CHAPTER XXXI.

OF THE HAPPY LIFE OLIVER BEGAN TO LEAD WITH HIS KIND FRIENDS.

OLIVER’S ailings were neither slight nor few. In addition to the pain

and delay attendant upon a broken limb, his exposure to the wet and

cold had brought on fever and ague, which hung about him for many

weeks, and reduced him sadly. But at length he began, by slow degrees,

to get better, and to be able to say sometimes, in a few tearful words,

how deeply he felt the goodness of the two sweet ladies, and how

ardently he hoped that, when he grew strong and well again, he could

do something to shew his gratitude; only something which would let

them see the love and duty with which his breast was full; something,

however slight, which would prove to them that their gentle kindness

had not been cast away, but that the poor boy whom their charity had

rescued from misery, or death, was eager and anxious to serve them with

all his heart and soul.

“Poor fellow!” said Rose, when Oliver had been one day feebly

endeavouring to utter the words of thankfulness that rose to his pale

lips,—“you shall have many opportunities of serving us, if you will.

We are going into the country, and my aunt intends that you shall

accompany us. The quiet place, the pure air, and all the pleasures and

beauties of spring, will restore you in a few days, and we will employ

you in a hundred ways when you can bear the trouble.”

“The trouble!” cried Oliver. “Oh! dear lady, if I could but work for

you—if I could only give you pleasure by watering your flowers, or

watching your birds, or running up and down the whole day long to make

you happy, what would I give to do it?”

“You shall give nothing at all,” said Miss Maylie, smiling; “for, as I

told you before, we shall employ you in a hundred ways; and if you only

take half the trouble to please us that you promise now, you will make

me very happy indeed.”

“Happy, ma’am!” cried Oliver; “oh, how kind of you to say so!”

“You will make me happier than I can tell you,” replied the young lady.

“To think that my dear good aunt should have been the means of rescuing

any one from such sad misery as you have described to us, would be an

unspeakable pleasure to me; but to know that the object of her goodness

and compassion was sincerely grateful, and attached in consequence,

would delight me more than you can well imagine. Do you understand me?”

she inquired, watching Oliver’s thoughtful face.

“Oh yes, ma’am, yes!” replied Oliver, eagerly; “but I was thinking that

I am ungrateful now.”

“To whom?” inquired the young lady.

“To the kind gentleman and the dear old nurse who took so much care of

me before,” rejoined Oliver. “If they knew how happy I am, they would

be pleased, I am sure.”

“I am sure they would,” rejoined Oliver’s benefactress; “and Mr.

Losberne has already been kind enough to promise that, when you are

well enough to bear the journey, he will carry you to see them.”

“Has he, ma’am?” cried Oliver, his face brightening with pleasure. “I

don’t know what I shall do for joy when I see their kind faces once

again!”

In a short time Oliver was sufficiently recovered to undergo the

fatigue of this expedition; and one morning he and Mr. Losberne set out

accordingly in a little carriage which belonged to Mrs. Maylie. When

they came to Chertsey Bridge, Oliver turned very pale, and uttered a

loud exclamation.

“What’s the matter with the boy?” cried the doctor, as usual, all in a

bustle. “Do you see anything—hear anything—feel anything—eh?”

“That, sir,” cried Oliver, pointing out of the carriage window. “That

house!”

“Yes; well, what of it? Stop, coachman. Pull up here,” cried the

doctor. “What of the house, my man—eh?”

“The thieves—the house they took me to,” whispered Oliver.

“The devil it is!” cried the doctor. “Halloa, there! let me out!” But

before the coachman could dismount from his box, he had tumbled out of

the coach, by some means or other and, running down to the deserted

tenement, began kicking at the door like a madman.

“Halloa!” said a little, ugly hump-backed man, opening the door so

suddenly that the doctor, from the very impetus of his last kick,

nearly fell forward into the passage. “What’s the matter here?”

“Matter!” exclaimed the other, collaring him, without a moment’s

reflection. “A good deal. Robbery is the matter.”

