Oliver Twist
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 to bear. Oliver and by the intelligence; he not weep, or speak, or rest. He had the power of anything that had passed, until, after a long in the air, a of came to his relief, and he to awaken, all at once, to a full of the that had occurred, and the almost of which had been taken from his breast.
The night was fast in, when he returned homeward: with flowers which he had culled, with care, for the of the chamber. As he walked along the road, he him, the noise of some vehicle, at a pace. Looking round, he saw that it was a post-chaise, at great speed; and as the were galloping, and the road was narrow, he against a gate until it should have passed him.
As it on, Oliver a of a man in a white nightcap, familiar to him, although his view was so that he not identify the person. In another second or two, the was out of the chaise-window, and a voice to the driver to stop: which he did, as soon as he up his horses. Then, the once again appeared: and the same voice called Oliver by his name.
“Here!” the voice. “Oliver, what’s the news? Miss Rose! Master O-li-ver!”
“Is it you, Giles?” Oliver, up to the chaise-door.
Giles out his again, to making some reply, when he was by a who the other of the chaise, and who what was the news.
“In a word!” the gentleman, “Better or worse?”
“Better—much better!” Oliver, hastily.
“Thank Heaven!” the gentleman. “You are sure?”
“Quite, sir,” Oliver. “The took place only a hours ago; and Mr. Losberne says, that all is at an end.”
The said not another word, but, opening the chaise-door, out, and taking Oliver by the arm, him aside.
“You are certain? There is no possibility of any mistake on your part, my boy, is there?” the in a voice. “Do not me, by that are not to be fulfilled.”
“I would not for the world, sir,” Oliver. “Indeed you may me. Mr. Losberne’s were, that she would live to us all for many years to come. I him say so.”
The in Oliver’s as he the which was the of so much happiness; and the his away, and silent, for some minutes. Oliver he him sob, more than once; but he to him by any fresh remark—for he well what his were—and so apart, to be with his nosegay.
All this time, Mr. Giles, with the white on, had been on the steps of the chaise, supporting an on each knee, and his with a pocket-handkerchief with white spots. That the had not been emotion, was by the very red with which he the gentleman, when he and him.
“I think you had go on to my mother’s in the chaise, Giles,” said he. “I would walk slowly on, so as to a little time I see her. You can say I am coming.”
“I your pardon, Mr. Harry,” said Giles: a final to his with the handkerchief; “but if you would the to say that, I should be very much to you. It wouldn’t be proper for the to see me in this state, sir; I should have any more authority with them if they did.”
“Well,” Harry Maylie, smiling, “you can do as you like. Let him go on with the luggage, if you wish it, and do you with us. Only that for some more covering, or we shall be taken for madmen.”
Mr. Giles, of his costume, off and his nightcap; and a hat, of and shape, which he took out of the chaise. This done, the off; Giles, Mr. Maylie, and Oliver, at their leisure.
As they walked along, Oliver from time to time with much and at the new comer. He about five-and-twenty years of age, and was of the middle height; his was and handsome; and his easy and prepossessing. Notwithstanding the and age, he so a to the old lady, that Oliver would have had no great in their relationship, if he had not already spoken of her as his mother.
Mrs. Maylie was waiting to her son when he the cottage. The meeting did not take place without great on sides.
“Mother!” the man; “why did you not before?”
“I did,” Mrs. Maylie; “but, on reflection, I to keep the until I had Mr. Losberne’s opinion.”
“But why,” said the man, “why the of that which so nearly happened? If Rose had—I cannot that word now—if this had differently, how you have yourself! How I have know again!”
“If that had been the case, Harry,” said Mrs. Maylie, “I your would have been blighted, and that your 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?” the man; “or why should I say, if?—It is—it is—you know it, mother—you must know it!”
“I know that she the best and purest love the of man can offer,” said Mrs. Maylie; “I know that the and of her nature no ordinary return, but one that shall be and lasting. If I did not this, and know, besides, that a in one she loved would her heart, I should not my so difficult of performance, or have to so many in my own bosom, when I take what to me to be the line of duty.”
“This is unkind, mother,” said Harry. “Do you still that I am a boy of my own mind, and the of my own soul?”
