Oliver Twist
CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN MR. AND MRS. BUMBLE, AND MR. MONKS, AT THEIR NOCTURNAL INTERVIEW
It was a dull, close, evening. The clouds, which had been all day, spread out in a and of vapour, already large of rain, and to a thunder-storm, when Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, out of the main of the town, their a little of houses, from it some mile and a-half, or thereabouts, and on a low swamp, upon the river.
They were in old and garments, which might, perhaps, the purpose of protecting their from the rain, and them from observation. The husband a lantern, from which, however, no light yet shone; and on, a in front, as though—the way being dirty—to give his wife the of in his footprints. They on, in silence; every now and then, Mr. Bumble his pace, and his as if to make sure that his was following; then, that she was close at his heels, he his of walking, and proceeded, at a of speed, their place of destination.
This was from being a place of character; for it had long been as the of none but low ruffians, who, under of by their labour, on and crime. It was a of hovels: some, with bricks: others, of old worm-eaten ship-timber: together without any attempt at order or arrangement, and planted, for the most part, a of the river’s bank. A up on the mud, and fast to the which it: and here and there an or of rope: appeared, at first, to that the of these some on the river; but a at the and condition of the articles thus displayed, would have a passer-by, without much difficulty, to the that they were there, for the of appearances, than with any view to their being actually employed.
In the of this of huts; and the river, which its upper overhung; a large building, used as a of some kind. It had, in its day, to the of the tenements. But it had long since gone to ruin. The rat, the worm, and the action of the damp, had and the on which it stood; and a of the had already into the water; while the remainder, and over the dark stream, to wait a opportunity of its old companion, and itself in the same fate.
It was this that the paused, as the of in the air, and the rain down.
“The place should be here,” said Bumble, a of paper he in his hand.
“Halloa there!” a voice from above.
Following the sound, Mr. Bumble his and a man looking out of a door, breast-high, on the second story.
“Stand still, a minute,” the voice; “I’ll be with you directly.” With which the disappeared, and the door closed.
“Is that the man?” asked Mr. Bumble’s good lady.
Mr. Bumble in the affirmative.
“Then, mind what I told you,” said the matron: “and be to say as little as you can, or you’ll us at once.”
Mr. Bumble, who had the with very looks, was about to some relative to the of any with the enterprise just then, when he was by the of Monks: who opened a small door, near which they stood, and them inwards.
“Come in!” he impatiently, his upon the ground. “Don’t keep me here!”
The woman, who had at first, walked in, without any other invitation. Mr. Bumble, who was or to behind, followed: very at and with any of that which was his characteristic.
“What the you there, in the wet?” said Monks, round, and Bumble, after he had the door them.
“We—we were only ourselves,” Bumble, looking about him.
“Cooling yourselves!” Monks. “Not all the rain that fell, or will fall, will put as much of hell’s fire out, as a man can about with him. You won’t so easily; don’t think it!”
With this speech, Monks upon the matron, and his upon her, till she, who was not easily cowed, was to her eyes, and turn them the ground.
“This is the woman, is it?” Monks.
“Hem! That is the woman,” Mr. Bumble, of his wife’s caution.
“You think can keep secrets, I suppose?” said the matron, interposing, and returning, as she spoke, the look of Monks.
“I know they will always keep one till it’s out,” said Monks.
“And what may that be?” asked the matron.
“The of their own good name,” Monks. “So, by the same rule, if a woman’s a party to a that might or transport her, I’m not of her telling it to anybody; not I! Do you understand, mistress?”
“No,” the matron, as she spoke.
“Of you don’t!” said Monks. “How should you?”
Bestowing something half-way a and a upon his two companions, and again them to him, the man across the apartment, which was of extent, but low in the roof. He was preparing to a staircase, or ladder, leading to another of above: when a of the aperture, and a of followed, which the to its centre.
“Hear it!” he cried, back. “Hear it! Rolling and on as if it through a thousand where the were from it. I the sound!”
He for a moments; and then, his hands from his face, showed, to the of Mr. Bumble, that it was much and discoloured.
“These come over me, now and then,” said Monks, his alarm; “and sometimes them on. Don’t mind me now; it’s all over for this once.”
Thus speaking, he the way up the ladder; and the window-shutter of the room into which it led, a which at the end of a rope and passed through one of the in the ceiling: and which a light upon an old table and three chairs that were it.
