Chapter XIV

Oliver Twist

by Charles Dickens

Comprising Further Particulars Of Oliver's Stay at Mr.
Brownlow's, With the Remarkable Prediction Which One Mr. Grimwig
Uttered Concerning Him, When He Went Out on an Errand

Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr.
Brownlow's abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the
picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs.
Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no
reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to such
topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to
get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper's
room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall,
in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His
expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been
removed.

'Ah!' said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's
eyes. 'It is gone, you see.'

'I see it is ma'am,' replied Oliver. 'Why have they taken it
away?'

'It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that
as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting
well, you know,' rejoined the old lady.

'Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,' said Oliver. 'I
liked to see it. I quite loved it.'

'Well, well!' said the old lady, good-humouredly; 'you get well
as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There!
I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else.'

This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the
picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his
illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so
he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about
an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an
amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and about a son,
who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also,
such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times
a-year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them.
When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of
her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides, who
had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it
was time to have tea. After tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage:
which he learnt as quickly as she could teach: and at which game
they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for
the invalid to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry
toast, and then to go cosily to bed.

They were happy days, those of Oliver's recovery. Everything
was so quiet, and neat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle;
that after the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had
always lived, it seemed like Heaven itself. He was no sooner strong
enough to put his clothes on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a
complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be
provided for him. As Oliver was told that he might do what he liked
with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant who had been very
kind to him, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money
for herself. This she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of
the parlour window, and saw the Jew roll them up in his bag and walk
away, he felt quite delighted to think that they were safely gone,
and that there was now no possible danger of his ever being able to
wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell the truth; and Oliver
had never had a new suit before.

One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he
was sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from
Mr. Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like
to see him in his study, and talk to him a little while.

'Bless us, and save us! Wash your hands, and let me part your
hair nicely for you, child,' said Mrs. Bedwin. 'Dear heart alive!
If we had known he would have asked for you, we would have put you a
clean collar on, and made you as smart as sixpence!'

Oliver did as the old lady bade him; and, although she lamented
grievously, meanwhile, that there was not even time to crimp the
little frill that bordered his shirt-collar; he looked so delicate
and handsome, despite that important personal advantage, that she
went so far as to say: looking at him with great complacency from
head to foot, that she really didn't think it would have been
possible, on the longest notice, to have made much difference in him
for the better.

Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door. On Mr.
Brownlow calling to him to come in, he found himself in a little back
room, quite full of books, with a window, looking into some pleasant
little gardens. There was a table drawn up before the window, at
which Mr. Brownlow was seated reading. When he saw Oliver, he pushed
the book away from him, and told him to come near the table, and sit
down. Oliver complied; marvelling where the people could be found to
read such a great number of books as seemed to be written to make the
world wiser. Which is still a marvel to more experienced people than
Oliver Twist, every day of their lives.

'There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?' said Mr.
Brownlow, observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the
shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling.

'A great number, sir,' replied Oliver. 'I never saw so
many.'

'You shall read them, if you behave well,' said the old
gentleman kindly; 'and you will like that, better than looking at the
outsides,--that is, some cases; because there are books of which the
backs and covers are by far the best parts.'

'I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir,' said Oliver,
pointing to some large quartos, with a good deal of gilding about the
binding.

'Not always those,' said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on
the head, and smiling as he did so; 'there are other equally heavy
ones, though of a much smaller size. How should you like to grow up
a clever man, and write books, eh?'

'I think I would rather read them, sir,' replied Oliver.

'What! wouldn't you like to be a book-writer?' said the old
gentleman.

Oliver considered a little while; and at last said, he should
think it would be a much better thing to be a book-seller; upon which
the old gentleman laughed heartily, and declared he had said a very
good thing. Which Oliver felt glad to have done, though he by no
means knew what it was.

'Well, well,' said the old gentleman, composing his features.
'Don't be afraid! We won't make an author of you, while there's an
honest trade to be learnt, or brick-making to turn to.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Oliver. At the earnest manner of his
reply, the old gentleman laughed again; and said something about a
curious instinct, which Oliver, not understanding, paid no very great
attention to.

