English
NoahClaypoleranalongthestreetsathisswiftestpace,andpausednotonceforbreath,untilhereachedtheworkhouse-gate.
Havingrestedhere,foraminuteorso,tocollectagoodburstofsobsandanimposingshowoftearsandterror,heknockedloudlyatthewicket;andpresentedsucharuefulfacetotheagedpauperwhoopenedit,thatevenhe,whosawnothingbutruefulfacesabouthimatthebestoftimes,startedbackinastonishment.
‘Why,what’sthematterwiththeboy!’saidtheoldpauper.
‘Mr.Bumble!Mr.Bumble!’
criedNoah,withwell-affecteddismay:andintonessoloudandagitated,thattheynotonlycaughttheearofMr.Bumblehimself,whohappenedtobehardby,butalarmedhimsomuchthatherushedintotheyardwithouthiscockedhat,—whichisaverycuriousandremarkablecircumstance:asshowingthatevenabeadle,acteduponasuddenandpowerfulimpulse,maybeafflictedwithamomentaryvisitationoflossofself-possession,andforgetfulnessofpersonaldignity.
‘Oh,Mr.Bumble,sir!’saidNoah:‘Oliver,sir,—Oliverhas—’
‘What?What?’interposedMr.Bumble:withagleamofpleasureinhismetalliceyes.‘Notrunaway;hehasn’trunaway,hashe,Noah?’
‘No,sir,no.Notrunaway,sir,buthe’sturnedwicious,’repliedNoah.‘Hetriedtomurderme,sir;andthenhetriedtomurderCharlotte;andthenmissis.Oh!whatdreadfulpainitis!
Suchagony,please,sir!’Andhere,Noahwrithedandtwistedhisbodyintoanextensivevarietyofeel-likepositions;therebygivingMr.Bumbletounderstandthat,fromtheviolentandsanguinaryonsetofOliverTwist,hehadsustainedsevereinternalinjuryanddamage,fromwhichhewasatthatmomentsufferingtheacutesttorture.
WhenNoahsawthattheintelligencehecommunicatedperfectlyparalysedMr.Bumble,heimpartedadditionaleffectthereunto,bybewailinghisdreadfulwoundstentimeslouderthanbefore;andwhenheobservedagentlemaninawhitewaistcoatcrossingtheyard,hewasmoretragicinhislamentationsthanever:rightlyconceivingithighlyexpedienttoattractthenotice,androusetheindignation,ofthegentlemanaforesaid.
Thegentleman’snoticewasverysoonattracted;forhehadnotwalkedthreepaces,whenheturnedangrilyround,andinquiredwhatthatyoungcurwashowlingfor,andwhyMr.Bumbledidnotfavourhimwithsomethingwhichwouldrendertheseriesofvocularexclamationssodesignated,aninvoluntaryprocess?
‘It’sapoorboyfromthefree-school,sir,’repliedMr.Bumble,‘whohasbeennearlymurdered—allbutmurdered,sir,—byyoungTwist.’
‘ByJove!’exclaimedthegentlemaninthewhitewaistcoat,stoppingshort.‘Iknewit!Ifeltastrangepresentimentfromtheveryfirst,thatthataudaciousyoungsavagewouldcometobehung!’
‘Hehaslikewiseattempted,sir,tomurderthefemaleservant,’saidMr.Bumble,withafaceofashypaleness.
‘Andhismissis,’interposedMr.Claypole.
‘Andhismaster,too,Ithinkyousaid,Noah?’addedMr.Bumble.
‘No!he’sout,orhewouldhavemurderedhim,’repliedNoah.‘Hesaidhewantedto.’
‘Ah!Saidhewantedto,didhe,myboy?’inquiredthegentlemaninthewhitewaistcoat.
‘Yes,sir,’repliedNoah.‘Andplease,sir,missiswantstoknowwhetherMr.Bumblecansparetimetostepupthere,directly,andfloghim—’causemaster’sout.’
‘Certainly,myboy;certainly,’saidthegentlemaninthewhitewaistcoat:smilingbenignly,andpattingNoah’shead,whichwasaboutthreeincheshigherthanhisown.‘You’reagoodboy—averygoodboy.Here’sapennyforyou.
Bumble,juststepuptoSowerberry’swithyourcane,andseewhat’sbesttobedone.Don’tsparehim,Bumble.’
‘No,Iwillnot,sir,’repliedthebeadle.
Andthecockedhatandcanehavingbeen,bythistime,adjustedtotheirowner’ssatisfaction,Mr.BumbleandNoahClaypolebetookthemselveswithallspeedtotheundertaker’sshop.
Herethepositionofaffairshadnotatallimproved.
Sowerberryhadnotyetreturned,andOlivercontinuedtokick,withundiminishedvigour,atthecellar-door.
TheaccountsofhisferocityasrelatedbyMrs.SowerberryandCharlotte,wereofsostartlinganature,thatMr.Bumblejudgeditprudenttoparley,beforeopeningthedoor.
