COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER’S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW’S, WITH
THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM,
WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND.
OLIVER soon recovered from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow’s
abrupt exclamation had thrown him; and the subject of the picture was
carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the
conversation that ensued, which indeed bore no reference to Oliver’s
history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse
without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast;
but, when he came down into the housekeeper’s room next day, his first
act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again
looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were
disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed.
“Ah!” said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver’s eyes.
“It is gone, you see.”
“I see it is, ma’am,” replied Oliver, with a sigh. “Why have they taken
it away?”
“It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that, as it
seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you
know,” rejoined the old lady.
“Oh, no, indeed it didn’t worry me, ma’am,” said Oliver. “I liked to
see it; I quite loved it.”
“Well, well!” said the old lady, good-humouredly; “you get well as fast
as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There, I promise
you that; now let us talk about something else.”
This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at
that time, and as the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness,
he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so listened
attentively to a great many stories she told him about an amiable and
handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome
man, and lived in the country; and a son, who was clerk to a merchant
in the West Indies, and who was also such a good young man, and wrote
such dutiful letters home four times a year, that it brought the tears
into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated a
long time on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her
kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul!
just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea; and after tea she
began to teach Oliver cribbage, which he learnt as quickly as she could
teach, and at which game they played, with great interest and gravity,
until it was time for the invalid to have some warm wine and water,
with a slice of dry toast, and to go cosily to bed.
They were happy days those of Oliver’s recovery. Everything was so
quiet, and neat, and orderly: everybody so kind and gentle, that after
the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it
seemed like heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his
clothes on properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and
a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver
was told that he might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave
them to a servant who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell
them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very readily
did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew
roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to think
that they were safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger
of his ever being able to wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell
the truth; and Oliver had never had a new suit before.
One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he was
sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr.
Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like to see
him in his study, and talk to him a little while.
“Bless us, and save us! wash your hands, and let me part your hair
nicely for you, child,” said Mrs. Bedwin. “Dear heart alive! if we had
known he would have asked for you, we would have put you a clean collar
on, and made you as smart as sixpence.”
Oliver did as the old lady bade him, and, although she lamented
grievously meanwhile that there was not even time to crimp the little
frill that bordered his shirt-collar, he looked so delicate and
handsome, despite that important personal advantage, that she went so
far as to say, looking at him with great complacency from head to foot,
that she really didn’t think it would have been possible on the longest
notice to have made much difference in him for the better.
Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door, and, on Mr. Brownlow
calling to him to come in, found himself in a little back room quite
full of books, with a window looking into some pleasant little gardens.
There was a table drawn up before the window, at which Mr. Brownlow
was seated reading. When he saw Oliver, he pushed the book away from
him, and told him to come near the table and sit down. Oliver complied,
marvelling where the people could be found to read such a great number
of books as seemed to be written to make the world wiser,—which is
still a marvel to more experienced people than Oliver Twist every day
of their lives.
“There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?” said Mr.
Brownlow, observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the
shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling.
“A great number, sir,” replied Oliver; “I never saw so many.”
“You shall read them if you behave well,” said the old gentleman
kindly; “and you will like that, better than looking at the
outsides,—that is, in some cases, because there _are_ books of which
the backs and covers are by far the best parts.”
“I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir,” said Oliver, pointing to
some large quartos with a good deal of gilding about the binding.
“Not always those,” said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the
head, and smiling as he did so; “there are other equally heavy ones,
though of a much smaller size. How should you like to grow up a clever
man, and write books, eh?”
“I think I would rather read them, sir,” replied Oliver.
“What! wouldn’t you like to be a book-writer?” said the old gentleman.
Oliver considered a little while, and at last said he should think it
would be a much better thing to be a bookseller; upon which the old
gentleman laughed heartily, and declared he had said a very good thing,
which Oliver felt glad to have done, though he by no means knew what it
was.
“Well, well,” said the old gentleman, composing his features, “don’t be
afraid; we won’t make an author of you, while there’s an honest trade
to be learnt, or brick-making to turn to.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Oliver; and at the earnest manner of his reply
the old gentleman laughed again, and said something about a curious
instinct, which Oliver, not understanding, paid no very great attention
to.
