The fortunes of those who have figured in this tale are nearly
closed. The little that remains to their historian to relate, is
told in few and simple words.
Before three months had passed, Rose Fleming and Harry Maylie were
married in the village church which was henceforth to be the scene
of the young clergyman’s labours; on the same day they entered into
possession of their new and happy home.
Mrs. Maylie took up her abode with her son and daughter-in-law,
to enjoy, during the tranquil remainder of her days, the greatest
felicity that age and worth can know--the contemplation of the
happiness of those on whom the warmest affections and tenderest
cares of a well-spent life, have been unceasingly bestowed.
It appeared, on full and careful investigation, that if the wreck
of property remaining in the custody of Monks (which had never
prospered either in his hands or in those of his mother) were
equally divided between himself and Oliver, it would yield, to each,
little more than three thousand pounds. By the provisions of his
father’s will, Oliver would have been entitled to the whole; but Mr.
Brownlow, unwilling to deprive the elder son of the opportunity of
retrieving his former vices and pursuing an honest career, proposed
this mode of distribution, to which his young charge joyfully
acceded.
Monks, still bearing that assumed name, retired with his portion to
a distant part of the New World; where, having quickly squandered
it, he once more fell into his old courses, and, after undergoing a
long confinement for some fresh act of fraud and knavery, at length
sunk under an attack of his old disorder, and died in prison. As far
from home, died the chief remaining members of his friend Fagin’s
gang.
Mr. Brownlow adopted Oliver as his son. Removing with him and the
old housekeeper to within a mile of the parsonage-house, where
his dear friends resided, he gratified the only remaining wish of
Oliver’s warm and earnest heart, and thus linked together a little
society, whose condition approached as nearly to one of perfect
happiness as can ever be known in this changing world.
Soon after the marriage of the young people, the worthy doctor
returned to Chertsey, where, bereft of the presence of his old
friends, he would have been discontented if his temperament had
admitted of such a feeling; and would have turned quite peevish if
he had known how. For two or three months, he contented himself with
hinting that he feared the air began to disagree with him; then,
finding that the place really no longer was, to him, what it had
been, he settled his business on his assistant, took a bachelor’s
cottage outside the village of which his young friend was pastor,
and instantaneously recovered. Here he took to gardening, planting,
fishing, carpentering, and various other pursuits of a similar kind:
all undertaken with his characteristic impetuosity. In each and all
he has since become famous throughout the neighborhood, as a most
profound authority.
Before his removal, he had managed to contract a strong friendship
for Mr. Grimwig, which that eccentric gentleman cordially
reciprocated. He is accordingly visited by Mr. Grimwig a great many
times in the course of the year. On all such occasions, Mr. Grimwig
plants, fishes, and carpenters, with great ardour; doing everything
in a very singular and unprecedented manner, but always maintaining
with his favourite asseveration, that his mode is the right one.
On Sundays, he never fails to criticise the sermon to the young
clergyman’s face: always informing Mr. Losberne, in strict
confidence afterwards, that he considers it an excellent
performance, but deems it as well not to say so. It is a standing
and very favourite joke, for Mr. Brownlow to rally him on his old
prophecy concerning Oliver, and to remind him of the night on which
they sat with the watch between them, waiting his return; but
Mr. Grimwig contends that he was right in the main, and, in proof
thereof, remarks that Oliver did not come back after all; which
always calls forth a laugh on his side, and increases his good
humour.
Mr. Noah Claypole: receiving a free pardon from the Crown
in consequence of being admitted approver against Fagin: and
considering his profession not altogether as safe a one as he
could wish: was, for some little time, at a loss for the means of
a livelihood, not burdened with too much work. After some
consideration, he went into business as an Informer, in which
calling he realises a genteel subsistence. His plan is, to walk out
once a week during church time attended by Charlotte in respectable
attire. The lady faints away at the doors of charitable publicans,
and the gentleman being accommodated with three-penny worth of
brandy to restore her, lays an information next day, and pockets
half the penalty. Sometimes Mr. Claypole faints himself, but the
result is the same.
Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, deprived of their situations, were gradually
reduced to great indigence and misery, and finally became paupers
in that very same workhouse in which they had once lorded it over
others. Mr. Bumble has been heard to say, that in this reverse
and degradation, he has not even spirits to be thankful for being
separated from his wife.
As to Mr. Giles and Brittles, they still remain in their old posts,
although the former is bald, and the last-named boy quite grey. They
sleep at the parsonage, but divide their attentions so equally among
its inmates, and Oliver and Mr. Brownlow, and Mr. Losberne, that
to this day the villagers have never been able to discover to which
establishment they properly belong.
Master Charles Bates, appalled by Sikes’s crime, fell into a train
of reflection whether an honest life was not, after all, the best.
Arriving at the conclusion that it certainly was, he turned his back
upon the scenes of the past, resolved to amend it in some new sphere
of action. He struggled hard, and suffered much, for some time; but,
having a contented disposition, and a good purpose, succeeded in the
end; and, from being a farmer’s drudge, and a carrier’s lad, he is
now the merriest young grazier in all Northamptonshire.
And now, the hand that traces these words, falters, as it approaches
the conclusion of its task; and would weave, for a little longer
space, the thread of these adventures.
I would fain linger yet with a few of those among whom I have so
long moved, and share their happiness by endeavouring to depict
it. I would show Rose Maylie in all the bloom and grace of early
womanhood, shedding on her secluded path in life soft and gentle
light, that fell on all who trod it with her, and shone into their
hearts. I would paint her the life and joy of the fire-side circle
and the lively summer group; I would follow her through the sultry
fields at noon, and hear the low tones of her sweet voice in the
moonlit evening walk; I would watch her in all her goodness and
charity abroad, and the smiling untiring discharge of domestic
duties at home; I would paint her and her dead sister’s child happy
in their love for one another, and passing whole hours together in
picturing the friends whom they had so sadly lost; I would summon
before me, once again, those joyous little faces that clustered
round her knee, and listen to their merry prattle; I would recall
the tones of that clear laugh, and conjure up the sympathising tear
that glistened in the soft blue eye. These, and a thousand looks and
smiles, and turns of thought and speech--I would fain recall them
every one.
How Mr. Brownlow went on, from day to day, filling the mind of his
adopted child with stores of knowledge, and becoming attached to
him, more and more, as his nature developed itself, and showed the
thriving seeds of all he wished him to become--how he traced in him
new traits of his early friend, that awakened in his own bosom old
remembrances, melancholy and yet sweet and soothing--how the two
orphans, tried by adversity, remembered its lessons in mercy to
others, and mutual love, and fervent thanks to Him who had protected
and preserved them--these are all matters which need not to be told.
I have said that they were truly happy; and without strong affection
and humanity of heart, and gratitude to that Being whose code is
Mercy, and whose great attribute is Benevolence to all things that
breathe, happiness can never be attained.
Within the altar of the old village church there stands a white
marble tablet, which bears as yet but one word: ‘AGNES.’ There is no
coffin in that tomb; and may it be many, many years, before another
name is placed above it! But, if the spirits of the Dead ever come
back to earth, to visit spots hallowed by the love--the love beyond
the grave--of those whom they knew in life, I believe that the shade
of Agnes sometimes hovers round that solemn nook. I believe it none
the less because that nook is in a Church, and she was weak and
erring.