“I think, my dear son,” returned Mrs. Maylie, her hand upon his shoulder, “that has many which do not last; and that among them are some, which, being gratified, only the more fleeting. Above all, I think” said the lady, her on her son’s face, “that if an enthusiastic, ardent, and man a wife on name there is a stain, which, though it in no fault of hers, may be visited by cold and people upon her, and upon his children also: and, in exact to his success in the world, be in his teeth, and the of against him: he may, no how and good his nature, one day of the he in early life. And she may have the pain of that he so.”
“Mother,” said the man, impatiently, “he would be a selfish brute, of the name of man and of the woman you describe, who thus.”
“You think so now, Harry,” his mother.
“And will!” said the man. “The I have suffered, the last two days, from me the to you of a which, as you well know, is not one of yesterday, one I have formed. On Rose, sweet, girl! my is set, as as of man was set on woman. I have no thought, no view, no in life, her; and if you oppose me in this great stake, you take my peace and in your hands, and them to the wind. Mother, think of this, and of me, and do not the of which you to think so little.”
“Harry,” said Mrs. Maylie, “it is I think so much of warm and hearts, that I would them from being wounded. But we have said enough, and more than enough, on this matter, just now.”
“Let it with Rose, then,” Harry. “You will not press these opinions of yours, so far, as to any in my way?”
“I will not,” Mrs. Maylie; “but I would have you consider—”
“I have considered!” was the reply; “Mother, I have considered, years and years. I have considered, since I have been of reflection. My unchanged, as they will; and why should I the pain of a in them vent, which can be of no good? No! Before I this place, Rose shall me.”
“She shall,” said Mrs. Maylie.
“There is something in your manner, which would almost that she will me coldly, mother,” said the man.
“Not coldly,” the old lady; “far from it.”
“How then?” the man. “She has no other attachment?”
“No, indeed,” his mother; “you have, or I mistake, too a on her already. What I would say,” the old lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, “is this. Before you your all on this chance; you to be to the point of hope; for a moments, my dear child, on Rose’s history, and what the knowledge of her birth may have on her decision: as she is to us, with all the of her mind, and with that perfect of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic.”
“What do you mean?”
“That I you to discover,” Mrs. Maylie. “I must go to her. God you!”
“I shall see you again to-night?” said the man, eagerly.
“By and by,” the lady; “when I Rose.”
“You will tell her I am here?” said Harry.
“Of course,” Mrs. Maylie.
“And say how I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to see her. You will not to do this, mother?”
“No,” said the old lady; “I will tell her all.” And pressing her son’s hand, affectionately, she from the room.
Mr. Losberne and Oliver had at another end of the while this was proceeding. The now out his hand to Harry Maylie; and were them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to questions from his friend, a account of his patient’s situation; which was as and full of promise, as Oliver’s had him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who to be about the luggage, with ears.
“Have you anything particular, lately, Giles?” the doctor, when he had concluded.
“Nothing particular, sir,” Mr. Giles, up to the eyes.
“Nor any thieves, any house-breakers?” said the doctor.
“None at all, sir,” Mr. Giles, with much gravity.
“Well,” said the doctor, “I am sorry to it, you do that of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?”
“The boy is very well, sir,” said Mr. Giles, his of patronage; “and sends his duty, sir.”
“That’s well,” said the doctor. “Seeing you here, me, Mr. Giles, that on the day that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the of your good mistress, a small in your favour. Just step into this a moment, will you?”
Mr. Giles walked into the with much importance, and some wonder, and was with a with the doctor, on the of which, he a great many bows, and retired with steps of stateliness. The of this was not in the parlour, but the was it; for Mr. Giles walked thither, and having called for a of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in of his on the occasion of that robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the of five-and-twenty pounds, for his use and benefit. At this, the two women-servants up their hands and eyes, and that Mr. Giles, out his shirt-frill, replied, “No, no”; and that if they that he was at all to his inferiors, he would thank them to tell him so. And then he a great many other remarks, no less of his humility, which were with equal and applause, and were, withal, as original and as much to the purpose, as the of great men are.