“Now,” said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possible in a kinder, but at the
same time in a much more serious manner than Oliver had ever heard him
speak in yet, “I want you to pay great attention, my boy, to what I am
going to say. I shall talk to you without any reserve, because I am
sure you are as well able to understand me as many older persons would
be.”
“Oh, don’t tell me you are going to send me away, sir, pray!”
exclaimed Oliver, alarmed by the serious tone of the old gentleman’s
commencement! “don’t turn me out of doors to wander in the streets
again. Let me stay here and be a servant. Don’t send me back to the
wretched place I came from. Have mercy upon a poor boy, sir; do?”
“My dear child,” said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of
Oliver’s sudden appeal, “you need not be afraid of my deserting you,
unless you give me cause.”
“I never, never will, sir,” interposed Oliver.
“I hope not,” rejoined the old gentleman; “I do not think you ever
will. I have been deceived before, in the objects whom I have
endeavoured to benefit; but I feel strongly disposed to trust you,
nevertheless, and more interested in your behalf than I can well
account for, even to myself. The persons on whom I have bestowed my
dearest love lie deep in their graves; but, although the happiness and
delight of my life lie buried there too, I have not made a coffin of my
heart, and sealed it up for ever on my best affections. Deep affliction
has only made them stronger; it ought, I think, for it should refine
our nature.”
As the old gentleman said this in a low voice, more to himself than to
his companion, and remained silent for a short time afterwards, Oliver
sat quite still, almost afraid to breathe.
“Well, well,” said the old gentleman at length in a more cheerful tone,
“I only say this, because you have a young heart, and knowing that I
have suffered great pain and sorrow, you will be more careful, perhaps,
not to wound me again. You say you are an orphan, without a friend
in the world; all the inquiries I have been able to make confirm the
statement. Let me hear your story; where you came from, who brought
you up, and how you got into the company in which I found you. Speak
the truth; and if I find you have committed no crime, you will never be
friendless while I live.”
Oliver’s sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; and when he was
on the point of beginning to relate how he had been brought up at
the farm, and carried to the workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a peculiarly
impatient little double-knock was heard at the street-door, and the
servant, running up stairs, announced Mr. Grimwig.
“Is he coming up?” inquired Mr. Brownlow.
“Yes, sir,” replied the servant. “He asked if there were any muffins in
the house, and, when I told him yes, he said he had come to tea.”
Mr. Brownlow smiled, and, turning to Oliver, said Mr. Grimwig was an
old friend of his, and he must not mind his being a little rough in his
manners, for he was a worthy creature at bottom, as he had reason to
know.
“Shall I go down stairs, sir?” inquired Oliver.
“No,” replied Mr. Brownlow; “I would rather you stopped here.”
At this moment there walked into the room, supporting himself by
a thick stick, a stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, who
was dressed in a blue coat, striped waistcoat, nankeen breeches and
gaiters, and a broad-brimmed white hat, with the sides turned up with
green. A very small-plaited shirt-frill stuck out from his waistcoat,
and a very long steel watch-chain, with nothing but a key at the end,
dangled loosely below it. The ends of his white neckerchief were
twisted into a ball about the size of an orange;—the variety of
shapes into which his countenance was twisted defy description. He
had a manner of screwing his head round on one side when he spoke,
and looking out of the corners of his eyes at the same time, which
irresistibly reminded the beholder of a parrot. In this attitude he
fixed himself the moment he made his appearance; and, holding out a
small piece of orange-peel at arm’s length, exclaimed in a growling,
discontented voice,
“Look here! do you see this? Isn’t it a most wonderful and
extraordinary thing that I can’t call at a man’s house but I find a
piece of this poor-surgeon’s-friend on the staircase? I’ve been lamed
with orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel will be my death at
last. It will, sir; orange-peel will be my death, or I’ll be content
to eat my own head, sir!” This was the handsome offer with which Mr.
Grimwig backed and confirmed nearly every assertion he made: and it
was the more singular in his case, because, even admitting, for the
sake of argument, the possibility of scientific improvements being ever
brought to that pass which will enable a gentleman to eat his own head
in the event of his being so disposed, Mr. Grimwig’s head was such a
particularly large one, that the most sanguine man alive could hardly
entertain a hope of being able to get through it at a sitting—to put
entirely out of the question a very thick coating of powder.
“I’ll eat my head, sir,” repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick upon
the ground. “Hallo! what’s that?” he added, looking at Oliver, and
retreating a pace or two.
