Oliver Twist. Volume 1 of 3

CHAPTER XI

TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE, AND FURNISHES A SLIGHT SPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE

The offence had been committed within the district, and indeed in the immediate neighbourhood of a very notorious metropolitan police office. The crowd had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two or three streets, and down a place called Mutton-hill, when he was led beneath a low arch-way, and up a dirty court into this dispensary of summary justice, by the back way. It was a small paved yard into which they turned; and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of whiskers on his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand.

“What’s the matter now?” said the man carelessly.

“A young fogle-hunter,” replied the man who had Oliver in charge.

“Are you the party that’s been robbed, sir?” inquired the man with the keys.

“Yes, I am,” replied the old gentleman; “but I am not sure that this boy actually took the handkerchief. I – I would rather not press the case.”

“Must go before the magistrate now, sir,” replied the man. “His worship will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows.”

This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was searched, and, nothing being found upon him, locked up.

This cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar, only not so light. It was most intolerably dirty, for it was Monday morning, and it had been tenanted by six drunken people, who had been locked up elsewhere since Saturday night. But this is nothing. In our station-houses, men and women are every night confined on the most trivial charges– the word is worth noting – in dungeons, compared with which, those in Newgate, occupied by the most atrocious felons, tried, found guilty, and under sentence of death, are palaces. Let any man who doubts this, compare the two.

The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key grated in the lock; and turned with a sigh to the book which had been the innocent cause of all this disturbance.

“There is something in that boy’s face,” said the old gentleman to himself as he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the cover of the book in a thoughtful manner, “something that touches and interests me. Can he be innocent? He looked like – By the bye,” exclaimed the old gentleman, halting very abruptly, and staring up into the sky, “God bless my soul! – where have I seen something like that look before?”

After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked with the same meditative face into a back ante-room opening from the yard; and there, retiring into a corner, called up before his mind’s eye a vast amphitheatre of faces over which a dusky curtain had hung for many years. “No,” said the old gentleman, shaking his head; “it must be imagination.”

He wandered over them again. He had called them into view, and it was not easy to replace the shroud that had so long concealed them. There were the faces of friends and foes, and of many that had been almost strangers, peering intrusively from the crowd; there were the faces of young and blooming girls that were now old women; there were others that the grave had changed to ghastly trophies of death, but which the mind, superior to his power, still dressed in their old freshness and beauty, calling back the lustre of the eyes, the brightness of the smile, the beaming of the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering of beauty beyond the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from earth only to be set up as a light to shed a soft and gentle glow upon the path to Heaven.

But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver’s features bore a trace; so he heaved a sigh over the recollections he had awakened, and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman, buried them again in the pages of the musty book.

He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the man with the keys to follow him into the office. He closed his book hastily, and was at once ushered into the imposing presence of the renowned Mr. Fang.

The office was a front parlour, with a paneled wall. Mr. Fang sat behind a bar at the upper end; and on one side the door, was a sort of wooden pen in which poor little Oliver was already deposited, trembling very much at the awfulness of the scene.

Mr. Fang was a middle-sized man, with no great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and sides of his head. His face was stern, and much flushed. If he were really not in the habit of taking rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought an action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy damages.

The old gentleman bowed respectfully, and, advancing to the magistrate’s desk, said, suiting the action to the word, “That is my name and address, sir.” He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned.

Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was out of temper, and he looked up with an angry scowl.

“Who are you?” said Mr. Fang.

The old gentleman pointed with some surprise to his card.

“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper, “who is this fellow?”

“My name, sir,” said the old gentleman, speaking like a gentleman, – “my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable man, under the protection of the bench.” Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked round the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information.

“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, “what’s this fellow charged with?”

“He’s not charged at all, your worship,” replied the officer. “He appears against the boy, your worship.”

His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe one.

“Appears against the boy, does he?” said Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. “Swear him!”

“Before I am sworn I must beg to say one word,” said Mr. Brownlow; “and that is, that I never, without actual experience, could have believed – ”

“Hold your tongue, sir!” said Mr. Fang peremptorily.

“I will not, sir!” replied the old gentleman.

