Oliver Twist
The apothecary’s apprentice, having completed the manufacture of the
toothpick, planted himself in front of the fire and made good use of it
for ten minutes or so: when apparently growing rather dull, he wished
Mrs. Corney joy of her job, and took himself off on tiptoe.
When they had sat in silence for some time, the two old women rose from
the bed, and crouching over the fire, held out their withered hands to
catch the heat. The flame threw a ghastly light on their shrivelled
faces, and made their ugliness appear terrible, as, in this position,
they began to converse in a low voice.
“Did she say any more, Anny dear, while I was gone?” inquired the
messenger.
“Not a word,” replied the other. “She plucked and tore at her arms for
a little time; but I held her hands, and she soon dropped off. She
hasn’t much strength in her, so I easily kept her quiet. I ain’t so
weak for an old woman, although I am on parish allowance; no, no!”
“Did she drink the hot wine the doctor said she was to have?” demanded
the first.
“I tried to get it down,” rejoined the other. “But her teeth were tight
set, and she clenched the mug so hard that it was as much as I could do
to get it back again. So _I_ drank it; and it did me good!”
Looking cautiously round, to ascertain that they were not overheard,
the two hags cowered nearer to the fire, and chuckled heartily.
“I mind the time,” said the first speaker, “when she would have done
the same, and made rare fun of it afterwards.”
“Ay, that she would,” rejoined the other; “she had a merry heart. A
many, many, beautiful corpses she laid out, as nice and neat as
waxwork. My old eyes have seen them—ay, and those old hands touched
them too; for I have helped her, scores of times.”
Stretching forth her trembling fingers as she spoke, the old creature
shook them exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket,
brought out an old time-discoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook
a few grains into the outstretched palm of her companion, and a few
more into her own. While they were thus employed, the matron, who had
been impatiently watching until the dying woman should awaken from her
stupor, joined them by the fire, and sharply asked how long she was to
wait?
“Not long, mistress,” replied the second woman, looking up into her
face. “We have none of us long to wait for Death. Patience, patience!
He’ll be here soon enough for us all.”
“Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!” said the matron sternly. “You,
Martha, tell me; has she been in this way before?”
“Often,” answered the first woman.
“But will never be again,” added the second one; “that is, she’ll never
wake again but once—and mind, mistress, that won’t be for long!”
“Long or short,” said the matron, snappishly, “she won’t find me here
when she does wake; take care, both of you, how you worry me again for
nothing. It’s no part of my duty to see all the old women in the house
die, and I won’t—that’s more. Mind that, you impudent old harridans. If
you make a fool of me again, I’ll soon cure you, I warrant you!”
She was bouncing away, when a cry from the two women, who had turned
towards the bed, caused her to look round. The patient had raised
herself upright, and was stretching her arms towards them.
“Who’s that?” she cried, in a hollow voice.
“Hush, hush!” said one of the women, stooping over her. “Lie down, lie
down!”
“I’ll never lie down again alive!” said the woman, struggling. “I
_will_ tell her! Come here! Nearer! Let me whisper in your ear.”
She clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her into a chair by the
bedside, was about to speak, when looking round, she caught sight of
the two old women bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners.
“Turn them away,” said the woman, drowsily; “make haste! make haste!”
The two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous
lamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best
friends; and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never
leave her, when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the
door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies
changed their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was
drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a
moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring
under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been
privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy
old ladies themselves.
“Now listen to me,” said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great
effort to revive one latent spark of energy. “In this very room—in this
very bed—I once nursed a pretty young creetur’, that was brought into
the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled
with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me
think—what was the year again!”
“Never mind the year,” said the impatient auditor; “what about her?”
“Ay,” murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state,
“what about her?—what about—I know!” she cried, jumping fiercely up:
her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head—“I robbed her, so
I did! She wasn’t cold—I tell you she wasn’t cold, when I stole it!”
“Stole what, for God’s sake?” cried the matron, with a gesture as if
she would call for help.
“_It_!” replied the woman, laying her hand over the other’s mouth. “The
only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to
eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I
tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!”
