Chapter XII

Oliver Twist

by Charles Dickens

In Which Oliver is Taken Better Care of Than Ever Was Before. And
in Which the Narratice Reverts to the Merry Old Gentleman and His
Youthful Friends

The coach rattled away, over nearly the same ground as that
which Oliver had traversed when he first entered London in company
with the Dodger; and, turning a different way when it reached the
Angel at Islington, stopped at length before a neat house, in a quiet
shady street near Pentonville. Here, a bed was prepared, without
loss of time, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his young charge carefully
and comfortably deposited; and here, he was tended with a kindness
and solicitude that knew no bounds.

But, for many days, Oliver remained insensible to all the
goodness of his new friends. The sun rose and sank, and rose and
sank again, and many times after that; and still the boy lay
stretched on his uneasy bed, dwindling away beneath the dry and
wasting heat of fever. The worm does not work more surely on the
dead body, than does this slow creeping fire upon the living
frame.

Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to
have been a long and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in the
bed, with his head resting on his trembling arm, he looked anxiously
around.

'What room is this? Where have I been brought to?' said Oliver.
'This is not the place I went to sleep in.'

He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and
weak; but they were overheard at once. The curtain at the bed's head
was hastily drawn back, and a motherly old lady, very neatly and
precisely dressed, rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair close by,
in which she had been sitting at needle-work.

'Hush, my dear,' said the old lady softly. 'You must be very
quiet, or you will be ill again; and you have been very bad,--as bad
as bad could be, pretty nigh. Lie down again; there's a dear!' With
those words, the old lady very gently placed Oliver's head upon the
pillow; and, smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so
kindly and loving in his face, that he could not help placing his
little withered hand in hers, and drawing it round his neck.

'Save us!' said the old lady, with tears in her eyes. 'What a
grateful little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother
feel if she had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!'

'Perhaps she does see me,' whispered Oliver, folding his hands
together; 'perhaps she has sat by me. I almost feel as if she
had.'

'That was the fever, my dear,' said the old lady mildly.

'I suppose it was,' replied Oliver, 'because heaven is a long
way off; and they are too happy there, to come down to the bedside of
a poor boy. But if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me, even
there; for she was very ill herself before she died. She can't know
anything about me though,' added Oliver after a moment's silence.
'If she had seen me hurt, it would have made here sorrowful; and her
face has always looked sweet and happy, when I have dreamed of
her.'

The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first,
and her spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if
they were part and parcel of those features, brought some cool stuff
for Oliver to drink; and then, patting him on the cheek, told him he
must lie very quiet, or he would be ill again.

So, Oliver kept very still; partly because he was anxious to
obey the kind old lady in all things; and partly, to tell the truth,
because he was completely exhausted with what he had already said.
He soon fell into a gentle doze, from which he was awakened by the
light of a candle: which, being brought near the bed, showed him a
gentleman with a very large and loud-ticking gold watch in his hand,
who felt his pulse, and said he was a great deal better.

'You are a great deal better, are you not, my dear?' said the
gentleman.

'Yes, thank you, sir,' replied Oliver.

'Yes, I know you are,' said the gentleman: 'You're hungry too,
an't you?'

'No, sir,' answered Oliver.

'Hem!' said the gentleman. 'No, I know you're not. He is not
hungry, Mrs. Bedwin,' said the gentleman: looking very wise.

The old lady made a respectful inclination of the head, which
seemed to say that she thought the doctor was a very clever man. The
doctor appeared much of the same opinion himself.

'You feel sleepy, don't you, my dear?' said the doctor.

'No, sir,' replied Oliver.

'No,' said the doctor, with a very shrewd and satisfied look.
'You're not sleepy. Nor thirsty. Are you?'

'Yes, sir, rather thirsty,' answered Oliver.

'Just as I expected, Mrs. Bedwin,' said the doctor. 'It's very
natural that he should be thirsty. You may give him a little tea,
ma'am, and some dry toast without any butter. Don't keep him too
warm, ma'am; but be careful that you don't let him be too cold; will
you have the goodness?'

The old lady dropped a curtsey. The doctor, after tasting the
cool stuff, and expressing a qualified approval of it, hurried away:
his boots creaking in a very important and wealthy manner as he went
downstairs.

