IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. WITH
SOME PARTICULARS CONCERNING A CERTAIN PICTURE.
THE coach rattled away down Mount Pleasant and up Exmouth-street,—over
nearly the same ground as that which Oliver had traversed when he first
entered London in company with the Dodger,—and, turning a different
way when it reached the Angel at Islington, stopped at length before
a neat house in a quiet shady street near Pentonville. Here a bed was
prepared without loss of time, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his young
charge carefully and comfortably deposited; and here he was tended with
a kindness and solicitude which knew no bounds.
But for many days Oliver remained insensible to all the goodness of
his new friends; the sun rose and sunk, and rose and sunk again, and
many times after that, and still the boy lay stretched upon his uneasy
bed, dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever,—that
heat which, like the subtle acid that gnaws into the very heart of
hardest iron, burns only to corrode and to destroy. The worm does not
his work more surely on the dead body, than does this slow creeping
fire upon the living frame.
Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to have
been a long and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in the bed, with
his head resting on his trembling arm, he looked anxiously round.
“What room is this?—where have I been brought to?” said Oliver. “This
is not the place I went to sleep in.”
He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and weak;
but they were overheard at once, for the curtain at the bed’s head was
hastily drawn back, and a motherly old lady, very neatly and precisely
dressed, rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair close by, in which
she had been sitting at needle-work.
“Hush, my dear,” said the old lady softly. “You must be very quiet,
or you will be ill again, and you have been very bad,—as bad as bad
could be, pretty nigh. Lie down again—there’s a dear.” With these
words the old lady very gently placed Oliver’s head upon the pillow,
and, smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly
and lovingly in his face, that he could not help placing his little
withered hand upon hers, and drawing it round his neck.
“Save us!” said the old lady, with tears in her eyes, “what a grateful
little dear it is. Pretty creetur! what would his mother feel if she
had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!”
“Perhaps she does see me,” whispered Oliver, folding his hands
together; “perhaps she has sat by me, ma’am. I almost feel as if she
had.”
“That was the fever, my dear,” said the old lady mildly.
“I suppose it was,” replied Oliver thoughtfully, “because heaven is a
long way off, and they are too happy there to come down to the bedside
of a poor boy. But if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me even
there, for she was very ill herself before she died. She can’t know
anything about me though,” added Oliver after a moment’s silence, “for
if she had seen me beat, it would have made her sorrowful; and her face
has always looked sweet and happy when I have dreamt of her.”
The old lady made no reply to this, but wiping her eyes first, and her
spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were
part and parcel of those features, brought some cool stuff for Oliver
to drink, and then patting him on the cheek, told him he must lie very
quiet, or he would be ill again.
So Oliver kept very still, partly because he was anxious to obey the
kind old lady in all things, and partly, to tell the truth, because
he was completely exhausted with what he had already said. He soon
fell into a gentle doze, from which he was awakened by the light of a
candle, which, being brought near the bed, showed him a gentleman,
with a very large and loud-ticking gold watch in his hand, who felt his
pulse and said he was a great deal better.
“You _are_ a great deal better, are you not, my dear?” said the
gentleman.
“Yes, thank you, sir,” replied Oliver.
“Yes, I know you are,” said the gentleman: “You’re hungry too, an’t
you?”
“No, sir,” answered Oliver.
“Hem!” said the gentleman. “No, I know you’re not. He is not hungry,
Mrs. Bedwin,” said the gentleman, looking very wise.
The old lady made a respectful inclination of the head, which seemed
to say that she thought the doctor was a very clever man. The doctor
appeared very much of the same opinion himself.
“You feel sleepy, don’t you, my dear?” said the doctor.
“No, sir,” replied Oliver.
“No,” said the doctor with a very shrewd and satisfied look. “You’re
not sleepy. Nor thirsty, are you?”
“Yes, sir, rather thirsty,” answered Oliver.
