Chapter XLVI

Oliver Twist

by Charles Dickens

The Appointment Kept

The church clocks chimed three quarters past eleven, as two
figures emerged on London Bridge. One, which advanced with a swift
and rapid step, was that of a woman who looked eagerly about her as
though in quest of some expected object; the other figure was that of
a man, who slunk along in the deepest shadow he could find, and, at
some distance, accommodated his pace to hers: stopping when she
stopped: and as she moved again, creeping stealthily on: but never
allowing himself, in the ardour of his pursuit, to gain upon her
footsteps. Thus, they crossed the bridge, from the Middlesex to the
Surrey shore, when the woman, apparently disappointed in her anxious
scrutiny of the foot-passengers, turned back. The movement was
sudden; but he who watched her, was not thrown off his guard by it;
for, shrinking into one of the recesses which surmount the piers of
the bridge, and leaning over the parapet the better to conceal his
figure, he suffered her to pass on the opposite pavement. When she
was about the same distance in advance as she had been before, he
slipped quietly down, and followed her again. At nearly the centre of
the bridge, she stopped. The man stopped too.

It was a very dark night. The day had been unfavourable, and at
that hour and place there were few people stirring. Such as there
were, hurried quickly past: very possibly without seeing, but
certainly without noticing, either the woman, or the man who kept her
in view. Their appearance was not calculated to attract the
importunate regards of such of London's destitute population, as
chanced to take their way over the bridge that night in search of
some cold arch or doorless hovel wherein to lay their heads; they
stood there in silence: neither speaking nor spoken to, by any one
who passed.

A mist hung over the river, deepening the red glare of the fires
that burnt upon the small craft moored off the different wharfs, and
rendering darker and more indistinct the murky buildings on the
banks. The old smoke-stained storehouses on either side, rose heavy
and dull from the dense mass of roofs and gables, and frowned sternly
upon water too black to reflect even their lumbering shapes. The
tower of old Saint Saviour's Church, and the spire of Saint Magnus,
so long the giant-warders of the ancient bridge, were visible in the
gloom; but the forest of shipping below bridge, and the thickly
scattered spires of churches above, were nearly all hidden from
sight.

The girl had taken a few restless turns to and fro--closely
watched meanwhile by her hidden observer--when the heavy bell of St.
Paul's tolled for the death of another day. Midnight had come upon
the crowded city. The palace, the night-cellar, the jail, the
madhouse: the chambers of birth and death, of health and sickness,
the rigid face of the corpse and the calm sleep of the child:
midnight was upon them all.

The hour had not struck two minutes, when a young lady,
accompanied by a grey-haired gentleman, alighted from a
hackney-carriage within a short distance of the bridge, and, having
dismissed the vehicle, walked straight towards it. They had scarcely
set foot upon its pavement, when the girl started, and immediately
made towards them.

They walked onward, looking about them with the air of persons
who entertained some very slight expectation which had little chance
of being realised, when they were suddenly joined by this new
associate. They halted with an exclamation of surprise, but
suppressed it immediately; for a man in the garments of a countryman
came close up--brushed against them, indeed--at that precise
moment.

'Not here,' said Nancy hurriedly, 'I am afraid to speak to you
here. Come away--out of the public road--down the steps yonder!'

As she uttered these words, and indicated, with her hand, the
direction in which she wished them to proceed, the countryman looked
round, and roughly asking what they took up the whole pavement for,
passed on.

The steps to which the girl had pointed, were those which, on
the Surrey bank, and on the same side of the bridge as Saint
Saviour's Church, form a landing-stairs from the river. To this
spot, the man bearing the appearance of a countryman, hastened
unobserved; and after a moment's survey of the place, he began to
descend.

These stairs are a part of the bridge; they consist of three
flights. Just below the end of the second, going down, the stone
wall on the left terminates in an ornamental pilaster facing towards
the Thames. At this point the lower steps widen: so that a person
turning that angle of the wall, is necessarily unseen by any others
on the stairs who chance to be above him, if only a step. The
countryman looked hastily round, when he reached this point; and as
there seemed no better place of concealment, and, the tide being out,
there was plenty of room, he slipped aside, with his back to the
pilaster, and there waited: pretty certain that they would come no
lower, and that even if he could not hear what was said, he could
follow them again, with safety.

