or relatives could be traced—the child was taken by some wretched cottagers, who reared it as their own.”

“Go on,” said Mr. Brownlow, signing to Mrs. Maylie to approach. “Go on!”

“You couldn’t find the spot to which these people had repaired,” said Monks, “but where friendship fails, hatred will often force a way. My mother found it, after a year of cunning search—ay, and found the child.”

“She took it, did she?”

“No. The people were poor and began to sicken—at least the man did—of their fine humanity; so she left it with them, giving them a small present of money which would not last long, and promised more, which she never meant to send. She didn’t quite rely, however, on their discontent and poverty for the child’s unhappiness, but told the history of the sister’s shame, with such alterations as suited her; bade them take good heed of the child, for she came of bad blood; and told them she was illegitimate, and sure to go wrong at one time or other. The circumstances countenanced all this; the people believed it; and there the child dragged on an existence, miserable enough even to satisfy us, until a widow lady, residing, then, at Chester, saw the girl by chance, pitied her, and took her home. There was some cursed spell, I think, against us; for in spite of all our efforts she remained there and was happy. I lost sight of her, two or three years ago, and saw her no more until a few months back.”

“Do you see her now?”

“Yes. Leaning on your arm.”

“But not the less my niece,” cried Mrs. Maylie, folding the fainting girl in her arms; “not the less my dearest child. I would not lose her now, for all the treasures of the world. My sweet companion, my own dear girl!”

“The only friend I ever had,” cried Rose, clinging to her. “The kindest, best of friends. My heart will burst. I cannot bear all this.”

“You have borne more, and have been, through all, the best and gentlest creature that ever shed happiness on every one she knew,” said Mrs. Maylie, embracing her tenderly. “Come, come, my love, remember who this is who waits to clasp you in his arms, poor child! See here—look, look, my dear!”

“Not aunt,” cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck; “I’ll never call her aunt—sister, my own dear sister, that something taught my heart to love so dearly from the first! Rose, dear, darling Rose!”

Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother, were gained, and lost, in that one moment. Joy and grief were mingled in the cup; but there were no bitter tears: for even grief itself arose so softened, and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemn pleasure, and lost all character of pain.

They were a long, long time alone. A soft tap at the door, at length announced that some one was without. Oliver opened it, glided away, and gave place to Harry Maylie.

“I know it all,” he said, taking a seat beside the lovely girl. “Dear Rose, I know it all.”

“I am not here by accident,” he added after a lengthened silence; “nor have I heard all this tonight, for I knew it yesterday—only yesterday. Do you guess that I have come to remind you of a promise?”

“Stay,” said Rose. “You do know all.”

“All. You gave me leave, at any time within a year, to renew the subject of our last discourse.”

“I did.”

“Not to press you to alter your determination,” pursued the young man, “but to hear you repeat it, if you would. I was to lay whatever of station or fortune I might possess at your feet, and if you still adhered to your former determination, I pledged myself, by no word or act, to seek to change it.”

“The same reasons which influenced me then, will influence me now,” said Rose firmly. “If I ever owed a strict and rigid duty to her, whose goodness saved me from a life of indigence and suffering, when should I ever feel it, as I should tonight? It is a struggle,” said Rose, “but one I am proud to make; it is a pang, but one my heart shall bear.”

«È tutta colpa della signora Bumble. Lei voleva farlo», insistette il signor Bumble, guardandosi prima intorno per assicurarsi che la sua compagna avesse lasciato la stanza.

«Questa non è una scusa», rispose il signor Brownlow. «Eri presente quando questi oggetti sono stati distrutti e, agli occhi della legge, sei addirittura più colpevole dei due; perché la legge presuppone che tua moglie agisca sotto la tua direzione».

«Se la legge suppone», disse il signor Bumble stringendo con forza il cappello tra le mani, «allora la legge è un asino, un idiota. Se quello è l’occhio della legge, allora la legge è scapolo; e tutto ciò che auguro alla legge è che gli si aprano gli occhi per esperienza, per esperienza».

Dando grande importanza alla ripetizione di queste due parole, il signor Bumble si sistemò ben bene il cappello e, infilando le mani nelle tasche, seguì la sua compagna al piano inferiore.

“Signorina”, disse il signor Brownlow rivolgendosi a Rosa, “datemi la mano. Non tremate. Non dovete temere di ascoltare le poche parole che ci rimangono da dire.”

«Se hanno — non so come possano farlo, ma se hanno — qualche riferimento a me», disse Rosa, «la prego di farmeli sentire in un altro momento. Non ho né forza né spirito ora.»

«No», rispose il vecchio signore, passandosi il suo braccio intorno al suo; «sono sicuro che avete più forza di così. Conoscete questa giovane signora, signore?»

“Sì”, rispose Monks.

“Non ti ho mai visto prima”, disse debolmente Rose.

«Vi ho visto spesso», rispose Monks.

“Il padre della sfortunata Agnes aveva due figlie”, disse il signor Brownlow, “qual è stato il destino dell’altra, la bambina?”

«Il bambino,» rispose Monks, «quando suo padre morì in un luogo sconosciuto, con un nome straniero, senza una lettera, un libro o uno scarto di carta che fornisse il più pallido indizio per rintracciare i suoi amici o parenti—il bambino fu preso da alcuni miseri contadini, che lo allevavano come loro figlio.»

“Continui”, disse il signor Brownlow, facendo cenno alla signora Maylie di avvicinarsi. “Continui!”

«Non avreste potuto trovare il luogo in cui queste persone si erano rifugiate», disse Monks, «ma dove la amicizia fallisce, l’odio spesso trova una via. Mia madre lo scoprì dopo un anno di ricerca astuta — sì, e trovò il bambino.»

“L’ha preso, vero?”

“No. La gente era povera e cominciò ad ammalarsi — almeno l’uomo lo fece — della loro bella umanità; così la lasciò con loro, facendo loro un piccolo regalo di denaro che non sarebbe durato a lungo, e promise altro, che non aveva mai intenzione di inviare. Tuttavia, non si fidava completamente del loro malcontento e della povertà per l’infelicità del bambino, ma raccontò la storia della vergogna della sorella, con le modifiche che le erano più convenienti; li esortò a stare attenti al bambino, perché proveniva da un cattivo sangue; e disse loro che era illegittimo e sicuramente avrebbe sbagliato prima o poi. Le circostanze confermavano tutto ciò; la gente ci credette; e lì il bambino trascinava un’esistenza abbastanza miserabile da soddisfarci, finché una signora vedova che allora risiedeva a Chester vide per caso la ragazza, ebbe pietà di lei e la portò a casa. C’era qualche maledizione contro di noi; perché nonostante tutti i nostri sforzi rimase lì ed era felice. L’ho persa di vista due o tre anni fa, e non l’ho più vista fino a pochi mesi fa.”

La vedi ora?

“Sì. Appoggiandomi al tuo braccio.”

«Ma non per questo meno mia nipote», esclamò la signora Maylie, stringendo tra le braccia la ragazza svenuta; «non per questo meno il mio caro bambino. Non vorrei perderla ora per tutti i tesori del mondo. La mia dolce compagna, la mia adorata bambina!»

“L’unica amica che abbia mai avuto”, esclamò Rose aggrappandosi a lei, “la più gentile e buona delle amiche. Il mio cuore sta per scoppiare. Non posso sopportare tutto questo.”

“Hai sopportato molto e sei stata, attraverso tutto questo, la creatura migliore e più gentile che abbia mai diffuso felicità su tutti coloro che conosceva”, disse Mrs. Maylie, abbracciandola teneramente. “Vieni, vieni, mio amore, ricorda chi è colui che ti aspetta per stringerti tra le sue braccia, povera bambina! Guarda qui—guarda, guarda, mia cara!”

