Oliver’s ailings were neither slight nor few. In addition to the pain and delay attendant upon a broken limb, his exposure to the wet and cold had brought on fever and ague, which hung about him for many weeks, and reduced him sadly. But at length he began, by slow degrees, to get better, and to be able to say sometimes, in a few tearful words, how deeply he felt the goodness of the two sweet ladies, and how ardently he hoped that, when he grew strong and well again, he could do something to shew his gratitude; only something which would let them see the love and duty with which his breast was full; something, however slight, which would prove to them that their gentle “Poor fellow!” said Rose, when Oliver had been one day feebly endeavouring to utter the words of thankfulness that rose to his pale lips,—“you shall have many opportunities of serving us, if you will. We are going into the country, and my aunt intends that you shall accompany us. The quiet place, the pure air, and all the pleasures and beauties of spring, will restore you in a few days, and we will employ you in a hundred ways when you can bear the trouble.” “The trouble!” cried Oliver. “Oh! dear lady, if I could but work for you—if I could only give you pleasure by watering your flowers, or watching your birds, or running up and down the whole day long to make you happy, what would I give to do it?” “You shall give nothing at all,” said Miss Maylie, smiling; “for, as I told you before, we shall employ you in a hundred ways; and if you only take half the trouble to please us that you “Happy, ma’am!” cried Oliver; “oh, how kind of you to say so!” “You will make me happier than I can tell you,” replied the young lady. “To think that my dear good aunt should have been the means of rescuing any one from such sad misery as you have described to us, would be an unspeakable pleasure to me; but to know that the object of her goodness and compassion was sincerely grateful, and attached in consequence, would delight me more than you can well imagine. Do you understand me?” she inquired, watching Oliver’s thoughtful face. “Oh yes, ma’am, yes!” replied Oliver, eagerly; “but I was thinking that I am ungrateful now.” “To whom?” inquired the young lady. “To the kind gentleman and the dear old nurse who took so much care of me before,” rejoined Oliver. “If they knew how happy I am, they would be pleased, I am sure.” “I am sure they would,” rejoined Oliver’s “Has he, ma’am?” cried Oliver, his face brightening with pleasure. “I don’t know what I shall do for joy when I see their kind faces once again!” In a short time Oliver was sufficiently recovered to undergo the fatigue of this expedition; and one morning he and Mr. Losberne set out accordingly in a little carriage which belonged to Mrs. Maylie. When they came to Chertsey Bridge, Oliver turned very pale, and uttered a loud exclamation. “What’s the matter with the boy?” cried the doctor, as usual, all in a bustle. “Do you see anything—hear anything—feel anything—eh?” “That, sir,” cried Oliver, pointing out of the carriage window. “That house!” “Yes; well, what of it? Stop, coachman. Pull up here,” cried the doctor. “What of the house, my man—eh?” “The thieves—the house they took me to,” whispered Oliver. “The devil it is!” cried the doctor. “Halloa, there! let me out!” But before the coachman could dismount from his box, he had tumbled out of the coach, by some means or other and, running down to the deserted tenement, began kicking at the door like a madman. “Halloa!” said a little, ugly hump-backed man, opening the door so suddenly that the doctor, from the very impetus of his last kick, nearly fell forward into the passage. “What’s the matter here?” “Matter!” exclaimed the other, collaring him, without a moment’s reflection. “A good deal. Robbery is the matter.” “There’ll be murder, too,” replied the hump-backed man, coolly, “if you don’t take your hands off. Do you hear me?” “I hear you,” said the doctor, giving his captive a hearty shake. “Where’s—confound the fellow, what’s his rascally name—Sikes—that’s it. Where’s Sikes, you thief?” The hump-backed man stared as if in excess of amazement and indignation; and twisting himself dexterously from the doctor’s grasp, growled forth a volley of horrid oaths, and retired into the house. Before he could shut the door, however, the doctor had passed into the parlour, without a word of parley. He looked anxiously round: not an article of furniture, not a vestige of anything, animate or inanimate, not even the position of the cupboards, answered Oliver’s description! “Now,” said the hump-backed man, who had watched him keenly, “what do you mean by coming into my house in this violent way? Do you want to rob me, or to murder me?—which is it?” “Did you ever know a man come out to do either in a chariot and pair, you ridiculous old vampire?” said the irritable doctor. “What do you want, then?” demanded the hunchback, fiercely. “Will you take yourself off before I do you a mischief? curse you!” “As soon as I think proper,” said Mr. Losberne, looking into the other parlour, which, “Will you?” sneered the ill-favoured cripple. “If you ever want me, I’m here. I haven’t lived here mad, and all alone, for five-and-twenty years, to be scared by you. You shall pay for this; you shall pay for this.” And so saying, the mis-shapen little demon set up a hideous yell, and danced upon the ground as if frantic with rage. “Stupid enough, this,” muttered the doctor to himself; “the boy must have made a mistake. There; put that in your pocket, and shut yourself up again.” With these words he flung the hunchback a piece of money, and returned to the carriage. The man followed to the chariot door, uttering the wildest imprecations and curses all the way; but as Mr. Losberne turned to speak to the driver, he looked into the carriage, and eyed Oliver for an instant with a glance so sharp and fierce, and at the same time so furious and vindictive, that, waking or sleeping, he could “I am an ass!” said the doctor, after a long silence. “Did you know that before, Oliver?” “No, sir.” “Then don’t forget it another time.” “An ass,” said the doctor again, after a further silence of some minutes. “Even if it had been the right place, and the right fellows had been there, what could I have done single-handed? And if I had had assistance, I see no good that I should have done, except leading to my own exposure, and an unavoidable statement of the manner in which I have hushed up this business. That would have served me right, though. I am always involving myself in some scrape or other by acting upon these impulses, and it might have done me good.” Now the fact was, that the excellent doctor had never acted upon anything else but impulse all through his life; and it was no bad compliment to the nature of the impulses which governed him, that so far from being involved in any peculiar troubles or misfortunes, he had the warmest respect and esteem of all who knew him. If the truth must be told, he was a little out of