Oliver Twist
THE FLIGHT OF SIKES
Of all that, under of the darkness, had been wide London’s since night over it, that was the worst. Of all the that rose with an upon the air, that was the and most cruel.
The sun—the sun, that back, not light alone, but new life, and hope, and to man—burst upon the city in clear and glory. Through costly-coloured and paper-mended window, through and crevice, it its equal ray. It up the room where the woman lay. It did. He to it out, but it would in. If the had been a one in the morning, what was it, now, in all that light!
He had not moved; he had been to stir. There had been a and motion of the hand; and, with terror added to rage, he had and again. Once he a over it; but it was to the eyes, and them moving him, than to see them upward, as if the of the of that and in the on the ceiling. He had it off again. And there was the body—mere and blood, no more—but such flesh, and so much blood!
He a light, a fire, and the into it. There was upon the end, which and into a light cinder, and, by the air, up the chimney. Even that him, as he was; but he the till it broke, and then it on the to away, and into ashes. He himself, and his clothes; there were that would not be removed, but he cut the pieces out, and them. How those were about the room! The very of the dog were bloody.
All this time he had, once, his upon the corpse; no, not for a moment. Such completed, he moved, backward, the door: the dog with him, he should his and out new of the into the streets. He the door softly, locked it, took the key, and left the house.
He over, and up at the window, to be sure that nothing was visible from the outside. There was the still drawn, which she would have opened to admit the light she saw again. It nearly under there. He that. God, how the sun upon the very spot!
The was instantaneous. It was a to have got free of the room. He on the dog, and walked away.
He through Islington; up the hill at Highgate on which the in of Whittington; to Highgate Hill, of purpose, and where to go; off to the right again, almost as soon as he to it; and taking the foot-path across the fields, Caen Wood, and so came on Hampstead Heath. Traversing the by the Vale of Heath, he the opposite bank, and the road which the villages of Hampstead and Highgate, along the of the to the at North End, in one of which he himself under a hedge, and slept.
Soon he was up again, and away,—not into the country, but London by the high-road—then again—then over another part of the same ground as he already traversed—then up and in fields, and on ditches’ to rest, and starting up to make for some other spot, and do the same, and on again.
Where he go, that was near and not too public, to some meat and drink? Hendon. That was a good place, not off, and out of most people’s way. Thither he his steps,—running sometimes, and sometimes, with a perversity, at a snail’s pace, or stopping and the with a stick. But when he got there, all the people he met—the very children at the doors—seemed to view him with suspicion. Back he again, without the to purchase or drop, though he had no food for many hours; and once more he on the Heath, where to go.
He over miles and miles of ground, and still came to the old place. Morning and had passed, and the day was on the wane, and still he to and fro, and up and down, and and round, and still about the same spot. At last he got away, and his for Hatfield.
It was nine o’clock at night, when the man, out, and the dog, and from the exercise, the hill by the church of the village, and along the little street, into a small public-house, light had them to the spot. There was a fire in the tap-room, and some country-labourers were it.
They room for the stranger, but he sat in the corner, and ate and alone, or with his dog: to he a of food from time to time.
The of the men assembled here, upon the land, and farmers; and when those were exhausted, upon the age of some old man who had been on the previous Sunday; the men present him very old, and the old men present him to have been young—not older, one white-haired said, than he was—with ten or fifteen year of life in him at least—if he had taken care; if he had taken care.
There was nothing to attention, or in this. The robber, after paying his reckoning, sat and in his corner, and had almost asleep, when he was by the noisy entrance of a new comer.
This was an fellow, and mountebank, who about the country on to hones, strops, razors, washballs, harness-paste, medicine for dogs and horses, perfumery, cosmetics, and such-like wares, which he in a case to his back. His entrance was the for with the countrymen, which not until he had his supper, and opened his box of treasures, when he to with amusement.
“And what be that stoof? Good to eat, Harry?” asked a countryman, pointing to some composition-cakes in one corner.