Withthisviewhegaveakickattheoutside,bywayofprelude;and,then,applyinghismouthtothekeyhole,said,inadeepandimpressivetone:
‘Oliver!’
‘Come;youletmeout!’repliedOliver,fromtheinside.
‘Doyouknowthisherevoice,Oliver?’saidMr.Bumble.
‘Yes,’repliedOliver.
‘Ain’tyouafraidofit,sir?Ain’tyoua-tremblingwhileIspeak,sir?’saidMr.Bumble.
‘No!’repliedOliver,boldly.
Ananswersodifferentfromtheonehehadexpectedtoelicit,andwasinthehabitofreceiving,staggeredMr.Bumblenotalittle.
Hesteppedbackfromthekeyhole;drewhimselfuptohisfullheight;andlookedfromonetoanotherofthethreebystanders,inmuteastonishment.
‘Oh,youknow,Mr.Bumble,hemustbemad,’saidMrs.Sowerberry.
‘Noboyinhalfhissensescouldventuretospeaksotoyou.’
‘It’snotMadness,ma’am,’repliedMr.Bumble,afterafewmomentsofdeepmeditation.‘It’sMeat.’
‘What?’exclaimedMrs.Sowerberry.
‘Meat,ma’am,meat,’repliedBumble,withsternemphasis.‘You’veover-fedhim,ma’am.
You’veraisedaartificialsoulandspiritinhim,ma’amunbecomingapersonofhiscondition:astheboard,Mrs.Sowerberry,whoarepracticalphilosophers,willtellyou.
Whathavepauperstodowithsoulorspirit?
It’squiteenoughthatwelet‘emhavelivebodies.
Ifyouhadkepttheboyongruel,ma’am,thiswouldneverhavehappened.’
‘Dear,dear!’ejaculatedMrs.Sowerberry,piouslyraisinghereyestothekitchenceiling:‘thiscomesofbeingliberal!’
TheliberalityofMrs.SowerberrytoOliver,hadconsistedofaprofusebestowaluponhimofallthedirtyoddsandendswhichnobodyelsewouldeat;sotherewasagreatdealofmeeknessandself-devotioninhervoluntarilyremainingunderMr.Bumble’sheavyaccusation.
Ofwhich,todoherjustice,shewaswhollyinnocent,inthought,word,ordeed.
‘Ah!’saidMr.Bumble,whentheladybroughthereyesdowntoearthagain;‘theonlythingthatcanbedonenow,thatIknowof,istoleavehiminthecellarforadayorso,tillhe’salittlestarveddown;andthentotakehimout,andkeephimongruelallthroughtheapprenticeship.Hecomesofabadfamily.Excitablenatures,Mrs.Sowerberry!
Boththenurseanddoctorsaid,thatthatmotherofhismadeherwayhere,againstdifficultiesandpainthatwouldhavekilledanywell-disposedwoman,weeksbefore.’
AtthispointofMr.Bumble’sdiscourse,Oliver,justhearingenoughtoknowthatsomeallusionwasbeingmadetohismother,recommencedkicking,withaviolencethatrenderedeveryothersoundinaudible.Sowerberryreturnedatthisjuncture.
Oliver’soffencehavingbeenexplainedtohim,withsuchexaggerationsastheladiesthoughtbestcalculatedtorousehisire,heunlockedthecellar-doorinatwinkling,anddraggedhisrebelliousapprenticeout,bythecollar.
Oliver’sclotheshadbeentorninthebeatinghehadreceived;hisfacewasbruisedandscratched;andhishairscatteredoverhisforehead.
Theangryflushhadnotdisappeared,however;andwhenhewaspulledoutofhisprison,hescowledboldlyonNoah,andlookedquiteundismayed.
‘Now,youareaniceyoungfellow,ain’tyou?’saidSowerberry;givingOliverashake,andaboxontheear.
‘Hecalledmymothernames,’repliedOliver.
‘Well,andwhatifhedid,youlittleungratefulwretch?’saidMrs.Sowerberry.‘Shedeservedwhathesaid,andworse.’
‘Shedidn’t’saidOliver.
‘Shedid,’saidMrs.Sowerberry.
‘It’salie!’saidOliver.
Mrs.Sowerberryburstintoafloodoftears.
ThisfloodoftearsleftMr.Sowerberrynoalternative.
IfhehadhesitatedforoneinstanttopunishOlivermostseverely,itmustbequitecleartoeveryexperiencedreaderthathewouldhavebeen,accordingtoallprecedentsindisputesofmatrimonyestablished,abrute,anunnaturalhusband,aninsultingcreature,abaseimitationofaman,andvariousotheragreeablecharacterstoonumerousforrecitalwithinthelimitsofthischapter.
Todohimjustice,hewas,asfarashispowerwent—itwasnotveryextensive—kindlydisposedtowardstheboy;perhaps,becauseitwashisinteresttobeso;perhaps,becausehiswifedislikedhim.
Thefloodoftears,however,lefthimnoresource;soheatoncegavehimadrubbing,whichsatisfiedevenMrs.Sowerberryherself,andrenderedMr.Bumble’ssubsequentapplicationoftheparochialcane,ratherunnecessary.