'Now,' said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possible in a kinder, but
at the same time in a much more serious manner, than Oliver had ever
known him assume yet, 'I want you to pay great attention, my boy, to
what I am going to say. I shall talk to you without any reserve;
because I am sure you are well able to understand me, as many older
persons would be.'

'Oh, don't tell you are going to send me away, sir, pray!'
exclaimed Oliver, alarmed at the serious tone of the old gentleman's
commencement! 'Don't turn me out of doors to wander in the streets
again. Let me stay here, and be a servant. Don't send me back to
the wretched place I came from. Have mercy upon a poor boy, sir!'

'My dear child,' said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of
Oliver's sudden appeal; 'you need not be afraid of my deserting you,
unless you give me cause.'

'I never, never will, sir,' interposed Oliver.

'I hope not,' rejoined the old gentleman. 'I do not think you
ever will. I have been deceived, before, in the objects whom I have
endeavoured to benefit; but I feel strongly disposed to trust you,
nevertheless; and I am more interested in your behalf than I can well
account for, even to myself. The persons on whom I have bestowed my
dearest love, lie deep in their graves; but, although the happiness
and delight of my life lie buried there too, I have not made a coffin
of my heart, and sealed it up, forever, on my best affections. Deep
affliction has but strengthened and refined them.'

As the old gentleman said this in a low voice: more to himself
than to his companion: and as he remained silent for a short time
afterwards: Oliver sat quite still.

'Well, well!' said the old gentleman at length, in a more
cheerful tone, 'I only say this, because you have a young heart; and
knowing that I have suffered great pain and sorrow, you will be more
careful, perhaps, not to wound me again. You say you are an orphan,
without a friend in the world; all the inquiries I have been able to
make, confirm the statement. Let me hear your story; where you come
from; who brought you up; and how you got into the company in which I
found you. Speak the truth, and you shall not be friendless while I
live.'

Oliver's sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; when he
was on the point of beginning to relate how he had been brought up at
the farm, and carried to the workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a peculiarly
impatient little double-knock was heard at the street-door: and the
servant, running upstairs, announced Mr. Grimwig.

'Is he coming up?' inquired Mr. Brownlow.

'Yes, sir,' replied the servant. 'He asked if there were any
muffins in the house; and, when I told him yes, he said he had come
to tea.'

Mr. Brownlow smiled; and, turning to Oliver, said that Mr.
Grimwig was an old friend of his, and he must not mind his being a
little rough in his manners; for he was a worthy creature at bottom,
as he had reason to know.

'Shall I go downstairs, sir?' inquired Oliver.

'No,' replied Mr. Brownlow, 'I would rather you remained
here.'

At this moment, there walked into the room: supporting himself
by a thick stick: a stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, who
was dressed in a blue coat, striped waistcoat, nankeen breeches and
gaiters, and a broad-brimmed white hat, with the sides turned up with
green. A very small-plaited shirt frill stuck out from his
waistcoat; and a very long steel watch-chain, with nothing but a key
at the end, dangled loosely below it. The ends of his white
neckerchief were twisted into a ball about the size of an orange; the
variety of shapes into which his countenance was twisted, defy
description. He had a manner of screwing his head on one side when
he spoke; and of looking out of the corners of his eyes at the same
time: which irresistibly reminded the beholder of a parrot. In this
attitude, he fixed himself, the moment he made his appearance; and,
holding out a small piece of orange-peel at arm's length, exclaimed,
in a growling, discontented voice.

'Look here! do you see this! Isn't it a most wonderful and
extraordinary thing that I can't call at a man's house but I find a
piece of this poor surgeon's friend on the staircase? I've been lamed
with orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel will be my death, or
I'll be content to eat my own head, sir!'

This was the handsome offer with which Mr. Grimwig backed and
confirmed nearly every assertion he made; and it was the more
singular in his case, because, even admitting for the sake of
argument, the possibility of scientific improvements being brought to
that pass which will enable a gentleman to eat his own head in the
event of his being so disposed, Mr. Grimwig's head was such a
particularly large one, that the most sanguine man alive could hardly
entertain a hope of being able to get through it at a sitting--to put
entirely out of the question, a very thick coating of powder.

'I'll eat my head, sir,' repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his
stick upon the ground. 'Hallo! what's that!' looking at Oliver, and
retreating a pace or two.

'This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about,' said
Mr. Brownlow.