So tardily stole the time in this lonely place, and so eager was
the spy to penetrate the motives of an interview so different from
what he had been led to expect, that he more than once gave the
matter up for lost, and persuaded himself, either that they had
stopped far above, or had resorted to some entirely different spot to
hold their mysterious conversation. He was on the point of emerging
from his hiding-place, and regaining the road above, when he heard
the sound of footsteps, and directly afterwards of voices almost
close at his ear.

He drew himself straight upright against the wall, and, scarcely
breathing, listened attentively.

'This is far enough,' said a voice, which was evidently that of
the gentleman. 'I will not suffer the young lady to go any farther.
Many people would have distrusted you too much to have come even so
far, but you see I am willing to humour you.'

'To humour me!' cried the voice of the girl whom he had
followed.

'You're considerate, indeed, sir. To humour me! Well, well,
it's no matter.'

'Why, for what,' said the gentleman in a kinder tone, 'for what
purpose can you have brought us to this strange place? Why not have
let me speak to you, above there, where it is light, and there is
something stirring, instead of bringing us to this dark and dismal
hole?'

'I told you before,' replied Nancy, 'that I was afraid to speak
to you there. I don't know why it is,' said the girl, shuddering,
'but I have such a fear and dread upon me to-night that I can hardly
stand.'

'A fear of what?' asked the gentleman, who seemed to pity
her.

'I scarcely know of what,' replied the girl. 'I wish I did.
Horrible thoughts of death, and shrouds with blood upon them, and a
fear that has made me burn as if I was on fire, have been upon me all
day. I was reading a book to-night, to wile the time away, and the
same things came into the print.'

'Imagination,' said the gentleman, soothing her.

'No imagination,' replied the girl in a hoarse voice. 'I'll
swear I saw "coffin" written in every page of the book in large black
letters,--aye, and they carried one close to me, in the streets
to-night.'

'There is nothing unusual in that,' said the gentleman. 'They
have passed me often.'

'Real ones,' rejoined the girl. 'This was not.'

There was something so uncommon in her manner, that the flesh of
the concealed listener crept as he heard the girl utter these words,
and the blood chilled within him. He had never experienced a greater
relief than in hearing the sweet voice of the young lady as she
begged her to be calm, and not allow herself to become the prey of
such fearful fancies.

'Speak to her kindly,' said the young lady to her companion.
'Poor creature! She seems to need it.'

'Your haughty religious people would have held their heads up to
see me as I am to-night, and preached of flames and vengeance,' cried
the girl. 'Oh, dear lady, why ar'n't those who claim to be God's own
folks as gentle and as kind to us poor wretches as you, who, having
youth, and beauty, and all that they have lost, might be a little
proud instead of so much humbler?'

'Ah!' said the gentleman. 'A Turk turns his face, after washing
it well, to the East, when he says his prayers; these good people,
after giving their faces such a rub against the World as to take the
smiles off, turn with no less regularity, to the darkest side of
Heaven. Between the Mussulman and the Pharisee, commend me to the
first!'

These words appeared to be addressed to the young lady, and were
perhaps uttered with the view of afffording Nancy time to recover
herself. The gentleman, shortly afterwards, addressed himself to
her.

'You were not here last Sunday night,' he said.

'I couldn't come,' replied Nancy; 'I was kept by force.'

'By whom?'

'Him that I told the young lady of before.'

'You were not suspected of holding any communication with
anybody on the subject which has brought us here to-night, I hope?'
asked the old gentleman.

'No,' replied the girl, shaking her head. 'It's not very easy
for me to leave him unless he knows why; I couldn't give him a drink
of laudanum before I came away.'

'Did he awake before you returned?' inquired the gentleman.

'No; and neither he nor any of them suspect me.'

'Good,' said the gentleman. 'Now listen to me.'

'I am ready,' replied the girl, as he paused for a moment.

'This young lady,' the gentleman began, 'has communicated to me,
and to some other friends who can be safely trusted, what you told
her nearly a fortnight since. I confess to you that I had doubts, at
first, whether you were to be implicitly relied upon, but now I
firmly believe you are.'

'I am,' said the girl earnestly.