«Non zia», gridò Oliver, gettando le braccia al collo di lei; «non la chiamerò mai zia: sorella, mia cara sorella, che qualcosa ha insegnato al mio cuore ad amare così tanto fin dall’inizio! Rose, cara, dolce Rose!»

Rendiamo sacre le lacrime che caddero e le parole spezzate che furono scambiate nell’abbraccio lungo e stretto tra gli orfani. Un padre, una sorella e una madre furono guadagnati e persi in quell’unico momento. Gioia e dolore si mescolarono nella coppa; ma non c’erano lacrime amare: perché anche il dolore stesso sorse così addolcito, e rivestito di ricordi così dolci e teneri, che divenne un piacere solenne e perse ogni carattere di dolore.

Rimasero a lungo, a lunghissimo tempo da soli. Un lieve bussare alla porta annunciò infine che qualcuno era fuori. Oliver l’aprì, si allontanò silenziosamente e lasciò il posto a Harry Maylie.

«Lo so tutto», disse sedendosi accanto alla bella ragazza. «Cara Rose, lo so tutto».

“Non sono qui per caso”, aggiunse dopo un lungo silenzio; “né ho sentito tutto questo stasera, perché lo sapevo già ieri—solo ieri. Immaginate che io sia venuto a ricordarvi una promessa?”

«Resta», disse Rosa. «Tu sai tutto».

«Tutto qui. Mi hai dato il permesso di rinnovare in qualsiasi momento entro un anno l’argomento della nostra ultima conversazione».

“L’ho fatto.”

«Non per spingervi a cambiare la vostra decisione», continuò il giovane, «ma per sentirvela ripetere, se volete. Avrei dovuto mettere ai vostri piedi qualsiasi posizione o fortuna io possedessi e, se voi aveste ancora aderito alla vostra precedente determinazione, mi sarei impegnato a non cercare di cambiarla con nessuna parola o azione.»

«Le stesse ragioni che mi influenzarono allora, mi influenzeranno ora», disse fermamente Rosa. «Se mai ho avuto un dovere severo e rigido verso di lei, la cui bontà mi salvò da una vita di indigenza e sofferenza, quando lo sentirei più che stasera? È una lotta», disse Rosa, «ma ne sono orgogliosa; è un dolore, ma il mio cuore saprà sopportarlo.»

“The disclosure of tonight,”—Harry began.

“The disclosure of tonight,” replied Rose softly, “leaves me in the same position, with reference to you, as that in which I stood before.”

“You harden your heart against me, Rose,” urged her lover.

“Oh Harry, Harry,” said the young lady, bursting into tears; “I wish I could, and spare myself this pain.”

“Then why inflict it on yourself?” said Harry, taking her hand. “Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard tonight.”

“And what have I heard! What have I heard!” cried Rose. “That a sense of his deep disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned all—there, we have said enough, Harry, we have said enough.”

“Not yet, not yet,” said the young man, detaining her as she rose. “My hopes, my wishes, prospects, feeling: every thought in life except my love for you: have undergone a change. I offer you, now, no distinction among a bustling crowd; no mingling with a world of malice and detraction, where the blood is called into honest cheeks by aught but real disgrace and shame; but a home—a heart and home—yes, dearest Rose, and those, and those alone, are all I have to offer.”

“What do you mean!” she faltered.

“I mean but this—that when I left you last, I left you with a firm determination to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me; resolved that if my world could not be yours, I would make yours mine; that no pride of birth should curl the lip at you, for I would turn from it. This I have done. Those who have shrunk from me because of this, have shrunk from you, and proved you so far right. Such power and patronage: such relatives of influence and rank: as smiled upon me then, look coldly now; but there are smiling fields and waving trees in England’s richest county; and by one village church—mine, Rose, my own!—there stands a rustic dwelling which you can make me prouder of, than all the hopes I have renounced, measured a thousandfold. This is my rank and station now, and here I lay it down!”

“It’s a trying thing waiting supper for lovers,” said Mr. Grimwig, waking up, and pulling his pocket-handkerchief from over his head.

Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could offer a word in extenuation.

“I had serious thoughts of eating my head tonight,” said Mr. Grimwig, “for I began to think I should get nothing else. I’ll take the liberty, if you’ll allow me, of saluting the bride that is to be.”

Mr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into effect upon the blushing girl; and the example, being contagious, was followed both by the doctor and Mr. Brownlow: some people affirm that Harry Maylie had been observed to set it, originally, in a dark room adjoining; but the best authorities consider this downright scandal: he being young and a clergyman.

“Oliver, my child,” said Mrs. Maylie, “where have you been, and why do you look so sad? There are tears stealing down your face at this moment. What is the matter?”

It is a world of disappointment: often to the hopes we most cherish, and hopes that do our nature the greatest honour.

Poor Dick was dead!

«La rivelazione di questa sera» — cominciò Harry.

«La rivelazione di questa sera» rispose dolcemente Rosa, «mi lascia nella stessa posizione nei tuoi confronti, come quella in cui mi trovavo prima».

“Indurisci il tuo cuore contro di me, Rose”, insistette il suo amante.

«Oh Harry, Harry», disse la giovane signora, scoppiando in lacrime, «vorrei poterlo fare e risparmiarmi questo dolore.»

«Allora perché infliggerlo a te stessa?» disse Harry prendendole la mano. «Pensa, cara Rosa, pensa a quello che hai sentito questa sera.»

“E che cosa ho sentito! Che cosa ho sentito!” esclamò Rose. “Che il senso del suo profondo disonore ha così agito su mio padre che egli evitava tutti, là, abbiamo detto abbastanza, Harry, abbiamo detto abbastanza.”

“Non ancora, non ancora”, disse il giovane trattenendola mentre si alzava. “Le mie speranze, i miei desideri, le prospettive, i sentimenti: ogni pensiero nella vita eccetto il mio amore per te ha subito un cambiamento. Ti offro ora non una distinzione in mezzo a una folla rumorosa; non un mescolarsi con un mondo di malizia e detrattori, dove il sangue viene chiamato sulle guance oneste da qualsiasi cosa tranne che dal vero disonore e dalla vergogna; ma una casa—un cuore e una casa—sì, mia cara Rosa, e questi, e questi solamente, sono tutto ciò che ho da offrire.”

«Cosa intendete dire!» esclamò con voce incerta.

“Voglio dire solo questo: quando vi ho lasciato l’ultima volta, vi ho lasciato con la ferma decisione di abbattere tutte le barriere immaginarie tra voi e me; risoluto che se il mio mondo non poteva essere vostro, avrei reso il vostro mio; che nessun orgoglio di nascita vi avrebbe fatto arricciare il labbro, perché mi sarei allontanato da esso. E questo ho fatto. Coloro che si sono ritratti da me a causa di ciò, si sono ritratti anche da voi, e hanno dimostrato fino a un certo punto che avevate ragione. Un tale potere e patronato: tali parenti influenti e di rango: che mi sorridevano allora, ora guardano freddamente; ma ci sono campi sorridenti e alberi ondeggianti nella più ricca contea d’Inghilterra; e accanto alla chiesa di un villaggio — mia, Rose, mia! — c’è una dimora rustica che potete rendere fonte del mio orgoglio, più di tutte le speranze che ho rinunciato, misurate mille volte. Questo è il mio rango e la mia posizione ora, e qui li depongo!”

“È una cosa davvero difficile aspettare che gli innamorati cenino”, disse il signor Grimwig, risvegliandosi e tirando fuori dalla testa il fazzoletto da taschino.

Per dirla tutta, la cena aveva aspettato un tempo davvero irragionevole. Né la signora Maylie né Harry né Rose (che entrarono tutti insieme) poterono offrire una parola in attenuazione.