Oliver bowed.

'You don't mean to say that's the boy who had the fever, I
hope?' said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little more. 'Wait a minute!
Don't speak! Stop--' continued Mr. Grimwig, abruptly, losing all
dread of the fever in his triumph at the discovery; 'that's the boy
who had the orange! If that's not the boy, sir, who had the orange,
and threw this bit of peel upon the staircase, I'll eat my head, and
his too.'

'No, no, he has not had one,' said Mr. Brownlow, laughing.
'Come! Put down your hat; and speak to my young friend.'

'I feel strongly on this subject, sir,' said the irritable old
gentleman, drawing off his gloves. 'There's always more or less
orange-peel on the pavement in our street; and I know it's put there
by the surgeon's boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a
bit last night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got
up I saw her look towards his infernal red lamp with the
pantomime-light. "Don't go to him," I called out of the window,
"he's an assassin! A man-trap!" So he is. If he is not--' Here
the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his
stick; which was always understood, by his friends, to imply the
customary offer, whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still
keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down; and, opening a double
eye-glass, which he wore attached to a broad black riband, took a
view of Oliver: who, seeing that he was the object of inspection,
coloured, and bowed again.

'That's the boy, is it?' said Mr. Grimwig, at length.

'That's the boy,' replied Mr. Brownlow.

'How are you, boy?' said Mr. Grimwig.

'A great deal better, thank you, sir,' replied Oliver.

Mr Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was
about to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs
and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea; which, as he did not
half like the visitor's manner, he was very happy to do.

'He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?' inquired Mr. Brownlow.

'I don't know,' replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly.

'Don't know?'

'No. I don't know. I never see any difference in boys. I only
knew two sort of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys.'

'And which is Oliver?'

'Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy,
they call him; with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a
horrid boy; with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of
the seams of his blue clothes; with the voice of a pilot, and the
appetite of a wolf. I know him! The wretch!'

'Come,' said Mr. Brownlow, 'these are not the characteristics of
young Oliver Twist; so he needn't excite your wrath.'

'They are not,' replied Mr. Grimwig. 'He may have worse.'

Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to afford
Mr. Grimwig the most exquisite delight.

'He may have worse, I say,' repeated Mr. Grimwig. 'Where does
he come from! Who is he? What is he? He has had a fever. What of
that? Fevers are not peculiar to good peope; are they? Bad people
have fevers sometimes; haven't they, eh? I knew a man who was hung
in Jamaica for murdering his master. He had had a fever six times;
he wasn't recommended to mercy on that account. Pooh! nonsense!'

Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his own heart,
Mr. Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver's appearance
and manner were unusually prepossessing; but he had a strong appetite
for contradiction, sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the
orange-peel; and, inwardly determining that no man should dictate to
him whether a boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved, from the
first, to oppose his friend. When Mr. Brownlow admitted that on no
one point of inquiry could he yet return a satisfactory answer; and
that he had postponed any investigation into Oliver's previous
history until he thought the boy was strong enough to hear it; Mr.
Grimwig chuckled maliciously. And he demanded, with a sneer, whether
the housekeeper was in the habit of counting the plate at night;
because if she didn't find a table-spoon or two missing some sunshiny
morning, why, he would be content to--and so forth.

All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an
impetuous gentleman: knowing his friend's peculiarities, bore with
great good humour; as Mr. Grimwig, at tea, was graciously pleased to
express his entire approval of the muffins, matters went on very
smoothly; and Oliver, who made one of the party, began to feel more
at his ease than he had yet done in the fierce old gentleman's
presence.

'And when are you going to hear at full, true, and particular
account of the life and adventures of Oliver Twist?' asked Grimwig of
Mr. Brownlow, at the conclusion of the meal; looking sideways at
Oliver, as he resumed his subject.

'To-morrow morning,' replied Mr. Brownlow. 'I would rather he
was alone with me at the time. Come up to me to-morrow morning at
ten o'clock, my dear.'

'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver. He answered with some hesitation,
because he was confused by Mr. Grimwig's looking so hard at him.

'I'll tell you what,' whispered that gentleman to Mr. Brownlow;
'he won't come up to you to-morrow morning. I saw him hesitate. He
is deceiving you, my good friend.'

