Oliver Twist (31 page)

“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 a 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.

 

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. Chiding, 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 dum.”

“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, thankee, 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 picture-card, at a shilling a time. Nobody accepting the challenge, and his pipe being by this time smoked out, he proceeded to amuse himself by sketching a ground plan of Newgate on the table with the piece of chalk which had served him in lieu of counters, whistling, meantime, with peculiar shrillness.

“How precious dull you are, Tommy!” said the Dodger, stopping short when there had been a long silence and addressing Mr. Chitling. “What do you think he’s thinking of, Fagin?”

“How should I know, my dear?” replied the Jew, looking round as he plied the bellows. “About his losses, maybe, or the little retirement in the country that he’s just left, eh? Ha! ha! Is that it, my dear?” .

“Not a bit of it,” replied the Dodger, stopping the subject of discourse as Mr. Chitling was about to reply. “What do
you
say, Charley?”

“
I
should say,” replied Master Bates, with a grin, “that he was uncommon sweet upon Betsy. See how he’s a-blushing! Oh, my eye! here’s a merry-go-rounder! Tom my Chitling’s in love! Oh, Fagin, Fagin! what a spree!”

Thoroughly overpowered with the notion of Mr. Chitling being the victim of the tender passion, Master Bates threw himself back in his chair with such violence that he lost his balance, and pitched over upon the floor, where (the accident abating nothing of his merriment) he lay at full length until his laugh was over, when he resumed his former position and began another laugh.

“Never mind him, my dear,” said the Jew, winking at Mr. Dawkins, and giving Master Bates a reproving tap with the nozzle of the bellows. “Betsy’s a fine girl. Stick up to her, Tom. Stick up to her.”

“What I mean to say, Fagin,” replied Mr. Chitling, very red in the face, “is that that isn’t anything to anybody here.”

“No more it is,” replied the Jew; “Charley will talk. Don’t mind him, my dear; don’t mind him. Betsy’s a fine girl. Do as she bids you, Tom, and you will make your fortune.”

“So I
do
do as she bids me,” replied Mr. Chitling; “I shouldn’t have been milled, if it hadn’t been for her advice. But it turned out a good job for you; didn’t it, Fagin ! And what’s six weeks of it? It must come, some time or another, and why not in the winter-time when you don’t want to go out a-walking so much; eh, Fagin?”

“Ah, to be sure, my dear,” replied the Jew.

“You wouldn’t mind it again, Tom, would you?” asked the Dodger, winking upon Charley and the Jew, “If Bet was all right?”

“I mean to say that I shouldn‘t,” replied Tom, angrily. “There, now. Ah! Who’ll say as much as that, I should like to know; eh, Fagin?”

“Nobody, my dear,” replied the Jew; “not a soul, Tom. I don’t know one of ‘em that would do it besides you, not one of ’em, my dear.”

“I might have got clear off, if I’d split upon her, mightn’t I, Fagin?” angrily pursued the poor half-witted dupe. “A word from me would have done it; wouldn’t it, Fagin?”

“To be sure it would, my dear,” replied the Jew.

“But I didn’t blab it; did I, Fagin?” demanded Tom, pouring question upon question with great volubility.

“No, no, to be sure,” replied the Jew; “you were too stout-hearted for that. A deal too stout, my dear!”

“Perhaps I was,” rejoined Tom, looking round; “and if I was, what’s to laugh at in that; eh, Fagin?”

The Jew, perceiving that Mr. Chitling was considerably roused, hastened to assure him that nobody was laughing, and to prove the gravity of the company, appealed to Master Bates, the principal offender. But, unfortunately, Charley, in opening his mouth to reply that he was never more serious in his life, was unable to prevent the escape of such a violent roar that the abused Mr. Chitling, without any preliminary ceremonies, rushed across the room and aimed a blow at the offender, who, being skilful in evading pursuit, ducked to avoid it, and chose his time so well that it lighted on the chest of the merry old gentleman and caused him to stagger to the wall, where he stood panting for breath while Mr. Chitling looked on in intense dismay.

“Hark!” cried the Dodger at this moment, “I heard the tinkler.” Catching up the light, he crept softly upstairs.

The bell was rung again, with some impatience, while the party were in darkness. After a short pause, the Dodger reappeared and whispered Fagin mysteriously.

“What!” cried the Jew, “alone?”

The Dodger nodded in the affirmative and, shading the flame of the candle with his hand, gave Charley Bates a private intimation, in dumb show, that he had better not be funny just then. Having performed this friendly office, he fixed his eyes on the Jew’s face and awaited his directions.

The old man bit his yellow fingers and meditated for some seconds, his face working with agitation the while as if he dreaded something and feared to know the worst. At length he raised his head.

“Where is he?” he asked.

The Dodger pointed to the floor above, and made a gesture as if to leave the room.

“Yes,” said the Jew, answering the mute inquiry; “bring him down. Hush! Quiet, Charley! Gently, Tom! Scarce, scarce!”

This brief direction to Charley Bates and his recent antagonist, was softly and immediately obeyed. There was no sound of their whereabout when the Dodger descended the stairs, bearing the light in his hand and followed by a man in a coarse smock-frock, who, after casting a hurried glance round the room, pulled off a large wrapper which had concealed the lower portion of his face, and disclosed—all haggard, unwashed, and unshorn—the features of flash Toby Crackit.

“How are you, Faguey?” said this worthy, nodding to the Jew. “Pop that shawl away in my castor, Dodger, so that I may know where to find it when I cut; that’s the time of day! You’ll be a fine young cracksman afore the old file now.”

With these words he pulled up the smock-frock and, winding it round his middle, drew a chair to the fire and placed his feet upon the hob.

“See there, Faguey,” he said, pointing disconsolately to his top-boots; “not a drop of Day and Martin since you know when; not a bubble of blacking, by Jove! But don’t look at me in that way, man. All in good time. I can’t talk about business till I’ve eat and drank; so produce the sustainance, and let’s have a quiet fill-out for the first time these three days!”

The Jew motioned to the Dodger to place what eatables there were, upon the table, and seating himself opposite the housebreaker, waited his leisure.

To judge from appearances, Toby was by no means in a hurry to open the conversation. At first the Jew contented himself with patiently watching his countenance, as if to gain from its expression some clue to the intelligence he brought, but in vain. He looked tired and worn, but there was the same complacent repose upon his features that they always wore; and through dirt, and beard, and whisker, there still shone, unimpaired, the self-satisfied smirk of flash Toby Crackit. Then, the Jew, in an agony of impatience, watched every morsel he put into his mouth, pacing up and down the room, meanwhile, in irrepressible excitement. It was all of no use. Toby continued to eat with the utmost outward indifference until he could eat no more; then, ordering the Dodger out, he closed the door, mixed a glass of spirits and water, and composed himself for talking.

“First and foremost, Faguey,” said Toby.

“Yes, yes!” interposed the Jew, drawing up his chair.

Mr. Crackit stopped to take a draught of spirits and water, and to declare that the gin was excellent; then placing his feet against the low mantlepiece, so as to bring his boots to about the level of his eye, he quietly resumed.

“First and foremost, Faguey,” said the housebreaker, “how’s Bill?”

“What!” screamed the Jew, starting from his seat.