“Just as I expected, Mrs. Bedwin,” said the doctor. “It’s very natural
that he should be thirsty—perfectly natural. You may give him a little
tea, ma’am, and some dry toast without any butter. Don’t keep him too
warm, ma’am; but be careful that you don’t let him be too cold—will
you have the goodness?”
The old lady dropped a curtsey; and the doctor, after tasting the cool
stuff, and expressing a qualified approval thereof, hurried away: his
boots creaking in a very important and wealthy manner as he went down
stairs.
Oliver dozed off again soon after this, and when he awoke it was nearly
twelve o’clock. The old lady tenderly bade him good-night shortly
afterwards, and left him in charge of a fat old woman who had just
come, bringing with her in a little bundle a small Prayer Book and a
large nightcap. Putting the latter on her head, and the former on the
table, the old woman, after telling Oliver that she had come to sit up
with him, drew her chair close to the fire and went off into a series
of short naps, chequered at frequent intervals with sundry tumblings
forward, and divers moans and chokings, which, however, had no worse
effect than causing her to rub her nose very hard, and then fall asleep
again.
And thus the night crept slowly on. Oliver lay awake for some time,
counting the little circles of light which the reflection of the
rushlight-shade threw upon the ceiling, or tracing with his languid
eyes the intricate pattern of the paper on the wall. The darkness and
deep stillness of the room were very solemn; and as they brought into
the boy’s mind the thought that death had been hovering there for many
days and nights, and might yet fill it with the gloom and dread of
his awful presence, he turned his face upon the pillow, and fervently
prayed to Heaven.
Gradually he fell into that deep tranquil sleep which ease from recent
suffering alone imparts; that calm and peaceful rest which it is pain
to wake from. Who, if this were death, would be roused again to all the
struggles and turmoils of life,—to all its cares for the present, its
anxieties for the future, and, more than all, its weary recollections
of the past!
It had been bright day for hours when Oliver opened his eyes, and when
he did so, he felt cheerful and happy. The crisis of the disease was
safely past, and he belonged to the world again.
In three days’ time he was able to sit in an easy-chair well propped
up with pillows; and, as he was still too weak to walk, Mrs. Bedwin
had him carried down stairs into the little house-keeper’s room, which
belonged to her, where having sat him up by the fireside, the good
old lady sat herself down too, and, being in a state of considerable
delight at seeing him so much better, forthwith began to cry most
violently.
“Never mind me, my dear,” said the old lady; “I’m only having a regular
good cry. There; it’s all over now, and I’m quite comfortable.”
“You’re very, very kind to me, ma’am,” said Oliver.
“Well, never you mind that, my dear,” said the old lady; “that’s got
nothing to do with your broth, and it’s full time you had it, for the
doctor says Mr. Brownlow may come in to see you this morning, and we
must get up our best looks, because the better we look the more he’ll
be pleased.” And with this, the old lady applied herself to warming up
in a little saucepan a basin full of broth, strong enough to furnish
an ample dinner, when reduced to the regulation strength, for three
hundred and fifty paupers, at the very lowest computation.
“Are you fond of pictures, dear?” inquired the old lady, seeing that
Oliver had fixed his eyes most intently on a portrait which hung
against the wall just opposite his chair.
“I don’t quite know, ma’am,” said Oliver, without taking his eyes from
the canvass; “I have seen so few that I hardly know. What a beautiful,
mild face that lady’s is!”
“Ah!” said the old lady, “painters always make ladies out prettier than
they are, or they wouldn’t get any custom, child. The man that invented
the machine for taking likenesses might have known _that_ would never
succeed; it’s a deal too honest,—a deal,” said the old lady, laughing
very heartily at her own acuteness.
“Is—is that a likeness, ma’am?” said Oliver.
“Yes,” said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the broth;
“that’s a portrait.”
“Whose, ma’am?” asked Oliver eagerly.
“Why, really, my dear, I don’t know,” answered the old lady in a
good-humoured manner. “It’s not a likeness of anybody that you or I
know, I expect. It seems to strike your fancy, dear.”
