CHAPTER XIV

COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR.

BROWNLOW'S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG

UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND

Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr.

Brownlow's abruptexclamation had thrown him, the subject of the

picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs.

Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no

reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to

such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still

too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the

housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager

glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of

the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however,

for the picture had been removed.

'Ah!' said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's

eyes. 'It is gone, you see.'

'I see it is ma'am,' replied Oliver. 'Why have they taken it

away?'

'It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that

as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting

well, you know,' rejoined the old lady.

'Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,' said Oliver. 'I

liked to see it. I quite loved it.'

'Well, well!' said the old lady, good-humouredly; 'you get well

as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again.

There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something

else.'

This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the

picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in

his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just

then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told

him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was

married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country;

and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies;

and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful

letters home four times a-year, that it brought the tears into

her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a

long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits of

her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor

dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea.

After tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage: which he learnt as

quickly as she could teach: and at which game they played, with

great interest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid to

have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and

then to go cosily to bed.

They were happy days, those of Oliver's recovery. Everything was

so quiet, and neat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle;

that after the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had

always lived, it seemed like Heaven itself. He was no sooner

strong enough to put his clothes on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow

caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of

shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver was told that he might

do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant

who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell them to a

Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very readily did;

and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew

roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to

think that they were safely gone, and that there was now no

possible danger of his ever being able to wear them again. They

were sad rags, to tell the truth; and Oliver had never had a new

suit before.

One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he

was sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down

from Mr. Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he

should like to see him in his study, and talk to him a little

while.

'Bless us, and save us! Wash your hands, and let me part your

hair nicely for you, child,' said Mrs. Bedwin. 'Dear heart

alive! If we had known he would have asked for you, we would

have put you a clean collar on, and made you as smart as

sixpence!'

Oliver did as the old lady bade him; and, although she lamented

grievously, meanwhile, that there was not even time to crimp the

little frill that bordered his shirt-collar; he looked so

delicate and handsome, despite that important personal advantage,

that she went so far as to say: looking at him with great

complacency from head to foot, that she really didn't think it

would have been possible, on the longest notice, to have made

much difference in him for the better.

Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door. On Mr.

Brownlow calling to him to come in, he found himself in a little

back room, quite full of books, with a window, looking into some

pleasant little gardens. There was a table drawn up before the

window, at which Mr. Brownlow was seated reading. When he saw

Oliver, he pushed the book away from him, and told him to come

near the table, and sit down. Oliver complied; marvelling where

the people could be found to read such a great number of books as

seemed to be written to make the world wiser. Which is still a

marvel to more experienced people than Oliver Twist, every day of

their lives.

'There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?' said Mr.

Brownlow, observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the

shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling.

'A great number, sir,' replied Oliver. 'I never saw so many.'

'You shall read them, if you behave well,' said the old gentleman

kindly; 'and you will like that, better than looking at the

outsides,--that is, some cases; because there are books of which

the backs and covers are by far the best parts.'

'I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir,' said Oliver, pointing

to some large quartos, with a good deal of gilding about the

binding.

'Not always those,' said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the

head, and smiling as he did so; 'there are other equally heavy

ones, though of a much smaller size. How should you like to grow

up a clever man, and write books, eh?'

'I think I would rather read them, sir,' replied Oliver.

'What! wouldn't you like to be a book-writer?' said the old

gentleman.

Oliver considered a little while; and at last said, he should

think it would be a much better thing to be a book-seller; upon

which the old gentleman laughed heartily, and declared he had

said a very good thing. Which Oliver felt glad to have done,

though he by no means knew what it was.

'Well, well,' said the old gentleman, composing his features.

'Don't be afraid! We won't make an author of you, while there's

an honest trade to be learnt, or brick-making to turn to.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Oliver. At the earnest manner of his

reply, the old gentleman laughed again; and said something about

a curious instinct, which Oliver, not understanding, paid no very

great attention to.

'Now,' said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possible in a kinder, but

at the same time in a much more serious manner, than Oliver had

ever known him assume yet, 'I want you to pay great attention, my

boy, to what I am going to say. I shall talk to you without any

reserve; because I am sure you are well able to understand me, as

many older persons would be.'

'Oh, don't tell you are going to send me away, sir, pray!'

exclaimed Oliver, alarmed at the serious tone of the old

gentleman's commencement! 'Don't turn me out of doors to wander

in the streets again. Let me stay here, and be a servant. Don't

send me back to the wretched place I came from. Have mercy upon

a poor boy, sir!'

'My dear child,' said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of

Oliver's sudden appeal; 'you need not be afraid of my deserting

you, unless you give me cause.'

'I never, never will, sir,' interposed Oliver.

'I hope not,' rejoined the old gentleman. 'I do not think you

ever will. I have been deceived, before, in the objects whom I

have endeavoured to benefit; but I feel strongly disposed to

trust you, nevertheless; and I am more interested in your behalf

than I can well account for, even to myself. The persons on whom

I have bestowed my dearest love, lie deep in their graves; but,

although the happiness and delight of my life lie buried there

too, I have not made a coffin of my heart, and sealed it up,

forever, on my best affections. Deep affliction has but

strengthened and refined them.'