Above stairs, the of the passed away; for the doctor was in high spirits; and or Harry Maylie might have been at first, he was not proof against the gentleman’s good humour, which itself in a great of and professional recollections, and an of small jokes, which Oliver as being the he had heard, and him to laugh proportionately; to the of the doctor, who laughed at himself, and Harry laugh almost as heartily, by the very of sympathy. So, they were as a party as, under the circumstances, they well have been; and it was late they retired, with light and hearts, to take that of which, after the and they had undergone, they much in need.
Oliver rose next morning, in heart, and about his occupations, with more and than he had for many days. The were once more out, to sing, in their old places; and the wild flowers that be found, were once more to Rose with their beauty. The which had to the sad of the boy to hang, for days past, over every object, as all were, was by magic. The to more on the green leaves; the air to among them with a music; and the sky itself to look more and bright. Such is the which the condition of our own thoughts, exercise, over the of objects. Men who look on nature, and their fellow-men, and that all is dark and gloomy, are in the right; but the are from their own and hearts. The are delicate, and need a vision.
It is of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it at the time, that his were no longer alone. Harry Maylie, after the very when he met Oliver home, was with such a for flowers, and such a taste in their arrangement, as left his behind. If Oliver were in these respects, he where the best were to be found; and after they the country together, and home the that blossomed. The window of the lady’s was opened now; for she loved to the rich air in, and her with its freshness; but there always in water, just the lattice, one particular little bunch, which was up with great care, every morning. Oliver not help noticing that the flowers were away, although the little was replenished; nor, he help observing, that the doctor came into the garden, he his up to that particular corner, and his most expressively, as he set on his morning’s walk. Pending these observations, the days were by; and Rose was recovering.
Nor did Oliver’s time on his hands, although the lady had not yet left her chamber, and there were no walks, save now and then, for a distance, with Mrs. Maylie. He himself, with assiduity, to the of the white-headed old gentleman, and so hard that his quick progress himself. It was while he was in this pursuit, that he was and by a most occurrence.
The little room in which he was to sit, when at his books, was on the ground-floor, at the of the house. It was a cottage-room, with a lattice-window: around which were of and honeysuckle, that over the casement, and the place with their perfume. It looked into a garden, a wicket-gate opened into a small paddock; all beyond, was meadow-land and wood. There was no other near, in that direction; and the it was very extensive.
One evening, when the of were to settle upon the earth, Oliver sat at this window, upon his books. He had been over them for some time; and, as the day had been sultry, and he had himself a great deal, it is no to the authors, they may have been, to say, that and by slow degrees, he asleep.
There is a of sleep that upon us sometimes, which, while it the prisoner, not free the mind from a of about it, and it to at its pleasure. So as an heaviness, a of strength, and an to our or power of motion, can be called sleep, this is it; and yet, we have a of all that is going on about us, and, if we at such a time, which are spoken, or which at the moment, themselves with to our visions, until and so that it is almost of to the two. Nor is this, the most to such a state. It is an fact, that although our of touch and be for the time dead, yet our sleeping thoughts, and the that pass us, will be and influenced, by the presence of some object; which may not have been near us when we closed our eyes: and of we have had no consciousness.
Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that his books were on the table him; that the sweet air was among the plants outside. And yet he was asleep. Suddenly, the changed; the air close and confined; and he thought, with a of terror, that he was in the Jew’s house again. There sat the old man, in his corner, pointing at him, and to another man, with his averted, who sat him.
“Hush, my dear!” he he the Jew say; “it is he, sure enough. Come away.”
“He!” the other man to answer; “could I mistake him, think you? If a of were to put themselves into his exact shape, and he them, there is something that would tell me how to point him out. If you him fifty deep, and took me across his grave, I I should know, if there wasn’t a mark above it, that he there?”
The man to say this, with such hatred, that Oliver with the fear, and started up.
Good Heaven! what was that, which sent the blood to his heart, and him of his voice, and of power to move! There—there—at the window—close him—so close, that he have almost touched him he started back: with his into the room, and meeting his: there the Jew! And him, white with or fear, or both, were the of the man who had him in the inn-yard.
It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, his eyes; and they were gone. But they had him, and he them; and their look was as upon his memory, as if it had been in stone, and set him from his birth. He for a moment; then, from the window into the garden, called for help.
