Oliver Twist
OF THE HAPPY LIFE OLIVER BEGAN TO LEAD WITH HIS KIND FRIENDS
Oliver’s were neither few. In to the pain and on a limb, his to the wet and cold had on and ague: which about him for many weeks, and him sadly. But, at length, he began, by slow degrees, to better, and to be able to say sometimes, in a words, how he the of the two sweet ladies, and how he that when he and well again, he do something to his gratitude; only something, which would let them see the love and with which his was full; something, slight, which would prove to them that their had not been away; but that the boy their had from misery, or death, was to them with his whole and soul.
“Poor fellow!” said Rose, when Oliver had been one day to the of that rose to his lips; “you shall have many opportunities of us, if you will. We are going into the country, and my aunt that you shall us. The place, the pure air, and all the and of spring, will you in a days. We will you in a hundred ways, when you can the trouble.”
“The trouble!” Oliver. “Oh! dear lady, if I but work for you; if I only give you by your flowers, or your birds, or up and 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 you in a hundred ways; and if you only take the trouble to us, that you promise now, you will make me very happy indeed.”
“Happy, ma’am!” Oliver; “how of you to say so!”
“You will make me than I can tell you,” the lady. “To think that my dear good aunt should have been the means of any one from such sad as you have to us, would be an to me; but to know that the object of her and was and attached, in consequence, would me, more than you can well imagine. Do you me?” she inquired, Oliver’s face.
“Oh yes, ma’am, yes!” Oliver eagerly; “but I was that I am now.”
“To whom?” the lady.
“To the gentleman, and the dear old nurse, who took so much of me before,” Oliver. “If they how happy I am, they would be pleased, I am sure.”
“I am sure they would,” Oliver’s benefactress; “and Mr. Losberne has already been to promise that when you are well to the journey, he will you to see them.”
“Has he, ma’am?” Oliver, his with pleasure. “I don’t know what I shall do for when I see their once again!”
In a time Oliver was to the of this expedition. One he and Mr. Losberne set out, accordingly, in a little which to Mrs. Maylie. When they came to Chertsey Bridge, Oliver very pale, and a loud exclamation.
“What’s the with the boy?” the doctor, as usual, all in a bustle. “Do you see anything—hear anything—feel anything—eh?”
“That, sir,” Oliver, pointing out of the window. “That house!”
“Yes; well, what of it? Stop coachman. Pull up here,” the doctor. “What of the house, my man; eh?”
“The thieves—the house they took me to!” Oliver.
“The it is!” the doctor. “Hallo, there! let me out!”
But, the from his box, he had out of the coach, by some means or other; and, to the tenement, kicking at the door like a madman.
“Halloa?” said a little hump-backed man: opening the door so suddenly, that the doctor, from the very of his last kick, nearly into the passage. “What’s the here?”
“Matter!” the other, him, without a moment’s reflection. “A good deal. Robbery is the matter.”
“There’ll be Murder the matter, too,” the hump-backed man, coolly, “if you don’t take your hands off. Do you me?”
“I you,” said the doctor, his a shake.
“Where’s—confound the fellow, what’s his name—Sikes; that’s it. Where’s Sikes, you thief?”
The hump-backed man stared, as if in of and indignation; then, himself, dexterously, from the doctor’s grasp, a of oaths, and retired into the house. Before he the door, however, the doctor had passed into the parlour, without a word of parley.
He looked round; not an article of furniture; not a of anything, or inanimate; not the position of the cupboards; answered Oliver’s description!
“Now!” said the hump-backed man, who had him keenly, “what do you by into my house, in this way? Do you want to me, or to me? Which is it?”
“Did you know a man come out to do either, in a and pair, you old vampire?” said the doctor.
“What do you want, then?” the hunchback. “Will you take off, 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, no to Oliver’s account of it. “I shall you out, some day, my friend.”
“Will you?” the ill-favoured cripple. “If you want me, I’m here. I haven’t here and all alone, for five-and-twenty years, to be by you. You shall pay for this; you shall pay for this.” And so saying, the mis-shapen little set up a yell, and upon the ground, as if wild with rage.
“Stupid enough, this,” the doctor to himself; “the boy must have a mistake. Here! Put that in your pocket, and up again.” With these he the a piece of money, and returned to the carriage.
The man to the door, the and all the way; but as Mr. Losberne to speak to the driver, he looked into the carriage, and Oliver for an with a so and and at the same time so and vindictive, that, or sleeping, he not it for months afterwards. He to the most imprecations, until the driver had his seat; and when they were once more on their way, they see him some behind: his upon the ground, and his hair, in transports of or rage.
“I am an ass!” said the doctor, after a long silence. “Did you know that before, Oliver?”
“No, sir.”
“Then don’t it another time.”
“An ass,” said the doctor again, after a of some minutes. “Even if it had been the right place, and the right had been there, what I have done, single-handed? And if I had had assistance, I see no good that I should have done, leading to my own exposure, and an of the manner in which I have up this business. That would have me right, though. I am always myself in some or other, by acting on impulse. It might have done me good.”
Now, the was that the excellent doctor had upon anything but all through his life, and it was no to the nature of the which him, that so from being in any or misfortunes, he had the respect and of all who him. If the truth must be told, he was a little out of temper, for a minute or two, at being in of Oliver’s on the very occasion on which he had a of any. He soon came again, however; and that Oliver’s to his questions, were still as and consistent, and still delivered with as much and truth, as they had been, he up his mind to full to them, from that time forth.
As Oliver the name of the in which Mr. Brownlow resided, they were to drive thither. When the coach into it, his so violently, that he his breath.
“Now, my boy, which house is it?” Mr. Losberne.
