Oliver Twist
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 from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow’s had him, the of the picture was avoided, by the old and Mrs. Bedwin, in the that ensued: which no to Oliver’s history or prospects, but was to such as might without him. He was still too weak to up to breakfast; but, when he came into the housekeeper’s room next day, his act was to an at the wall, in the of again looking on the of the lady. His were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed.
“Ah!” said the housekeeper, the direction of Oliver’s eyes. “It is gone, you see.”
“I see it is ma’am,” Oliver. “Why have they taken it away?”
“It has been taken down, child, Mr. Brownlow said, that as it to worry you, it might prevent your well, you know,” the old lady.
“Oh, no, indeed. It didn’t worry me, ma’am,” said Oliver. “I liked to see it. I loved it.”
“Well, well!” said the old lady, good-humouredly; “you well as fast as you can, dear, and it shall be up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else.”
This was all the Oliver obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so to him in his illness, he to think no more of the just then; so he to a great many she told him, about an and of hers, who was married to an and man, and in the country; and about a son, who was to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good man, and such home four times a-year, that it the into her to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on the of her children, and the of her good husband besides, who had been and gone, dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea. After tea she to teach Oliver cribbage: which he learnt as as she teach: and at which game they played, with great and gravity, until it was time for the to have some warm and water, with a slice of toast, and then to go to bed.
They were happy days, those of Oliver’s recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, and orderly; so and gentle; that after the noise and in the of which he had always lived, it like Heaven itself. He was no sooner to put his on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow 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 who had been very to him, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very did; and, as Oliver looked out of the window, and saw the Jew roll them up in his and walk away, he to think that they were safely gone, and that there was now no possible of his being able to wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell the truth; and Oliver had had a new before.
One evening, about a week after the of the picture, as he was talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message from Mr. Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist 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 for you, child,” said Mrs. Bedwin. “Dear alive! If we had he would have asked for you, we would have put you a clean on, and you as as sixpence!”
Oliver did as the old lady him; and, although she grievously, meanwhile, that there was not time to the little that his shirt-collar; he looked so and handsome, despite that personal advantage, that she so as to say: looking at him with great from to foot, that she didn’t think it would have been possible, on the notice, to have much in him for the better.
Thus encouraged, Oliver at the study door. On Mr. Brownlow calling to him to come in, he himself in a little room, full of books, with a window, looking into some little gardens. There was a table up 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 down. Oliver complied; where the people be to read such a great number of books as to be to make the world wiser. Which is still a to more people than Oliver Twist, every day of their lives.
“There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?” said Mr. Brownlow, the with which Oliver the that from the to the ceiling.
“A great number, sir,” Oliver. “I saw so many.”
“You shall read them, if you well,” said the old kindly; “and you will like that, than looking at the outsides,—that is, some cases; there are books of which the and are by the best parts.”
“I they are those ones, sir,” said Oliver, pointing to some large quartos, with a good of about the binding.
“Not always those,” said the old gentleman, Oliver on the head, and as he did so; “there are other ones, though of a much smaller size. How should you like to up a man, and books, eh?”
“I think I would read them, sir,” Oliver.
“What! wouldn’t you like to be a book-writer?” said the old gentleman.
Oliver a little while; and at last said, he should think it would be a much thing to be a book-seller; upon which the old laughed heartily, and he had said a very good thing. Which Oliver to have done, though he by no means what it was.
“Well, well,” said the old gentleman, his features. “Don’t be afraid! We won’t make an author of you, while there’s an to be learnt, or brick-making to turn to.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Oliver. At the manner of his reply, the old laughed again; and said something about a 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 manner, than Oliver had 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; I am sure you are well able to me, as many older would be.”
“Oh, don’t tell you are going to send me away, sir, pray!” Oliver, at the of the old gentleman’s commencement! “Don’t turn me out of doors to in the again. Let me here, and be a servant. Don’t send me to the place I came from. Have upon a boy, sir!”
“My dear child,” said the old gentleman, moved by the of Oliver’s appeal; “you need not be of my you, unless you give me cause.”
“I never, will, sir,” Oliver.
“I not,” the old gentleman. “I do not think you will. I have been deceived, before, in the objects I have to benefit; but I to trust you, nevertheless; and I am more in your than I can well account for, to myself. The on I have my love, in their graves; but, although the and of my life there too, I have not a of my heart, and sealed it up, forever, on my best affections. Deep has but and them.”
