CHAPTER XXIX.

HAS AN INTRODUCTORY ACCOUNT OF THE INMATES OF THE HOUSE TO WHICH OLIVER

RESORTED, AND RELATES WHAT THEY THOUGHT OF HIM.

IN a handsome room—though its furniture had rather the air of

old-fashioned comfort than of modern elegance—there sat two ladies at

a well-spread breakfast-table. Mr. Giles, dressed with scrupulous care

in a full suit of black, was in attendance upon them. He had taken his

station some half-way between the sideboard and the breakfast-table,

and with his body drawn up to its full height, his head thrown back,

and inclined the merest trifle on one side, his left leg advanced, and

his right hand thrust into his waistcoat, while his left hung down by

his side, grasping a waiter, looked like one who laboured under a very

agreeable sense of his own merits and importance.

Of the two ladies, one was well advanced in years, but the high-backed

oaken chair in which she sat was not more upright than she. Dressed

with the utmost nicety and precision, in a quaint mixture of by-gone

costume, with some slight concessions to the prevailing taste, which

rather served to point the old style pleasantly than to impair its

effect, she sat in a stately manner with her hands folded on the table

before her, and her eyes, of which age had dimmed but little of their

brightness, attentively fixed upon her young companion.

The younger lady was in the lovely bloom and spring-time of womanhood;

at that age when, if ever angels be for God’s good purposes enthroned

in mortal forms, they may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in

such as hers.

She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould;

so mild and gentle, so pure and beautiful, that earth seemed not

her element, nor its rough creatures her fit companions. The very

intelligence that shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon

her noble head, seemed scarcely of her age or of the world; and yet

the changing expression of sweetness and good humour, the thousand

lights that played about the face and left no shadow there; above all,

the smile—the cheerful, happy smile—were intwined with the best

sympathies and affections of our nature.

She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table, and chancing

to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, playfully put

back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead, and threw into

one beaming look such a gush of affection and artless loveliness, that

blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her.

The elder lady smiled; but her heart was full, and she brushed away a

tear as she did so.

“And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?” asked the old

lady, after a pause.

“An hour and twelve minutes, ma’am,” replied Mr. Giles, referring to a

silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon.

“He is always slow,” remarked the old lady.

“Brittles always was a slow boy, ma’am,” replied the attendant. And

seeing, by-the-by, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of

thirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a

fast one.

“He gets worse instead of better, I think,” said the elder lady.

“It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other

boys,” said the young lady, smiling.

Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a

respectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate, out

of which there jumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door,

and getting quickly into the house by some mysterious process, burst

into the room, and nearly overturned Mr. Giles and the breakfast-table

together.

“I never heard of such a thing!” exclaimed the fat gentleman. “My dear

Mrs. Maylie—bless my soul—in the silence of night, too—I _never_

heard of such a thing!”

With these expressions of condolence, the fat gentleman shook hands

with both ladies, and drawing up a chair, inquired how they found

themselves.

“You ought to be dead—positively dead with the fright,” said the fat

gentleman. “Why didn’t you send? Bless me, my man should have come in

a minute, and so would I, and my assistant would have been delighted,

or anybody, I’m sure, under such circumstances; dear, dear—so

unexpected—in the silence of night, too!”

The doctor seemed especially troubled by the fact of the robbery having

been unexpected, and attempted in the night-time, as if it were the

established custom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact

business at noon, and to make an appointment, by the twopenny post, a

day or two previous.

“And you, Miss Rose,” said the doctor, turning to the young lady,

“I——”

“Oh! very much so, indeed,” said Rose, interrupting him; “but there is

a poor creature up stairs, whom aunt wishes you to see.”

“Ah! to be sure,” replied the doctor, “so there is. That was your

handiwork, Giles, I understand.”

Mr. Giles, who had been feverishly putting the tea-cups to rights,

blushed very red, and said that he had had that honour.

“Honour, eh?” said the doctor; “well, I don’t know; perhaps it’s as

honourable to hit a thief in a back kitchen as to hit your man at

twelve paces. Fancy that he fired in the air, and you’ve fought a duel,

Giles.”

Mr. Giles, who thought this light treatment of the matter an unjust

attempt at diminishing his glory, answered respectfully, that it was

not for the like of him to judge about that, but he rather thought it

was no joke to the opposite party.

“‘Gad, that’s true!” said the doctor. “Where is he? Shew me the way.

I’ll look in again as I come down, Mrs. Maylie. That’s the little

window that he got in at, eh? Well, I couldn’t have believed it.”

