Oliver Twist
THE APPOINTMENT KEPT
The church three past eleven, as two on London Bridge. One, which with a and step, was that of a woman who looked about her as though in of some object; the other was that of a man, who along in the he find, and, at some distance, his to hers: stopping when she stopped: and as she moved again, on: but himself, in the of his pursuit, to upon her footsteps. Thus, they the bridge, from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore, when the woman, in her of the foot-passengers, back. The movement was sudden; but he who her, was not off his by it; for, into one of the which the of the bridge, and over the the to his figure, he her to pass on the opposite pavement. When she was about the same in as she had been before, he down, and her again. At nearly the centre of the bridge, she stopped. The man stopped too.
It was a very dark night. The day had been unfavourable, and at that hour and place there were people stirring. Such as there were, past: very possibly without seeing, but without noticing, either the woman, or the man who her in view. Their was not calculated to the of such of London’s population, as to take their way over the that night in search of some cold or to their heads; they there in silence: neither speaking spoken to, by any one who passed.
A over the river, the red of the that upon the small off the different wharfs, and and more the on the banks. The old smoke-stained on either side, rose and from the of and gables, and upon water too black to their shapes. The tower of old Saint Saviour’s Church, and the of Saint Magnus, so long the giant-warders of the bridge, were visible in the gloom; but the of bridge, and the of churches above, were nearly all from sight.
The girl had taken a to and fro—closely meanwhile by her observer—when the of St. Paul’s for the death of another day. Midnight had come upon the city. The palace, the night-cellar, the jail, the madhouse: the of birth and death, of health and sickness, the of the and the sleep of the child: midnight was upon them all.
The hour had not two minutes, when a lady, by a grey-haired gentleman, from a hackney-carriage a of the bridge, and, having the vehicle, walked it. They had set upon its pavement, when the girl started, and them.
They walked onward, looking about them with the air of who some very which had little of being realised, when they were joined by this new associate. They with an of surprise, but it immediately; for a man in the of a came close up—brushed against them, indeed—at that moment.
“Not here,” said Nancy hurriedly, “I am to speak to you here. Come away—out of the public road—down the steps yonder!”
As she these words, and indicated, with her hand, the direction in which she them to proceed, the looked round, and asking what they took up the whole for, passed on.
The steps to which the girl had pointed, were those which, on the Surrey bank, and on the same of the as Saint Saviour’s Church, a landing-stairs from the river. To this spot, the man the of a countryman, unobserved; and after a moment’s survey of the place, he to descend.
These stairs are a part of the bridge; they of three flights. Just the end of the second, going down, the on the left in an the Thames. At this point the steps widen: so that a person that of the wall, is necessarily by any others on the stairs who to be above him, if only a step. The looked round, when he this point; and as there no place of concealment, and, the being out, there was of room, he aside, with his to the pilaster, and there waited: that they would come no lower, and that if he not what was said, he them again, with safety.
So the time in this place, and so was the to the of an so different from what he had been to expect, that he more than once gave the up for lost, and himself, either that they had stopped above, or had to some different spot to their conversation. He was on the point of from his hiding-place, and the road above, when he the of footsteps, and directly of voices almost close at his ear.
He himself against the wall, and, breathing, attentively.
“This is enough,” said a voice, which was that of the gentleman. “I will not the lady to go any farther. Many people would have you too much to have come so far, but you see I am to you.”
“To me!” the voice of the girl he had followed. “You’re considerate, indeed, sir. To me! Well, well, it’s no matter.”
“Why, for what,” said the in a tone, “for what purpose can you have us to this place? Why not have let me speak to you, above there, where it is light, and there is something stirring, of us to this dark and hole?”
“I told you before,” Nancy, “that I was to speak to you there. I don’t know why it is,” said the girl, shuddering, “but I have such a and upon me to-night that I can stand.”
“A of what?” asked the gentleman, who to her.
“I know of what,” the girl. “I wish I did. Horrible of death, and with blood upon them, and a that has me as if I was on fire, have been upon me all day. I was reading a book to-night, to the time away, and the same came into the print.”
“Imagination,” said the gentleman, her.
“No imagination,” the girl in a voice. “I’ll I saw ‘coffin’ in every page of the book in large black letters,—aye, and they one close to me, in the to-night.”