temper, for a minute or two, at being disappointed in procuring corroborative evidence of Oliver’s story on the very first occasion on which he had a chance of obtaining any. He soon came round again, however, and finding that Oliver’s replies to his questions were still as straightforward and consistent, and still delivered with as much apparent sincerity and truth, as they had ever been, he made up his mind to attach full credence to them from that time forth. As Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr. Brownlow resided, they were enabled to drive straight thither. When the coach turned into it, his heart beat so violently that he could scarcely draw his breath. “Now, my boy, which house is it?” inquired Mr. Losberne. “That, that!” replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. “The white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die: it makes me tremble so.” “Come, come!” said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder. “You will see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well.” “Oh! I hope so!” cried Oliver. “They were so good to me; so very very good to me, sir.” The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house. The next door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face. Alas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the window—“To Let.” “Knock at the next door,” cried Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver’s arm in his. “What has become of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the adjoining house, do you know?” The servant did not know; but would go and inquire. She presently returned, and said, that Mr. Brownlow had sold off his goods, and gone to the West Indies six weeks before. Oliver clasped his hands, and sank feebly backwards. “Has his housekeeper gone, too?” inquired Mr. Losberne, after a moment’s pause. “Yes, sir;” replied the servant. “The old gentleman, the housekeeper, and a gentleman, a friend of Mr. Brownlow’s, all went together.” “Then turn towards home again,” said Mr. Losberne to the driver, “and don’t stop to bait the horses till you get out of this confounded London!” “The book-stall keeper, sir?” said Oliver. “I know the way there. See him, pray sir! Do see him!” “My poor boy, this is disappointment enough for one day,” said the doctor. “Quite enough for both of us. If we go to the book-stall keeper’s we shall certainly find that he is dead, This bitter disappointment caused Oliver much sorrow and grief, even in the midst of his happiness; for he had pleased himself many times during his illness with thinking of all that Mr. Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin would say to him, and what delight it would be to tell them how many long days and nights he had passed in reflecting upon what they had done for him, and in bewailing his cruel separation from them. The hope of eventually clearing himself with them, too, and explaining how he had been forced away, had buoyed him up and sustained him under many of his recent trials; and now the idea that they should have gone so far, and carried with them the belief that he was an impostor and a robber,—a belief which might remain uncontradicted to his dying day,—was almost more than he could bear. The circumstance occasioned no alteration, Who can describe the pleasure and delight, the peace of mind and soft tranquillity, which the sickly boy felt in the balmy air, and among the green hills and rich woods, of an inland village! Who can tell how scenes of peace and quietude sink into the minds of pain-worn dwellers in close and noisy places, and carry their own freshness deep into their jaded hearts! Men who have lived in crowded, pent-up streets, through whole lives of toil, and never wished for change; men, to whom custom has indeed It was a lovely spot to which they repaired, and Oliver, whose days had been spent among squalid crowds, and in the midst of noise and brawling, seemed to enter upon a new existence there. The rose and honeysuckle clung to the cottage walls, the ivy crept round the trunks of the trees, and the garden-flowers perfumed the air with delicious odours. Hard by, was a little churchyard: not crowded with tall, unsightly gravestones, but full of humble mounds, covered with fresh turf and moss, beneath which the old people of the village lay at rest. Oliver often wandered here, and thinking of the wretched grave in which his mother lay, would sometimes sit him down and sob unseen; but, as he raised his eyes to the deep sky overhead, It was a happy time. The days were peaceful and serene, and the nights brought with them no fear or care; no languishing in a wretched prison, or associating with wretched men: nothing but pleasant and happy thoughts. Every morning he went to a white-headed old gentleman, who lived near the little church, who taught him to read better, and to write, and spoke so kindly, and took such pains, that Oliver could never try enough to please him. Then he would walk with Mrs. Maylie and Rose, and hear them talk of books, or perhaps sit near them, in some shady place, and listen whilst the young lady read, which he could have done till it grew too dark to see the letters. Then he had his own lesson for the next day to prepare, and at this he would work hard, in a little room which looked into the garden, till evening came slowly on, when the ladies would walk out again, and he with them; listening with such pleasure to all they said, and so happy And when Sunday came, how differently the day was spent from any manner in which he had ever spent it yet! and how happily, too; like all the other days in that most happy time! There was the little church, in the morning, with the green leaves fluttering at the windows, the birds singing without, and the sweet-smelling air stealing in at the low porch, and filling the homely building with its fragrance. The poor people were so neat and clean, and knelt so reverently in prayer, that it seemed a pleasure, not a tedious duty, their In the morning, Oliver would be a-foot by six o’clock, roaming the fields and surveying the hedges, far and wide, for nosegays of wild flowers, with which he would return laden home, and which it took great care and consideration to arrange, to the best advantage, for the embellishment of the breakfast-table. There was fresh groundsel, too, for Miss Maylie’s birds, with which Oliver—who had been studying the subject under the able tuition of the village clerk—would decorate the cages in the most approved taste. When the birds were So three months glided away; three months which, in the life of the most blessed and favoured of mortals, would have been unmixed happiness; but which, in Oliver’s troubled and clouded dawn, were felicity indeed. With the purest and most amiable generosity on one side, and the truest, and warmest, and most soul-felt gratitude on the other, it is no wonder that, by the end of that short time, Oliver Twist had become completely domesticated with the old lady and her niece; and that the fervent |