Chapter XXIV

Oliver Twist

by Charles Dickens

Contains Some Introductory Particulars Relative to a Young
Gentleman Who Now Arrives Upon the Scene; and a New Adventure Which
Happened to Oliver

It was almost too much happiness to bear. Oliver felt stunned
and stupefied by the unexpected intelligence; he could not weep, or
speak, or rest. He had scarcely the power of understanding anything
that had passed, until, after a long ramble in the quiet evening air,
a burst of tears came to his relief, and he seemed to awaken, all at
once, to a full sense of the joyful change that had occurred, and the
almost insupportable load of anguish which had been taken from his
breast.

The night was fast closing in, when he returned homeward: laden
with flowers which he had culled, with peculiar care, for the
adornment of the sick chamber. As he walked briskly along the road,
he heard behind him, the noise of some vehicle, approaching at a
furious pace. Looking round, he saw that it was a post-chaise,
driven at great speed; and as the horses were galloping, and the road
was narrow, he stood leaning against a gate until it should have
passed him.

As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white
nitecap, whose face seemed familiar to him, although his view was so
brief that he could not identify the person. In another second or
two, the nightcap was thrust out of the chaise-window, and a
stentorian voice bellowed to the driver to stop: which he did, as
soon as he could pull up his horses. Then, the nightcap once again
appeared: and the same voice called Oliver by his name.

'Here!' cried the voice. 'Oliver, what's the news? Miss Rose!
Master O-li-ver!'

'Is is you, Giles?' cried Oliver, running up to the
chaise-door.

Giles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some
reply, when he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who
occupied the other corner of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded
what was the news.

'In a word!' cried the gentleman, 'Better or worse?'

'Better--much better!' replied Oliver, hastily.

'Thank Heaven!' exclaimed the gentleman. 'You are sure?'

'Quite, sir,' replied Oliver. 'The change took place only a few
hours ago; and Mr. Losberne says, that all danger is at an end.'

The gentleman said not another word, but, opening the
chaise-door, leaped out, and taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led
him aside.

'You are quite certain? There is no possibility of any mistake
on your part, my boy, is there?' demanded the gentleman in a
tremulous voice. 'Do not deceive me, by awakening hopes that are not
to be fulfilled.'

'I would not for the world, sir,' replied Oliver. 'Indeed you
may believe me. Mr. Losberne's words were, that she would live to
bless us all for many years to come. I heard him say so.'

The tears stood in Oliver's eyes as he recalled the scene which
was the beginning of so much happiness; and the gentleman turned his
face away, and remained silent, for some minutes. Oliver thought he
heard him sob, more than once; but he feared to interrupt him by any
fresh remark--for he could well guess what his feelings were--and so
stood apart, feigning to be occupied with his nosegay.

All this time, Mr. Giles, with the white nightcap on, had been
sitting on the steps of the chaise, supporting an elbow on each knee,
and wiping his eyes with a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief dotted
with white spots. That the honest fellow had not been feigning
emotion, was abundently demonstrated by the very red eyes with which
he regarded the young gentleman, when he turned round and addressed
him.

'I think you had better go on to my mother's in the chaise,
Giles,' said he. 'I would rather walk slowly on, so as to gain a
little time before I see her. You can say I am coming.'

'I beg your pardon, Mr. Harry,' said Giles: giving a final
polish to his ruffled countenance with the handkerchief; 'but if you
would leave the postboy to say that, I should be very much obliged to
you. It wouldn't be proper for the maids to see me in this state,
sir; I should never have any more authority with them if they
did.'

'Well,' rejoined Harry Maylie, smiling, 'you can do as you like.
Let him go on with the luggage, if you wish it, and do you follow
with us. Only first exchange that nightcap for some more appropriate
covering, or we shall be taken for madmen.'

Mr. Giles, reminded of his unbecoming costume, snatched off and
pocketed his nightcap; and substituted a hat, of grave and sober
shape, which he took out of the chaise. This done, the postboy drove
off; Giles, Mr. Maylie, and Oliver, followed at their leisure.