“There’ll be murder, too,” replied the hump-backed man, coolly, “if you

don’t take your hands off. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” said the doctor, giving his captive a hearty shake.

“Where’s—confound the fellow, what’s his rascally name—Sikes—that’s

it. Where’s Sikes, you thief?”

The hump-backed man stared as if in excess of amazement and

indignation; and twisting himself dexterously from the doctor’s grasp,

growled forth a volley of horrid oaths, and retired into the house.

Before he could shut the door, however, the doctor had passed into the

parlour, without a word of parley. He looked anxiously round: not an

article of furniture, not a vestige of anything, animate or inanimate,

not even the position of the cupboards, answered Oliver’s description!

“Now,” said the hump-backed man, who had watched him keenly, “what do

you mean by coming into my house in this violent way? Do you want to

rob me, or to murder me?—which is it?”

“Did you ever know a man come out to do either in a chariot and pair,

you ridiculous old vampire?” said the irritable doctor.

“What do you want, then?” demanded the hunchback, fiercely. “Will you

take yourself off before I do you a mischief? curse you!”

“As soon as I think proper,” said Mr. Losberne, looking into the other

parlour, which, like the first, bore no resemblance whatever to

Oliver’s account of it. “I shall find you out some day, my friend.”

“Will you?” sneered the ill-favoured cripple. “If you ever want me,

I’m here. I haven’t lived here mad, and all alone, for five-and-twenty

years, to be scared by you. You shall pay for this; you shall pay for

this.” And so saying, the mis-shapen little demon set up a hideous

yell, and danced upon the ground as if frantic with rage.

“Stupid enough, this,” muttered the doctor to himself; “the boy must

have made a mistake. There; put that in your pocket, and shut yourself

up again.” With these words he flung the hunchback a piece of money,

and returned to the carriage.

The man followed to the chariot door, uttering the wildest imprecations

and curses all the way; but as Mr. Losberne turned to speak to the

driver, he looked into the carriage, and eyed Oliver for an instant

with a glance so sharp and fierce, and at the same time so furious

and vindictive, that, waking or sleeping, he could not forget it for

months afterwards. He continued to utter the most fearful imprecations

until the driver had resumed his seat, and when they were once more on

their way, they could see him some distance behind, beating his feet

upon the ground, and tearing his hair in transports of frenzied rage.

“I am an ass!” said the doctor, after a long silence. “Did you know

that before, Oliver?”

“No, sir.”

“Then don’t forget it another time.”

“An ass,” said the doctor again, after a further silence of some

minutes. “Even if it had been the right place, and the right fellows

had been there, what could I have done single-handed? And if I had had

assistance, I see no good that I should have done, except leading to

my own exposure, and an unavoidable statement of the manner in which I

have hushed up this business. That would have served me right, though.

I am always involving myself in some scrape or other by acting upon

these impulses, and it might have done me good.”

Now the fact was, that the excellent doctor had never acted upon

anything else but impulse all through his life; and it was no bad

compliment to the nature of the impulses which governed him, that so

far from being involved in any peculiar troubles or misfortunes, he had

the warmest respect and esteem of all who knew him. If the truth must

be told, he was a little out of temper, for a minute or two, at being

disappointed in procuring corroborative evidence of Oliver’s story on

the very first occasion on which he had a chance of obtaining any. He

soon came round again, however, and finding that Oliver’s replies to

his questions were still as straightforward and consistent, and still

delivered with as much apparent sincerity and truth, as they had ever

been, he made up his mind to attach full credence to them from that

time forth.

As Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr. Brownlow resided,

they were enabled to drive straight thither. When the coach turned into

it, his heart beat so violently that he could scarcely draw his breath.

“Now, my boy, which house is it?” inquired Mr. Losberne.

“That, that!” replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. “The

white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should

die: it makes me tremble so.”

“Come, come!” said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder. “You

will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and

well.”

“Oh! I hope so!” cried Oliver. “They were so good to me; so very very

good to me, sir.”