«Stavo seriamente pensando di mangiarmi la testa stasera», disse il signor Grimwig, «perché cominciavo a credere che non avrei ottenuto altro. Mi permetto, se me lo concede, di salutare la futura sposa».

Il signor Grimwig non perse tempo nel mettere in pratica questo avviso sulla ragazza arrossita; e l’esempio, essendo contagioso, fu seguito sia dal dottore che dal signor Brownlow: alcune persone affermano di aver visto Harry Maylie istaurarlo originariamente in una stanza buia attigua; ma le migliori autorità considerano questo un vero scandalo: lui era giovane e un ecclesiastico.

«Oliver, mio bambino», disse la signora Maylie, «dove sei stato e perché hai un’aria così triste? In questo momento vedo delle lacrime scivolare sul tuo viso. Che cosa succede?»

È un mondo di delusioni, spesso per le speranze che più accarezziamo e che fanno il massimo onore alla nostra natura.

Povero Dick era morto!

CHAPTER LII. FAGIN’S LAST NIGHT ALIVE

The court was paved, from floor to roof, with human faces. Inquisitive and eager eyes peered from every inch of space. From the rail before the dock, away into the sharpest angle of the smallest corner in the galleries, all looks were fixed upon one man—Fagin. Before him and behind: above, below, on the right and on the left: he seemed to stand surrounded by a firmament, all bright with gleaming eyes.

He stood there, in all this glare of living light, with one hand resting on the wooden slab before him, the other held to his ear, and his head thrust forward to enable him to catch with greater distinctness every word that fell from the presiding judge, who was delivering his charge to the jury. At times, he turned his eyes sharply upon them to observe the effect of the slightest featherweight in his favour; and when the points against him were stated with terrible distinctness, looked towards his counsel, in mute appeal that he would, even then, urge something in his behalf. Beyond these manifestations of anxiety, he stirred not hand or foot. He had scarcely moved since the trial began; and now that the judge ceased to speak, he still remained in the same strained attitude of close attention, with his gaze bent on him, as though he listened still.

A slight bustle in the court, recalled him to himself. Looking round, he saw that the jurymen had turned together, to consider their verdict. As his eyes wandered to the gallery, he could see the people rising above each other to see his face: some hastily applying their glasses to their eyes: and others whispering their neighbours with looks expressive of abhorrence. A few there were, who seemed unmindful of him, and looked only to the jury, in impatient wonder how they could delay. But in no one face—not even among the women, of whom there were many there—could he read the faintest sympathy with himself, or any feeling but one of all-absorbing interest that he should be condemned.

As he saw all this in one bewildered glance, the deathlike stillness came again, and looking back he saw that the jurymen had turned towards the judge. Hush!

They only sought permission to retire.

He looked, wistfully, into their faces, one by one when they passed out, as though to see which way the greater number leant; but that was fruitless. The jailer touched him on the shoulder. He followed mechanically to the end of the dock, and sat down on a chair. The man pointed it out, or he would not have seen it.

He looked up into the gallery again. Some of the people were eating, and some fanning themselves with handkerchiefs; for the crowded place was very hot. There was one young man sketching his face in a little note-book. He wondered whether it was like, and looked on when the artist broke his pencil-point, and made another with his knife, as any idle spectator might have done.

In the same way, when he turned his eyes towards the judge, his mind began to busy itself with the fashion of his dress, and what it cost, and how he put it on. There was an old fat gentleman on the bench, too, who had gone out, some half an hour before, and now come back. He wondered within himself whether this man had been to get his dinner, what he had had, and where he had had it; and pursued this train of careless thought until some new object caught his eye and roused another.

Not that, all this time, his mind was, for an instant, free from one oppressive overwhelming sense of the grave that opened at his feet; it was ever present to him, but in a vague and general way, and he could not fix his thoughts upon it. Thus, even while he trembled, and turned burning hot at the idea of speedy death, he fell to counting the iron spikes before him, and wondering how the head of one had been broken off, and whether they would mend it, or leave it as it was. Then, he thought of all the horrors of the gallows and the scaffold—and stopped to watch a man sprinkling the floor to cool it—and then went on to think again.

At length there was a cry of silence, and a breathless look from all towards the door. The jury returned, and passed him close. He could glean nothing from their faces; they might as well have been of stone. Perfect stillness ensued—not a rustle—not a breath—Guilty.

The building rang with a tremendous shout, and another, and another, and then it echoed loud groans, that gathered strength as they swelled out, like angry thunder. It was a peal of joy from the populace outside, greeting the news that he would die on Monday.

The noise subsided, and he was asked if he had anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon him. He had resumed his listening attitude, and looked intently at his questioner while the demand was made; but it was twice repeated before he seemed to hear it, and then he only muttered that he was an old man—an old man—and so, dropping into a whisper, was silent again.

The judge assumed the black cap, and the prisoner still stood with the same air and gesture. A woman in the gallery, uttered some exclamation, called forth by this dread solemnity; he looked hastily up as if angry at the interruption, and bent forward yet more attentively. The address was solemn and impressive; the sentence fearful to hear. But he stood, like a marble figure, without the motion of a nerve. His haggard face was still thrust forward, his under-jaw hanging down, and his eyes staring out before him, when the jailer put his hand upon his arm, and beckoned him away. He gazed stupidly about him for an instant, and obeyed.

They led him through a paved room under the court, where some prisoners were waiting till their turns came, and others were talking to their friends, who crowded round a grate which looked into the open yard. There was nobody there to speak to him; but, as he passed, the prisoners fell back to render him more visible to the people who were clinging to the bars: and they assailed him with opprobrious names, and screeched and hissed. He shook his fist, and would have spat upon them; but his conductors hurried him on, through a gloomy passage lighted by a few dim lamps, into the interior of the prison.

CAPITOLO LII. L’ULTIMA NOTTE DI VITA DI FAGIN

La corte era lastricata, dal pavimento alla volta, di volti umani. Occhi curiosi e ansiosi scrutavano da ogni angolo disponibile. Dallo scranno davanti al banco degli imputati fino all’angolo più acuto del più piccolo anfratto nelle tribune, tutti gli sguardi erano fissi su un uomo: Fagin. Davanti a lui e dietro; sopra, sotto, sulla destra e sulla sinistra: sembrava che fosse circondato da un firmamento tutto luminoso di occhi scintillanti.

Egli stava lì, in tutto quel bagliore di vivida luce, con una mano appoggiata sul tavolo di legno davanti a sé e l’altra premuta all’orecchio, la testa protesa in avanti per cogliere più distintamente ogni parola che cadeva dalle labbra del giudice presidente, il quale stava impartendo le sue istruzioni alla giuria. A volte, volgeva lo sguardo con vivacità su di loro per osservare l’effetto del minimo soffio a suo favore; e quando i punti contro di lui venivano esposti con terribile chiarezza, si rivolgeva al suo avvocato in un muto appello affinché, anche allora, sollevasse qualcosa in sua difesa. Oltre queste manifestazioni d’ansietà, non muoveva né mano né piede. Non si era quasi mosso dall’inizio del processo; e ora che il giudice aveva smesso di parlare, rimaneva ancora nella stessa tesa posizione di attenzione ravvicinata, con lo sguardo fisso su di lui, come se ascoltasse ancora.