'I repeat that I firmly believe it. To prove to you that I am
disposed to trust you, I tell you without reserve, that we propose to
extort the secret, whatever it may be, from the fear of this man
Monks. But if--if--' said the gentleman, 'he cannot be secured, or,
if secured, cannot be acted upon as we wish, you must deliver up the
Jew.'

'Fagin,' cried the girl, recoiling.

'That man must be delivered up by you,' said the gentleman.

'I will not do it! I will never do it!' replied the girl.
'Devil that he is, and worse than devil as he has been to me, I will
never do that.'

'You will not?' said the gentleman, who seemed fully prepared
for this answer.

'Never!' returned the girl.

'Tell me why?'

'For one reason,' rejoined the girl firmly, 'for one reason,
that the lady knows and will stand by me in, I know she will, for I
have her promise: and for this other reason, besides, that, bad life
as he has led, I have led a bad life too; there are many of us who
have kept the same courses together, and I'll not turn upon them, who
might--any of them--have turned upon me, but didn't, bad as they
are.'

'Then,' said the gentleman, quickly, as if this had been the
point he had been aiming to attain; 'put Monks into my hands, and
leave him to me to deal with.'

'What if he turns against the others?'

'I promise you that in that case, if the truth is forced from
him, there the matter will rest; there must be circumstances in
Oliver's little history which it would be painful to drag before the
public eye, and if the truth is once elicited, they shall go scot
free.'

'And if it is not?' suggested the girl.

'Then,' pursued the gentleman, 'this Fagin shall not be brought
to justice without your consent. In such a case I could show you
reasons, I think, which would induce you to yield it.'

'Have I the lady's promise for that?' asked the girl.

'You have,' replied Rose. 'My true and faithful pledge.'

'Monks would never learn how you knew what you do?' said the
girl, after a short pause.

'Never,' replied the gentleman. 'The intelligence should be
brought to bear upon him, that he could never even guess.'

'I have been a liar, and among liars from a little child,' said
the girl after another interval of silence, 'but I will take your
words.'

After receving an assurance from both, that she might safely do
so, she proceeded in a voice so low that it was often difficult for
the listener to discover even the purport of what she said, to
describe, by name and situation, the public-house whence she had been
followed that night. From the manner in which she occasionally
paused, it appeared as if the gentleman were making some hasty notes
of the information she communicated. When she had thoroughly
explained the localities of the place, the best position from which
to watch it without exciting observation, and the night and hour on
which Monks was most in the habit of frequenting it, she seemed to
consider for a few moments, for the purpose of recalling his features
and appearances more forcibly to her recollection.

'He is tall,' said the girl, 'and a strongly made man, but not
stout; he has a lurking walk; and as he walks, constantly looks over
his shoulder, first on one side, and then on the other. Don't forget
that, for his eyes are sunk in his head so much deeper than any other
man's, that you might almost tell him by that alone. His face is
dark, like his hair and eyes; and, although he can't be more than six
or eight and twenty, withered and haggard. His lips are often
discoloured and disfigured with the marks of teeth; for he has
desperate fits, and sometimes even bites his hands and covers them
with wounds--why did you start?' said the girl, stopping suddenly.

The gentleman replied, in a hurried manner, that he was not
conscious of having done so, and begged her to proceed.

'Part of this,' said the girl, 'I have drawn out from other
people at the house I tell you of, for I have only seen him twice,
and both times he was covered up in a large cloak. I think that's
all I can give you to know him by. Stay though,' she added. 'Upon
his throat: so high that you can see a part of it below his
neckerchief when he turns his face: there is--'

'A broad red mark, like a burn or scald?' cried the
gentleman.

'How's this?' said the girl. 'You know him!'

The young lady uttered a cry of surprise, and for a few moments
they were so still that the listener could distinctly hear them
breathe.

'I think I do,' said the gentleman, breaking silence. 'I should
by your description. We shall see. Many people are singularly like
each other. It may not be the same.'

As he expressed himself to this effect, with assumed
carelessness, he took a step or two nearer the concealed spy, as the
latter could tell from the distinctness with which he heard him
mutter, 'It must be he!'

'Now,' he said, returning: so it seemed by the sound: to the
spot where he had stood before, 'you have given us most valuable
assistance, young woman, and I wish you to be the better for it.
What can I do to serve you?'

'Nothing,' replied Nancy.