Talking all the way, he followed Mr. Giles up stairs; and while he

is going up stairs, the reader may be informed, that Mr. Losberne, a

surgeon in the neighbourhood, known through a circuit of ten miles

round as “the doctor,” had grown fat more from goodhumour than from

good living, and was as kind and hearty, and withal as eccentric an old

bachelor, as will be found in five times that space by any explorer

alive.

The doctor was absent much longer than either he or the ladies had

anticipated. A large flat box was fetched out of the gig, and a bedroom

bell was rung very often, and the servants ran up and down stairs

perpetually; from which tokens it was justly concluded that something

important was going on above. At length he returned; and in reply to an

anxious inquiry after his patient, looked very mysterious, and closed

the door carefully.

“This is a very extraordinary thing, Mrs. Maylie,” said the doctor,

standing with his back to the door, as if to keep it shut.

“He is not in danger, I hope?” said the old lady.

“Why, that would not be an extraordinary thing, under the

circumstances,” replied the doctor; “though I don’t think he is. Have

you seen this thief?”

“No,” rejoined the old lady.

“Nor heard anything about him?”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” interposed Mr. Giles; “but I was going to

tell you about him when Doctor Losberne came in.”

The fact was, that Mr. Giles had not at first been able to bring his

mind to the avowal, that he had only shot a boy. Such commendations had

been bestowed upon his bravery that he could not, for the life of him,

help postponing the explanation for a few delicious minutes, during

which he had flourished in the very zenith of a brief reputation for

undaunted courage.

“Rose wished to see the man,” said Mrs. Maylie; “but I wouldn’t hear of

it.”

“Humph!” rejoined the doctor. “There’s nothing very alarming in his

appearance. Have you any objection to see him in my presence?”

“If it be necessary,” replied the old lady, “certainly not.”

“Then I think it is necessary,” said the doctor; “at all events, I am

quite sure that you would deeply regret not having done so, if you

postponed it. He is perfectly quiet and comfortable now. Allow me—Miss

Rose, will you permit me? Not the slightest fear, I pledge you my

honour.”

With many more loquacious assurances that they would be agreeably

surprised in the aspect of the criminal, the doctor drew the young

lady’s arm through one of his, and offering his disengaged hand to Mrs.

Maylie, led them, with much ceremony and stateliness, up stairs.

“Now,” said the doctor, in a whisper, as he softly turned the handle

of a bedroom-door, “let us hear what you think of him. He has not

been shaved very recently, but he doesn’t look at all ferocious

notwithstanding. Stop, though—let me see that he is in visiting order

first.”

Stepping before them, he looked into the room, and motioning them to

advance, closed the door when they had entered, and gently drew back

the curtains of the bed. Upon it, in lieu of the dogged, black-visaged

ruffian they had expected to behold, there lay a mere child, worn with

pain and exhaustion, and sunk into a deep sleep. His wounded arm, bound

and splintered up, was crossed upon his breast, and his head reclined

upon the other, which was half hidden by his long hair, as it streamed

over the pillow.

The honest gentleman held the curtain in his hand, and looked on, for a

minute or so, in silence. Whilst he was watching the patient thus, the

younger lady glided softly past, and seating herself in a chair by the

bedside, gathered Oliver’s hair from his face, and as she stooped over

him, her tears fell upon his forehead.

The boy stirred and smiled in his sleep, as though those marks of pity

and compassion had awakened some pleasant dream of a love and affection

he had never known; as a strain of gentle music, or the rippling of

water in a silent place, or the odour of a flower, or even the mention

of a familiar word, will sometimes call up sudden dim remembrances of

scenes that never were, in this life, which vanish like a breath, and

which some brief memory of a happier existence, long gone by, would

seem to have awakened, for no power of the human mind can ever recall

them.

“What can this mean?” exclaimed the elder lady. “This poor child can

never have been the pupil of robbers!”

“Vice,” sighed the surgeon, replacing the curtain, “takes up her abode

in many temples; and who can say that a fair outside shall not enshrine

her?”

“But at so early an age!” urged Rose.

“My dear young lady,” rejoined the surgeon, mournfully shaking his

head, “crime, like death, is not confined to the old and withered

alone. The youngest and fairest are too often its chosen victims.”

“But, can you—oh, sir! can you, really believe that this delicate boy

has been the voluntary associate of the worst outcasts of society?”

said Rose, anxiously.

The surgeon shook his head in a manner which intimated that he feared

it was very possible; and observing that they might disturb the

patient, led the way into an adjoining apartment.