“There is nothing in that,” said the gentleman. “They have passed me often.”
“Real ones,” the girl. “This was not.”
There was something so in her manner, that the of the as he the girl these words, and the blood him. He had a than in the sweet voice of the lady as she her to be calm, and not allow herself to the of such fancies.
“Speak to her kindly,” said the lady to her companion. “Poor creature! She to need it.”
“Your religious people would have their up to see me as I am to-night, and of and vengeance,” the girl. “Oh, dear lady, why ar’n’t those who to be God’s own as and as to us as you, who, having youth, and beauty, and all that they have lost, might be a little proud of so much humbler?”
“Ah!” said the gentleman. “A Turk his face, after it well, to the East, when he says his prayers; these good people, after their such a against the World as to take the off, turn with no less regularity, to the of Heaven. Between the Mussulman and the Pharisee, me to the first!”
These appeared to be to the lady, and were with the view of Nancy time to herself. The gentleman, afterwards, himself to her.
“You were not here last Sunday night,” he said.
“I couldn’t come,” Nancy; “I was by force.”
“By whom?”
“Him that I told the lady of before.”
“You were not of any with on the which has us here to-night, I hope?” asked the old gentleman.
“No,” the girl, her head. “It’s not very easy for me to him unless he why; I couldn’t give him a drink of I came away.”
“Did he you returned?” the gentleman.
“No; and neither he any of them me.”
“Good,” said the gentleman. “Now to me.”
“I am ready,” the girl, as he paused for a moment.
“This lady,” the began, “has to me, and to some other friends who can be safely trusted, what you told her nearly a since. I to you that I had doubts, at first, you were to be upon, but now I you are.”
“I am,” said the girl earnestly.
“I repeat that I it. To prove to you that I am to trust you, I tell you without reserve, that we to the secret, it may be, from the of this man Monks. But if—if—” said the gentleman, “he cannot be secured, or, if secured, cannot be upon as we wish, you must deliver up the Jew.”
“Fagin,” the girl, recoiling.
“That man must be delivered up by you,” said the gentleman.
“I will not do it! I will do it!” the girl. “Devil that he is, and than as he has been to me, I will do that.”
“You will not?” said the gentleman, who prepared for this answer.
“Never!” returned the girl.
“Tell me why?”
“For one reason,” the girl firmly, “for one reason, that the lady and will by me in, I know she will, for I have her promise: and for this other reason, besides, that, life as he has led, I have a life too; there are many of us who have the same together, and I’ll not turn upon them, who might—any of them—have upon me, but didn’t, as they are.”
“Then,” said the gentleman, quickly, as if this had been the point he had been to attain; “put Monks into my hands, and him to me to with.”
“What if he against the others?”
“I promise you that in that case, if the truth is from him, there the will rest; there must be in Oliver’s little history which it would be painful to the public eye, and if the truth is once elicited, they shall go free.”
“And if it is not?” the girl.
“Then,” the gentleman, “this Fagin shall not be to without your consent. In such a case I you reasons, I think, which would you to it.”
“Have I the lady’s promise for that?” asked the girl.
“You have,” Rose. “My true and pledge.”
“Monks would learn how you what you do?” said the girl, after a pause.
“Never,” the gentleman. “The should be to upon him, that he guess.”
“I have been a liar, and among from a little child,” said the girl after another of silence, “but I will take your words.”
After an from both, that she might safely do so, she in a voice so low that it was often difficult for the to the of what she said, to describe, by name and situation, the public-house she had been that night. From the manner in which she occasionally paused, it appeared as if the were making some notes of the she communicated. When she had the of the place, the best position from which to watch it without observation, and the night and hour on which Monks was most in the of it, she to for a moments, for the purpose of his and more to her recollection.
“He is tall,” said the girl, “and a man, but not stout; he has a walk; and as he walks, looks over his shoulder, on one side, and then on the other. Don’t that, for his are in his so much than any other man’s, that you might almost tell him by that alone. His is dark, like his and eyes; and, although he can’t be more than six or eight and twenty, and haggard. His are often and with the marks of teeth; for he has fits, and sometimes his hands and them with wounds—why did you start?” said the girl, stopping suddenly.