'You will not persist in saying that,' rejoined the gentleman,
with a voice and emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much
harder and more obdurate heart. 'Think now. Tell me.'

'Nothing, sir,' rejoined the girl, weeping. 'You can do nothing
to help me. I am past all hope, indeed.'

'You put yourself beyond its pale,' said the gentleman. 'The
past has been a dreary waste with you, of youthful energies
mis-spent, and such priceless treasures lavished, as the Creator
bestows but once and never grants again, but, for the future, you may
hope. I do not say that it is in our power to offer you peace of
heart and mind, for that must come as you seek it; but a quiet
asylum, either in England, or, if you fear to remain here, in some
foreign country, it is not only within the compass of our ability but
our most anxious wish to secure you. Before the dawn of morning,
before this river wakes to the first glimpse of day-light, you shall
be placed as entirely beyond the reach of your former associates, and
leave as utter an absence of all trace behind you, as if you were to
disappear from the earth this moment. Come! I would not have you go
back to exchange one word with any old companion, or take one look at
any old haunt, or breathe the very air which is pestilence and death
to you. Quit them all, while there is time and opportunity!'

'She will be persuaded now,' cried the young lady. 'She
hesitates, I am sure.'

'I fear not, my dear,' said the gentleman.

'No sir, I do not,' replied the girl, after a short struggle.
'I am chained to my old life. I loathe and hate it now, but I cannot
leave it. I must have gone too far to turn back,--and yet I don't
know, for if you had spoken to me so, some time ago, I should have
laughed it off. But,' she said, looking hastily round, 'this fear
comes over me again. I must go home.'

'Home!' repeated the young lady, with great stress upon the
word.

'Home, lady,' rejoined the girl. 'To such a home as I have
raised for myself with the work of my whole life. Let us part. I
shall be watched or seen. Go! Go! If I have done you any service
all I ask is, that you leave me, and let me go my way alone.'

'It is useless,' said the gentleman, with a sigh. 'We
compromise her safety, perhaps, by staying here. We may have
detained her longer than she expected already.'

'Yes, yes,' urged the girl. 'You have.'

'What,' cried the young lady. 'can be the end of this poor
creature's life!'

'What!' repeated the girl. 'Look before you, lady. Look at
that dark water. How many times do you read of such as I who spring
into the tide, and leave no living thing, to care for, or bewail
them. It may be years hence, or it may be only months, but I shall
come to that at last.'

'Do not speak thus, pray,' returned the young lady, sobbing.

'It will never reach your ears, dear lady, and God forbid such
horrors should!' replied the girl. 'Good-night, good-night!'

The gentleman turned away.

'This purse,' cried the young lady. 'Take it for my sake, that
you may have some resource in an hour of need and trouble.'

'No!' replied the girl. 'I have not done this for money. Let
me have that to think of. And yet--give me something that you have
worn: I should like to have something--no, no, not a ring--your
gloves or handkerchief--anything that I can keep, as having belonged
to you, sweet lady. There. Bless you! God bless you. Good-night,
good-night!'

The violent agitation of the girl, and the apprehension of some
discovery which would subject her to ill-usage and violence, seemed
to determine the gentleman to leave her, as she requested.

The sound of retreating footsteps were audible and the voices
ceased.

The two figures of the young lady and her companion soon
afterwards appeared upon the bridge. They stopped at the summit of
the stairs.

'Hark!' cried the young lady, listening. 'Did she call! I
thought I heard her voice.'

'No, my love,' replied Mr. Brownlow, looking sadly back. 'She
has not moved, and will not till we are gone.'

Rose Maylie lingered, but the old gentleman drew her arm through
his, and led her, with gentle force, away. As they disappeared, the
girl sunk down nearly at her full length upon one of the stone
stairs, and vented the anguish of her heart in bitter tears.

After a time she arose, and with feeble and tottering steps
ascended the street. The astonished listener remained motionless on
his post for some minutes afterwards, and having ascertained, with
many cautious glances round him, that he was again alone, crept
slowly from his hiding-place, and returned, stealthily and in the
shade of the wall, in the same manner as he had descended.

Peeping out, more than once, when he reached the top, to make
sure that he was unobserved, Noah Claypole darted away at his utmost
speed, and made for the Jew's house as fast as his legs would carry
him.