OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND
RATHER ASTONISHES HIM.
THE month’s trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a
nice sickly season just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins
were looking up; and, in the course of a few weeks, Oliver had
acquired a great deal of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry’s
ingenious speculation exceeded even his most sanguine hopes. The
oldest inhabitants recollected no period at which measles had been so
prevalent, or so fatal to infant existence; and many were the mournful
processions which little Oliver headed in a hat-band reaching down
to his knees, to the indescribable admiration and emotion of all the
mothers in the town. As Oliver accompanied his master in most of his
adult expeditions too, in order that he might acquire that unanimity
of demeanour and full command of nerve which are so essential to
a finished undertaker, he had many opportunities of observing the
beautiful resignation and fortitude with which some strong-minded
people bear their trials and losses.
For instance, when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some
rich old lady or gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number of
nephews and nieces, who had been perfectly inconsolable during the
previous illness, and whose grief had been wholly irrepressible even
on the most public occasions, they would be as happy among themselves
as need be—quite cheerful and contented, conversing together with as
much freedom and gaiety as if nothing whatever had happened to disturb
them. Husbands, too, bore the loss of their wives with the most heroic
calmness; and wives, again, put on weeds for their husbands, as if, so
far from grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds
to render it as becoming and attractive as possible. It was observable,
too, that ladies and gentlemen who were in passions of anguish during
the ceremony of interment, recovered almost as soon as they reached
home, and became quite composed before the tea-drinking was over. All
this was very pleasant and improving to see, and Oliver beheld it with
great admiration.
That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these
good people, I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to
affirm with any degree of confidence; but I can most distinctly say,
that for many months he continued meekly to submit to the domination
and ill-treatment of Noah Claypole, who used him far worse than ever,
now that his jealousy was roused by seeing the new boy promoted to the
black stick and hat-band, while he, the old one, remained stationary in
the muffin-cap and leathers. Charlotte treated him badly because Noah
did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy because Mr. Sowerberry
was disposed to be his friend: so, between these three on one side,
and a glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as
comfortable as the hungry pig was, when he was shut up by mistake in
the grain department of a brewery.
And now I come to a very important passage in Oliver’s history, for I
have to record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance,
but which indirectly produced a most material change in all his future
prospects and proceedings.
One day Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen, at the usual
dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton—a pound and a
half of the worst end of the neck; when, Charlotte being called out of
the way, there ensued a brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole,
being hungry and vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a
worthier purpose than aggravating and tantalising young Oliver Twist.
Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the
table-cloth, and pulled Oliver’s hair, and twitched his ears, and
expressed his opinion that he was a “sneak,” and furthermore announced
his intention of coming to see him hung whenever that desirable event
should take place, and entered upon various other topics of petty
annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was.
But, none of these taunts producing the desired effect of making Oliver
cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still, and in this attempt
did what many small wits, with far greater reputations than Noah,
notwithstanding, do to this day when they want to be funny;—he got
rather personal.
“Work’us,” said Noah, “how’s your mother?”
“She’s dead,” replied Oliver; “don’t you say anything about her to me!”
Oliver’s colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly, and there
was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole
thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying.
Under this impression, he returned to the charge.
“What did she die of, Work’us?” said Noah.
“Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me,” replied Oliver,
more as if he were talking to himself than answering Noah. “I think I
know what it must be to die of that!”
“Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work’us,” said Noah, as a tear
rolled down Oliver’s cheek. “What’s set you a-snivelling now?”
“Not _you_,” replied Oliver, hastily brushing the tear away. “Don’t
think it.”
“Oh, not me, eh?” sneered Noah.
“No, not you,” replied Oliver, sharply. “There; that’s enough. Don’t
say anything more to me about her; you’d better not!”
“Better not!” exclaimed Noah. “Well! better not! Work’us, don’t be
impudent. _Your_ mother, too! She was a nice ’un, she was. Oh, Lor!”
And here Noah nodded his head expressively, and curled up as much of
his small red nose as muscular action could collect together for the
occasion.