Un leggero trambusto nella corte, lo riportò in sé. Guardandosi intorno, vide che i giurati si erano voltati insieme per discutere il loro verdetto. Mentre i suoi occhi vagavano verso la galleria, poteva vedere le persone alzarsi l’una sopra l’altra per vedere il suo volto: alcuni applicavano frettolosamente gli occhiali agli occhi: e altri sussurravano ai vicini con sguardi espressivi di orrore. Ce n’erano alcuni che sembravano non badare a lui, e guardavano solo la giuria, in un meravigliato impaziente come potessero ritardare. Ma sul volto di nessuno - nemmeno tra le donne, delle quali ce n’erano molte lì - poteva leggere la più pallida simpatia per sé stesso, o qualsiasi sentimento se non quello di un interesse assorbente che lui fosse condannato.

Mentre vedeva tutto ciò con uno sguardo smarrito, tornò il silenzio di morte, e guardandosi indietro vide che i giurati si erano voltati verso il giudice. Silenzio!

Chiesero solo il permesso di ritirarsi.

Li guardò con malinconia in faccia uno dopo l’altro mentre uscivano, come se volesse vedere da che parte si schierava la maggioranza; ma fu inutile. Il carceriere lo toccò sulla spalla. Lo seguì meccanicamente fino alla fine del banco e si sedette su una sedia. L’uomo gliela indicò, altrimenti non l’avrebbe vista.

Guardò di nuovo su verso la galleria. Alcune persone mangiavano e altre si ventilavano con i fazzoletti; perché il luogo affollato era molto caldo. C’era un giovane che stava disegnando il suo volto in un piccolo taccuino. Si chiese se somigliasse, e osservò quando l’artista si spezzò la punta della matita e ne fece una nuova con il coltello, come avrebbe potuto fare qualsiasi altro spettatore ozioso.

Allo stesso modo, quando rivolgeva lo sguardo verso il giudice, la sua mente si metteva a occuparsi del suo abbigliamento, di quanto costasse e come se lo fosse messo addosso. C’era anche un vecchio signore grasso sul banco che era uscito mezz’ora prima ed ora era tornato. Si chiedeva se quell’uomo fosse andato a pranzare, cosa avesse mangiato e dove l’avesse fatto; e proseguiva in questo filo di pensieri distratti finché qualche nuovo oggetto non attirava il suo sguardo e ne suscitava un altro.

Non che, in tutto questo tempo, la sua mente fosse, neanche per un istante, libera da una sensazione opprimente e schiacciante della tomba che si apriva ai suoi piedi; era sempre presente a lui, ma in modo vago e generale, e non riusciva a fissare i suoi pensieri su di essa. Così, anche mentre tremava e arrossiva per l’idea della rapida morte, si mise a contare le punte di ferro davanti a lui, chiedendosi come la testa di una fosse stata spezzata e se l’avrebbero riparata o lasciata così com’era. Poi pensò a tutti gli orrori della forca e del patibolo — e si fermò per osservare un uomo che spruzzava acqua sul pavimento per rinfrescarlo — e poi continuò a pensare di nuovo.

Alla fine ci fu un grido di silenzio e uno sguardo ansimante da parte di tutti verso la porta. La giuria tornò e gli passò vicino. Non riusciva a capire nulla dalle loro facce; avrebbero potuto essere di pietra, tanto per lui faceva lo stesso. Seguì un perfetto silenzio - non un fruscio - non un respiro - Colpevole.

L’edificio risuonò di un urlo tremendo, e poi un altro, e ancora un altro, e quindi fece eco a forti gemiti che acquistarono vigore man mano che si gonfiavano fuori, come tuoni rabbiosi. Era una salva di gioia del popolo all’esterno, che accoglieva la notizia che sarebbe morto lunedì.

Il rumore si attenuò e gli fu chiesto se avesse qualcosa da dire per cui non dovesse essere condannato alla morte. Aveva ripreso la sua posizione di ascolto e guardava attentamente chi lo interrogava mentre veniva formulata la richiesta; ma questa fu ripetuta due volte prima che sembrasse averla sentita, e allora mormorò solo che era un vecchio—un vecchio—e così, passando a un sussurro, tornò di nuovo in silenzio.

Il giudice indossò la berretta nera e il prigioniero rimase in piedi con lo stesso atteggiamento e gesto. Una donna nella tribuna emise un’esclamazione provocata da quella terribile solennità; egli alzò rapidamente gli occhi come se fosse arrabbiato per l’interruzione, e si chinò ancora più attentamente in avanti. Il discorso fu solenne e impressionante; la sentenza spaventosa da ascoltare. Ma lui rimase immobile come una statua di marmo senza il movimento di un muscolo. La sua faccia scavata era ancora protesa in avanti, con la mandibola cadente e gli occhi che fissavano davanti a sé quando il carceriere posò la mano sul suo braccio e lo invitò ad andarsene. Egli guardò stupidamente intorno per un istante e obbedì.

Lo condussero attraverso una stanza lastricata sotto il tribunale, dove alcuni prigionieri aspettavano il loro turno e altri parlavano con i loro amici, che si accalcavano intorno a un graticcio che dava sul cortile aperto. Non c’era nessuno lì per parlare a lui; ma, mentre passava, i prigionieri indietreggiarono per renderlo più visibile alle persone che si aggrappavano alle sbarre: e lo assalirono con nomi infamanti, strillando e fischiando. Lui alzò il pugno e avrebbe voluto sputare su di loro; ma i suoi conduttori lo affrettarono attraverso un passaggio tetro illuminato da alcune lampade fioche, nell’interno del carcere.

Here, he was searched, that he might not have about him the means of anticipating the law; this ceremony performed, they led him to one of the condemned cells, and left him there—alone.

He sat down on a stone bench opposite the door, which served for seat and bedstead; and casting his blood-shot eyes upon the ground, tried to collect his thoughts. After awhile, he began to remember a few disjointed fragments of what the judge had said: though it had seemed to him, at the time, that he could not hear a word. These gradually fell into their proper places, and by degrees suggested more: so that in a little time he had the whole, almost as it was delivered. To be hanged by the neck, till he was dead—that was the end. To be hanged by the neck till he was dead.

As it came on very dark, he began to think of all the men he had known who had died upon the scaffold; some of them through his means. They rose up, in such quick succession, that he could hardly count them. He had seen some of them die,—and had joked too, because they died with prayers upon their lips. With what a rattling noise the drop went down; and how suddenly they changed, from strong and vigorous men to dangling heaps of clothes!

Some of them might have inhabited that very cell—sat upon that very spot. It was very dark; why didn’t they bring a light? The cell had been built for many years. Scores of men must have passed their last hours there. It was like sitting in a vault strewn with dead bodies—the cap, the noose, the pinioned arms, the faces that he knew, even beneath that hideous veil.—Light, light!

At length, when his hands were raw with beating against the heavy door and walls, two men appeared: one bearing a candle, which he thrust into an iron candlestick fixed against the wall: the other dragging in a mattress on which to pass the night; for the prisoner was to be left alone no more.

Then came the night—dark, dismal, silent night. Other watchers are glad to hear this church-clock strike, for they tell of life and coming day. To him they brought despair. The boom of every iron bell came laden with the one, deep, hollow sound—Death. What availed the noise and bustle of cheerful morning, which penetrated even there, to him? It was another form of knell, with mockery added to the warning.

The day passed off. Day? There was no day; it was gone as soon as come—and night came on again; night so long, and yet so short; long in its dreadful silence, and short in its fleeting hours. At one time he raved and blasphemed; and at another howled and tore his hair. Venerable men of his own persuasion had come to pray beside him, but he had driven them away with curses. They renewed their charitable efforts, and he beat them off.

Saturday night. He had only one night more to live. And as he thought of this, the day broke—Sunday.