“This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about,” said Mr.
Brownlow.
Oliver bowed.
“You don’t mean to say that’s the boy that had the fever, I hope?” said
Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little further. “Wait a minute, don’t speak:
stop—” continued Mr. Grimwig abruptly, losing all dread of the fever
in his triumph at the discovery; “that’s the boy that had the orange!
If that’s not the boy, sir, that had the orange, and threw this bit of
peel upon the staircase, I’ll eat my head and his too.”
“No, no, he has not had one,” said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. “Come, put
down your hat, and speak to my young friend.”
“I feel strongly on this subject, sir,” said the irritable old
gentleman, drawing off his gloves. “There’s always more or less
orange-peel on the pavement in our street, and I _know_ it’s put there
by the surgeon’s boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit
last night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got up I
saw her look towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light.
‘Don’t go to him,’ I called out of the window, ‘he’s an assassin,—a
man-trap!’ So he is. If he is not——” Here the irascible old gentleman
gave a great knock on the ground with his stick, which as always
understood by his friends to imply the customary offer whenever it was
not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he
sat down, and, opening a double eye-glass which he wore attached to a
broad black riband, took a view of Oliver, who, seeing that he was the
object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again.
“That’s the boy, is it?” said Mr. Grimwig, at length.
“That is the boy,” replied Mr. Brownlow, nodding good-humouredly to
Oliver.
“How are you, boy?” said Mr. Grimwig.
“A great deal better, thank you, sir,” replied Oliver.
Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about
to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step down stairs and
tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea, which, as he did not half
like the visitor’s manner, he was very happy to do.
“He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?” inquired Mr. Brownlow.
“I don’t know,” replied Grimwig, pettishly.
“Don’t know?”
“No, I don’t know. I never see any difference in boys. I only know two
sorts of boys,—mealy boys, and beef-faced boys.”
“And which is Oliver!”
“Mealy. I know a friend who’s got a beef-faced boy; a fine boy they
call him, with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid
boy, with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams
of his blue clothes—with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a
wolf. I know him, the wretch!”
“Come,” said Mr. Brownlow, “these are not the characteristics of young
Oliver Twist; so he needn’t excite your wrath.”
“They are not,” replied Grimwig. “He may have worse.”
Here Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently, which appeared to afford Mr.
Grimwig the most exquisite delight.
“He may have worse, I say,” repeated Mr. Grimwig. “Where does he come
from? Who is he? What is he? He has had a fever—what of that? Fevers
are not peculiar to good people, are they? Bad people have fevers
sometimes, haven’t they, eh? I knew a man that was hung in Jamaica
for murdering his master; he had had a fever six times; he wasn’t
recommended to mercy on that account. Pooh! nonsense!”
Now, the fact was, that, in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr.
Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver’s appearance and
manner were unusually prepossessing, but he had a strong appetite
for contradiction, sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the
orange-peel; and inwardly determining that no man should dictate to
him whether a boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved from the
first to oppose his friend. When Mr. Brownlow admitted that on no one
point of inquiry could he yet return a satisfactory answer, and that
he had postponed any investigation into Oliver’s previous history until
he thought the boy was strong enough to bear it, Mr. Grimwig chuckled
maliciously, and demanded, with a sneer, whether the housekeeper was in
the habit of counting the plate at night; because, if she didn’t find
a table-spoon or two missing some sunshiny morning, why, he would be
content to——, et cetera.
All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous
gentleman, knowing his friend’s peculiarities, bore with great good
humour; as Mr. Grimwig, at tea, was graciously pleased to express his
entire approval of the muffins, matters went on very smoothly; and
Oliver, who made one of the party, began to feel more at his ease than
he had yet done in the fierce old gentleman’s presence.
“And when are you going to hear a full, true, and particular account
of the life and adventures of Oliver Twist?” asked Grimwig of Mr.
Brownlow, at the conclusion of the meal: looking sideways at Oliver as
he resumed the subject.
“To-morrow morning,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “I would rather he was alone
with me at the time. Come up to me to-morrow morning at ten o’clock, my
dear.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver. He answered with some hesitation, because
he was confused by Mr. Grimwig’s looking so hard at him.
“I’ll tell you what,” whispered that gentleman to Mr. Brownlow; “he
won’t come up to you to-morrow morning. I saw him hesitate. He is
deceiving you, my dear friend.”