“Yer know, Work’us,” continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver’s silence,
and speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity—of all tones the most
annoying—“Yer know, Work’us, it carn’t be helped now, and of course
yer couldn’t help it then, and I’m very sorry for it, and I’m sure we
all are, and pity yer very much. But yer must know, Work’us, yer mother
was a regular right-down bad ’un.”
“What did you say?” inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly.
“A regular right-down bad ’un, Work’us,” replied Noah, coolly; “and
it’s a great deal better, Work’us, that she died when she did, or else
she’d have been hard labouring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung,
which is more likely than either, isn’t it?”
Crimson with fury, Oliver started up, overthrew chair and table, seized
Noah by the throat, shook him in the violence of his rage till his
teeth chattered in his head, and, collecting his whole force into one
heavy blow, felled him to the ground.
A minute ago the boy had looked the quiet, mild, dejected creature that
harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused at last; the
cruel insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire. His breast
heaved, his attitude was erect, his eye bright and vivid, and his whole
person changed, as he stood glaring over the cowardly tormentor who
lay crouching at his feet, and defied him with an energy he had never
known before.
[Illustration: _Oliver plucks up a spirit._]
“He’ll murder me!” blubbered Noah. “Charlotte! missis! here’s the new
boy a-murdering of me! Help! help! Oliver’s gone mad! Char—lotte!”
Noah’s shouts were responded to by a loud scream from Charlotte, and a
louder from Mrs. Sowerberry; the former of whom rushed into the kitchen
by a side-door, while the latter paused on the staircase till she was
quite certain that it was consistent with the preservation of human
life to come further down.
“Oh, you little wretch!” screamed Charlotte, seizing Oliver with her
utmost force, which was about equal to that of a moderately strong
man in particularly good training,—“Oh, you little un-grate-ful,
mur-de-rous, hor-rid vil-lain!” and between every syllable Charlotte
gave Oliver a blow with all her might, and accompanied it with a scream
for the benefit of society.
Charlotte’s fist was by no means a light one; but, lest it should
not be effectual in calming Oliver’s wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry plunged
into the kitchen, and assisted to hold him with one hand, while she
scratched his face with the other; in this favourable position of
affairs Noah rose from the ground, and pummeled him from behind.
This was rather too violent exercise to last long. When they were all
three wearied out, and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged
Oliver, struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted, into the
dust-cellar, and there locked him up; this being done, Mrs. Sowerberry
sunk into a chair, and burst into tears.
“Bless her, she’s going off!” said Charlotte. “A glass of water, Noah,
dear. Make haste.”
“Oh! Charlotte,” said Mrs. Sowerberry, speaking as well as she could
through a deficiency of breath and a sufficiency of cold water which
Noah had poured over her head and shoulders,—“Oh! Charlotte, what a
mercy we have not been all murdered in our beds!”
“Ah! mercy indeed, ma’am,” was the reply. “I only hope this’ll teach
master not to have any more of these dreadful creatures that are born
to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah! he was
all but killed, ma’am, when I came in.”
“Poor fellow!” said Mrs. Sowerberry, looking piteously on the
charity-boy.
Noah, whose top waistcoat-button might have been somewhere on a level
with the crown of Oliver’s head, rubbed his eyes with the inside of his
wrists while this commiseration was bestowed upon him, and performed
some affecting tears and sniffs.
“What’s to be done!” exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. “Your master’s not at
home,—there’s not a man in the house,—and he’ll kick that door down
in ten minutes.” Oliver’s vigorous plunges against the bit of timber in
question rendered this occurrence highly probable.
“Dear, dear! I don’t know, ma’am,” said Charlotte, “unless we send for
the police-officers.”
“Or the millingtary,” suggested Mr. Claypole.
“No, no,” said Mrs. Sowerberry, bethinking herself of Oliver’s old
friend; “run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly,
and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap—make haste. You can hold
a knife to that black eye as you run along, and it’ll keep the swelling
down.”
Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed;
and very much it astonished the people who were out walking, to see a
charity-boy tearing through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his
head, and a clasp-knife at his eye.