It was not until the night of this last awful day, that a withering sense of his helpless, desperate state came in its full intensity upon his blighted soul; not that he had ever held any defined or positive hope of mercy, but that he had never been able to consider more than the dim probability of dying so soon. He had spoken little to either of the two men, who relieved each other in their attendance upon him; and they, for their parts, made no effort to rouse his attention. He had sat there, awake, but dreaming. Now, he started up, every minute, and with gasping mouth and burning skin, hurried to and fro, in such a paroxysm of fear and wrath that even they—used to such sights—recoiled from him with horror. He grew so terrible, at last, in all the tortures of his evil conscience, that one man could not bear to sit there, eyeing him alone; and so the two kept watch together.

He cowered down upon his stone bed, and thought of the past. He had been wounded with some missiles from the crowd on the day of his capture, and his head was bandaged with a linen cloth. His red hair hung down upon his bloodless face; his beard was torn, and twisted into knots; his eyes shone with a terrible light; his unwashed flesh crackled with the fever that burnt him up. Eight—nine—then. If it was not a trick to frighten him, and those were the real hours treading on each other’s heels, where would he be, when they came round again! Eleven! Another struck, before the voice of the previous hour had ceased to vibrate. At eight, he would be the only mourner in his own funeral train; at eleven—

Those dreadful walls of Newgate, which have hidden so much misery and such unspeakable anguish, not only from the eyes, but, too often, and too long, from the thoughts, of men, never held so dread a spectacle as that. The few who lingered as they passed, and wondered what the man was doing who was to be hanged tomorrow, would have slept but ill that night, if they could have seen him.

From early in the evening until nearly midnight, little groups of two and three presented themselves at the lodge-gate, and inquired, with anxious faces, whether any reprieve had been received. These being answered in the negative, communicated the welcome intelligence to clusters in the street, who pointed out to one another the door from which he must come out, and showed where the scaffold would be built, and, walking with unwilling steps away, turned back to conjure up the scene. By degrees they fell off, one by one; and, for an hour, in the dead of night, the street was left to solitude and darkness.

The space before the prison was cleared, and a few strong barriers, painted black, had been already thrown across the road to break the pressure of the expected crowd, when Mr. Brownlow and Oliver appeared at the wicket, and presented an order of admission to the prisoner, signed by one of the sheriffs. They were immediately admitted into the lodge.

Oliver Twist - Capitolo 52 (parte 2)

Qui lo perquisirono, perché non avesse con sé i mezzi di anticipare la legge; compiuta questa cerimonia, lo condussero in una delle celle dei condannati e lo lasciarono lì — solo.

Si sedette su una panchina di pietra di fronte alla porta, che serviva sia da sedile che da letto; e fissando a terra i suoi occhi iniettati di sangue, cercò di raccogliere i propri pensieri. Dopo un po’, cominciò a ricordare alcuni frammenti sconnessi di ciò che il giudice aveva detto: anche se gli era sembrato, al momento, di non poter sentire una parola. Questi si disposero gradualmente nei loro posti corretti e a poco a poco ne suggerirono altri: così che in breve tempo aveva il tutto, quasi come era stato pronunciato. Essere impiccato per il collo finché non fosse morto - questo era il finale. Essere impiccato per il collo finché non fosse morto.

Quando si fece molto buio, cominciò a pensare a tutti gli uomini che aveva conosciuto e che erano morti sul patibolo; alcuni per colpa sua. Si materializzarono così in rapida successione che faticava a contarli. Ne aveva visto morire qualcuno, ed era persino scherzato perché morivano con le preghiere sulle labbra. Con quale fragore il cappio scendeva; e come cambiavano all’improvviso da uomini forti e vigorosi in mucchi di vestiti che penzolavano!

Alcuni di loro potrebbero aver abitato proprio quella cella—seduto su quel preciso posto. Era molto buio; perché non portavano una luce? La cella era stata costruita da molti anni. Dozzine di uomini dovevano aver trascorso le loro ultime ore là dentro. Era come sedere in una cripta disseminata di cadaveri—il cappuccio, il lazo, i bracci legati, i volti che conosceva anche sotto quel velo orribile.—Luce, luce!

Finalmente, quando le sue mani erano indolenzite per aver battuto contro la pesante porta e i muri, apparvero due uomini: uno portava una candela che infilò in un candelabro di ferro fissato al muro; l’altro trascinava dentro un materasso su cui passare la notte; perché il prigioniero non sarebbe stato lasciato solo più.

Poi venne la notte — oscura, tetra, silenziosa notte. Altri veggenti sono felici di sentire suonare questo orologio della chiesa, perché annunciano vita e l’arrivo del giorno. A lui portavano solo disperazione. Il rintocco di ogni campana di ferro giungeva carico dell’unica, profonda, vuota parola — morte. Che importava a lui il rumore e l’agitazione della mattina allegra che penetravano persino là? Era un’altra forma di spavento, con la beffa aggiunta all’avvertimento.

La giornata passò. Giornata? Non c’era stata alcuna giornata; era finita appena iniziata — e la notte tornò di nuovo; una notte così lunga, eppure così breve; lunga nel suo terribile silenzio, ma breve nelle sue ore fugaci. In un certo momento delirava e bestemmiava; in un altro ululava e si strappava i capelli. Uomini venerabili della sua stessa fede erano venuti a pregare al suo capezzale, ma lui li aveva scacciati con maledizioni. Essi rinnovarono i loro sforzi caritatevoli e lui li respinse a forza.

Sabato sera. Aveva solo un’altra notte da vivere. E mentre pensava a questo, giunse il giorno: domenica.

Non fu che nella notte di questo ultimo terribile giorno, che un senso di desolazione per il suo stato disperato e senza speranza si abbatté con tutta la sua intensità sulla sua devastata anima; non che avesse mai nutrito qualche definita o positiva speranza di misericordia, ma semplicemente non era mai stato in grado di considerare altro che la vaga possibilità di morire così presto. Aveva parlato poco con uno dei due uomini, che si davano il cambio nella loro assistenza; e questi, da parte loro, non facevano alcun tentativo per richiamare la sua attenzione. Era rimasto seduto lì, sveglio ma sognante. Ora, di minuto in minuto, balzava in piedi, con bocca ansimante e pelle arsa, si affrettava avanti e indietro, in un tale parossismo di paura e rabbia che persino loro — abituati a tali spettacoli — indietreggiavano da lui con orrore. Alla fine divenne così terribile, tra tutte le torture della sua malvagia coscienza, che uno degli uomini non riusciva più a sopportare di stare lì, osservandolo da solo; e così i due rimasero insieme di guardia.

Si accucciò sul suo letto di pietra e pensò al passato. Era stato ferito da qualche proiettile scagliato dalla folla il giorno della sua cattura, e la testa era bendata con un panno di lino. I suoi capelli rossi gli pendevano sulla faccia pallida; la barba era strappata e annodata in nodi; i suoi occhi brillavano di una luce terribile; la sua carne non lavata crepitava per la febbre che lo consumava. Otto, nove, poi. Se non era un trucco per spaventarlo, e quelle erano le vere ore che si inseguivano a vicenda, dove sarebbe stato quando fossero tornate! Undici! Un altro rintocco prima che la voce dell’ora precedente avesse smesso di vibrare. Alle otto, sarebbe stato l’unico addolorato nel suo stesso corteo funebre; alle undici. Quelle terribili mura di Newgate, che hanno nascosto tanta miseria e tale indicibile angoscia non solo agli occhi ma, troppo spesso e per troppo tempo, anche ai pensieri degli uomini, mai avevano racchiuso uno spettacolo così terribile. I pochi che indugiavano mentre passavano, chiedendosi cosa stesse facendo l’uomo destinato a essere impiccato il giorno dopo, non avrebbero dormito bene quella notte, se lo avessero visto.