“That! That!” Oliver, pointing out of the window. “The white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I as if I should die: it makes me so.”
“Come, come!” said the good doctor, him on the shoulder. “You will see them directly, and they will be to you safe and well.”
“Oh! I so!” Oliver. “They were so good to me; so very, very good to me.”
The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the house; the next door. It on a paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with of happy his face.
Alas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the window. “To Let.”
“Knock at the next door,” Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver’s arm in his. “What has of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the house, do you know?”
The did not know; but would go and inquire. She presently returned, and said, that Mr. Brownlow had off his goods, and gone to the West Indies, six before. Oliver his hands, and backward.
“Has his gone too?” Mr. Losberne, after a moment’s pause.
“Yes, sir”; the servant. “The old gentleman, the housekeeper, and a who was a friend of Mr. Brownlow’s, all together.”
“Then turn home again,” said Mr. Losberne to the driver; “and don’t stop to the horses, till you out of this London!”
“The book-stall keeper, sir?” said Oliver. “I know the way there. See him, pray, sir! Do see him!”
“My boy, this is for one day,” said the doctor. “Quite for of us. If we go to the book-stall keeper’s, we shall that he is dead, or has set his house on fire, or away. No; home again straight!” And in to the doctor’s impulse, home they went.
This Oliver much and grief, in the of his happiness; for he had pleased himself, many times his illness, with of all that Mr. Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin would say to him: and what it would be to tell them how many long days and nights he had passed in on what they had done for him, and in his from them. The of himself with them, too, and how he had been away, had him up, and him, under many of his trials; and now, the idea that they should have gone so far, and with them the that he was an and a robber—a which might to his day—was almost more than he bear.
The no alteration, however, in the of his benefactors. After another fortnight, when the warm weather had begun, and every tree and flower was its and rich blossoms, they for the house at Chertsey, for some months.
Sending the plate, which had so Fagin’s cupidity, to the banker’s; and Giles and another in of the house, they to a at some in the country, and took Oliver with them.
Who can the and delight, the peace of mind and soft tranquillity, the boy in the air, and among the green and rich woods, of an village! Who can tell how of peace and into the minds of pain-worn in close and noisy places, and their own freshness, into their hearts! Men who have in crowded, pent-up streets, through of toil, and who have for change; men, to has been second nature, and who have come almost to love each and that the narrow of their daily walks; they, with the hand of death upon them, have been to at last for one of Nature’s face; and, from the of their old pains and pleasures, have to pass at once into a new of being. Crawling forth, from day to day, to some green sunny spot, they have had such memories up them by the of the sky, and hill and plain, and water, that a of itself has their quick decline, and they have into their tombs, as peacefully as the sun setting they from their window but a hours before, from their and sight! The memories which peaceful country call up, are not of this world, of its and hopes. Their may teach us how to fresh for the of those we loved: may our thoughts, and it old and hatred; but all this, there lingers, in the least mind, a and half-formed of having such long before, in some and time, which calls up of times to come, and and it.
It was a spot to which they repaired. Oliver, days had been among crowds, and in the of noise and brawling, to enter on a new there. The rose and to the walls; the the of the trees; and the garden-flowers the air with odours. Hard by, was a little churchyard; not with tall gravestones, but full of mounds, with fresh and moss: which, the old people of the village at rest. Oliver often here; and, of the in which his mother lay, would sometimes him and unseen; but, when he his to the sky overhead, he would to think of her as in the ground, and would for her, sadly, but without pain.
It was a happy time. The days were peaceful and serene; the nights with them neither care; no in a prison, or with men; nothing but and happy thoughts. Every he to a white-headed old gentleman, who near the little church: who him to read better, and to write: and who spoke so kindly, and took such pains, that Oliver try to him. Then, he would walk with Mrs. Maylie and Rose, and them talk of books; or near them, in some place, and the lady read: which he have done, until it 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 came slowly on, when the ladies would walk out again, and he with them: with such to all they said: and so happy if they wanted a flower that he climb to reach, or had anything he to fetch: that he be quick about it. When it dark, and they returned home, the lady would to the piano, and play some air, or sing, in a low and voice, some old song which it pleased her aunt to hear. There would be no at such times as these; and Oliver would by one of the windows, to the sweet music, in a perfect rapture.
And when Sunday came, how the day was spent, from any way in which he had it yet! and how too; like all the other days in that most happy time! There was the little church, in the morning, with the green at the windows: the without: and the sweet-smelling air in at the low porch, and the with its fragrance. The people were so and clean, and so in prayer, that it a pleasure, not a duty, their there together; and though the might be rude, it was real, and more (to Oliver’s ears at least) than any he had in church before. Then, there were the walks as usual, and many calls at the clean houses of the 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 he more proud and pleased, than if he had been the himself.
In the morning, Oliver would be a-foot by six o’clock, the fields, and the hedges, and wide, for of wild flowers, with which he would return laden, home; and which it took great and to arrange, to the best advantage, for the of the breakfast-table. There was fresh groundsel, too, for Miss Maylie’s birds, with which Oliver, who had been studying the under the able of the village clerk, would the cages, in the most taste. When the were all and for the day, there was some little of to in the village; or, that, there was cricket-playing, sometimes, on the green; or, that, there was always something to do in the garden, or about the plants, to which Oliver (who had this science also, under the same master, who was a by trade,) himself with good-will, until Miss Rose her appearance: when there were a thousand to be on all he had done.
So three months away; three months which, in the life of the most and of mortals, might have been happiness, and which, in Oliver’s were true felicity. With the purest and most on one side; and the truest, warmest, soul-felt on the other; it is no wonder that, by the end of that time, Oliver Twist had with the old lady and her niece, and that the of his and heart, was by their in, and to, himself.