“Now,” said Monks, when they had all three seated themselves, “the sooner we come to our business, the for all. The woman know what it is, she?”
The question was to Bumble; but his wife the reply, by that she was perfectly with it.
“He is right in saying that you were with this the night she died; and that she told you something—”
“About the mother of the boy you named,” the him. “Yes.”
“The question is, of what nature was her communication?” said Monks.
“That’s the second,” the woman with much deliberation. “The is, what may the be worth?”
“Who the can tell that, without of what it is?” asked Monks.
“Nobody than you, I am persuaded,” answered Mrs. Bumble: who did not want for spirit, as her yoke-fellow testify.
“Humph!” said Monks significantly, and with a look of inquiry; “there may be money’s to get, eh?”
“Perhaps there may,” was the reply.
“Something that was taken from her,” said Monks. “Something that she wore. Something that—”
“You had bid,” Mrs. Bumble. “I have enough, already, to me that you are the man I ought to talk to.”
Mr. Bumble, who had not yet been by his into any of the than he had originally possessed, to this with and eyes: which he his wife and Monks, by turns, in astonishment; increased, if possible, when the demanded, what was for the disclosure.
“What’s it to you?” asked the woman, as as before.
“It may be nothing; it may be twenty pounds,” Monks. “Speak out, and let me know which.”
“Add five to the you have named; give me five-and-twenty in gold,” said the woman; “and I’ll tell you all I know. Not before.”
“Five-and-twenty pounds!” Monks, back.
“I spoke as as I could,” Mrs. Bumble. “It’s not a large sum, either.”
“Not a large for a secret, that may be nothing when it’s told!” Monks impatiently; “and which has been for twelve years past or more!”
“Such keep well, and, like good wine, often their value in of time,” answered the matron, still the she had assumed. “As to dead, there are those who will for twelve thousand years to come, or twelve million, for anything you or I know, who will tell at last!”
“What if I pay it for nothing?” asked Monks, hesitating.
“You can easily take it away again,” the matron. “I am but a woman; alone here; and unprotected.”
“Not alone, my dear, unprotected, neither,” submitted Mr. Bumble, in a voice with fear: “I am here, my dear. And besides,” said Mr. Bumble, his teeth as he spoke, “Mr. Monks is too much of a to attempt any on persons. Mr. Monks is aware that I am not a man, my dear, and also that I am a little to seed, as I may say; bu he has heerd: I say I have no Mr. Monks has heerd, my dear: that I am a very officer, with very strength, if I’m once roused. I only want a little rousing; that’s all.”
As Mr. Bumble spoke, he a of his with determination; and showed, by the of every feature, that he did want a little rousing, and not a little, to making any very demonstration: unless, indeed, against paupers, or other person or for the purpose.
“You are a fool,” said Mrs. Bumble, in reply; “and had your tongue.”
“He had have cut it out, he came, if he can’t speak in a tone,” said Monks, grimly. “So! He’s your husband, eh?”
“He my husband!” the matron, the question.
“I as much, when you came in,” Monks, marking the angry which the lady at her as she spoke. “So much the better; I have less in with two people, when I that there’s only one will them. I’m in earnest. See here!”
He his hand into a side-pocket; and producing a bag, told out twenty-five on the table, and pushed them over to the woman.
“Now,” he said, “gather them up; and when this of thunder, which I is up to over the house-top, is gone, let’s your story.”
The thunder, which in much nearer, and to and almost over their heads, having subsided, Monks, his from the table, to to what the woman should say. The of the three nearly touched, as the two men over the small table in their to hear, and the woman also to her audible. The of the directly upon them, the and of their countenances: which, by the and darkness, looked in the extreme.
“When this woman, that we called old Sally, died,” the began, “she and I were alone.”
“Was there no one by?” asked Monks, in the same whisper; “No or in some other bed? No one who hear, and might, by possibility, understand?”
“Not a soul,” the woman; “we were alone. I alone the when death came over it.”
“Good,” said Monks, her attentively. “Go on.”
“She spoke of a creature,” the matron, “who had a child into the world some years before; not in the same room, but in the same bed, in which she then dying.”
“Ay?” said Monks, with lip, and over his shoulder, “Blood! How come about!”
“The child was the one you named to him last night,” said the matron, her husband; “the mother this nurse had robbed.”
“In life?” asked Monks.
“In death,” the woman, with something like a shudder. “She from the corpse, when it had to one, that which the mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant’s sake.”