Dalle prime ore della sera fino quasi a mezzanotte, piccoli gruppi di due o tre persone si presentavano al cancello del portone e chiedevano con volti ansiosi se fosse stato ricevuto qualche provvedimento di grazia. Ricevendo risposta negativa, comunicavano la gradita notizia ad altri gruppetti per strada che indicavano l’uno all’altro la porta da cui sarebbe dovuto uscire e mostravano dove sarebbe stato costruito il patibolo; poi se ne andavano a passi riluttanti, voltandosi indietro per evocare la scena. A poco a poco si disperdevano uno dopo l’altro; e per un’ora, nel cuore della notte, la strada fu lasciata alla solitudine e all’oscurità.

Lo spazio davanti alla prigione era stato liberato e alcune robuste barriere, dipinte di nero, erano già state poste sulla strada per contenere la pressione della folla attesa, quando il signor Brownlow e Oliver apparvero al cancello ed esibirono un ordine di ammissione alla prigionia, firmato da uno degli sceriffi. Furono immediatamente fatti entrare nella guardiola.

“Is the young gentleman to come too, sir?” said the man whose duty it was to conduct them. “It’s not a sight for children, sir.”

“It is not indeed, my friend,” rejoined Mr. Brownlow; “but my business with this man is intimately connected with him; and as this child has seen him in the full career of his success and villainy, I think it as well—even at the cost of some pain and fear—that he should see him now.”

These few words had been said apart, so as to be inaudible to Oliver. The man touched his hat; and glancing at Oliver with some curiousity, opened another gate, opposite to that by which they had entered, and led them on, through dark and winding ways, towards the cells.

“This,” said the man, stopping in a gloomy passage where a couple of workmen were making some preparations in profound silence—“this is the place he passes through. If you step this way, you can see the door he goes out at.”

He led them into a stone kitchen, fitted with coppers for dressing the prison food, and pointed to a door. There was an open grating above it, through which came the sound of men’s voices, mingled with the noise of hammering, and the throwing down of boards. They were putting up the scaffold.

From this place, they passed through several strong gates, opened by other turnkeys from the inner side; and, having entered an open yard, ascended a flight of narrow steps, and came into a passage with a row of strong doors on the left hand. Motioning them to remain where they were, the turnkey knocked at one of these with his bunch of keys. The two attendants, after a little whispering, came out into the passage, stretching themselves as if glad of the temporary relief, and motioned the visitors to follow the jailer into the cell. They did so.

The condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himself from side to side, with a countenance more like that of a snared beast than the face of a man. His mind was evidently wandering to his old life, for he continued to mutter, without appearing conscious of their presence otherwise than as a part of his vision.

“Good boy, Charley—well done—” he mumbled. “Oliver, too, ha! ha! ha! Oliver too—quite the gentleman now—quite the—take that boy away to bed!”

The jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver; and, whispering him not to be alarmed, looked on without speaking.

“Take him away to bed!” cried Fagin. “Do you hear me, some of you? He has been the—the—somehow the cause of all this. It’s worth the money to bring him up to it—Bolter’s throat, Bill; never mind the girl—Bolter’s throat as deep as you can cut. Saw his head off!”

“Fagin,” said the jailer.

“That’s me!” cried the Jew, falling instantly, into the attitude of listening he had assumed upon his trial. “An old man, my Lord; a very old, old man!”

“Here,” said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his breast to keep him down. “Here’s somebody wants to see you, to ask you some questions, I suppose. Fagin, Fagin! Are you a man?”

“I shan’t be one long,” he replied, looking up with a face retaining no human expression but rage and terror. “Strike them all dead! What right have they to butcher me?”

As he spoke he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinking to the furthest corner of the seat, he demanded to know what they wanted there.

“Steady,” said the turnkey, still holding him down. “Now, sir, tell him what you want. Quick, if you please, for he grows worse as the time gets on.”

“You have some papers,” said Mr. Brownlow advancing, “which were placed in your hands, for better security, by a man called Monks.”

“It’s all a lie together,” replied Fagin. “I haven’t one—not one.”

“For the love of God,” said Mr. Brownlow solemnly, “do not say that now, upon the very verge of death; but tell me where they are. You know that Sikes is dead; that Monks has confessed; that there is no hope of any further gain. Where are those papers?”

“Oliver,” cried Fagin, beckoning to him. “Here, here! Let me whisper to you.”

“I am not afraid,” said Oliver in a low voice, as he relinquished Mr. Brownlow’s hand.

“The papers,” said Fagin, drawing Oliver towards him, “are in a canvas bag, in a hole a little way up the chimney in the top front-room. I want to talk to you, my dear. I want to talk to you.”

“Yes, yes,” returned Oliver. “Let me say a prayer. Do! Let me say one prayer. Say only one, upon your knees, with me, and we will talk till morning.”

“Outside, outside,” replied Fagin, pushing the boy before him towards the door, and looking vacantly over his head. “Say I’ve gone to sleep—they’ll believe you. You can get me out, if you take me so. Now then, now then!”

“Oh! God forgive this wretched man!” cried the boy with a burst of tears.

“That’s right, that’s right,” said Fagin. “That’ll help us on. This door first. If I shake and tremble, as we pass the gallows, don’t you mind, but hurry on. Now, now, now!”

“Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?” inquired the turnkey.

“No other question,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “If I hoped we could recall him to a sense of his position—”

“Nothing will do that, sir,” replied the man, shaking his head. “You had better leave him.”

The door of the cell opened, and the attendants returned.

“Press on, press on,” cried Fagin. “Softly, but not so slow. Faster, faster!”

The men laid hands upon him, and disengaging Oliver from his grasp, held him back. He struggled with the power of desperation, for an instant; and then sent up cry upon cry that penetrated even those massive walls, and rang in their ears until they reached the open yard.

It was some time before they left the prison. Oliver nearly swooned after this frightful scene, and was so weak that for an hour or more, he had not the strength to walk.

Day was dawning when they again emerged. A great multitude had already assembled; the windows were filled with people, smoking and playing cards to beguile the time; the crowd were pushing, quarrelling, joking. Everything told of life and animation, but one dark cluster of objects in the centre of all—the black stage, the cross-beam, the rope, and all the hideous apparatus of death.

«Anche il giovane gentiluomo verrà con noi, signore?» disse l’uomo incaricato di accompagnarli. «Non è uno spettacolo adatto ai bambini, signore».

“Non è così infatti, mio caro amico”, rispose il signor Brownlow; “ma la mia faccenda con quest’uomo è intimamente legata a lui; e poiché questo bambino lo ha visto nel pieno della sua ascesa e della sua malvagità, penso che sia meglio—anche a costo di qualche dolore e paura—che lo veda ora.”

Queste poche parole erano state dette a parte, in modo da essere inudibili per Oliver. L’uomo si toccò il cappello e, lanciando un’occhiata a Oliver con una certa curiosità, aprì un altro cancello, di fronte a quello da cui erano entrati, e li condusse attraverso strade buie e tortuose verso le celle.

«Questo», disse l’uomo fermandosi in un passaggio cupo dove una coppia di operai stava facendo dei preparativi nel più profondo silenzio—«questo è il luogo che attraversa. Se fate un passo da questa parte, potrete vedere la porta da cui esce».

Li condusse in una cucina di pietra attrezzata con paioli per preparare il cibo della prigione e indicò una porta. Sopra di essa c’era un graticcio aperto, da cui provenivano le voci degli uomini mescolate al rumore dei martelli e allo scagliarsi delle tavole a terra. Stavano montando l’impalcatura.