As the old gentleman said this in a low voice: more to himself

than to his companion: and as he remained silent for a short

time afterwards: Oliver sat quite still.

'Well, well!' said the old gentleman at length, in a more

cheerful tone, 'I only say this, because you have a young heart;

and knowing that I have suffered great pain and sorrow, you will

be more careful, perhaps, not to wound me again. You say you are

an orphan, without a friend in the world; all the inquiries I

have been able to make, confirm the statement. Let me hear your

story; where you come from; who brought you up; and how you got

into the company in which I found you. Speak the truth, and you

shall not be friendless while I live.'

Oliver's sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; when he was

on the point of beginning to relate how he had been brought up at

the farm, and carried to the workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a

peculiarly impatient little double-knock was heard at the

street-door: and the servant, running upstairs, announced Mr.

Grimwig.

'Is he coming up?' inquired Mr. Brownlow.

'Yes, sir,' replied the servant. 'He asked if there were any

muffins in the house; and, when I told him yes, he said he had

come to tea.'

Mr. Brownlow smiled; and, turning to Oliver, said that Mr.

Grimwig was an old friend of his, and he must not mind his being

a little rough in his manners; for he was a worthy creature at

bottom, as he had reason to know.

'Shall I go downstairs, sir?' inquired Oliver.

'No,' replied Mr. Brownlow, 'I would rather you remained here.'

At this moment, there walked into the room: supporting himself

by a thick stick: a stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg,

who was dressed in a blue coat, stripedwaistcoat, nankeen

breeches and gaiters, and a broad-brimmed white hat, with the

sides turned up with green. A very small-plaited shirt frill

stuck out from his waistcoat; and a very long steel watch-chain,

with nothing but a key at the end, dangled loosely below it. The

ends of his white neckerchief were twisted into a ball about the

size of an orange; the variety of shapes into which his

countenance was twisted, defy description. He had a manner of

screwing his head on one side when he spoke; and of looking out

of the corners of his eyes at the same time: which irresistibly

reminded the beholder of a parrot. In this attitude, he fixed

himself, the moment he made his appearance; and, holding out a

small piece of orange-peel at arm's length, exclaimed, in a

growling, discontented voice.

'Look here! do you see this! Isn't it a most wonderful and

extraordinary thing that I can't call at a man's house but I find

a piece of this poor surgeon's friend on the staircase? I've been

lamed with orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel will be my

death, or I'll be content to eat my own head, sir!'

This was the handsome offer with which Mr. Grimwig backed and

confirmed nearly every assertion he made; and it was the more

singular in his case, because, even admitting for the sake of

argument, the possibility of scientific improvements being

brought to that pass which will enable a gentleman to eat his own

head in the event of his being so disposed, Mr. Grimwig's head

was such a particularly large one, that the most sanguine man

alive could hardly entertain a hope of being able to get through

it at a sitting--to put entirely out of the question, a very

thick coating of powder.

'I'll eat my head, sir,' repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick

upon the ground. 'Hallo! what's that!' looking at Oliver, and

retreating a pace or two.

'This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about,' said

Mr. Brownlow.

Oliver bowed.

'You don't mean to say that's the boy who had the fever, I hope?'

said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little more. 'Wait a minute!

Don't speak! Stop--' continued Mr. Grimwig, abruptly, losing all

dread of the fever in his triumph at the discovery; 'that's the

boy who had the orange! If that's not the boy, sir, who had the

orange, and threw this bit of peel upon the staircase, I'll eat

my head, and his too.'

'No, no, he has not had one,' said Mr. Brownlow, laughing.

'Come! Put down your hat; and speak to my young friend.'

'I feel strongly on this subject, sir,' said the irritable old

gentleman, drawing off his gloves. 'There's always more or less

orange-peel on the pavement in our street; and I KNOW it's put

there by the surgeon's boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled

over a bit last night, and fell against my garden-railings;

directly she got up I saw her look towards his infernal red lamp

with the pantomime-light. "Don't go to him," I called out of the

window, "he's an assassin! A man-trap!" So he is. If he is

not--' Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on

the ground with his stick; which was always understood, by his

friends, to imply the customary offer, whenever it was not

expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he

sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass, which he wore attached

to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that

he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again.

'That's the boy, is it?' said Mr. Grimwig, at length.

'That's the boy,' replied Mr. Brownlow.

'How are you, boy?' said Mr. Grimwig.

'A great deal better, thank you, sir,' replied Oliver.

Mr Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was

about to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step

downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea; which,

as he did not half like the visitor's manner, he was very happy

to do.

'He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?' inquired Mr. Brownlow.

'I don't know,' replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly.

'Don't know?'

'No. I don't know. I never see any difference in boys. I only

knew two sort of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys.'

'And which is Oliver?'

'Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy,

they call him; with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring

eyes; a horrid boy; with a body and limbs that appear to be

swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes; with the voice of

a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I know him! The wretch!'