“I’ll swear he is not,” replied Mr. Brownlow, warmly.
“If he is not,” said Mr. Grimwig, “I’ll——” and down went the stick.
“I’ll answer for that boy’s truth with my life,” said Mr. Brownlow,
knocking the table.
“And I for his falsehood with my head,” rejoined Mr. Grimwig, knocking
the table also.
“We shall see,” said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising passion.
“We will,” replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile; “we will.”
As fate would have it, Mrs. Bedwin chanced to bring in at this moment
a small parcel of books which Mr. Brownlow had that morning purchased
of the identical bookstall-keeper who has already figured in this
history; which having laid on the table, she prepared to leave the room.
“Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin,” said Mr. Brownlow; “there is something to
go back.”
“He has gone, sir,” replied Mrs. Bedwin.
“Call after him,” said Mr. Brownlow; “it’s particular. He is a poor
man, and they are not paid for. There are some books to be taken back,
too.”
The street-door was opened. Oliver ran one way, and the girl another,
and Mrs. Bedwin stood on the step and screamed for the boy; but there
was no boy in sight, and both Oliver and the girl returned in a
breathless state to report that there were no tidings of him.
“Dear me, I am very sorry for that,” exclaimed Mr. Brownlow; “I
particularly wished those books to be returned to-night.”
“Send Oliver with them,” said Mr. Grimwig with an ironical smile; “he
will be sure to deliver them safely, you know.”
“Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir,” said Oliver; “I’ll run
all the way, sir.”
The old gentleman was just going to say that Oliver should not go out
on any account, when a most malicious cough from Mr. Grimwig determined
him that he should, and by his prompt discharge of the commission prove
to him the injustice of his suspicions, on this head at least, at once.
“You _shall_ go, my dear,” said the old gentleman. “The books are on a
chair by my table. Fetch them down.”
Oliver, delighted to be of use, brought down the books under his arm in
a great bustle, and waited, cap in hand, to hear what message he was to
take.
“You are to say,” said Mr. Brownlow, glancing steadily at
Grimwig,—“you are to say that you have brought those books back,
and that you have come to pay the four pound ten I owe him. This is
a five-pound note, so you will have to bring me back ten shillings
change.”
“I won’t be ten minutes, sir,” replied Oliver, eagerly; and, having
buttoned up the bank-note in his jacket pocket, and placed the books
carefully under his arm, he made a respectful bow, and left the room.
Mrs. Bedwin followed him to the street-door, giving him many directions
about the nearest way, and the name of the bookseller, and the name of
the street, all of which Oliver said he clearly understood; and, having
superadded many injunctions to be sure and not take cold, the careful
old lady at length permitted him to depart.
“Bless his sweet face!” said the old lady, looking after him. “I can’t
bear, somehow, to let him go out of my sight.”
At this moment, Oliver looked gaily round, and nodded before he turned
the corner. The old lady smilingly returned his salutation, and,
closing the door, went back to her own room.
“Let me see; he’ll be back in twenty minutes, at the longest,” said Mr.
Brownlow, pulling out his watch, and placing it on the table. “It will
be dark by that time.”
“Oh! you really expect him to come back, do you?” inquired Mr. Grimwig.
“Don’t you?” asked Mr. Brownlow, smiling.
The spirit of contradiction was strong in Mr. Grimwig’s breast at the
moment, and it was rendered stronger by his friend’s confident smile.
“No,” he said, smiting the table with his fist, “I do not. The boy has
a new suit of clothes on his back, a set of valuable books under his
arm, and a five-pound note in his pocket; he’ll join his old friends
the thieves, and laugh at you. If ever that boy returns to this house,
sir, I’ll eat my head.”
With these words he drew his chair closer to the table, and there the
two friends sat in silent expectation, with the watch between them.
It is worthy of remark, as illustrating the importance we attach to
our own judgments, and the pride with which we put forth our most rash
and hasty conclusions, that, although Mr. Grimwig was not by any means
a bad-hearted man, and would have been unfeignedly sorry to see his
respected friend duped and deceived, he really did most earnestly and
strongly hope at that moment that Oliver Twist might not come back. Of
such contradictions is human nature made up!
It grew so dark that the figures on the dial were scarcely discernible;
but there the two old gentlemen continued to sit in silence, with the
watch between them.