Da quel luogo passarono attraverso diversi robusti cancelli aperti da altri secondini dall’interno; e dopo essere entrati in un cortile aperto salirono una scala stretta, trovandosi così in un corridoio con una fila di porte solide sulla sinistra. Il carceriere fece cenno ai visitatori di rimanere dov’erano e bussò a una delle porte con il mazzo di chiavi che aveva in mano. I due assistenti, dopo essersi scambiati qualche parola sottovoce, uscirono nel corridoio stirandosi come se fossero contenti del temporaneo sollievo e fecero cenno ai visitatori di seguire il carceriere nella cella. E così fecero.

Il condannato era seduto sul suo letto, dondolandosi da una parte e dall’altra, con un’espressione più simile a quella di una bestia intrappolata che al volto di un uomo. La sua mente vagava evidentemente nella vecchia vita, perché continuava a borbottare senza sembrare consapevole della loro presenza se non come parte della sua visione.

«Bravo ragazzo, Charley — bene fatto —» borbottò. «Anche Oliver, eh! eh! eh! Oliver anche lui — ora è proprio un gentiluomo — proprio un, portate via quel ragazzo a letto!»

Il carceriere prese la mano libera di Oliver e, sussurrandogli di non allarmarsi, rimase a guardare senza parlare.

“Portatelo a letto!” gridò Fagin. “Mi avete sentito, qualcuno di voi? È stato lui il—il—insomma la causa di tutto questo. Vale i soldi portarlo fino in fondo—la gola di Bolter, Bill; non preoccuparti della ragazza—taglia la gola a Bolter più che puoi. Tagliagli la testa!”

«Fagin», disse il carceriere.

«Sono io!» gridò l’ebreo, assumendo immediatamente la posizione di ascolto che aveva assunto durante il processo. «Un vecchio, mio signore; un vecchissimo uomo!»

«Ecco», disse il secondino, posando la mano sul petto del ragazzo per tenerlo fermo. «C’è qualcuno che vuole vederti e credo che voglia farti alcune domande. Fagin, Fagin! Sei un uomo?»

«Non sarò io l’unico per molto tempo», rispose, alzando lo sguardo con un volto che non conservava nessuna espressione umana se non rabbia e terrore. «Uccideteli tutti! Che diritto hanno di massacrarmi?»

Mentre parlava scorse Oliver e il signor Brownlow. Rannicchiandosi nell’angolo più lontano del sedile, chiese di sapere cosa volessero lì.

«Fermo», disse il secondino, continuando a tenerlo fermo. «Ora, signore, ditegli cosa volete. In fretta, per favore, perché sta peggiorando man mano che passa la ora.»

“Avete alcuni documenti”, disse il signor Brownlow avvicinandosi, “che vi sono stati affidati per maggiore sicurezza da un uomo di nome Monks.”

«È tutto un insieme di bugie», rispose Fagin. «Non ne ho una, nemmeno una.»

«Per l’amore di Dio», disse il signor Brownlow solennemente, «non dica questo ora, sul punto stesso della morte; ma mi dica dove sono. Lei sa che Sikes è morto; che Monks ha confessato; che non c’è più alcuna speranza di un ulteriore guadagno. Dove sono quei documenti?»

«Oliver», gridò Fagin, facendogli cenno di avvicinarsi. «Ecco, ecco! Lascia che ti sussurri qualcosa».

“Non ho paura”, disse Oliver con voce bassa, mentre lasciava la mano del signor Brownlow.

«I documenti», disse Fagin, attirando verso di sé Oliver, «sono in una borsa di tela, nella cavità un po’ più su del camino nella stanza anteriore al piano superiore. Voglio parlarti, caro mio. Devo parlarti».

«Sì, sì», rispose Oliver. «Fammi dire una preghiera. Per favore! Fammi dire una sola preghiera. Recitala insieme a me in ginocchio e parleremo fino all’alba.»

«Fuori, fuori», rispose Fagin, spingendo il ragazzo davanti a sé verso la porta e guardando vuotamente sopra la sua testa. «Di’ che sono andato a dormire - ti crederanno. Puoi tirarmi fuori, se mi porti così. Ora, ora!»

“Oh! Dio perdoni questo povero uomo!” gridò il ragazzo con un’ondata di lacrime.

“Esatto, esatto”, disse Fagin. “Questo ci aiuterà a proseguire. Prima questa porta. Se mi scuoto e tremo mentre passiamo davanti al patibolo, non badarci, ma affrettati. Ora, ora, ora!”

«Non ha altro da chiedergli, signore?» domandò il secondino.

«Nessun’altra domanda», rispose il signor Brownlow. «Se speravo che potessimo riportarlo alla consapevolezza della sua posizione —»

«Niente servirà a farlo, signore», rispose l’uomo scuotendo la testa «è meglio che lo lasciate stare».

La porta della cella si aprì e i guardiani tornarono.

«Avanti, avanti», gridò Fagin. «Con calma, ma non così lento. Più veloce, più veloce!»

Gli uomini gli si avventarono contro e liberato Oliver dalla sua presa, lo trattennero. Lui lottò con la forza della disperazione per un istante; e poi mandò in aria grido su grido che penetravano anche quelle massicce mura, e rimbombavano nelle loro orecchie fino a quando non raggiunsero il cortile aperto.

Passò un po’ di tempo prima che lasciassero la prigione. Oliver era quasi svenuto dopo quella scena spaventosa e così debole che per più di un’ora non aveva la forza di camminare.

Il giorno stava spuntando quando riapparvero. Una grande folla si era già radunata; le finestre erano piene di gente che fumava e giocava a carte per ingannare il tempo; la folla spingeva, litigava, scherzava. Tutto respirava vita e animazione, ma un gruppo scuro di oggetti al centro di tutto - il palco nero, la trave trasversale, la corda e tutti gli orribili strumenti della morte.

CHAPTER LIII. 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.

CAPITOLO LIII. E ULTIMO

Le vicende di coloro che hanno avuto parte in questa storia sono quasi concluse. Quel poco che resta da raccontare al loro storico è detto con poche e semplici parole.

Prima che fossero trascorsi tre mesi, Rosa Fleming e Harry Maylie si sposarono nella chiesa del villaggio, che da allora sarebbe stata il luogo in cui il giovane ecclesiastico avrebbe svolto la sua attività; nello stesso giorno entrarono in possesso della loro nuova e felice casa.

La signora Maylie si trasferì con suo figlio e la nuora per godere, nel tranquillo resto dei suoi giorni, della più grande felicità che l’età e il merito possano conoscere: la contemplazione della felicità di coloro su cui sono state incessantemente riversate le affezioni più calde e le cure più tenere di una vita ben spesa.

Dopo un’accurata e approfondita indagine risultò che se i resti del patrimonio custoditi da Monks (che non avevano mai prosperato né nelle sue mani né in quelle di sua madre) fossero stati equamente divisi tra lui e Oliver, avrebbero fruttato a ciascuno poco più di tremila sterline. Secondo le disposizioni testamentarie del padre, Oliver sarebbe stato l’unico erede; ma il signor Brownlow, non volendo privare il figlio maggiore dell’opportunità di riscattarsi dai suoi precedenti vizi e intraprendere una vita onesta, propose questa modalità di ripartizione, alla quale il suo giovane pupillo acconsentì con gioia.

I monaci, che ancora portavano quel nome falso, si ritirarono con la loro parte in una zona remota del Nuovo Mondo; dove, avendola sprecata rapidamente, ricaddero nelle vecchie abitudini e, dopo aver subito un lungo carcere per qualche nuovo atto di frode e furberia, alla fine cedettero a causa di un attacco della loro vecchia malattia e morirono in prigione. Lontano da casa, morirono anche i principali membri rimanenti della banda del suo amico Fagin.