The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house. The next

door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at

the windows, with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face.

Alas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the

window—“To Let.”

“Knock at the next door,” cried Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver’s arm

in his. “What has become of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the

adjoining house, do you know?”

The servant did not know; but would go and inquire. She presently

returned, and said, that Mr. Brownlow had sold off his goods, and gone

to the West Indies six weeks before. Oliver clasped his hands, and sank

feebly backwards.

“Has his housekeeper gone, too?” inquired Mr. Losberne, after a

moment’s pause.

“Yes, sir;” replied the servant. “The old gentleman, the housekeeper,

and a gentleman, a friend of Mr. Brownlow’s, all went together.”

“Then turn towards home again,” said Mr. Losberne to the driver, “and

don’t stop to bait the horses till you get out of this confounded

London!”

“The book-stall keeper, sir?” said Oliver. “I know the way there. See

him, pray sir! Do see him!”

“My poor boy, this is disappointment enough for one day,” said the

doctor. “Quite enough for both of us. If we go to the book-stall

keeper’s we shall certainly find that he is dead, or has set his house

on fire, or run away. No; home again straight!” And in obedience to the

doctor’s first impulse, home they went.

This bitter disappointment caused Oliver much sorrow and grief, even

in the midst of his happiness; for he had pleased himself many times

during his illness with thinking of all that Mr. Brownlow and Mrs.

Bedwin would say to him, and what delight it would be to tell them how

many long days and nights he had passed in reflecting upon what they

had done for him, and in bewailing his cruel separation from them. The

hope of eventually clearing himself with them, too, and explaining how

he had been forced away, had buoyed him up and sustained him under

many of his recent trials; and now the idea that they should have gone

so far, and carried with them the belief that he was an impostor and

a robber,—a belief which might remain uncontradicted to his dying

day,—was almost more than he could bear.

The circumstance occasioned no alteration, however, in the behaviour

of his benefactors. After another fortnight, when the fine warm weather

had fairly begun, and every tree and flower was putting forth its young

leaves and rich blossoms, they made preparations for quitting the house

at Chertsey for some months. Sending the plate which had so excited the

Jew’s cupidity to the banker’s, and leaving Giles and another servant

in care of the house, they departed for a cottage some distance in the

country, and took Oliver with them.

Who can describe the pleasure and delight, the peace of mind and soft

tranquillity, which the sickly boy felt in the balmy air, and among

the green hills and rich woods, of an inland village! Who can tell how

scenes of peace and quietude sink into the minds of pain-worn dwellers

in close and noisy places, and carry their own freshness deep into

their jaded hearts! Men who have lived in crowded, pent-up streets,

through whole lives of toil, and never wished for change; men, to whom

custom has indeed been second nature, and who have come almost to love

each brick and stone that formed the narrow boundaries of their daily

walks—even they, with the hand of death upon them, have been known

to yearn at last for one short glimpse of Nature’s face; and carried

far from the scenes of their old pains and pleasures, have seemed

to pass at once into a new state of being, and crawling forth from

day to day to some green sunny spot, have had such memories wakened

up within them by the mere sight of sky, and hill, and plain, and

glistening water, that a foretaste of heaven itself has soothed their

quick decline, and they have sunk into their tombs as peacefully as the

sun—whose setting they watched from their lonely chamber window but a

few hours before—faded from their dim and feeble sight! The memories

which peaceful country scenes call up are not of this world, or of its

thoughts or hopes. Their gentle influence may teach us to weave fresh

garlands for the graves of those we loved, may purify our thoughts,

and bear down before it old enmity and hatred; but beneath all this,

there lingers in the least reflective mind a vague and half-formed

consciousness of having held such feelings long before in some remote

and distant time, which calls up solemn thoughts of distant times to

come, and bends down pride and worldliness beneath it.