The replied, in a manner, that he was not of having done so, and her to proceed.
“Part of this,” said the girl, “I have out from other people at the house I tell you of, for I have only him twice, and times he was up in a large cloak. I think that’s all I can give you to know him by. Stay though,” she added. “Upon his throat: so high that you can see a part of it his when he his face: there is—”
“A red mark, like a or scald?” the gentleman.
“How’s this?” said the girl. “You know him!”
The lady a of surprise, and for a moments they were so still that the them breathe.
“I think I do,” said the gentleman, silence. “I should by your description. We shall see. Many people are like each other. It may not be the same.”
As he himself to this effect, with carelessness, he took a step or two nearer the spy, as the tell from the with which he him mutter, “It must be he!”
“Now,” he said, returning: so it by the sound: to the spot where he had before, “you have us most valuable assistance, woman, and I wish you to be the for it. What can I do to you?”
“Nothing,” Nancy.
“You will not in saying that,” the gentleman, with a voice and of that might have touched a much and more heart. “Think now. Tell me.”
“Nothing, sir,” the girl, weeping. “You can do nothing to help me. I am past all hope, indeed.”
“You put its pale,” said the gentleman. “The past has been a waste with you, of mis-spent, and such lavished, as the Creator but once and again, but, for the future, you may hope. I do not say that it is in our power to offer you peace of and mind, for that must come as you it; but a asylum, either in England, or, if you to here, in some country, it is not only the of our ability but our most wish to secure you. Before the of morning, this river to the of day-light, you shall be as the of your associates, and as an of all you, as if you were to from the earth this moment. Come! I would not have you go to one word with any old companion, or take one look at any old haunt, or breathe the very air which is and death to you. Quit them all, while there is time and opportunity!”
“She will be now,” the lady. “She hesitates, I am sure.”
“I not, my dear,” said the gentleman.
“No sir, I do not,” the girl, after a struggle. “I am to my old life. I and it now, but I cannot it. I must have gone too to turn back,—and yet I don’t know, for if you had spoken to me so, some time ago, I should have laughed it off. But,” she said, looking round, “this comes over me again. I must go home.”
“Home!” the lady, with great upon the word.
“Home, lady,” the girl. “To such a home as I have for myself with the work of my whole life. Let us part. I shall be or seen. Go! Go! If I have done you any service all I ask is, that you me, and let me go my way alone.”
“It is useless,” said the gentleman, with a sigh. “We her safety, perhaps, by here. We may have her longer than she already.”
“Yes, yes,” the girl. “You have.”
“What,” the lady, “can be the end of this creature’s life!”
“What!” the girl. “Look you, lady. Look at that dark water. How many times do you read of such as I who into the tide, and no thing, to for, or them. It may be years hence, or it may be only months, but I shall come to that at last.”
“Do not speak thus, pray,” returned the lady, sobbing.
“It will your ears, dear lady, and God such should!” the girl. “Good-night, good-night!”
The away.
“This purse,” the lady. “Take it for my sake, that you may have some in an hour of need and trouble.”
“No!” the girl. “I have not done this for money. Let me have that to think of. And yet—give me something that you have worn: I should like to have something—no, no, not a ring—your or handkerchief—anything that I can keep, as having to you, sweet lady. There. Bless you! God you. Good-night, good-night!”
The of the girl, and the of some which would her to ill-usage and violence, to the to her, as she requested.
The of were and the voices ceased.
The two of the lady and her soon appeared upon the bridge. They stopped at the of the stairs.
“Hark!” the lady, listening. “Did she call! I I her voice.”
“No, my love,” Mr. Brownlow, looking sadly back. “She has not moved, and will not till we are gone.”
Rose Maylie lingered, but the old her arm through his, and her, with force, away. As they disappeared, the girl nearly at her full length upon one of the stairs, and the of her in tears.
After a time she arose, and with and steps the street. The on his post for some minutes afterwards, and having ascertained, with many him, that he was again alone, slowly from his hiding-place, and returned, and in the of the wall, in the same manner as he had descended.
Peeping out, more than once, when he the top, to make sure that he was unobserved, Noah Claypole away at his speed, and for the Jew’s house as fast as his would him.