'I'll swear he is not,' replied Mr. Brownlow, warmly.

'If he is not,' said Mr. Grimwig, 'I'll--' and down went the
stick.

'I'll answer for that boy's truth with my life!' said Mr.
Brownlow, knocking the table.

'And I for his falsehood with my head!' rejoined Mr. Grimwig,
knocking the table also.

'We shall see,' said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising anger.

'We will,' replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile; 'we
will.'

As fate would have it, Mrs. Bedwin chanced to bring in, at this
moment, a small parcel of books, which Mr. Brownlow had that morning
purchased of the identical bookstall-keeper, who has already figured
in this history; having laid them on the table, she prepared to leave
the room.

'Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin!' said Mr. Brownlow; 'there is
something to go back.'

'He has gone, sir,' replied Mrs. Bedwin.

'Call after him,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'it's particular. He is a
poor man, and they are not paid for. There are some books to be
taken back, too.'

The street-door was opened. Oliver ran one way; and the girl
ran another; and Mrs. Bedwin stood on the step and screamed for the
boy; but there was no boy in sight. Oliver and the girl returned, in
a breathless state, to report that there were no tidings of him.

'Dear me, I am very sorry for that,' exclaimed Mr. Brownlow; 'I
particularly wished those books to be returned to-night.'

'Send Oliver with them,' said Mr. Grimwig, with an ironical
smile; 'he will be sure to deliver them safely, you know.'

'Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir,' said Oliver.
'I'll run all the way, sir.'

The old gentleman was just going to say that Oliver should not
go out on any account; when a most malicious cough from Mr. Grimwig
determined him that he should; and that, by his prompt discharge of
the commission, he should prove to him the injustice of his
suspicions: on this head at least: at once.

'You shall go, my dear,' said the old gentleman. 'The books are
on a chair by my table. Fetch them down.'

Oliver, delighted to be of use, brought down the books under his
arm in a great bustle; and waited, cap in hand, to hear what message
he was to take.

'You are to say,' said Mr. Brownlow, glancing steadily at
Grimwig; 'you are to say that you have brought those books back; and
that you have come to pay the four pound ten I owe him. This is a
five-pound note, so you will have to bring me back, ten shillings
change.'

'I won't be ten minutes, sir,' said Oliver, eagerly. Having
buttoned up the bank-note in his jacket pocket, and placed the books
carefully under his arm, he made a respectful bow, and left the room.
Mrs. Bedwin followed him to the street-door, giving him many
directions about the nearest way, and the name of the bookseller, and
the name of the street: all of which Oliver said he clearly
understood. Having superadded many injunctions to be sure and not
take cold, the old lady at length permitted him to depart.

'Bless his sweet face!' said the old lady, looking after him. 'I
can't bear, somehow, to let him go out of my sight.'

At this moment, Oliver looked gaily round, and nodded before he
turned the corner. The old lady smilingly returned his salutation,
and, closing the door, went back, to her own room.

'Let me see; he'll be back in twenty minutes, at the longest,'
said Mr. Brownlow, pulling out his watch, and placing it on the
table. 'It will be dark by that time.'

'Oh! you really expect him to come back, do you?' inquired Mr.
Grimwig.

'Don't you?' asked Mr. Brownlow, smiling.

The spirit of contradiction was strong in Mr. Grimwig's breast,
at the moment; and it was rendered stronger by his friend's confident
smile.

'No,' he said, smiting the table with his fist, 'I do not. The
boy has a new suit of clothes on his back, a set of valuable books
under his arm, and a five-pound note in his pocket. He'll join his
old friends the thieves, and laugh at you. If ever that boy returns
to this house, sir, I'll eat my head.'

With these words he drew his chair closer to the table; and
there the two friends sat, in silent expectation, with the watch
between them.

It is worthy of remark, as illustrating the importance we attach
to our own judgments, and the pride with which we put forth our most
rash and hasty conclusions, that, although Mr. Grimwig was not by any
means a bad-hearted man, and though he would have been unfeignedly
sorry to see his respected friend duped and deceived, he really did
most earnestly and strongly hope at that moment, that Oliver Twist
might not come back.

It grew so dark, that the figures on the dial-plate were
scarcely discernible; but there the two old gentlemen continued to
sit, in silence, with the watch between them.