“But even if he has been wicked,” pursued Rose, “think how young he

is; think that he may never have known a mother’s love, or even the

comfort of a home, and that ill-usage and blows, or the want of bread,

may have driven him to herd with the men who have forced him to guilt.

Aunt, dear aunt, for mercy’s sake, think of this before you let them

drag this sick child to a prison, which in any case must be the grave

of all his chances of amendment. Oh! as you love me, and know that I

have never felt the want of parents in your goodness and affection,

but that I might have done so, and might have been equally helpless and

unprotected with this poor child, have pity upon him before it is too

late.”

“My dear love!” said the elder lady, as she folded the weeping girl to

her bosom, “do you think I would harm a hair of his head?”

“Oh, no!” replied Rose, eagerly; “not you, aunt, not you!”

“No,” said the old lady, with a trembling lip; “my days are drawing to

their close, and may mercy be shewn to me as I shew it to others. What

can I do to save him, sir?”

“Let me think, ma’am,” said the doctor; “let me think.”

Mr. Losberne thrust his hands into his pockets, and took several turns

up and down the room, often stopping and balancing himself on his toes,

and frowning frightfully. After various exclamations of “I’ve got it

now” and “no, I haven’t,” and as many renewals of the walking and

frowning, he at length made a dead halt, and spoke as follows:—

“I think if you give me a full and unlimited commission to bully Giles

and that little boy, Brittles, I can manage it. He is a faithful fellow

and an old servant, I know; but you can make it up to him in a thousand

ways, and reward him for being such a good shot besides. You don’t

object to that?”

“Unless there is some other way of preserving the child,” replied Mrs.

Maylie.

“There is no other,” said the doctor. “No other, take my word for it.”

“Then aunt invests you with full power,” said Rose, smiling through

her tears; “but pray don’t be harder upon the poor fellows than is

indispensably necessary.”

“You seem to think,” retorted the doctor, “that every body is disposed

to be hard-hearted to-day except yourself. I only hope, for the sake of

the rising male sex generally, that you may be found in as vulnerable

and soft-hearted a mood by the very first eligible young fellow who

appeals to your compassion; and I wish I were a young fellow, that I

might avail myself on the spot of such a favourable opportunity for

doing so as the present.”

“You are as great a boy as poor Brittles himself,” returned Rose,

blushing.

“Well,” said the doctor, laughing heartily, “that is no very difficult

matter. But to return to this boy: the great point of our agreement is

yet to come. He will wake in an hour or so, I dare say; and although

I have told that thick-headed constable-fellow down stairs that he

mustn’t be moved or spoken to, on peril of his life, I think we may

converse with him without danger. Now, I make this stipulation—that I

shall examine him in your presence, and that if from what he says, we

judge, and I can shew to the satisfaction of your cool reason, that he

is a real and thorough bad one (which is more than possible), he shall

be left to his fate, without any further interference on my part, at

all events.”

“Oh no, aunt!” entreated Rose.

“Oh yes, aunt!” said the doctor. “Is it a bargain?”

“He cannot be hardened in vice,” said Rose; “it is impossible.”

“Very good,” retorted the doctor; “then so much the more reason for

acceding to my proposition.”

Finally, the treaty was entered into, and the parties thereto sat down

to wait, with some impatience, until Oliver should awake.

The patience of the two ladies was destined to undergo a longer trial

than Mr. Losberne had led them to expect, for hour after hour passed

on, and still Oliver slumbered heavily. It was evening, indeed, before

the kind-hearted doctor brought them the intelligence, that he had at

length roused sufficiently to be spoken to. The boy was very ill, he

said, and weak from the loss of blood; but his mind was so troubled

with anxiety to disclose something, that he deemed it better to give

him the opportunity, than to insist upon his remaining quiet until next

morning, which he should otherwise have done.

The conference was a long one, for Oliver told them all his simple

history, and was often compelled to stop by pain and want of strength.

It was a solemn thing to hear, in the darkened room, the feeble voice

of the sick child recounting a weary catalogue of evils and calamities

which hard men had brought upon him. Oh! if, when we oppress and

grind our fellow-creatures, we bestowed but one thought on the dark

evidences of human error, which, like dense and heavy clouds, are

rising, slowly it is true, but not less surely, to Heaven, to pour

their after-vengeance on our heads—if we heard but one instant, in

imagination, the deep testimony of dead men’s voices, which no power

can stifle, and no pride shut out, where would be the injury and

injustice, the suffering, misery, cruelty, and wrong, that each day’s

life brings with it?

Oliver’s pillow was smoothed by woman’s hands that night, and

loveliness and virtue watched him as he slept. He felt calm and happy,

and could have died without a murmur.