Il signor Brownlow adottò Oliver come suo figlio. Trasferendosi con lui e la vecchia governante a meno di un miglio dalla canonica-casa, dove risiedevano i suoi cari amici, soddisfece l’unico desiderio rimanente del caldo e sincero cuore di Oliver e così legò insieme una piccola società la cui condizione si avvicinava il più possibile a quella della perfetta felicità che possa mai essere conosciuta in questo mondo mutevole.

Poco dopo il matrimonio dei giovani, il degno dottore tornò a Chertsey, dove, privato della presenza dei suoi vecchi amici, sarebbe stato insoddisfatto se il suo temperamento avesse ammesso un tale sentimento; e si sarebbe trasformato in una persona veramente irritabile se avesse saputo come fare. Per due o tre mesi, si accontentò di accennare che temeva che l’aria cominciasse a non fargli più bene; poi, scoprendo che il posto non era davvero più per lui quello che era stato, sistemò i suoi affari con il suo assistente, prese una casetta da scapolo fuori dal villaggio di cui il suo giovane amico era pastore, e si riprese istantaneamente. Qui si dedicò al giardinaggio, alla piantagione, alla pesca, alla falegnameria e a vari altri passatempi simili: tutti intrapresi con la sua caratteristica impetuosità. In ciascuno di essi è diventato famoso in tutto il quartiere come una profonda autorità.

Prima di essere rimosso, era riuscito ad instaurare una forte amicizia con il signor Grimwig, che quel gentiluomo eccentrico ricambiava con grande cordialità. Di conseguenza, viene visitato dal signor Grimwig molte volte nel corso dell’anno. In tutte queste occasioni, il signor Grimwig si dedica all’orticultura, alla pesca e alla falegnameria con grande ardore; facendo tutto in un modo molto singolare e senza precedenti, ma sostenendo sempre con la sua asserzione preferita che il suo metodo è quello giusto. La domenica non manca mai di criticare il sermone davanti al giovane ecclesiastico: informando poi sempre il signor Losberne, in stretta confidenza, che lo considera un’ottima prestazione, ma ritiene bene non dirlo. È una battuta fissa e molto gradita per il signor Brownlow prendere in giro Grimwig per la sua vecchia profezia riguardo a Oliver, e ricordargli la notte in cui sedettero con l’orologio tra loro, aspettando il suo ritorno; ma il signor Grimwig sostiene di avere ragione nel complesso e, per provarlo, osserva che Oliver non è tornato comunque; il che suscita sempre una risata dalla sua parte e aumenta il suo buon umore.

Il signor Noah Claypole: ottenendo un’amnistia dalla Corona in seguito all’essere stato ammesso come accusatore contro Fagin e considerando la sua professione non del tutto sicura come avrebbe desiderato, fu per qualche tempo a corto di mezzi di sostentamento senza essere gravato da troppo lavoro. Dopo averci pensato su un po’, si mise in affari come informatore, nel quale mestiere realizzò una sussistenza decorosa. Il suo piano era quello di uscire una volta alla settimana durante l’ora della messa accompagnato da Charlotte con abiti rispettabili. La signora sveniva alle porte dei pubblicani caritatevoli e il gentiluomo, essendo stato provvisto di tre penny di brandy per rianimarla, denunciava il giorno dopo e si metteva in tasca la metà della multa. A volte era lo stesso signor Claypole a svenire, ma il risultato era lo stesso.

Il signor e la signora Bumble, privati delle loro posizioni, furono gradualmente ridotti a grande indigenza e miseria, e infine divennero poveri in quella stessa casa di lavoro nella quale un tempo avevano dominato sugli altri. Si è sentito il signor Bumble dire che in questa rovina e degradazione non ha nemmeno lo spirito di essere grato per essersi separato dalla moglie.

Per quanto riguarda il signor Giles e Brittles, essi sono ancora ai loro vecchi posti, sebbene il primo sia calvo e l’ultimo ragazzo abbia i capelli completamente grigi. Essi dormono al parrocoio, ma dividono le loro attenzioni così equamente tra gli inquilini di esso, e Oliver, il signor Brownlow e il signor Losberne, che ancora oggi gli abitanti del villaggio non sono mai stati in grado di scoprire a quale stabilimento appartengano propriamente.

Il signorino Charles Bates, sgomento per il crimine di Sikes, si mise a riflettere se una vita onesta non fosse dopotutto la migliore. Concludendo che lo era certamente, voltò le spalle ai luoghi del passato, risoluto ad emendarla in un nuovo campo d’azione. Lottò duramente e soffrì molto per qualche tempo; ma avendo una disposizione contenta e uno scopo nobile, alla fine ci riuscì; e da essere il servo di un agricoltore e garzone di un vetturale è ora il giovane allevatore più allegra di tutto il Northamptonshire.

E ora la mano che traccia queste parole esita mentre si avvicina alla conclusione del suo compito e vorrebbe intrecciare ancora per un po’ il filo di queste avventure.

Mi piacerebbe soffermarmi ancora un po’ con alcuni di coloro tra i quali ho così a lungo vissuto e condividere la loro felicità cercando di descriverla. Vorrei mostrare Rose Maylie in tutto il fiore e l’eleganza della prima giovinezza, diffondendo sul suo cammino solitario nella vita una luce soave e gentile che cadeva su tutti coloro che lo percorrevano con lei e illuminava i loro cuori. Vorrei dipingerla come la vita e la gioia del circolo attorno al fuoco e del vivace gruppo estivo; vorrei seguirla attraverso i campi afosi a mezzogiorno, e ascoltare le basse note della sua dolce voce durante la passeggiata serale alla luce della luna; vorrei osservarla in tutta la sua bontà e carità al di fuori, e il sorriso instancabile nell’adempimento dei doveri domestici a casa; vorrei dipingerla insieme al bambino della sorella defunta felici nel loro amore reciproco, e trascorrere intere ore insieme a immaginare gli amici che avevano così tristemente perso; vorrei evocare ancora una volta quei gioiosi visetti che si raggruppavano attorno al suo ginocchio, e ascoltare il loro allegro chiacchiericcio; vorrei ricordare le note di quella risata chiara, e far apparire la lacrima compassionevole che brillava nell’occhio dolce e azzurro. Questi, e mille sguardi e sorrisi, e modi di pensiero e di parola - vorrei ricordarli tutti.

Come il signor Brownlow continuasse di giorno in giorno a riempire la mente del suo figlio adottivo con un tesoro di conoscenze e si affezionasse sempre più a lui man mano che la sua natura si rivelava, mostrando i germogli rigogliosi di tutto ciò che desiderava che diventasse; come in lui ritrovasse nuovi tratti del suo vecchio amico, che risvegliavano nel suo cuore antichi ricordi malinconici eppure dolci e consolatori; come i due orfani, messi alla prova dall’avversità, ne ricordassero le lezioni nella pietà verso gli altri e nell’amore reciproco, e nel fervido ringraziamento a Colui che li aveva protetti e preservati; tutto ciò non ha bisogno di essere raccontato. Ho detto che erano veramente felici; e senza un forte affetto e umanità del cuore, e gratitudine verso Quel Essere il cui codice è la Misericordia e il cui grande attributo è la Benevolenza per tutte le cose che respirano, la felicità non può mai essere raggiunta.

All’interno dell’altare della vecchia chiesa del villaggio c’è una targa di marmo bianco che reca finora solo una parola: “AGNES”. Non c’è alcun feretro in quella tomba; e possano essere molti, moltissimi anni prima che un altro nome vi venga posto sopra! Ma se gli spiriti dei Morti tornassero mai sulla terra per visitare i luoghi resi sacri dall’amore—l’amore oltre la morte—di coloro che conobbero in vita, credo che l’ombra di Agnes aleggi talvolta attorno a quel luogo solenne. E non credo meno perché quel luogo sia una Chiesa e lei fosse debole e fallace.