As the old said this in a low voice: more to himself than to his companion: and as he for a time afterwards: Oliver sat still.
“Well, well!” said the old at length, in a more tone, “I only say this, you have a heart; and that I have great pain and sorrow, you will be more careful, perhaps, not to me again. You say you are an orphan, without a friend in the world; all the I have been able to make, the statement. Let me your story; where you come from; who you up; and how you got into the company in which I you. Speak the truth, and you shall not be while I live.”
Oliver’s his for some minutes; when he was on the point of to relate how he had been up at the farm, and to the by Mr. Bumble, a little double-knock was at the street-door: and the servant, upstairs, Mr. Grimwig.
“Is he up?” Mr. Brownlow.
“Yes, sir,” the servant. “He asked if there were any in the house; and, when I told him yes, he said he had come to tea.”
Mr. Brownlow smiled; and, to Oliver, said that Mr. Grimwig was an old friend of his, and he must not mind his being a little in his manners; for he was a at bottom, as he had to know.
“Shall I go downstairs, sir?” Oliver.
“No,” Mr. Brownlow, “I would you here.”
At this moment, there walked into the room: supporting himself by a thick stick: a old gentleman, in one leg, who was in a coat, waistcoat, and gaiters, and a broad-brimmed white hat, with the up with green. A very small-plaited shirt out from his waistcoat; and a very long watch-chain, with nothing but a key at the end, it. The ends of his white were into a about the size of an orange; the of into which his was twisted, description. He had a manner of his on one when he spoke; and of looking out of the of his at the same time: which the of a parrot. In this attitude, he himself, the moment he his appearance; and, out a small piece of orange-peel at arm’s length, exclaimed, in a growling, voice.
“Look here! do you see this! Isn’t it a most and thing that I can’t call at a man’s house but I a piece of this surgeon’s friend on the staircase? I’ve been with orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel will be my death, or I’ll be to eat my own head, sir!”
This was the offer with which Mr. Grimwig and nearly every he made; and it was the more in his case, because, for the of argument, the possibility of scientific being to that pass which will a to eat his own in the event of his being so disposed, Mr. Grimwig’s was such a particularly large one, that the most man alive a of being able to through it at a sitting—to put out of the question, a very thick of powder.
“I’ll eat my head, sir,” Mr. Grimwig, his upon the ground. “Hallo! what’s that!” looking at Oliver, and a or two.
“This is Oliver Twist, we were speaking about,” said Mr. Brownlow.
Oliver bowed.
“You don’t to say that’s the boy who had the fever, I hope?” said Mr. Grimwig, a little more. “Wait a minute! Don’t speak! Stop—” Mr. Grimwig, abruptly, all of the in his at the discovery; “that’s the boy who had the orange! If that’s not the boy, sir, who had the orange, and this of upon the staircase, I’ll eat my head, and his too.”
“No, no, he has not had one,” said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. “Come! Put your hat; and speak to my friend.”
“I on this subject, sir,” said the old gentleman, off his gloves. “There’s always more or less orange-peel on the in our street; and I know it’s put there by the surgeon’s boy at the corner. A woman over a last night, and against my garden-railings; directly she got up I saw her look his 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 old gave a great on the ground with his stick; which was always understood, by his friends, to the offer, it was not in words. Then, still his in his hand, he sat down; and, opening a eye-glass, which he to a black riband, took a view of Oliver: who, that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and again.
“That’s the boy, is it?” said Mr. Grimwig, at length.
“That’s the boy,” Mr. Brownlow.
“How are you, boy?” said Mr. Grimwig.
“A great better, thank you, sir,” Oliver.
Mr. Brownlow, to that his friend was about to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were for tea; which, as he did not like the visitor’s manner, he was very happy to do.
“He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?” Mr. Brownlow.
“I don’t know,” Mr. Grimwig, pettishly.
“Don’t know?”
“No. I don’t know. I see any in boys. I only two of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys.”
“And which is Oliver?”
“Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a boy, they call him; with a head, and red cheeks, and eyes; a boy; with a and that appear to be out of the of his clothes; with the voice of a pilot, and the of a wolf. I know him! The wretch!”
“Come,” said Mr. Brownlow, “these are not the of Oliver Twist; so he needn’t your wrath.”
“They are not,” Mr. Grimwig. “He may have worse.”
Here, Mr. Brownlow impatiently; which appeared to Mr. Grimwig the most delight.