Fortherestoftheday,hewasshutupinthebackkitchen,incompanywithapumpandasliceofbread;andatnight,Mrs.Sowerberry,aftermakingvariousremarksoutsidethedoor,bynomeanscomplimentarytothememoryofhismother,lookedintotheroom,and,amidstthejeersandpointingsofNoahandCharlotte,orderedhimupstairstohisdismalbed.
Itwasnotuntilhewasleftaloneinthesilenceandstillnessofthegloomyworkshopoftheundertaker,thatOlivergavewaytothefeelingswhichtheday’streatmentmaybesupposedlikelytohaveawakenedinamerechild.
Hehadlistenedtotheirtauntswithalookofcontempt;hehadbornethelashwithoutacry:forhefeltthatprideswellinginhisheartwhichwouldhavekeptdownashriektothelast,thoughtheyhadroastedhimalive.
Butnow,whentherewerenonetoseeorhearhim,hefelluponhiskneesonthefloor;and,hidinghisfaceinhishands,weptsuchtearsas,Godsendforthecreditofournature,fewsoyoungmayeverhavecausetopouroutbeforehim!
Foralongtime,Oliverremainedmotionlessinthisattitude.
Thecandlewasburninglowinthesocketwhenherosetohisfeet.
Havinggazedcautiouslyroundhim,andlistenedintently,hegentlyundidthefasteningsofthedoor,andlookedabroad.
Itwasacold,darknight.Thestarsseemed,totheboy’seyes,fartherfromtheearththanhehadeverseenthembefore;therewasnowind;andthesombreshadowsthrownbythetreesupontheground,lookedsepulchralanddeath-like,frombeingsostill.Hesoftlyreclosedthedoor.
Havingavailedhimselfoftheexpiringlightofthecandletotieupinahandkerchiefthefewarticlesofwearingapparelhehad,sathimselfdownuponabench,towaitformorning.
Withthefirstrayoflightthatstruggledthroughthecrevicesintheshutters,Oliverarose,andagainunbarredthedoor.
Onetimidlookaround—onemoment’spauseofhesitation—hehadcloseditbehindhim,andwasintheopenstreet.
Helookedtotherightandtotheleft,uncertainwhithertofly.
Herememberedtohaveseenthewaggons,astheywentout,toilingupthehill.
Hetookthesameroute;andarrivingatafootpathacrossthefields:whichheknew,aftersomedistance,ledoutagainintotheroad;struckintoit,andwalkedquicklyon.
Alongthissamefootpath,Oliverwell-rememberedhehadtrottedbesideMr.Bumble,whenhefirstcarriedhimtotheworkhousefromthefarm.
Hiswaylaydirectlyinfrontofthecottage.
Hisheartbeatquicklywhenhebethoughthimselfofthis;andhehalfresolvedtoturnback.
Hehadcomealongwaythough,andshouldloseagreatdealoftimebydoingso.
Besides,itwassoearlythattherewasverylittlefearofhisbeingseen;sohewalkedon.
Hereachedthehouse.Therewasnoappearanceofitsinmatesstirringatthatearlyhour.
Oliverstopped,andpeepedintothegarden.
Achildwasweedingoneofthelittlebeds;ashestopped,heraisedhispalefaceanddisclosedthefeaturesofoneofhisformercompanions.
Oliverfeltgladtoseehim,beforehewent;for,thoughyoungerthanhimself,hehadbeenhislittlefriendandplaymate.
Theyhadbeenbeaten,andstarved,andshutuptogether,manyandmanyatime.
‘Hush,Dick!’saidOliver,astheboyrantothegate,andthrusthisthinarmbetweentherailstogreethim.‘Isanyoneup?’
‘Nobodybutme,’repliedthechild.
‘Youmusn’tsayyousawme,Dick,’saidOliver.‘Iamrunningaway.Theybeatandill-useme,Dick;andIamgoingtoseekmyfortune,somelongwayoff.Idon’tknowwhere.Howpaleyouare!’
‘IheardthedoctortellthemIwasdying,’repliedthechildwithafaintsmile.‘Iamverygladtoseeyou,dear;butdon’tstop,don’tstop!’
‘Yes,yes,Iwill,tosaygood-b’yetoyou,’repliedOliver.‘Ishallseeyouagain,Dick.IknowIshall!Youwillbewellandhappy!’
‘Ihopeso,’repliedthechild.‘AfterIamdead,butnotbefore.
Iknowthedoctormustberight,Oliver,becauseIdreamsomuchofHeaven,andAngels,andkindfacesthatIneverseewhenIamawake.
Kissme,’saidthechild,climbingupthelowgate,andflinginghislittlearmsroundOliver’sneck.‘Good-b’ye,dear!Godblessyou!’
Theblessingwasfromayoungchild’slips,butitwasthefirstthatOliverhadeverheardinvokeduponhishead;andthroughthestrugglesandsufferings,andtroublesandchanges,ofhisafterlife,heneveronceforgotit.
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