IV The End of Evil Days
Now, unbeknown to Nancy, Fagin the Jew had become suspicious of her, and had set a spy upon her heels. This spy was none other than Noah Claypole, the undertaker’s apprentice, whom Oliver had so soundly thrashed. Noah had lately come to London to try his fortune in any underhand way that might arise. The Jew was always on the lookout for just such fellows as he. So they soon struck a bargain.
On the night when Nancy set forth to keep her appointment on the Bridge, Noah was kept busy darting from pillar to post, but all the time keeping her in sight. When she met Rose and Mr. Brownlow, the spy quickly slunk behind an abutment where he could hear every word of what she said. And you may be sure he lost no time in taking his story back to the Jew.
Bill Sikes had just returned, in the early morning, from a house-breaking jaunt, and was as usual in an ugly mood. A word from the Jew about Nancy’s defection set his brain on fire with hatred against the girl. He hastened to her room, and, disregarding all her appeals for mercy, struck her lifeless to the floor.
This murder proved the beginning of the end for all the gang. Mr. Brownlow had already set the police to work, and now offered a large personal reward for Sikes’s arrest. The murderer was tracked in and about the city for several days, until he finally hung himself in endeavoring to escape from the roof of a house.
Fagin the Jew was captured at last, and for his share in this crime, and his other wickednesses was condemned to death. A great popular clamor had been aroused against him, and he was to be hung without delay.
In the hope that the Jew would throw some light upon Monks and some secret papers which Mr. Brownlow had traced, that gentleman took Oliver with him to the prison to see Fagin on his last night upon earth.
“Is the young gentleman to come, too, sir?” said the man whose duty it was to conduct them. “It’s not a sight for children, sir.”
“It is not indeed, my friend,”, rejoined Mr. Brownlow; “but my business with this man is intimately connected with him; and as this child has seen him in the full career of his success and villany, I think it well—even at the cost of some pain and fear—that he should see him now.”
These few words had been said apart, so as to be inaudible to Oliver. The man touched his hat; and glancing at Oliver with some curiosity, opened another gate, opposite to that by which they had entered, and led them on, through dark and winding ways, to the cell.
The condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himself from side to side, with a countenance more like that of a snared beast than the face of a man. His mind was evidently wandering to his old life, for he continued to mutter, without appearing conscious of their presence otherwise than as a part of his vision.
“Good boy, Charley—well done!”—he mumbled. “Oliver too, ha! ha! ha! Oliver too—quite the gentleman now—quite the—take that boy away to bed!”
The jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver, and, whispering to him not to be alarmed, looked on without speaking.
“Take him away to bed!” cried the Jew. “Do you hear me, some of you? He has been the—the—somehow the cause of all this!”
“Fagin,” said the jailer.
“That’s me!” cried the Jew, falling, instantly, into the attitude of listening he had assumed upon his trial. “An old man, my Lord; a very old, old man!”
“Here,” said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his breast to keep him down. “Here’s somebody wants to see you, to ask you some questions, I suppose. Fagin, Fagin! Are you a man?”
“I sha’n’t be one long,” replied the Jew, looking up with a face retaining no human expression but rage and terror. “Strike them all dead! What right have they to butcher me?”
As he spoke he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinking to the farthest corner of the seat, he demanded to know what they wanted there.
“Steady,” said the turnkey, still holding him down. “Now, sir, tell him what you want—quick if you please, for he grows worse as the time gets on.”
“You have some papers,” said Mr. Brownlow, advancing, “which were placed in your hands, for better security, by a man called Monks.”
“It’s all a lie together,” replied the Jew. “I haven’t one—not one.”
“For the love of God,” said Mr. Brownlow, solemnly, “do not tell a lie now, upon the very verge of death; but tell me where they are. You know that Sikes is dead; and that there is no hope of any farther gain. Where are those papers?”
“Oliver,” cried the Jew, beckoning to him. “Here, here! Let me whisper to you.”
“I am not afraid,” said Oliver, in a firm voice, as he relinquished Mr. Brownlow’s hand.
“The papers,” said the Jew, drawing him towards him, “are in a canvas bag, in a hole a little way up the chimney in the top front room. I want to talk to you, my dear. I want to talk to you.”
“Yes, yes,” returned Oliver. “Let me say a prayer. Do! Let me say one prayer. Say only one, upon your knees, with me, and we will talk till morning.”
“Outside, outside,” replied the Jew, pushing the boy before him towards the door, and looking vacantly over his head. “Say I’ve gone to sleep—they’ll believe you. You can get me out, if you take me so. Now then, now then!”
“Oh! God forgive this wretched man!” cried the boy, with a burst of tears.
“That’s right, that’s right,” said the Jew. “That’ll help us on. This door first. If I shake and tremble, as we pass the gallows, don’t you mind, but hurry on. Now, now, now!”
“Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?” inquired the turnkey.
“No other question,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “If I hoped we could recall him to a sense of his position—”
“Nothing will do that, sir,” replied the man, shaking his head. “You had better leave him.”
The door of the cell opened and the attendants returned.
“Press on, press on,” cried the Jew. “Softly, but not so slow. Faster, faster!”
The men laid hands upon him, and disengaging Oliver from his grasp, held him back. He struggled with the power of desperation for an instant, and then sent up cry upon cry that penetrated even those massive walls and rang in their ears until they reached the open yard.
And this—thought Oliver shudderingly—was the last of the Jew—the man from whose clutches he had so narrowly escaped!
Noah Claypole turned state’s evidence at this time, and thus escaped the law. Dawkins, the Artful Dodger, had been caught picking pockets and was transported from the country. Charley Bates was so unnerved by the fate of Nancy, and the swift punishment of his companions, that he reformed and became an honest, hard-working young man.
And, finally, what of Monks? He was shadowed and seized by Mr. Brownlow’s agents, and proved to be none other than the half-brother of Oliver Twist! Their father was dead, but he had left a will providing for the boy also. And it was on this account that Monks had wished to get him out of the way and had employed Fagin in trying to ruin the lad.
The papers were found, as the Jew had indicated, and they not only cleared up Oliver’s past history, but proved his right to a share in a considerable family estate. Mr. Brownlow had known Monks’s father in their early days, and now used this knowledge to wring a full confession from the villain.
Another strange secret came to light also, at this time. Rose Maylie was found to be a younger sister of Oliver’s dead mother, and therefore the boy’s own aunt.
“Not aunt!” cried Oliver, when he heard this amazing but delightful news; “I’ll never call her aunt! Sister, my own dear sister, that something taught my heart to love so dearly from the first! Rose, dear darling Rose!”
And the two orphans, no longer alone but united and surrounded by loving friends, were clasped in each other’s arms.