It was a lovely spot to which they repaired, and Oliver, whose days

had been spent among squalid crowds, and in the midst of noise and

brawling, seemed to enter upon a new existence there. The rose and

honeysuckle clung to the cottage walls, the ivy crept round the trunks

of the trees, and the garden-flowers perfumed the air with delicious

odours. Hard by, was a little churchyard: not crowded with tall,

unsightly gravestones, but full of humble mounds, covered with fresh

turf and moss, beneath which the old people of the village lay at rest.

Oliver often wandered here, and thinking of the wretched grave in which

his mother lay, would sometimes sit him down and sob unseen; but, as he

raised his eyes to the deep sky overhead, he would cease to think of

her as lying in the ground, and weep for her sadly, but without pain.

It was a happy time. The days were peaceful and serene, and the nights

brought with them no fear or care; no languishing in a wretched prison,

or associating with wretched men: nothing but pleasant and happy

thoughts. Every morning he went to a white-headed old gentleman, who

lived near the little church, who taught him to read better, and to

write, and spoke so kindly, and took such pains, that Oliver could

never try enough to please him. Then he would walk with Mrs. Maylie

and Rose, and hear them talk of books, or perhaps sit near them, in

some shady place, and listen whilst the young lady read, which he could

have done till it grew too dark to see the letters. Then he had his own

lesson for the next day to prepare, and at this he would work hard, in

a little room which looked into the garden, till evening came slowly

on, when the ladies would walk out again, and he with them; listening

with such pleasure to all they said, and so happy if they wanted a

flower that he could climb to reach, or had forgotten anything he could

run to fetch, that he could never be quick enough about it. When it

became quite dark, and they returned home, the young lady would sit

down to the piano, and play some melancholy air, or sing, in a low and

gentle voice, some old song which it pleased her aunt to hear. There

would be no candles at such times as these, and Oliver would sit by one

of the windows, listening to the sweet music, while tears of tranquil

joy stole down his face.

And when Sunday came, how differently the day was spent from any manner

in which he had ever spent it yet! and how happily, too; like all

the other days in that most happy time! There was the little church,

in the morning, with the green leaves fluttering at the windows, the

birds singing without, and the sweet-smelling air stealing in at the

low porch, and filling the homely building with its fragrance. The

poor people were so neat and clean, and knelt so reverently in prayer,

that it seemed a pleasure, not a tedious duty, their assembling there

together; and though the singing might be rude, it was real, and

sounded more musical (to Oliver’s ears at least) than any he had ever

heard in church before. Then there were the walks as usual, and many

calls at the clean houses of the labouring men; and at night, Oliver

read a chapter or two from the Bible, which he had been studying all

the week, and in the performance of which duty he felt more proud and

pleased than if he had been the clergyman himself.

In the morning, Oliver would be a-foot by six o’clock, roaming the

fields and surveying the hedges, far and wide, for nosegays of wild

flowers, with which he would return laden home, and which it took great

care and consideration to arrange, to the best advantage, for the

embellishment of the breakfast-table. There was fresh groundsel, too,

for Miss Maylie’s birds, with which Oliver—who had been studying the

subject under the able tuition of the village clerk—would decorate

the cages in the most approved taste. When the birds were made all

spruce and smart for the day, there was usually some little commission

of charity to execute in the village; or, failing that, there was

always something to do in the garden, or about the plants, to which

Oliver—who had studied this science also under the same master, who

was a gardener by trade—applied himself with hearty goodwill till Miss

Rose made her appearance, when there were a thousand commendations to

be bestowed upon all he had done, for which one of those light-hearted,

beautiful smiles was an ample recompence.

So three months glided away; three months which, in the life of

the most blessed and favoured of mortals, would have been unmixed

happiness; but which, in Oliver’s troubled and clouded dawn, were

felicity indeed. With the purest and most amiable generosity on one

side, and the truest, and warmest, and most soul-felt gratitude on the

other, it is no wonder that, by the end of that short time, Oliver

Twist had become completely domesticated with the old lady and her

niece; and that the fervent attachment of his young and sensitive

heart was repaid by their pride in, and attachment to, himself.