“She it,” Monks, with eagerness; “did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?”
“As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this,” said the matron, “she and died.”
“Without saying more?” Monks, in a voice which, from its very suppression, only the more furious. “It’s a lie! I’ll not be played with. She said more. I’ll tear the life out of you both, but I’ll know what it was.”
“She didn’t another word,” said the woman, to all (as Mr. Bumble was very from being) by the man’s violence; “but she my gown, violently, with one hand, which was closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so the hand by force, I it a of dirty paper.”
“Which contained—” Monks, forward.
“Nothing,” the woman; “it was a pawnbroker’s duplicate.”
“For what?” Monks.
“In good time I’ll tell you.” said the woman. “I judge that she had the trinket, for some time, in the of it to account; and then had it; and had saved or together money to pay the pawnbroker’s year by year, and prevent its out; so that if anything came of it, it still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she died with the of paper, all and tattered, in her hand. The time was out in two days; I something might one day come of it too; and so the pledge.”
“Where is it now?” asked Monks quickly.
“There,” the woman. And, as if to be of it, she upon the table a small kid large for a French watch, which Monks upon, open with hands. It a little gold locket: in which were two of hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring.
“It has the word ‘Agnes’ on the inside,” said the woman.
“There is a blank left for the surname; and then the date; which is a year the child was born. I out that.”
“And this is all?” said Monks, after a close and of the of the little packet.
“All,” the woman.
Mr. Bumble a long breath, as if he were to that the was over, and no mention of taking the five-and-twenty again; and now he took to the which had been over his nose, unchecked, the whole of the previous dialogue.
“I know nothing of the story, what I can at,” said his wife Monks, after a silence; “and I want to know nothing; for it’s not. But I may ask you two questions, may I?”
“You may ask,” said Monks, with some of surprise; “but I answer or not is another question.”
“—Which makes three,” Mr. Bumble, a of facetiousness.
“Is that what you to from me?” the matron.
“It is,” Monks. “The other question?”
“What do you to do with it? Can it be used against me?”
“Never,” Monks; “nor against me either. See here! But don’t move a step forward, or your life is not a bulrush.”
With these words, he the table aside, and an iron ring in the boarding, a large trap-door which opened close at Mr. Bumble’s feet, and that to retire backward, with great precipitation.
“Look down,” said Monks, the into the gulf. “Don’t me. I have let you down, enough, when you were seated over it, if that had been my game.”
Thus encouraged, the near to the brink; and Mr. Bumble himself, by curiousity, to do the same. The water, by the rain, was on below; and all other were in the noise of its and against the green and piles. There had once been a water-mill beneath; the and the stakes, and of that yet remained, to onward, with a new impulse, when from the which had to its course.
“If you a man’s there, where would it be to-morrow morning?” said Monks, the to and in the dark well.
“Twelve miles the river, and cut to pieces besides,” Bumble, at the thought.
Monks the little packet from his breast, where he had it; and it to a weight, which had a part of some pulley, and was on the floor, it into the stream. It straight, and true as a die; the water with a splash; and was gone.
The three looking into each other’s faces, to breathe more freely.
“There!” said Monks, the trap-door, which into its position. “If the sea up its dead, as books say it will, it will keep its gold and to itself, and that trash among it. We have nothing more to say, and may up our party.”
“By all means,” Mr. Bumble, with great alacrity.
“You’ll keep a in your head, will you?” said Monks, with a look. “I am not of your wife.”
“You may upon me, man,” answered Mr. Bumble, himself the ladder, with politeness. “On everybody’s account, man; on my own, you know, Mr. Monks.”
“I am glad, for your sake, to it,” Monks. “Light your lantern! And away from here as fast as you can.”
It was that the at this point, or Mr. Bumble, who had himself to six of the ladder, would have into the room below. He his from that which Monks had from the rope, and now in his hand; and making no to the discourse, in silence, by his wife. Monks up the rear, after on the steps to satisfy himself that there were no other to be than the of the rain without, and the of the water.
They the room, slowly, and with caution; for Monks started at every shadow; and Mr. Bumble, his a above the ground, walked not only with care, but with a light step for a of his figure: looking about him for trap-doors. The gate at which they had entered, was and opened by Monks; a with their acquaintance, the married into the wet and outside.
They were no sooner gone, than Monks, who appeared to an to being left alone, called to a boy who had been below. Bidding him go first, and the light, he returned to the he had just quitted.
