Oliver Twist
RELATES WHAT OLIVER’S NEW VISITORS THOUGHT OF HIM
With many that they would be in the of the criminal, the doctor the lady’s arm through one of his; and his hand to Mrs. Maylie, them, with much and stateliness, upstairs.
“Now,” said the doctor, in a whisper, as he the of a bedroom-door, “let us what you think of him. He has not been very recently, but he don’t look at all notwithstanding. Stop, though! Let me see that he is in visiting order.”
Stepping them, he looked into the room. Motioning them to advance, he closed the door when they had entered; and the of the bed. Upon it, in of the dogged, black-visaged they had to behold, there a child: with pain and exhaustion, and into a sleep. His arm, and up, was upon his breast; his upon the other arm, which was by his long hair, as it over the pillow.
The the in his hand, and looked on, for a minute or so, in silence. Whilst he was the patient thus, the lady past, and seating herself in a chair by the bedside, Oliver’s from his face. As she over him, her upon his forehead.
The boy stirred, and in his sleep, as though these marks of and had some of a love and he had known. Thus, a of music, or the of water in a place, or the of a flower, or the mention of a familiar word, will sometimes call up of that were, in this life; which like a breath; which some memory of a existence, long gone by, would to have awakened; which no of the mind can recall.
“What can this mean?” the lady. “This child can have been the of robbers!”
“Vice,” said the surgeon, the curtain, “takes up her in many temples; and who can say that a not her?”
“But at so early an age!” Rose.
“My dear lady,” the surgeon, his head; “crime, like death, is not to the old and alone. The and are too often its victims.”
“But, can you—oh! can you that this boy has been the of the of society?” said Rose.
The his head, in a manner which that he it was very possible; and that they might the patient, the way into an apartment.
“But if he has been wicked,” Rose, “think how he is; think that he may have a mother’s love, or the of a home; that ill-usage and blows, or the want of bread, may have him to with men who have him to guilt. Aunt, dear aunt, for mercy’s sake, think of this, you let them this child to a prison, which in any case must be the of all his of amendment. Oh! as you love me, and know that I have the want of in your and affection, but that I might have done so, and might have been and with this child, have upon him it is too late!”
“My dear love,” said the lady, as she the girl to her bosom, “do you think I would a of his head?”
“Oh, no!” Rose, eagerly.
“No, surely,” said the old lady; “my days are to their close: and may be to me as I it to others! What can I do to save him, sir?”
“Let me think, ma’am,” said the doctor; “let me think.”
Mr. Losberne his hands into his pockets, and took up and the room; often stopping, and himself on his toes, and frightfully. After of “I’ve got it now” and “no, I haven’t,” and as many of the walking and frowning, he at length a halt, and spoke as follows:
“I think if you give me a full and unlimited to Giles, and that little boy, Brittles, I can manage it. Giles is a and an old servant, I know; but you can make it up to him in a thousand ways, and him for being such a good besides. You don’t object to that?”
“Unless there is some other way of the child,” Mrs. Maylie.
“There is no other,” said the doctor. “No other, take my word for it.”
“Then my aunt you with full power,” said Rose, through her tears; “but pray don’t be upon the than is necessary.”
“You to think,” the doctor, “that is to be hard-hearted to-day, yourself, Miss Rose. I only hope, for the of the male generally, that you may be in as and soft-hearted a mood by the who to your compassion; and I wish I were a fellow, that I might myself, on the spot, of such a opportunity for doing so, as the present.”
“You are as great a boy as 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 say; and although I have told that thick-headed constable-fellow that he musn’t be moved or spoken to, on of his life, I think we may with him without danger. Now I make this stipulation—that I shall him in your presence, and that, if, from what he says, we judge, and I can to the of your reason, that he is a and one (which is more than possible), he shall be left to his fate, without any on my part, at all events.”
“Oh no, aunt!” Rose.
“Oh yes, aunt!” said the doctor. “Is is a bargain?”
“He cannot be in vice,” said Rose; “It is impossible.”
“Very good,” the doctor; “then so much the more for to my proposition.”
Finally the was entered into; and the parties sat to wait, with some impatience, until Oliver should awake.