Oliver dozed off again, soon after this; when he awoke, it was
nearly twelve o'clock. The old lady tenderly bade him good-night
shortly afterwards, and left him in charge of a fat old woman who had
just come: bringing with her, in a little bundle, a small Prayer
Book and a large nightcap. Putting the latter on her head and the
former on the table, the old woman, after telling Oliver that she had
come to sit up with him, drew her chair close to the fire and went
off into a series of short naps, chequered at frequent intervals with
sundry tumblings forward, and divers moans and chokings. These,
however, had no worse effect than causing her to rub her nose very
hard, and then fall asleep again.

And thus the night crept slowly on. Oliver lay awake for some
time, counting the little circles of light which the reflection of
the rushlight-shade threw upon the ceiling; or tracing with his
languid eyes the intricate pattern of the paper on the wall. The
darkness and the deep stillness of the room were very solemn; as they
brought into the boy's mind the thought that death had been hovering
there, for many days and nights, and might yet fill it with the gloom
and dread of his awful presence, he turned his face upon the pillow,
and fervently prayed to Heaven.

Gradually, he fell into that deep tranquil sleep which ease from
recent suffering alone imparts; that calm and peaceful rest which it
is pain to wake from. Who, if this were death, would be roused again
to all the struggles and turmoils of life; to all its cares for the
present; its anxieties for the future; more than all, its weary
recollections of the past!

It had been bright day, for hours, when Oliver opened his eyes;
he felt cheerful and happy. The crisis of the disease was safely
past. He belonged to the world again.

In three days' time he was able to sit in an easy-chair, well
propped up with pillows; and, as he was still too weak to walk, Mrs.
Bedwin had him carried downstairs into the little housekeeper's room,
which belonged to her. Having him set, here, by the fire-side, the
good old lady sat herself down too; and, being in a state of
considerable delight at seeing him so much better, forthwith began to
cry most violently.

'Never mind me, my dear,' said the old lady; 'I'm only having a
regular good cry. There; it's all over now; and I'm quite
comfortable.'

'You're very, very kind to me, ma'am,' said Oliver.

'Well, never you mind that, my dear,' said the old lady; 'that's
got nothing to do with your broth; and it's full time you had it; for
the doctor says Mr. Brownlow may come in to see you this morning; and
we must get up our best looks, because the better we look, the more
he'll be pleased.' And with this, the old lady applied herself to
warming up, in a little saucepan, a basin full of broth: strong
enough, Oliver thought, to furnish an ample dinner, when reduced to
the regulation strength, for three hundred and fifty paupers, at the
lowest computation.

'Are you fond of pictures, dear?' inquired the old lady, seeing
that Oliver had fixed his eyes, most intently, on a portrait which
hung against the wall; just opposite his chair.

'I don't quite know, ma'am,' said Oliver, without taking his
eyes from the canvas; 'I have seen so few that I hardly know. What a
beautiful, mild face that lady's is!'

'Ah!' said the old lady, 'painters always make ladies out
prettier than they are, or they wouldn't get any custom, child. The
man that invented the machine for taking likenesses might have known
that would never succeed; it's a deal too honest. A deal,' said the
old lady, laughing very heartily at her own acuteness.

'Is--is that a likeness, ma'am?' said Oliver.

'Yes,' said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the
broth; 'that's a portrait.'

'Whose, ma'am?' asked Oliver.

'Why, really, my dear, I don't know,' answered the old lady in a
good-humoured manner. 'It's not a likeness of anybody that you or I
know, I expect. It seems to strike your fancy, dear.'

'It is so pretty,' replied Oliver.

'Why, sure you're not afraid of it?' said the old lady:
observing in great surprise, the look of awe with which the child
regarded the painting.

'Oh no, no,' returned Oliver quickly; 'but the eyes look so
sorrowful; and where I sit, they seem fixed upon me. It makes my
heart beat,' added Oliver in a low voice, 'as if it was alive, and
wanted to speak to me, but couldn't.'