“This,” said the fellow, producing one, “this is the and for all of stain, rust, dirt, mildew, spick, speck, spot, or spatter, from silk, satin, linen, cambric, cloth, crape, stuff, carpet, merino, muslin, bombazeen, or stuff. Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains, any stains, all come out at one with the and composition. If a lady her honour, she has only need to one cake and she’s at once—for it’s poison. If a wants to prove this, he has only need to one little square, and he has put it question—for it’s as satisfactory as a pistol-bullet, and a great in the flavour, the more in taking it. One a square. With all these virtues, one a square!”
There were two directly, and more of the hesitated. The this, in loquacity.
“It’s all up as fast as it can be made,” said the fellow. “There are fourteen water-mills, six steam-engines, and a battery, always a-working upon it, and they can’t make it fast enough, though the men work so hard that they die off, and the is pensioned directly, with twenty a-year for each of the children, and a premium of fifty for twins. One a square! Two half-pence is all the same, and four is with joy. One a square! Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains, mud-stains, blood-stains! Here is a upon the of a in company, that I’ll take clean out, he can order me a of ale.”
“Hah!” Sikes starting up. “Give that back.”
“I’ll take it clean out, sir,” the man, to the company, “before you can come across the room to it. Gentlemen all, the dark upon this gentleman’s hat, no than a shilling, but than a half-crown. Whether it is a wine-stain, fruit-stain, beer-stain, water-stain, paint-stain, pitch-stain, mud-stain, or blood-stain—”
The man got no further, for Sikes with a the table, and the from him, out of the house.
With the same of and that had upon him, despite himself, all day, the murderer, that he was not followed, and that they most him some fellow, up the town, and out of the of the of a stage-coach that was in the street, was walking past, when he the from London, and saw that it was at the little post-office. He almost what was to come; but he over, and listened.
The was at the door, waiting for the letter-bag. A man, like a game-keeper, came up at the moment, and he him a which on the pavement.
“That’s for your people,” said the guard. “Now, look alive in there, will you. Damn that ’ere bag, it warn’t night last; this won’t do, you know!”
“Anything new up in town, Ben?” asked the game-keeper, to the window-shutters, the to the horses.
“No, nothing that I on,” the man, on his gloves. “Corn’s up a little. I talk of a murder, too, Spitalfields way, but I don’t much upon it.”
“Oh, that’s true,” said a inside, who was looking out of the window. “And a it was.”
“Was it, sir?” the guard, his hat. “Man or woman, pray, sir?”
“A woman,” the gentleman. “It is supposed—”
“Now, Ben,” the impatiently.
“Damn that ’ere bag,” said the guard; “are you gone to sleep in there?”
“Coming!” the office keeper, out.
“Coming,” the guard. “Ah, and so’s the ’ooman of property that’s going to take a to me, but I don’t know when. Here, give hold. All ri—ight!”
The a notes, and the coach was gone.
Sikes in the street, by what he had just heard, and by no than a where to go. At length he again, and took the road which leads from Hatfield to St. Albans.
He on doggedly; but as he left the town him, and into the and of the road, he a and upon him which him to the core. Every object him, or shadow, still or moving, took the of some thing; but these were nothing to the that him of that morning’s at his heels. He its in the gloom, supply the smallest item of the outline, and note how and it to along. He its in the leaves, and every of wind came with that last low cry. If he stopped it did the same. If he ran, it followed—not too: that would have been a relief: but like a with the of life, and on one slow wind that rose or fell.
At times, he turned, with determination, to this off, though it should look him dead; but the rose on his head, and his blood still, for it had with him and was him then. He had it him that morning, but it was now—always. He his against a bank, and that it above him, visibly out against the cold night-sky. He himself upon the road—on his upon the road. At his it stood, silent, erect, and still—a grave-stone, with its in blood.