The momentous interview was no sooner concluded, and Oliver composed to

rest again, than the doctor, after wiping his eyes, and condemning them

for being weak all at once, betook himself down stairs to open upon

Mr. Giles. And finding nobody about the parlours, it occurred to him,

that he could perhaps originate the proceedings with better effect in

the kitchen; so into the kitchen he went.

There were assembled, in that lower house of the domestic parliament,

the women-servants, Mr. Brittles, Mr. Giles, the tinker (who had

received a special invitation to regale himself for the remainder of

the day, in consideration of his services), and the constable. The

latter gentleman had a large staff, a large head, large features, and

large half-boots, and looked as if he had been taking a proportionate

allowance of ale, as indeed he had.

The adventures of the previous night were still under discussion,

for Mr. Giles was expatiating upon his presence of mind when the

doctor entered; and Mr. Brittles, with a mug of ale in his hand, was

corroborating everything before his superior said it.

“Sit still,” said the doctor, waving his hand.

“Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Giles. “Misses wished some ale to be given

out, sir; and as I felt no ways inclined for my own little room, sir,

and disposed for company, I am taking mine among ’em here.”

Brittles headed a low murmur, by which the ladies and gentlemen

generally were understood to express the gratification they derived

from Mr. Giles’s condescension; and Mr. Giles looked round with a

patronising air, as much as to say, that so long as they behaved

properly, he would never desert them.

“How is the patient to-night, sir?” asked Giles.

“So-so;” returned the doctor. “I am afraid you have got yourself into a

scrape there, Mr. Giles.”

“I hope you don’t mean to say, sir,” said Mr. Giles, trembling, “that

he’s going to die. If I thought it, I should never be happy again. I

wouldn’t cut a boy off, no, not even Brittles here, not for all the

plate in the country, sir.”

“That’s not the point,” said the doctor, mysteriously. “Mr. Giles, are

you a Protestant?”

“Yes, sir, I hope so,” faltered Mr. Giles, who had turned very pale.

“And what are you, boy?” said the doctor, turning sharply upon Brittles.

“Lord bless me, sir!” replied Brittles, starting violently; “I’m the

same as Mr. Giles, sir.”

“Then tell me this,” said the doctor, fiercely, “both of you—both of

you; are you going to take upon yourselves to swear that that boy up

stairs is the boy that was put through the little window last night?

Out with it! Come; we are prepared for you.”

The doctor, who was universally considered one of the best-tempered

creatures on earth, made this demand in such a dreadful tone of anger,

that Giles and Brittles, who were considerably muddled by ale and

excitement, stared at each other in a state of stupefaction.

“Pay attention to the reply, constable, will you?” said the doctor,

shaking his forefinger with great solemnity of manner, and tapping the

bridge of his nose with it, to bespeak the exercise of that worthy’s

utmost acuteness. “Something may come of this before long.”

The constable looked as wise as he could, and took up his staff of

office, which had been reclining indolently in the chimney-corner.

“It’s a simple question of identity, you will observe,” said the doctor.

“That’s what it is, sir,” replied the constable, coughing with great

violence; for he had finished his ale in a hurry, and some of it had

gone the wrong way.

“Here’s a house broken into,” said the doctor, “and a couple of men

catch one moment’s glimpse of a boy in the midst of gunpowder-smoke,

and in all the distraction of alarm and darkness. Here’s a boy comes to

that very same house next morning, and because he happens to have his

arm tied up, these men lay violent hands upon him; by doing which, they

place his life in great danger, and swear he is the thief. Now, the

question is, whether these men are justified by the fact; and if not,

what situation do they place themselves in?”

The constable nodded profoundly, and said, that if that wasn’t law, he

should be glad to know what was.

“I ask you again,” thundered the doctor, “are you, on your solemn

oaths, able to identify that boy?”

Brittles looked doubtfully at Mr. Giles, Mr. Giles looked doubtfully at

Brittles; the constable put his hand behind his ear to catch the reply;

the two women and the tinker leant forward to listen; and the doctor

glanced keenly round, when a ring was heard at the gate, and at the

same moment, the sound of wheels.

“It’s the runners!” cried Brittles, to all appearance much relieved.

“The what!” exclaimed the doctor, aghast in his turn.

“The Bow-street officers, sir,” replied Brittles, taking up a candle;

“me and Mr. Giles sent for ’em this morning.”

“What!” cried the doctor.

“Yes,” replied Brittles; “I sent a message up by the coachman, and I

only wonder they weren’t here before, sir.”

“You did, did you? Then confound your —— slow coaches down here;

that’s all,” said the doctor, walking away.