As they walked along, Oliver glanced from time to time with much
interest and curiosity at the new comer. He seemed about
five-and-twenty years of age, and was of the middle height; his
countenance was frank and handsome; and his demeanor easy and
prepossessing. Notwithstanding the difference between youth and age,
he bore so strong a likeness to the old lady, that Oliver would have
had no great difficulty in imagining their relationship, if he had
not already spoken of her as his mother.

Mrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to receive her son when he
reached the cottage. The meeting did not take place without great
emotion on both sides.

'Mother!' whispered the young man; 'why did you not write
before?'

'I did,' replied Mrs. Maylie; 'but, on reflection, I determined
to keep back the letter until I had heard Mr. Losberne's opinion.'

'But why,' said the young man, 'why run the chance of that
occurring which so nearly happened? If Rose had--I cannot utter that
word now--if this illness had terminated differently, how could you
ever have forgiven yourself! How could I ever have know happiness
again!'

'If that had been the case, Harry,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'I fear
your happiness would have been effectually blighted, and that your
arrival here, a day sooner or a day later, would have been of very,
very little import.'

'And who can wonder if it be so, mother?' rejoined the young
man; 'or why should I say, if?--It is--it is--you know it,
mother--you must know it!'

'I know that she deserves the best and purest love the heart of
man can offer,' said Mrs. Maylie; 'I know that the devotion and
affection of her nature require no ordinary return, but one that
shall be deep and lasting. If I did not feel this, and know,
besides, that a changed behaviour in one she loved would break her
heart, I should not feel my task so difficult of performance, or have
to encounter so many struggles in my own bosom, when I take what
seems to me to be the strict line of duty.'

'This is unkind, mother,' said Harry. 'Do you still suppose
that I am a boy ignorant of my own mind, and mistaking the impulses
of my own soul?'

'I think, my dear son,' returned Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand
upon his shoulder, 'that youth has many generous impulses which do
not last; and that among them are some, which, being gratified,
become only the more fleeting. Above all, I think' said the lady,
fixing her eyes on her son's face, 'that if an enthusiastic, ardent,
and ambitious man marry a wife on whose name there is a stain, which,
though it originate in no fault of hers, may be visited by cold and
sordid people upon her, and upon his children also: and, in exact
proportion to his success in the world, be cast in his teeth, and
made the subject of sneers against him: he may, no matter how
generous and good his nature, one day repent of the connection he
formed in early life. And she may have the pain of knowing that he
does so.'

'Mother,' said the young man, impatiently, 'he would be a
selfish brute, unworthy alike of the name of man and of the woman you
describe, who acted thus.'

'You think so now, Harry,' replied his mother.

'And ever will!' said the young man. 'The mental agony I have
suffered, during the last two days, wrings from me the avowal to you
of a passion which, as you well know, is not one of yesterday, nor
one I have lightly formed. On Rose, sweet, gentle girl! my heart is
set, as firmly as ever heart of man was set on woman. I have no
thought, no view, no hope in life, beyond her; and if you oppose me
in this great stake, you take my peace and happiness in your hands,
and cast them to the wind. Mother, think better of this, and of me,
and do not disregard the happiness of which you seem to think so
little.'

'Harry,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'it is because I think so much of
warm and sensitive hearts, that I would spare them from being
wounded.

But we have said enough, and more than enough, on this matter,
just now.'

'Let it rest with Rose, then,' interposed Harry. 'You will not
press these overstrained opinions of yours, so far, as to throw any
obstacle in my way?'

'I will not,' rejoined Mrs. Maylie; 'but I would have you
consider--'

'I have considered!' was the impatient reply; 'Mother, I have
considered, years and years. I have considered, ever since I have
been capable of serious reflection. My feelings remain unchanged, as
they ever will; and why should I suffer the pain of a delay in giving
them vent, which can be productive of no earthly good? No! Before I
leave this place, Rose shall hear me.'

'She shall,' said Mrs. Maylie.