Let no man talk of justice, and hint that Providence must sleep. There were twenty score of deaths in one long minute of that of fear.
There was a in a he passed, that offered for the night. Before the door, were three tall trees, which it very dark within; and the wind through them with a wail. He not walk on, till came again; and here he himself close to the wall—to new torture.
For now, a came him, as and more terrible than that from which he had escaped. Those eyes, so and so glassy, that he had to see them than think upon them, appeared in the of the darkness: light in themselves, but light to nothing. There were but two, but they were everywhere. If he out the sight, there came the room with every well-known object—some, indeed, that he would have forgotten, if he had gone over its from memory—each in its place. The was in its place, and its were as he saw them when he away. He got up, and into the without. The was him. He re-entered the shed, and once more. The were there, he had himself along.
And here he in such terror as none but he can know, in every limb, and the cold starting from every pore, when there upon the night-wind the noise of shouting, and the of voices in and wonder. Any of men in that place, though it a of alarm, was something to him. He his and energy at the of personal danger; and to his feet, into the open air.
The sky on fire. Rising into the air with of sparks, and one above the other, were of flame, the for miles round, and clouds of in the direction where he stood. The louder as new voices the roar, and he the of Fire! with the of an alarm-bell, the of bodies, and the of as they some new obstacle, and as though by food. The noise as he looked. There were people there—men and women—light, bustle. It was like new life to him. He onward—straight, headlong—dashing through and brake, and gate and as as his dog, who with loud and him.
He came upon the spot. There were half-dressed to and fro, some to the from the stables, others the from the and out-houses, and others from the pile, a of sparks, and the of red-hot beams. The apertures, where doors and an hour ago, a of fire; and into the well; the lead and iron down, white hot, upon the ground. Women and children shrieked, and men each other with noisy and cheers. The of the engine-pumps, and the and of the water as it upon the wood, added to the roar. He shouted, too, till he was hoarse; and from memory and himself, into the of the throng. Hither and he that night: now at the pumps, and now through the and flame, but to himself noise and men were thickest. Up and the ladders, upon the of buildings, over that and with his weight, under the of and stones, in every part of that great fire was he; but he a life, and had neither bruise, thought, till again, and only and remained.
This over, there returned, with ten-fold force, the of his crime. He looked about him, for the men were in groups, and he to be the of their talk. The dog the of his finger, and they off, stealthily, together. He passed near an engine where some men were seated, and they called to him to in their refreshment. He took some and meat; and as he a of beer, the firemen, who were from London, talking about the murder. “He has gone to Birmingham, they say,” said one: “but they’ll have him yet, for the are out, and by to-morrow night there’ll be a all through the country.”
He off, and walked till he almost upon the ground; then in a lane, and had a long, but and sleep. He on again, and undecided, and with the of another night.
Suddenly, he took the to going to London.
“There’s somebody to speak to there, at all event,” he thought. “A good hiding-place, too. They’ll to me there, after this country scent. Why can’t I by for a week or so, and, from Fagin, to France? Damme, I’ll it.”
He upon this without delay, and the least his back, to a of the metropolis, and, entering it at by a route, to to that part of it which he had on for his destination.
The dog, though. If any of him were out, it would not be that the dog was missing, and had gone with him. This might lead to his as he passed along the streets. He to him, and walked on, looking about for a pond: up a and it to his as he went.
The animal looked up into his master’s while these were making; his something of their purpose, or the robber’s look at him was than ordinary, he a little in the than usual, and as he came more slowly along. When his master at the of a pool, and looked to call him, he stopped outright.
“Do you me call? Come here!” Sikes.
The animal came up from the very of habit; but as Sikes to the to his throat, he a low and started back.
“Come back!” said the robber.
The dog his tail, but moved not. Sikes a and called him again.
The dog advanced, retreated, paused an instant, and away at his speed.
The man again and again, and sat and waited in the that he would return. But no dog appeared, and at length he his journey.