“Hold your tongue this instant, or I’ll have you turned out of the office!” said Mr. Fang. “You’re an insolent, impertinent fellow. How dare you bully a magistrate!”

“What!” exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.

“Swear this person!” said Fang to the clerk. “I’ll not hear another word. Swear him.”

Mr. Brownlow’s indignation was greatly roused; but, reflecting that he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed his feelings, and submitted to be sworn at once.

“Now,” said Fang, “what’s the charge against this boy? What have you got to say, sir?”

“I was standing at a book-stall – ” Mr. Brownlow began.

“Hold your tongue, sir!” said Mr. Fang. “Policeman! – where’s the policeman? Here, swear this man. Now, policeman, what is this?”

The policeman with becoming humility related how he had taken the charge, how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his person; and how that was all he knew about it.

“Are there any witnesses?” inquired Mr. Fang.

“None, your worship,” replied the policeman.

Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the prosecutor, said in a towering passion,

“Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, fellow, or do you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing to give evidence, I’ll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will, by – ”

By what or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailer coughed very loud just at the right moment, and the former dropped a heavy book upon the floor; thus preventing the word from being heard – accidentally, of course.

With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived to state his case; observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he had run after the boy because he saw him running away, and expressing his hope that, if the magistrate should believe him, although not actually the thief, to be connected with thieves, he would deal as leniently with him as justice would allow.

“He has been hurt already,” said the old gentleman in conclusion. “And I fear,” he added, with great energy, looking towards the bar, – “I really fear that he is very ill.”

“Oh! yes; I dare say!” said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. “Come; none of your tricks here, you young vagabond; they won’t do. What’s your name?”

Oliver tried to reply, but his tongue failed him. He was deadly pale, and the whole place seemed turning round and round.

“What’s your name, you hardened scoundrel?” thundered Mr. Fang. “Officer, what’s his name?”

This was addressed to a bluff old fellow in a striped waistcoat, who was standing by the bar. He bent over Oliver, and repeated the inquiry; but finding him really incapable of understanding the question, and knowing that his not replying would only infuriate the magistrate the more, and add to the severity of his sentence, he hazarded a guess.

“He says his name’s Tom White, your worship,” said this kind-hearted thief-taker.

“Oh, he won’t speak out, won’t he?” said Fang. “Very well, very well. Where does he live?”

“Where he can, your worship,” replied the officer, again pretending to receive Oliver’s answer.

“Has he any parents?” inquired Mr. Fang.

“He says they died in his infancy, your worship,” replied the officer, hazarding the usual reply.

At this point of the inquiry Oliver raised his head, and, looking round with imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of water.

“Stuff and nonsense!” said Mr. Fang; “don’t try to make a fool of me.”

“I think he really is ill, your worship,” remonstrated the officer.

“I know better,” said Mr. Fang.

“Take care of him, officer,” said the old gentleman, raising his hands instinctively; “he’ll fall down.”

“Stand away, officer,” cried Fang savagely; “let him if he likes.”

Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell heavily to the floor in a fainting fit. The men in the office looked at each other, but no one dared to stir.

“I knew he was shamming,” said Fang, as if this were incontestable proof of the fact. “Let him lie; he’ll soon be tired of that.”

“How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?” inquired the clerk in a low voice.

“Summarily,” replied Mr. Fang. “He stands committed for three months, – hard labour of course. Clear the office.”

The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were preparing to carry the insensible boy to his cell, when an elderly man of decent but poor appearance, clad in an old suit of black, rushed hastily into the office, and advanced to the bench.

“Stop, stop, – don’t take him away, – for Heaven’s sake stop a moment,” cried the new-comer, breathless with haste.

Although the presiding geniuses in such an office as this, exercise a summary and arbitrary power over the liberties, the good name, the character, almost the lives of Her Majesty’s subjects, especially of the poorer class; and although within such walls enough fantastic tricks are daily played to make the angels weep hot tears of blood, they are closed to the public, save through the medium of the daily press. Mr. Fang was consequently not a little indignant to see an unbidden guest enter in such irreverent disorder.

