Oliver Twist
A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER
The girl’s life had been in the streets, and among the most of the and of London, but there was something of the woman’s original nature left in her still; and when she a light step the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and of the wide which the small room would in another moment contain, she with the of her own shame, and as though she the presence of her with she had this interview.
But with these was pride,—the of the and most no less than of the high and self-assured. The of and ruffians, the of low haunts, the of the of the and hulks, the of the itself,—even this being too proud to a of the which she a weakness, but which alone her with that humanity, of which her life had so many, many when a very child.
She her to that the which presented itself was that of a and girl; then, them on the ground, she her with as she said:
“It’s a hard to to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you’d have been sorry for it one day, and not without either.”
“I am very sorry if any one has to you,” Rose. “Do not think of that. Tell me why you to see me. I am the person you for.”
The of this answer, the sweet voice, the manner, the of any of or displeasure, took the girl by surprise, and she into tears.
“Oh, lady, lady!” she said, her hands her face, “if there was more like you, there would be like me,—there would—there would!”
“Sit down,” said Rose, earnestly. “If you are in or I shall be to you if I can,—I shall indeed. Sit down.”
“Let me stand, lady,” said the girl, still weeping, “and do not speak to me so till you know me better. It is late. Is—is—that door shut?”
“Yes,” said Rose, a steps, as if to be nearer in case she should it. “Why?”
“Because,” said the girl, “I am about to put my life and the of others in your hands. I am the girl that little Oliver to old Fagin’s on the night he out from the house in Pentonville.”
“You!” said Rose Maylie.
“I, lady!” the girl. “I am the you have of, that among the thieves, and that from the moment I can my and opening on London have any life, or than they have me, so help me God! Do not mind openly from me, lady. I am than you would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The back, as I make my way along the pavement.”
“What are these!” said Rose, from her companion.
“Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady,” the girl, “that you had friends to for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were in the of cold and hunger, and and drunkenness, and—and—something than all—as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the and the were mine, as they will be my deathbed.”
“I you!” said Rose, in a voice. “It my to you!”
“Heaven you for your goodness!” the girl. “If you what I am sometimes, you would me, indeed. But I have away from those who would surely me, if they I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?”
“No,” said Rose.
“He you,” the girl; “and you were here, for it was by him tell the place that I you out.”
“I the name,” said Rose.
“Then he goes by some other us,” the girl, “which I more than before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I—suspecting this man—listened to a him and Fagin in the dark. I out, from what I heard, that Monks—the man I asked you about, you know—”
“Yes,” said Rose, “I understand.”
“—That Monks,” the girl, “had him with two of our boys on the day we him, and had him directly to be the same child that he was for, though I couldn’t make out why. A was with Fagin, that if Oliver was got he should have a sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own.”
“For what purpose?” asked Rose.
“He of my on the as I listened, in the of out,” said the girl; “and there are not many people me that have got out of their way in time to discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night.”
“And what then?”
“I’ll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they upstairs, and I, myself up so that my would not me, again at the door. The I Monks say were these: ‘So the only proofs of the boy’s identity at the of the river, and the old that them from the mother is in her coffin.’ They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and very wild, said that though he had got the devil’s money safely now, he’d have had it the other way; for, what a game it would have been to have the of the father’s will, by him through every in town, and then him up for some which Fagin easily manage, after having a good profit of him besides.”
“What is all this!” said Rose.
“The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips,” the girl. “Then, he said, with common in my ears, but to yours, that if he his by taking the boy’s life without his own in danger, he would; but, as he couldn’t, he’d be upon the watch to meet him at every turn in life; and if he took of his birth and history, he might him yet. ‘In short, Fagin,’ he says, ‘Jew as you are, you such as I’ll for my brother, Oliver.’”
“His brother!” Rose.
“Those were his words,” said Nancy, round, as she had to do, since she to speak, for a of Sikes her perpetually. “And more. When he spoke of you and the other lady, and said it by Heaven, or the devil, against him, that Oliver should come into your hands, he laughed, and said there was some in that too, for how many thousands and hundreds of thousands of would you not give, if you had them, to know who your two-legged was.”
“You do not mean,” said Rose, very pale, “to tell me that this was said in earnest?”