“He may have worse, I say,” Mr. Grimwig. “Where he come from! Who is he? What is he? He has had a fever. What of that? Fevers are not to good people; are they? Bad people have sometimes; haven’t they, eh? I a man who was in Jamaica for his master. He had had a six times; he wasn’t to on that account. Pooh! nonsense!”
Now, the was, that in the of his own heart, Mr. Grimwig was to admit that Oliver’s and manner were prepossessing; but he had a for contradiction, on this occasion by the of the orange-peel; and, that no man should to him a boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved, from the first, to oppose his friend. When Mr. Brownlow that on no one point of he yet return a satisfactory answer; and that he had any into Oliver’s previous history until he the boy was to it; Mr. Grimwig maliciously. And he demanded, with a sneer, the was in the of the plate at night; if she didn’t a table-spoon or two missing some morning, why, he would be to—and so forth.
All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself of an gentleman: his friend’s peculiarities, with great good humour; as Mr. Grimwig, at tea, was pleased to his entire of the muffins, on very smoothly; and Oliver, who one of the party, to more at his than he had yet done in the old gentleman’s presence.
“And when are you going to a full, true, and particular account of the life and of Oliver Twist?” asked Grimwig of Mr. Brownlow, at the of the meal; looking at Oliver, as he his subject.
“To-morrow morning,” Mr. Brownlow. “I would he was alone with me at the time. Come up to me to-morrow at ten o’clock, my dear.”
“Yes, sir,” Oliver. He answered with some hesitation, he was by Mr. Grimwig’s looking so hard at him.
“I’ll tell you what,” that to Mr. Brownlow; “he won’t come up to you to-morrow morning. I saw him hesitate. He is you, my good friend.”
“I’ll he is not,” Mr. Brownlow, warmly.
“If he is not,” said Mr. Grimwig, “I’ll—” and the stick.
“I’ll answer for that boy’s truth with my life!” said Mr. Brownlow, the table.
“And I for his with my head!” Mr. Grimwig, the table also.
“We shall see,” said Mr. Brownlow, his anger.
“We will,” Mr. Grimwig, with a smile; “we will.”
As would have it, Mrs. Bedwin to in, at this moment, a small parcel of books, which Mr. Brownlow had that purchased of the bookstall-keeper, who has already in this history; having them on the table, she prepared to the room.
“Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin!” said Mr. Brownlow; “there is something to go back.”
“He has gone, sir,” Mrs. Bedwin.
“Call after him,” said Mr. Brownlow; “it’s particular. He is a 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 on the step and for the boy; but there was no boy in sight. Oliver and the girl returned, in a state, to report that there were no of him.
“Dear me, I am very sorry for that,” Mr. Brownlow; “I particularly those books to be returned to-night.”
“Send Oliver with them,” said Mr. Grimwig, with an 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 all the way, sir.”
The old was just going to say that Oliver should not go out on any account; when a most from Mr. Grimwig him that he should; and that, by his of the commission, he should prove to him the of his suspicions: on this 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, to be of use, the books under his arm in a great bustle; and waited, cap in hand, to what message he was to take.
“You are to say,” said Mr. Brownlow, at Grimwig; “you are to say that you have those books back; and that you have come to pay the four ten I him. This is a five-pound note, so you will have to me back, ten change.”
“I won’t be ten minutes, sir,” said Oliver, eagerly. Having up the bank-note in his jacket pocket, and the books under his arm, he a bow, and left the room. Mrs. Bedwin him to the street-door, him many about the nearest way, and the name of the bookseller, and the name of the street: all of which Oliver said he understood. Having many 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 round, and he the corner. The old lady returned his salutation, and, the door, to her own room.
“Let me see; he’ll be in twenty minutes, at the longest,” said Mr. Brownlow, out his watch, and it on the table. “It will be dark by that time.”
“Oh! you him to come back, do you?” Mr. Grimwig.
“Don’t you?” asked Mr. Brownlow, smiling.
The of was in Mr. Grimwig’s breast, at the moment; and it was by his friend’s smile.
“No,” he said, the table with his fist, “I do not. The boy has a new of 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 that boy returns to this house, sir, I’ll eat my head.”
With these he his chair closer to the table; and there the two friends sat, in expectation, with the watch them.
It is of remark, as the we to our own judgments, and the with which we put our most and conclusions, that, although Mr. Grimwig was not by any means a bad-hearted man, and though he would have been sorry to see his friend and deceived, he did most and at that moment, that Oliver Twist might not come back.
It so dark, that the on the dial-plate were discernible; but there the two old to sit, in silence, with the watch them.