“What is this? – who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the office,” cried Mr. Fang.

“I will speak,” cried the man; “I will not be turned out, – I saw it all. I keep the book-stall. I demand to be sworn. I will not be put down. Mr. Fang, you must hear me. You dare not refuse, sir.”

The man was right. His manner was bold and determined, and the matter was growing rather too serious to be hushed up.

“Swear the fellow,” growled Fang with a very ill grace. “Now, man, what have you got to say?”

“This,” said the man: “I saw three boys – two others and the prisoner here – loitering on the opposite side of the way, when this gentleman was reading. The robbery was committed by another boy. I saw it done, and I saw that this boy was perfectly amazed and stupified by it.” Having by this time recovered a little breath, the worthy book-stall keeper proceeded to relate in a more coherent manner the exact circumstances of the robbery.

“Why didn’t you come here before?” said Fang after a pause.

“I hadn’t a soul to mind the shop,” replied the man; “everybody that could have helped me had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobody till five minutes ago, and I’ve run here all the way.”

“The prosecutor was reading, was he?” inquired Fang, after another pause.

“Yes,” replied the man, “the very book he has in his hand.”

“Oh, that book, eh?” said Fang. “Is it paid for?”

“No, it is not,” replied the man, with a smile.

“Dear me, I forgot all about it!” exclaimed the absent old gentleman, innocently.

“A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!” said Fang, with a comical effort to look humane. “I consider, sir, that you have obtained possession of that book under very suspicious and disreputable circumstances, and you may think yourself very fortunate that the owner of the property declines to prosecute. Let this be a lesson to you, my man, or the law will overtake you yet. The boy is discharged. Clear the office!”

“D – n me!” cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had kept down so long, “d – me! I’ll – ”

“Clear the office!” roared the magistrate. “Officers, do you hear? Clear the office!”

The mandate was obeyed, and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was conveyed out, with the book in one hand and the bamboo cane in the other in a perfect phrenzy of rage and defiance.

He reached the yard, and it vanished in a moment. Little Oliver Twist lay on his back on the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned and his temples bathed with water; his face a deadly white, and a cold tremble convulsing his whole frame.

“Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. “Call a coach, somebody, pray, – directly!”

A coach was obtained, and Oliver, having been carefully laid on one seat, the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.

“May I accompany you?” said the book-stall keeper, looking in.

“Bless me, yes, my dear friend,” said Mr. Brownlow quickly. “I forgot you. Dear, dear! I have this unhappy book still. Jump in. Poor fellow! there’s no time to lose.”

The book-stall keeper got into the coach, and away they drove.

CHAPTER XII

IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. WITH SOME PARTICULARS CONCERNING A CERTAIN PICTURE

The coach rattled away down Mount Pleasant and up Exmouth-street, – over nearly the same ground as that which Oliver had traversed when he first entered London in company with the Dodger, – and, turning a different way when it reached the Angel at Islington, stopped at length before a neat house in a quiet shady street near Pentonville. Here a bed was prepared without loss of time, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his young charge carefully and comfortably deposited; and here he was tended with a kindness and solicitude which knew no bounds.

But for many days Oliver remained insensible to all the goodness of his new friends; the sun rose and sunk, and rose and sunk again, and many times after that, and still the boy lay stretched upon his uneasy bed, dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever, – that heat which, like the subtle acid that gnaws into the very heart of hardest iron, burns only to corrode and to destroy. The worm does not his work more surely on the dead body, than does this slow creeping fire upon the living frame.

Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to have been a long and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in the bed, with his head resting on his trembling arm, he looked anxiously round.

“What room is this? – where have I been brought to?” said Oliver. “This is not the place I went to sleep in.”

He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and weak; but they were overheard at once, for the curtain at the bed’s head was hastily drawn back, and a motherly old lady, very neatly and precisely dressed, rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair close by, in which she had been sitting at needle-work.

“Hush, my dear,” said the old lady softly. “You must be very quiet, or you will be ill again, and you have been very bad, – as bad as bad could be, pretty nigh. Lie down again – there’s a dear.” With these words the old lady very gently placed Oliver’s head upon the pillow, and, smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and lovingly in his face, that he could not help placing his little withered hand upon hers, and drawing it round his neck.