“He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man did,” the girl, her head. “He is an man when his is up. I know many who do things; but I’d to them all a dozen times, than to that Monks once. It is late, and I have to home without of having been on such an as this. I must quickly.”
“But what can I do?” said Rose. “To what use can I turn this without you? Back! Why do you wish to return to you paint in such terrible colors? If you repeat this to a I can in an from the next room, you can be to some place of safety without an hour’s delay.”
“I wish to go back,” said the girl. “I must go back, because—how can I tell such to an lady like you?—because among the men I have told you of, there is one: the most among them all; that I can’t leave: no, not to be saved from the life I am leading now.”
“Your having in this dear boy’s before,” said Rose; “your here, at so great a risk, to tell me what you have heard; your manner, which me of the truth of what you say; your contrition, and of shame; all lead me to that you might yet be reclaimed. Oh!” said the girl, her hands as the her face, “do not turn a ear to the of one of your own sex; the first—the first, I do believe, who to you in the voice of and compassion. Do my words, and let me save you yet, for things.”
“Lady,” the girl, on her knees, “dear, sweet, lady, you are the that me with such as these, and if I had them years ago, they might have me from a life of and sorrow; but it is too late, it is too late!”
“It is too late,” said Rose, “for and atonement.”
“It is,” the girl, in of her mind; “I cannot him now! I not be his death.”
“Why should you be?” asked Rose.
“Nothing save him,” the girl. “If I told others what I have told you, and to their being taken, he would be sure to die. He is the boldest, and has been so cruel!”
“Is it possible,” Rose, “that for such a man as this, you can every hope, and the of rescue? It is madness.”
“I don’t know what it is,” answered the girl; “I only know that it is so, and not with me alone, but with hundreds of others as and as myself. I must go back. Whether it is God’s for the I have done, I do not know; but I am to him through every and usage; and I should be, I believe, if I that I was to die by his hand at last.”
“What am I to do?” said Rose. “I should not let you from me thus.”
“You should, lady, and I know you will,” the girl, rising. “You will not stop my going I have in your goodness, and no promise from you, as I might have done.”
“Of what use, then, is the you have made?” said Rose. “This must be investigated, or how will its to me, Oliver, you are to serve?”
“You must have some about you that will it as a secret, and you what to do,” the girl.
“But where can I you again when it is necessary?” asked Rose. “I do not to know where these people live, but where will you be walking or at any settled period from this time?”
“Will you promise me that you will have my kept, and come alone, or with the only other person that it; and that I shall not be or followed?” asked the girl.
“I promise you solemnly,” answered Rose.
“Every Sunday night, from eleven until the clock twelve,” said the girl without hesitation, “I will walk on London Bridge if I am alive.”
“Stay another moment,” Rose, as the girl moved the door. “Think once again on your own condition, and the opportunity you have of from it. You have a on me: not only as the of this intelligence, but as a woman almost redemption. Will you return to this of robbers, and to this man, when a word can save you? What is it that can take you back, and make you to and misery? Oh! is there no in your that I can touch! Is there nothing left, to which I can against this terrible infatuation!”
“When ladies as young, and good, and as you are,” the girl steadily, “give away your hearts, love will you all lengths—even such as you, who have home, friends, other admirers, everything, to them. When such as I, who have no but the coffinlid, and no friend in or death but the hospital nurse, set our on any man, and let him the place that has been a blank through all our lives, who can to us? Pity us, lady—pity us for having only one of the woman left, and for having that turned, by a judgment, from a and a pride, into a new means of and suffering.”
“You will,” said Rose, after a pause, “take some money from me, which may you to live without dishonesty—at all events until we meet again?”
“Not a penny,” the girl, her hand.
“Do not close your against all my to help you,” said Rose, forward. “I wish to you indeed.”
“You would me best, lady,” the girl, her hands, “if you take my life at once; for I have more to think of what I am, to-night, than I did before, and it would be something not to die in the in which I have lived. God you, sweet lady, and send as much on your as I have on mine!”
Thus speaking, and aloud, the away; while Rose Maylie, by this interview, which had more the of a than an occurrence, into a chair, and to her thoughts.
