MR. BROWNLOW’S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG
UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND
Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr.
Brownlow’s abrupt exclamation had thrown him, 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. ‘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. 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 he 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 about 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. 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 then 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. On Mr. Brownlow
calling to him to come in, he 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, 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 book-seller; 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. 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
known him assume 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 well able to understand me, as many older
persons would be.’
‘Oh, don’t tell you are going to send me away, sir, pray!’
exclaimed Oliver, alarmed at 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!’
‘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 I am 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, forever, on my best
affections. Deep affliction has but strengthened and refined them.’
As the old gentleman said this in a low voice: more to himself
than to his companion: and as he remained silent for a short time
afterwards: Oliver sat quite still.
‘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 come
from; who brought you up; and how you got into the company in which
I found you. Speak the truth, and you shall not be friendless while
I live.’
Oliver’s sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; 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 upstairs, 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 that 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 downstairs, sir?’ inquired Oliver.
‘No,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, ‘I would rather you remained 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 on one side when
he spoke; and of 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, 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 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!’ 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 who had the fever, I hope?’
said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little more. ‘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 who had
the orange! If that’s not the boy, sir, who 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 was 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’s the boy,’ replied Mr. Brownlow.
‘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 downstairs
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 Mr. Grimwig, pettishly.
‘Don’t know?’
‘No. I don’t know. I never see any difference in boys. I only knew
two sort of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys.’
‘And which is Oliver?’
‘Mealy. I know a friend who has 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 Mr. 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 who 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 hear it; Mr.
Grimwig chuckled maliciously. And he 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--and so forth.
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 his 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 good 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 anger.
‘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; having laid them 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 ran
another; and Mrs. Bedwin stood on the step and screamed for the boy;
but there was no boy in sight. 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 that, by his prompt discharge
of the commission, he should 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,’ said Oliver, eagerly. 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. Having superadded many injunctions to be sure and not
take cold, the 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 though he 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.
It grew so dark, that the figures on the dial-plate were scarcely
discernible; but there the two old gentlemen continued to sit, in
silence, with the watch between them.