Oliver Twist
TREATS ON A VERY POOR SUBJECT. BUT IS A SHORT ONE, AND MAY BE FOUND OF IMPORTANCE IN THIS HISTORY
It was no messenger of death, who had the of the matron’s room. Her was by age; her with palsy; her face, into a leer, more the of some wild pencil, than the work of Nature’s hand.
Alas! How of Nature’s are left alone to us with their beauty! The cares, and sorrows, and hungerings, of the world, them as they hearts; and it is only when those sleep, and have their for ever, that the clouds pass off, and Heaven’s surface clear. It is a common thing for the of the dead, in that and state, to into the long-forgotten of sleeping infancy, and settle into the very look of early life; so calm, so peaceful, do they again, that those who them in their happy childhood, by the coffin’s in awe, and see the Angel upon earth.
The old along the passages, and up the stairs, some to the of her companion; being at length to pause for breath, she gave the light into her hand, and to as she might: while the more her way to the room where the woman lay.
It was a garret-room, with a light at the end. There was another old woman by the bed; the apothecary’s was by the fire, making a out of a quill.
“Cold night, Mrs. Corney,” said this gentleman, as the entered.
“Very cold, indeed, sir,” the mistress, in her most tones, and a as she spoke.
“You should out of your contractors,” said the apothecary’s deputy, a on the top of the fire with the poker; “these are not at all the of thing for a cold night.”
“They’re the board’s choosing, sir,” returned the matron. “The least they do, would be to keep us warm: for our places are hard enough.”
The was here by a from the woman.
“Oh!” said the man, his the bed, as if he had the patient, “it’s all U.P. there, Mrs. Corney.”
“It is, is it, sir?” asked the matron.
“If she lasts a of hours, I shall be surprised,” said the apothecary’s apprentice, upon the toothpick’s point. “It’s a break-up of the altogether. Is she dozing, old lady?”
The over the bed, to ascertain; and in the affirmative.
“Then she’ll go off in that way, if you don’t make a row,” said the man. “Put the light on the floor. She won’t see it there.”
The did as she was told: her meanwhile, to that the woman would not die so easily; having done so, she her seat by the of the other nurse, who had by this time returned. The mistress, with an of impatience, herself in her shawl, and sat at the of the bed.
The apothecary’s apprentice, having the of the toothpick, planted himself in of the fire and good use of it for ten minutes or so: when dull, he Mrs. Corney of her job, and took himself off on tiptoe.
When they had sat in for some time, the two old rose from the bed, and over the fire, out their hands to catch the heat. The a light on their faces, and their appear terrible, as, in this position, they to in a low voice.
“Did she say any more, Anny dear, while I was gone?” the messenger.
“Not a word,” the other. “She and at her arms for a little time; but I her hands, and she soon off. She hasn’t much in her, so I easily her quiet. I ain’t so weak for an old woman, although I am on allowance; no, no!”
“Did she drink the the doctor said she was to have?” the first.
“I to it down,” the other. “But her teeth were tight set, and she the so hard that it was as much as I do to it again. So I it; and it did me good!”
Looking round, to that they were not overheard, the two nearer to the fire, and heartily.
“I mind the time,” said the speaker, “when she would have done the same, and fun of it afterwards.”
“Ay, that she would,” the other; “she had a heart. “A many, many, she out, as and as waxwork. My old have them—ay, and those old hands touched them too; for I have helped her, of times.”
Stretching her as she spoke, the old them her face, and in her pocket, out an old time-discoloured snuff-box, from which she a into the of her companion, and a more into her own. While they were thus employed, the matron, who had been until the woman should from her stupor, joined them by the fire, and asked how long she was to wait?
“Not long, mistress,” 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 for us all.”
“Hold your tongue, you idiot!” said the sternly. “You, Martha, tell me; has she been in this way before?”
“Often,” answered the woman.
“But will be again,” added the second one; “that is, she’ll wake again but once—and mind, mistress, that won’t be for long!”
“Long or short,” said the matron, snappishly, “she won’t me here when she wake; take care, of you, how you worry me again for nothing. It’s no part of my to see all the old in the house die, and I won’t—that’s more. Mind that, you old harridans. If you make a of me again, I’ll soon you, I you!”
She was away, when a from the two women, who had the bed, her to look round. The patient had herself upright, and was her arms them.
“Who’s that?” she cried, in a voice.
“Hush, hush!” said one of the women, over her. “Lie down, down!”
“I’ll again alive!” said the woman, struggling. “I will tell her! Come here! Nearer! Let me in your ear.”
She the by the arm, and her into a chair by the bedside, was about to speak, when looking round, she of the two old in the of listeners.
“Turn them away,” said the woman, drowsily; “make haste! make haste!”
The two old crones, in together, out many that the dear was too gone to know her best friends; and were that they would her, when the pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies their tone, and through the that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in to a of by the apothecary, she was under the of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been administered, in the of their hearts, by the old ladies themselves.
“Now to me,” said the woman aloud, as if making a great to one of energy. “In this very room—in this very bed—I once nursed a creetur’, that was into the house with her cut and with walking, and all with and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think—what was the year again!”
“Never mind the year,” said the auditor; “what about her?”
“Ay,” the woman, into her state, “what about her?—what about—I know!” she cried, jumping up: her flushed, and her starting from her head—“I her, so I did! She wasn’t cold—I tell you she wasn’t cold, when I it!”
“Stole what, for God’s sake?” the matron, with a as if she would call for help.
“It!” the woman, her hand over the other’s mouth. “The only thing she had. She wanted to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!”
“Gold!” the matron, over the woman as she back. “Go on, go on—yes—what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?”
“She me to keep it safe,” the woman with a groan, “and me as the only woman about her. I it in my when she it me her neck; and the child’s death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have him better, if they had it all!”
“Known what?” asked the other. “Speak!”
“The boy so like his mother,” said the woman, on, and not the question, “that I it when I saw his face. Poor girl! girl! She was so young, too! Such a lamb! Wait; there’s more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?”
“No, no,” the matron, her to catch the words, as they came more from the woman. “Be quick, or it may be too late!”
“The mother,” said the woman, making a more than before; “the mother, when the pains of death came upon her, in my ear that if her was alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not so much to its mother named. ‘And oh, Heaven!’ she said, her thin hands together, ‘whether it be boy or girl, up some friends for it in this world, and take upon a child, to its mercy!’”
“The boy’s name?” the matron.
“They called him Oliver,” the woman, feebly. “The gold I was—”
“Yes, yes—what?” the other.
She was over the woman to her reply; but back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a posture; then, the with hands, some in her throat, and on the bed.
“Stone dead!” said one of the old women, in as soon as the door was opened.
“And nothing to tell, after all,” the matron, walking away.
The two crones, to all appearance, too in the for their to make any reply, were left alone, about the body.
