III Oliver Makes His Way Into Good Society
Bill Sikes and Toby Crackit were so hard pressed that they were soon forced to leave Oliver lying in a ditch. The hue and cry passed him to one side, leaving him alone and unconscious through the long cold night. Morning drew on apace. The rain came down thick and fast, but Oliver felt it not as it beat against him.
At length a low cry of pain broke the stillness; and uttering it, the boy awoke. His left arm, rudely bandaged in a shawl, hung heavy and useless at his side; and the bandage was saturated with blood. He was so weak that he could scarcely raise himself into a sitting posture. When he had at last done so, he looked feebly round for help, and groaned with agony. Trembling in every joint from cold and exhaustion, he made an effort to stand upright; but, shuddering from head to foot, fell prostrate on the ground.
After a short return of the stupor in which he had been so long plunged, Oliver got upon his feet, and essayed to walk. His head was dizzy, and he staggered to and fro like a drunken man. But he kept up, nevertheless, and, with his head drooping languidly on his breast, went stumbling onward, he knew not whither.
The rain was falling heavily now, but the cold drops roused him like whiplashes. He pressed forward with the last ounce of his strength, feeling that if he stopped he must surely die, and by chance reached the same house of the attempted burglary. He knew the place at once, but his strength was at an end, and he sank exhausted on the little portico by the door.
The servants who presently opened the door were immensely surprised to find the wounded boy; and two of them were certain he was the same who had broken into the house. But in his pitiful condition they put him to bed and sent for a surgeon.
A very kind-hearted lady, Mrs. Maylie, and her adopted niece Rose, lived here. They cared for Oliver tenderly; for, like his lost friend, Mr. Brownlow, they were greatly taken by his open face, and believed in him despite the strange story which he presently found strength to tell. With the aid of their friend the surgeon, they convinced the servants that a mistake had been made, and so Oliver was not taken to jail. Instead, he was received into this kindly home, and it really seemed that now his dark days were over at last.
Oliver resumed the study of his beloved books, which he had begun with Mr. Brownlow. But he also spent much time in the open fields, and soon grew sturdy and strong, with the brown look of health in his face. Between him and Rose Maylie a tender affection sprang up. He was, in fact, her devoted knight.
One beautiful evening, when the first shades of twilight were beginning to settle upon the earth, Oliver sat at his window, intent upon his books. He had been poring over them for some time; and, as the day had been uncommonly sultry, and he had exerted himself a great deal, by slow degrees he fell asleep.
There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it holds the body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of things about it, or enable it to ramble at its pleasure.
Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that his books were lying on the table before him; that the sweet air was stirring among the creeping plants outside. And yet he was asleep. Suddenly, the scene changed; the air became close and confined; and he thought, with a glow of terror, that he was in the Jew’s house again. There sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed corner, pointing at him, and whispering to another man, with his face averted, who sat beside him.
“Hush, my dear!” he thought he heard the Jew say; “it is he, sure enough. Come away.”
“He!” the other man seemed to answer; “could I mistake him, think you? If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and he stood among them, there is something that would tell me how to point him out!”
The man seemed to say this with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver awoke with the fear and started up.
Good Heaven! what was that which sent the blood tingling to his heart, and deprived him of his voice and of power to move! There—there—at the window—close before him—so close that he could have almost touched him before he started back—with his eyes peering into the room, and meeting his—there stood the Jew! And beside him were the scowling features of a dark man whom Oliver had seen only once, but had instinctively learned to fear.
It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes, and they were gone. But they had recognized him, and he them. He knew they were once again lying in wait to seize him, and that his days of peace and happiness were numbered.
Voice and motion came back to him with the fear; and leaping from the window he called loudly for help.
Nevertheless, no trace of Fagin or the stranger could be found, though the search was pursued with haste; and Oliver’s friends were forced to believe that it had been only a feverish dream.
But Oliver had not been mistaken. The two figures at the window were really Fagin and a man named Monks, who for some mysterious reason had been the boy’s most vindictive enemy. It was he who had found Oliver again and reported the fact to Fagin; and together they laid cunning plans to get him once more into their clutches.