'There is something in your manner, which would almost imply
that she will hear me coldly, mother,' said the young man.

'Not coldly,' rejoined the old lady; 'far from it.'

'How then?' urged the young man. 'She has formed no other
attachment?'

'No, indeed,' replied his mother; 'you have, or I mistake, too
strong a hold on her affections already. What I would say,' resumed
the old lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, 'is this.
Before you stake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself
to be carried to the highest point of hope; reflect for a few
moments, my dear child, on Rose's history, and consider what effect
the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision:
devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind,
and with that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great
or trifling, has always been her characteristic.'

'What do you mean?'

'That I leave you to discover,' replied Mrs. Maylie. 'I must go
back to her. God bless you!'

'I shall see you again to-night?' said the young man,
eagerly.

'By and by,' replied the lady; 'when I leave Rose.'

'You will tell her I am here?' said Harry.

'Of course,' replied Mrs. Maylie.

'And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered,
and how I long to see her. You will not refuse to do this,
mother?'

'No,' said the old lady; 'I will tell her all.' And pressing
her son's hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room.

Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the
apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former
now held out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were
exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to
multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of
his patient's situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of
promise, as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the
whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage,
listened with greedy ears.

'Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?' inquired the
doctor, when he had concluded.

'Nothing particular, sir,' replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to
the eyes.

'Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?'
said the doctor.

'None at all, sir,' replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity.

'Well,' said the doctor, 'I am sorry to hear it, because you do
that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?'

'The boy is very well, sir,' said Mr. Giles, recovering his
usual tone of patronage; 'and sends his respectful duty, sir.'

'That's well,' said the doctor. 'Seeing you here, reminds me,
Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so
hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small
commission in your favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will
you?'

Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some
wonder, and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the
doctor, on the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and
retired with steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of
this conference was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was
speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight
thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air
of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had pleased his
mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion
of that attempted robbery, to depost, in the local savings-bank, the
sum of five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and benefit. At
this, the two women-servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and
supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, 'No,
no'; and that if they observed that he was at all haughty to his
inferiors, he would thank them to tell him so. And then he made a
great many other remarks, no less illustrative of his humility, which
were received with equal favour and applause, and were, withal, as
original and as much to the purpose, as the remarks of great men
commonly are.

Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully
away; for the doctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or
thoughtful Harry Maylie might have been at first, he was not proof
against the worthy gentleman's good humour, which displayed itself in
a great variety of sallies and professional recollections, and an
abundance of small jokes, which struck Oliver as being the drollest
things he had ever heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately; to
the evident satisfaction of the doctor, who laughed immoderately at
himself, and made Harry laugh almost as heartily, by the very force
of sympathy. So, they were as pleasant a party as, under the
circumstances, they could well have been; and it was late before they
retired, with light and thankful hearts, to take that rest of which,
after the doubt and suspense they had recently undergone, they stood
much in need.

Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his
usual occupations, with more hope and pleasure than he had known for
many days. The birds were once more hung out, to sing, in their old
places; and the sweetest wild flowers that could be found, were once
more gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. The melancholy which
had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for days past,
over every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic.
The dew seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves; the air
to rustle among them with a sweeter music; and the sky itself to look
more blue and bright. Such is the influence which the condition of
our own thoughts, exercise, even over the appearance of external
objects. Men who look on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that
all is dark and gloomy, are in the right; but the sombre colours are
reflections from their own jaundiced eyes and hearts. The real hues
are delicate, and need a clearer vision.