'Lord save us!' exclaimed the old lady, starting; 'don't talk in
that way, child. You're weak and nervous after your illness. Let me
wheel your chair round to the other side; and then you won't see it.
There!' said the old lady, suiting the action to the word; 'you don't
see it now, at all events.'

Oliver did see it in his mind's eye as distinctly as if he had
not altered his position; but he thought it better not to worry the
kind old lady; so he smiled gently when she looked at him; and Mrs.
Bedwin, satisfied that he felt more comfortable, salted and broke
bits of toasted bread into the broth, with all the bustle befitting
so solemn a preparation. Oliver got through it with extraordinary
expedition. He had scarcely swallowed the last spoonful, when there
came a soft rap at the door. 'Come in,' said the old lady; and in
walked Mr. Brownlow.

Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but, he had
no sooner raised his spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his hands
behind the skirts of his dressing-gown to take a good long look at
Oliver, than his countenance underwent a very great variety of odd
contortions. Oliver looked very worn and shadowy from sickness, and
made an ineffectual attempt to stand up, out of respect to his
benefactor, which terminated in his sinking back into the chair
again; and the fact is, if the truth must be told, that Mr.
Brownlow's heart, being large enough for any six ordinary old
gentlemen of humane disposition, forced a supply of tears into his
eyes, by some hydraulic process which we are not sufficiently
philosophical to be in a condition to explain.

'Poor boy, poor boy!' said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his throat.
'I'm rather hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I'm afraid I have
caught cold.'

'I hope not, sir,' said Mrs. Bedwin. 'Everything you have had,
has been well aired, sir.'

'I don't know, Bedwin. I don't know,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'I
rather think I had a damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday; but never
mind that. How do you feel, my dear?'

'Very happy, sir,' replied Oliver. 'And very grateful indeed,
sir, for your goodness to me.'

'Good by,' said Mr. Brownlow, stoutly. 'Have you given him any
nourishment, Bedwin? Any slops, eh?'

'He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir,'
replied Mrs. Bedwin: drawing herself up slightly, and laying strong
emphasis on the last word: to intimate that between slops, and broth
will compounded, there existed no affinity or connection
whatsoever.

'Ugh!' said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder; 'a couple of
glasses of port wine would have done him a great deal more good.
Wouldn't they, Tom White, eh?'

'My name is Oliver, sir,' replied the little invalid: with a
look of great astonishment.

'Oliver,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'Oliver what? Oliver White,
eh?'

'No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist.'

'Queer name!' said the old gentleman. 'What made you tell the
magistrate your name was White?'

'I never told him so, sir,' returned Oliver in amazement.

This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked
somewhat sternly in Oliver's face. It was impossible to doubt him;
there was truth in every one of its thin and sharpened lineaments.

'Some mistake,' said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive for
looking steadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the
resemblance between his features and some familiar face came upon him
so strongly, that he could not withdraw his gaze.

'I hope you are not angry with me, sir?' said Oliver, raising
his eyes beseechingly.

'No, no,' replied the old gentleman. 'Why! what's this?
Bedwin, look there!'

As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture over Oliver's
head, and then to the boy's face. There was its living copy. The
eyes, the head, the mouth; every feature was the same. The expression
was, for the instant, so precisely alike, that the minutest line
seemed copied with startling accuracy!

Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation; for, not
being strong enough to bear the start it gave him, he fainted away.
A weakness on his part, which affords the narrative an opportunity of
relieving the reader from suspense, in behalf of the two young pupils
of the Merry Old Gentleman; and of recording--

That when the Dodger, and his accomplished friend Master Bates,
joined in the hue-and-cry which was raised at Oliver's heels, in
consequence of their executing an illegal conveyance of Mr.
Brownlow's personal property, as has been already described, they
were actuated by a very laudable and becoming regard for themselves;
and forasmuch as the freedom of the subject and the liberty of the
individual are among the first and proudest boasts of a true-hearted
Englishman, so, I need hardly beg the reader to observe, that this
action should tend to exalt them in the opinion of all public and
patriotic men, in almost as great a degree as this strong proof of
their anxiety for their own preservation and safety goes to
corroborate and confirm the little code of laws which certain
profound and sound-judging philosophers have laid down as the
main-springs of all Nature's deeds and actions: the said
philosophers very wisely reducing the good lady's proceedings to
matters of maxim and theory: and, by a very neat and pretty
compliment to her exalted wisdom and understanding, putting entirely
out of sight any considerations of heart, or generous impulse and
feeling. For, these are matters totally beneath a female who is
acknowledged by universal admission to be far above the numerous
little foibles and weaknesses of her sex.