“Save us!” said the old lady, with tears in her eyes, “what a grateful little dear it is. Pretty creetur! what would his mother feel if she had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!”

“Perhaps she does see me,” whispered Oliver, folding his hands together; “perhaps she has sat by me, ma’am. I almost feel as if she had.”

“That was the fever, my dear,” said the old lady mildly.

“I suppose it was,” replied Oliver thoughtfully, “because heaven is a long way off, and they are too happy there to come down to the bedside of a poor boy. But if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me even there, for she was very ill herself before she died. She can’t know anything about me though,” added Oliver after a moment’s silence, “for if she had seen me beat, it would have made her sorrowful; and her face has always looked sweet and happy when I have dreamt of her.”

The old lady made no reply to this, but wiping her eyes first, and her spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were part and parcel of those features, brought some cool stuff for Oliver to drink, and then patting him on the cheek, told him he must lie very quiet, or he would be ill again.

So Oliver kept very still, partly because he was anxious to obey the kind old lady in all things, and partly, to tell the truth, because he was completely exhausted with what he had already said. He soon fell into a gentle doze, from which he was awakened by the light of a candle, which, being brought near the bed, showed him a gentleman, with a very large and loud-ticking gold watch in his hand, who felt his pulse and said he was a great deal better.

“You are a great deal better, are you not, my dear?” said the gentleman.

“Yes, thank you, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Yes, I know you are,” said the gentleman: “You’re hungry too, an’t you?”

“No, sir,” answered Oliver.

“Hem!” said the gentleman. “No, I know you’re not. He is not hungry, Mrs. Bedwin,” said the gentleman, looking very wise.

The old lady made a respectful inclination of the head, which seemed to say that she thought the doctor was a very clever man. The doctor appeared very much of the same opinion himself.

“You feel sleepy, don’t you, my dear?” said the doctor.

“No, sir,” replied Oliver.

“No,” said the doctor with a very shrewd and satisfied look. “You’re not sleepy. Nor thirsty, are you?”

“Yes, sir, rather thirsty,” answered Oliver.

“Just as I expected, Mrs. Bedwin,” said the doctor. “It’s very natural that he should be thirsty – perfectly natural. You may give him a little tea, ma’am, and some dry toast without any butter. Don’t keep him too warm, ma’am; but be careful that you don’t let him be too cold – will you have the goodness?”

The old lady dropped a curtsey; and the doctor, after tasting the cool stuff, and expressing a qualified approval thereof, hurried away: his boots creaking in a very important and wealthy manner as he went down stairs.

Oliver dozed off again soon after this, and when he awoke it was nearly twelve o’clock. The old lady tenderly bade him good-night shortly afterwards, and left him in charge of a fat old woman who had just come, bringing with her in a little bundle a small Prayer Book and a large nightcap. Putting the latter on her head, and the former on the table, the old woman, after telling Oliver that she had come to sit up with him, drew her chair close to the fire and went off into a series of short naps, chequered at frequent intervals with sundry tumblings forward, and divers moans and chokings, which, however, had no worse effect than causing her to rub her nose very hard, and then fall asleep again.

And thus the night crept slowly on. Oliver lay awake for some time, counting the little circles of light which the reflection of the rushlight-shade threw upon the ceiling, or tracing with his languid eyes the intricate pattern of the paper on the wall. The darkness and deep stillness of the room were very solemn; and as they brought into the boy’s mind the thought that death had been hovering there for many days and nights, and might yet fill it with the gloom and dread of his awful presence, he turned his face upon the pillow, and fervently prayed to Heaven.

Gradually he fell into that deep tranquil sleep which ease from recent suffering alone imparts; that calm and peaceful rest which it is pain to wake from. Who, if this were death, would be roused again to all the struggles and turmoils of life, – to all its cares for the present, its anxieties for the future, and, more than all, its weary recollections of the past!

It had been bright day for hours when Oliver opened his eyes, and when he did so, he felt cheerful and happy. The crisis of the disease was safely past, and he belonged to the world again.