It is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it at
the time, that his morning expeditions were no longer made alone.
Harry Maylie, after the very first morning when he met Oliver coming
laden home, was seized with such a passion for flowers, and displayed
such a taste in their arrangement, as left his young companion far
behind. If Oliver were behindhand in these respects, he knew where
the best were to be found; and morning after morning they scoured the
country together, and brought home the fairest that blossomed. The
window of the young lady's chamber was opened now; for she loved to
feel the rich summer air stream in, and revive her with its
freshness; but there always stood in water, just inside the lattice,
one particular little bunch, which was made up with great care, every
morning. Oliver could not help noticing that the withered flowers
were never thrown away, although the little vase was regularly
replenished; nor, could he help observing, that whenever the doctor
came into the garden, he invariably cast his eyes up to that
particular corner, and nodded his head most expressively, as he set
forth on his morning's walk. Pending these observations, the days
were flying by; and Rose was rapidly recovering.

Nor did Oliver's time hang heavy on his hands, although the
young lady had not yet left her chamber, and there were no evening
walks, save now and then, for a short distance, with Mrs. Maylie.

He applied himself, with redoubled assiduity, to the
instructions of the white-headed old gentleman, and laboured so hard
that his quick progress surprised even himself. It was while he was
engaged in this pursuit, that he was greatly startled and distressed
by a most unexpected occurence.

The little room in which he was accustomed to sit, when busy at
his books, was on the ground-floor, at the back of the house. It was
quite a cottage-room, with a lattice-window: around which were
clusters of jessamine and honeysuckle, that crept over the casement,
and filled the place with their delicious perfume. It looked into a
garden, whence a wicket-gate opened into a small paddock; all beyond,
was fine meadow-land and wood. There was no other dwelling near, in
that direction; and the prospect it commanded was very extensive.

One beautiful evening, when the first shades of twilight were
beginning to settle upon the earth, Oliver sat at this window, intent
upon his books. He had been poring over them for some time; and, as
the day had been uncommonly sultry, and he had exerted himself a
great deal, it it no disparagement to the authors, whoever they may
have been, to say, that gradually and by slow degrees, he fell
asleep.

There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which,
while it holds the body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense
of things about it, and enable it to ramble at its pleasure. So far
as an overpowering heaviness, a prostration of strength, and an utter
inability to control our thoughts or power of motion, can be called
sleep, this is it; and yet, we have a consciousness of all that is
going on about us, and, if we dream at such a time, words which are
really spoken, or sounds which really exist at the moment,
accommodate themselves with surprising readiness to our visions,
until reality and imagination become so strangely blended that it is
afterwards almost matter of impossibility to separate the two. Nor
is this, the most striking phenomenon indcidental to such a state.
It is an undoubted fact, that although our senses of touch and sight
be for the time dead, yet our sleeping thoughts, and the visionary
scenes that pass before us, will be influenced and materially
influenced, by the mere silent presence of some external object;
which may not have been near us when we closed our eyes: and of
whose vicinity we have had no waking consciousness.

Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room;
that his books were lying on the table before him; that the sweet air
was stirring among the creeping plants outside. And yet he was
asleep. Suddenly, the scene changed; the air became close and
confined; and he thought, with a glow of terror, that he was in the
Jew's house again. There sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed
corner, pointing at him, and whispering to another man, with his face
averted, who sat beside him.

'Hush, my dear!' he thought he heard the Jew say; 'it is he,
sure enough. Come away.'

'He!' the other man seemed to answer; 'could I mistake him,
think you? If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his
exact shape, and he stood amongst them, there is something that would
tell me how to point him out. If you buried him fifty feet deep, and
took me across his grave, I fancy I should know, if there wasn't a
mark above it, that he lay buried there?'

The man seemed to say this, with such dreadful hatred, that
Oliver awoke with the fear, and started up.

Good Heaven! what was that, which sent the blood tingling to
his heart, and deprived him of his voice, and of power to move!
There--there--at the window--close before him--so close, that he
could have almost touched him before he started back: with his eyes
peering into the room, and meeting his: there stood the Jew! And
beside him, white with rage or fear, or both, were the scowling
features of the man who had accosted him in the inn-yard.

It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and
they were gone. But they had recognised him, and he them; and their
look was as firmly impressed upon his memory, as if it had been
deeply carved in stone, and set before him from his birth. He stood
transfixed for a moment; then, leaping from the window into the
garden, called loudly for help.