If I wanted any further proof of the strictly philosophical
nature of the conduct of these young gentlemen in their very delicate
predicament, I should at once find it in the fact (also recorded in a
foregoing part of this narrative), of their quitting the pursuit,
when the general attention was fixed upon Oliver; and making
immediately for their home by the shortest possible cut. Although I
do not mean to assert that it is usually the practice of renowned and
learned sages, to shorten the road to any great conclusion (their
course indeed being rather to lengthen the distance, by various
circumlocations and discursive staggerings, like unto those in which
drunken men under the pressure of a too mighty flow of ideas, are
prone to indulge); still, I do mean to say, and do say distinctly,
that it is the invariable practice of many mighty philosophers, in
carrying out their theories, to evince great wisdom and foresight in
providing against every possible contingency which can be supposed at
all likely to affect themselves. Thus, to do a great right, you may
do a little wrong; and you may take any means which the end to be
attained, will justify; the amount of the right, or the amount of the
wrong, or indeed the distinction between the two, being left entirely
to the philosopher concerned, to be settled and determined by his
clear, comprehensive, and impartial view of his own particular
case.

It was not until the two boys had scoured, with great rapidity,
through a most intricate maze of narrow streets and courts, that they
ventured to halt beneath a low and dark archway. Having remained
silent here, just long enough to recover breath to speak, Master
Bates uttered an exclamation of amusement and delight; and, bursting
into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, flung himself upon a
doorstep, and rolled thereon in a transport of mirth.

'What's the matter?' inquired the Dodger.

'Ha! ha! ha!' roared Charley Bates.

'Hold your noise,' remonstrated the Dodger, looking cautiously
round. 'Do you want to be grabbed, stupid?'

'I can't help it,' said Charley, 'I can't help it! To see him
splitting away at that pace, and cutting round the corners, and
knocking up again' the posts, and starting on again as if he was made
of iron as well as them, and me with the wipe in my pocket, singing
out arter him--oh, my eye!' The vivid imagination of Master Bates
presented the scene before him in too strong colours. As he arrived
at this apostrophe, he again rolled upon the door-step, and laughed
louder than before.

'What'll Fagin say?' inquired the Dodger; taking advantage of
the next interval of breathlessness on the part of his friend to
propound the question.

'What?' repeated Charley Bates.

'Ah, what?' said the Dodger.

'Why, what should he say?' inquired Charley: stopping rather
suddenly in his merriment; for the Dodger's manner was impressive.
'What should he say?'

Mr. Dawkins whistled for a couple of minutes; then, taking off
his hat, scratched his head, and nodded thrice.

'What do you mean?' said Charley.

'Toor rul lol loo, gammon and spinnage, the frog he wouldn't,
and high cockolorum,' said the Dodger: with a slight sneer on his
intellectual countenance.

This was explanatory, but not satisfactory. Master Bates felt
it so; and again said, 'What do you mean?'

The Dodger made no reply; but putting his hat on again, and
gathering the skirts of his long-tailed coat under his arm, thrust
his tongue into his cheek, slapped the bridge of his nose some
half-dozen times in a familiar but expressive manner, and turning on
his heel, slunk down the court. Master Bates followed, with a
thoughtful countenance.

The noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs, a few minutes
after the occurrence of this conversation, roused the merry old
gentleman as he sat over the fire with a saveloy and a small loaf in
his hand; a pocket-knife in his right; and a pewter pot on the
trivet. There was a rascally smile on his white face as he turned
round, and looking sharply out from under his thick red eyebrows,
bent his ear towards the door, and listened.

'Why, how's this?' muttered the Jew: changing countenance;
'only two of 'em? Where's the third? They can't have got into
trouble. Hark!'

The footsteps approached nearer; they reached the landing. The
door was slowly opened; and the Dodger and Charley Bates entered,
closing it behind them.