“It is so very pretty—so very beautiful,” replied Oliver.
“Why, sure you’re not afraid of it?” said the old lady, observing
in great surprise the look of awe with which the child regarded the
painting.
“Oh no, no,” returned Oliver quickly; “but the eyes look so sorrowful,
and where I sit they seem fixed upon me. It makes my heart beat,” added
Oliver in a low voice, “as if it was alive, and wanted to speak to me,
but couldn’t.”
“Lord save us!” exclaimed the old lady, starting; “don’t talk in that
way, child. You’re weak and nervous after your illness. Let me wheel
your chair round to the other side, and then you won’t see it. There,”
said the old lady, suiting the action to the word; “you don’t see it
now, at all events.”
Oliver _did_ see it in his mind’s eye as distinctly as if he had not
altered his position, but he thought it better not to worry the kind
old lady; so he smiled gently when she looked at him, and Mrs. Bedwin,
satisfied that he felt more comfortable, salted and broke bits of
toasted bread into the broth with all the bustle befitting so solemn a
preparation. Oliver got through it with extraordinary expedition, and
had scarcely swallowed the last spoonful when there came a soft tap at
the door. “Come in,” said the old lady; and in walked Mr. Brownlow.
Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but he had no
sooner raised his spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his hands
behind the skirts of his dressing-gown to take a good long look
at Oliver, than his countenance underwent a very great variety of
odd contortions. Oliver looked very worn and shadowy from sickness,
and made an ineffectual attempt to stand up, out of respect to his
benefactor, which terminated in his sinking back into the chair again;
and the fact is, if the truth must be told, that Mr. Brownlow’s heart
being large enough for any six ordinary old gentlemen of humane
disposition, forced a supply of tears into his eyes by some hydraulic
process which we are not sufficiently philosophical to be in a
condition to explain.
[Illustration: _Oliver recovering from the fever._]
“Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his throat. “I’m
rather hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin; I’m afraid I have caught cold.”
“I hope not, sir,” said Mrs. Bedwin. “Everything you have had, has been
well aired, sir.”
“I don’t know, Bedwin,—I don’t know,” said Mr. Brownlow; “I rather
think I had a damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday: but never mind
that. How do you feel, my dear?”
“Very happy, sir,” replied Oliver, “and very grateful indeed, sir, for
your goodness to me.”
“Good boy,” said Mr. Brownlow stoutly. “Have you given him any
nourishment, Bedwin?—any slops, eh?”
“He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir,” replied Mrs.
Bedwin, drawing herself up slightly, and laying a strong emphasis
on the last word, to intimate that between slops, and broth well
compounded, there existed no affinity or connexion whatsoever.
“Ugh!” said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder; “a couple of glasses
of port wine would have done him a great deal more good,—wouldn’t
they, Tom White,—eh?”
“My name is Oliver, sir,” replied the little invalid with a look of
great astonishment.
“Oliver,” said Mr. Brownlow; “Oliver what? Oliver White,—eh?”
“No, sir, Twist,—Oliver Twist.”
“Queer name,” said the old gentleman. “What made you tell the
magistrate your name was White?”
“I never told him so, sir,” returned Oliver in amazement.
This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked
somewhat sternly in Oliver’s face. It was impossible to doubt him;
there was truth in every one of its thin and sharpened lineaments.
“Some mistake,” said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive for looking
steadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the resemblance
between his features and some familiar face came upon him so strongly
that he could not withdraw his gaze.
“I hope you are not angry with me, sir?” said Oliver, raising his eyes
beseechingly.
“No, no,” replied the old gentleman.—“Gracious God, what’s
this!—Bedwin, look, look there!”
As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture above Oliver’s head,
and then to the boy’s face. There was its living copy,—the eyes, the
head, the mouth; every feature was the same. The expression was for the
instant so precisely alike, that the minutest line seemed copied with
an accuracy which was perfectly unearthly.
Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation, for he was not
strong enough to bear the start it gave him, and he fainted away.