At this critical moment in Oliver’s welfare, an unexpected friend to him appeared in the person of Nancy, the street-girl. She had bitterly repented her share in kidnapping him from Mr. Brownlow, and now longed for a chance to do him some service. The chance offered, when she happened to overhear the interview between Monks and the Jew. She could not understand all she heard, but she realized that the boy was in great danger unless she acted at once.
Hastening to the home of Rose Maylie, Nancy contrived to see her alone and repeated word for word the conversation she had overheard. From the dark threats of this man Monks, it seemed that Oliver’s very life was in danger, because of some secret connected with his birth. Nancy knew that it meant her own death also if her visit to Miss Maylie became known, but she could not remain silent.
Miss Maylie listened to her story with horror and amazement. She realized that something must be done quickly, but did not know to whom to turn. In her perplexity Oliver made a discovery of great value to both of them. On the very day of Nancy’s hurried visit and no less hurried departure he came running in, his eyes all aglow with excitement.
“I have seen him!” he exclaimed excitedly; “I knew that if I kept on looking, I should find him again, one day! I mean the gentleman who was so good to me—Mr. Brownlow!”
“Where?” asked Rose.
“Getting out of a coach,” replied Oliver. “I didn’t have the chance to speak to him, but I took the number of the house he went into. Here it is.” And he flourished a scrap of paper delightedly. “Oh, let us go there at once!”
Rose read the address eagerly, and decided to put the discovery to account. Not alone would Oliver be gratified, but Mr. Brownlow might be the very friend they needed at this momentous time.
“Quick!” she said; “tell them to fetch a hackney-coach, and be ready to go with me. I will take you there directly, without a minute’s loss of time. I will only tell my aunt that we are going out for an hour, and be ready as soon as you are.”
Oliver needed no prompting to hasten, and in little more than five minutes they were on their way. When they arrived at the address noted, Rose left Oliver in the coach, under pretence of preparing his friend to receive him; and sending up her card by the servant, requested to see Mr. Brownlow on very pressing business. The servant soon returned, to beg that she would walk upstairs; and following him into an upper room, Miss Maylie was presented to an elderly gentleman of benevolent appearance, in a bottle-green coat.
“Dear me,” said the gentleman, hastily rising, with great politeness, “I beg your pardon, young lady—-I imagined it was some importunate person who—I beg you will excuse me. Be seated, pray.”
“Mr. Brownlow, I believe, sir?” said Rose.
“That is my name.”
“I shall surprise you very much, I have no doubt,” said Rose, naturally embarrassed; “but you once showed great kindness to a very dear young friend of mine, and I am sure you will take an interest in hearing of him again.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Brownlow.
“Oliver Twist, as you knew him,” said Rose.
Mr. Brownlow was naturally surprised, but said nothing for a few moments. Then looking straight into her eyes, he remarked quietly but earnestly, “Believe me, my dear young lady, if you can tell me good news of that child, or lift the shadow which rests upon his name, you will be doing me the greatest service.”
Rose at once related in a few words all that had befallen Oliver since leaving Mr. Brownlow’s house; how he had searched for him but had only seen him that very day; and finally of the new danger which threatened the boy.
You may believe that Mr. Brownlow sat very straight, upon the extreme edge of his chair, during the latter part of this recital.
“The poor lad!” he exclaimed; “but why have you not brought him with you?”
“I wished to talk with you alone about this plot. He does not know of it. But”—smilingly—“I believe he is now waiting in the coach at the door.”
“At this door?” cried Mr. Brownlow. And without another word he rushed from the room.
In less than a minute he was back again, lugging Oliver in bodily and both laughing—yes, and shedding tears—at the same time.
Then after the jolliest of visits, Rose and Oliver took their leave for the present; but not before Mr. Brownlow had told Rose privately that he would turn his whole attention to the new conspiracy.
Nancy had promised to meet Rose on London Bridge, a few nights later, and Mr. Brownlow determined to be there also. In the meantime he made other plans for capturing the rogues.