“Gold!” echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell
back. “Go on, go on—yes—what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?”
“She charged me to keep it safe,” replied the woman with a groan, “and
trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she
first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child’s death,
perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they
had known it all!”
“Known what?” asked the other. “Speak!”
“The boy grew so like his mother,” said the woman, rambling on, and not
heeding the question, “that I could never forget it when I saw his
face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb!
Wait; there’s more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?”
“No, no,” replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as
they came more faintly from the dying woman. “Be quick, or it may be
too late!”
“The mother,” said the woman, making a more violent effort than before;
“the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in
my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come
when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother
named. ‘And oh, kind Heaven!’ she said, folding her thin hands
together, ‘whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in
this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child,
abandoned to its mercy!’”
“The boy’s name?” demanded the matron.
“They _called_ him Oliver,” replied the woman, feebly. “The gold I
stole was—”
“Yes, yes—what?” cried the other.
She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew
back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a
sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered
some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed.
“Stone dead!” said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the
door was opened.
“And nothing to tell, after all,” rejoined the matron, walking
carelessly away.
The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the
preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left
alone, hovering about the body.
CHAPTER XXV.
WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY
While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat
in the old den—the same from which Oliver had been removed by the
girl—brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon
his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it
into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and
with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed
his eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars.
At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and
Mr. Chitling: all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy
against Master Bates and Mr. Chitling. The countenance of the
first-named gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired
great additional interest from his close observance of the game, and
his attentive perusal of Mr. Chitling’s hand; upon which, from time to
time, as occasion served, he bestowed a variety of earnest glances:
wisely regulating his own play by the result of his observations upon
his neighbour’s cards. It being a cold night, the Dodger wore his hat,
as, indeed, was often his custom within doors. He also sustained a clay
pipe between his teeth, which he only removed for a brief space when he
deemed it necessary to apply for refreshment to a quart pot upon the
table, which stood ready filled with gin-and-water for the
accommodation of the company.
Master Bates was also attentive to the play; but being of a more
excitable nature than his accomplished friend, it was observable that
he more frequently applied himself to the gin-and-water, and moreover
indulged in many jests and irrelevant remarks, all highly unbecoming a
scientific rubber. Indeed, the Artful, presuming upon their close
attachment, more than once took occasion to reason gravely with his
companion upon these improprieties; all of which remonstrances, Master
Bates received in extremely good part; merely requesting his friend to
be “blowed,” or to insert his head in a sack, or replying with some
other neatly-turned witticism of a similar kind, the happy application
of which, excited considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling.
It was remarkable that the latter gentleman and his partner invariably
lost; and that the circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates,
appeared to afford him the highest amusement, inasmuch as he laughed
most uproariously at the end of every deal, and protested that he had
never seen such a jolly game in all his born days.
“That’s two doubles and the rub,” said Mr. Chitling, with a very long
face, as he drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket. “I never see
such a feller as you, Jack; you win everything. Even when we’ve good
cards, Charley and I can’t make nothing of ’em.”
Either the matter or the manner of this remark, which was made very
ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that his consequent shout of
laughter roused the Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire
what was the matter.
“Matter, Fagin!” cried Charley. “I wish you had watched the play. Tommy
Chitling hasn’t won a point; and I went partners with him against the
Artful and dumb.”
“Ay, ay!” said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated
that he was at no loss to understand the reason. “Try ’em again, Tom;
try ’em again.”
“No more of it for me, thank ’ee, Fagin,” replied Mr. Chitling; “I’ve
had enough. That ’ere Dodger has such a run of luck that there’s no
standing again’ him.”
“Ha! ha! my dear,” replied the Jew, “you must get up very early in the
morning, to win against the Dodger.”
“Morning!” said Charley Bates; “you must put your boots on over-night,
and have a telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass between your
shoulders, if you want to come over him.”
Mr. Dawkins received these handsome compliments with much philosophy,
and offered to cut any gentleman in company, for the first