The patience of the two ladies was to a longer trial than Mr. Losberne had them to expect; for hour after hour passed on, and still Oliver heavily. It was evening, indeed, the kind-hearted doctor them the intelligence, that he was at length to be spoken to. The boy was very ill, he said, and weak from the of blood; but his mind was so with to something, that he it to give him the opportunity, than to upon his until next morning: which he should otherwise have done.
The was a long one. Oliver told them all his history, and was often to stop, by pain and want of strength. It was a thing, to hear, in the room, the voice of the child a of and which hard men had upon him. Oh! if when we and our fellow-creatures, we but one on the dark of error, which, like and clouds, are rising, slowly it is true, but not less surely, to Heaven, to their after-vengeance on our heads; if we but one instant, in imagination, the of men’s voices, which no power can stifle, and no out; where would be the and injustice, the suffering, misery, cruelty, and wrong, that each day’s life with it!
Oliver’s pillow was by hands that night; and and him as he slept. He and happy, and have died without a murmur.
The was no sooner concluded, and Oliver to again, than the doctor, after his eyes, and them for being weak all at once, himself to open upon Mr. Giles. And nobody about the parlours, it to him, that he the with in the kitchen; so into the he went.
There were assembled, in that house of the parliament, the women-servants, Mr. Brittles, Mr. Giles, the (who had a special to himself for the of the day, in of his services), and the constable. The had a large staff, a large head, large features, and large half-boots; and he looked as if he had been taking a of ale—as he had.
The of the previous night were still under discussion; for Mr. Giles was upon his presence of mind, when the doctor entered; Mr. Brittles, with a of in his hand, was everything, his said it.
“Sit still!” said the doctor, his hand.
“Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Giles. “Misses some to be out, sir; and as I no for my own little room, sir, and was for company, I am taking mine among ’em here.”
Brittles a low murmur, by which the ladies and were to the they from Mr. Giles’s condescension. Mr. Giles looked with a air, as much as to say that so long as they properly, he would them.
“How is the patient to-night, sir?” asked Giles.
“So-so”; returned the doctor. “I am you have got into a there, Mr. Giles.”
“I you don’t to say, sir,” said Mr. Giles, trembling, “that he’s going to die. If I it, I should be happy again. I wouldn’t cut a boy off: no, not 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 so,” Mr. Giles, who had very pale.
“And what are you, boy?” said the doctor, upon Brittles.
“Lord me, sir!” Brittles, starting violently; “I’m the same as Mr. Giles, sir.”
“Then tell me this,” said the doctor, “both of you, of you! Are you going to take upon yourselves to swear, that that boy 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 one of the best-tempered on earth, this in such a of anger, that Giles and Brittles, who were by and excitement, at each other in a of stupefaction.
“Pay attention to the reply, constable, will you?” said the doctor, his with great of manner, and the of his nose with it, to the of that worthy’s acuteness. “Something may come of this long.”
The looked as wise as he could, and took up his staff of office: which had been in the chimney-corner.
“It’s a question of identity, you will observe,” said the doctor.
“That’s what it is, sir,” the constable, with great violence; for he had his in a hurry, and some of it had gone the way.
“Here’s the house into,” said the doctor, “and a of men catch one moment’s of a boy, in the of smoke, and in all the of and darkness. Here’s a boy comes to that very same house, next morning, and he to have his arm up, these men hands upon him—by doing which, they place his life in great danger—and he is the thief. Now, the question is, these men are by the fact; if not, in what do they place themselves?”
The profoundly. He said, if that wasn’t law, he would be to know what was.
“I ask you again,” the doctor, “are you, on your oaths, able to identify that boy?”
Brittles looked at Mr. Giles; Mr. Giles looked at Brittles; the put his hand his ear, to catch the reply; the two and the to listen; the doctor round; when a ring was at the gate, and at the same moment, the of wheels.
“It’s the runners!” Brittles, to all much relieved.
“The what?” the doctor, in his turn.
“The Bow Street officers, sir,” Brittles, taking up a candle; “me and Mr. Giles sent for ’em this morning.”
“What?” the doctor.
“Yes,” Brittles; “I sent a message up by the coachman, and I only wonder they weren’t here before, sir.”
“You did, did you? Then your—slow here; that’s all,” said the doctor, walking away.