'Come,' said Mr. Brownlow, 'these are not the characteristics of

young Oliver Twist; so he needn't excite your wrath.'

'They are not,' replied Mr. Grimwig. 'He may have worse.'

Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to afford

Mr. Grimwig the most exquisite delight.

'He may have worse, I say,' repeated Mr. Grimwig. 'Where does he

come from! Who is he? What is he? He has had a fever. What of

that? Fevers are not peculiar to good peope; are they? Bad

people have fevers sometimes; haven't they, eh? I knew a man who

was hung in Jamaica for murdering his master. He had had a fever

six times; he wasn't recommended to mercy on that account. Pooh!

nonsense!'

Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his own heart,

Mr. Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver's

appearance and manner were unusually prepossessing; but he had a

strong appetite for contradiction, sharpened on this occasion by

the finding of the orange-peel; and, inwardly determining that no

man should dictate to him whether a boy was well-looking or not,

he had resolved, from the first, to oppose his friend. When Mr.

Brownlow admitted that on no one point of inquiry could he yet

return a satisfactory answer; and that he had postponed any

investigation into Oliver's previous history until he thought the

boy was strong enough to hear it; Mr. Grimwig chuckled

maliciously. And he demanded, with a sneer, whether the

housekeeper was in the habit of counting the plate at night;

because if she didn't find a table-spoon or two missing some

sunshiny morning, why, he would be content to--and so forth.

All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous

gentleman: knowing his friend's peculiarities, bore with great

good humour; as Mr. Grimwig, at tea, was graciously pleased to

express his entire approval of the muffins, matters went on very

smoothly; and Oliver, who made one of the party, began to feel

more at his ease than he had yet done in the fierce old

gentleman's presence.

'And when are you going to hear at full, true, and particular

account of the life and adventures of Oliver Twist?' asked

Grimwig of Mr. Brownlow, at the conclusion of the meal; looking

sideways at Oliver, as he resumed his subject.

'To-morrow morning,' replied Mr. Brownlow. 'I would rather he

was alone with me at the time. Come up to me to-morrow morning

at ten o'clock, my dear.'

'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver. He answered with some hesitation,

because he was confused by Mr. Grimwig's looking so hard at him.

'I'll tell you what,' whispered that gentleman to Mr. Brownlow;

'he won't come up to you to-morrow morning. I saw him hesitate.

He is deceiving you, my good friend.'

'I'll swear he is not,' replied Mr. Brownlow, warmly.

'If he is not,' said Mr. Grimwig, 'I'll--' and down went the

stick.

'I'll answer for that boy's truth with my life!' said Mr.

Brownlow, knocking the table.

'And I for his falsehood with my head!' rejoined Mr. Grimwig,

knocking the table also.

'We shall see,' said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising anger.

'We will,' replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile; 'we

will.'

As fate would have it, Mrs. Bedwin chanced to bring in, at this

moment, a small parcel of books, which Mr. Brownlow had that

morning purchased of the identical bookstall-keeper, who has

already figured in this history; having laid them on the table,

she prepared to leave the room.

'Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin!' said Mr. Brownlow; 'there is

something to go back.'

'He has gone, sir,' replied Mrs. Bedwin.

'Call after him,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'it's particular. He is a

poor man, and they are not paid for. There are some books to be

taken back, too.'

The street-door was opened. Oliver ran one way; and the girl ran

another; and Mrs. Bedwin stood on the step and screamed for the

boy; but there was no boy in sight. Oliver and the girl

returned, in a breathless state, to report that there were no

tidings of him.

'Dear me, I am very sorry for that,' exclaimed Mr. Brownlow; 'I

particularly wished those books to be returned to-night.'

'Send Oliver with them,' said Mr. Grimwig, with an ironical

smile; 'he will be sure to deliver them safely, you know.'

'Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir,' said Oliver.

'I'll run all the way, sir.'

The old gentleman was just going to say that Oliver should not go

out on any account; when a most malicious cough from Mr. Grimwig

determined him that he should; and that, by his prompt discharge

of the commission, he should prove to him the injustice of his

suspicions: on this head at least: at once.

'You SHALL go, my dear,' said the old gentleman. 'The books are

on a chair by my table. Fetch them down.'

Oliver, delighted to be of use, brought down the books under his

arm in a great bustle; and waited, cap in hand, to hear what

message he was to take.

'You are to say,' said Mr. Brownlow, glancing steadily at

Grimwig; 'you are to say that you have brought those books back;

and that you have come to pay the four pound ten I owe him. This

is a five-pound note, so you will have to bring me back, ten

shillings change.'

'I won't be ten minutes, sir,' said Oliver, eagerly. Having

buttoned up the bank-note in his jacket pocket, and placed the

books carefully under his arm, he made a respectful bow, and left

the room. Mrs. Bedwin followed him to the street-door, giving

him many directions about the nearest way, and the name of the

bookseller, and the name of the street: all of which Oliver said

he clearly understood. Having superadded many injunctions to be

sure and not take cold, the old lady at length permitted him to

depart.

'Bless his sweet face!' said the old lady, looking after him. 'I

can't bear, somehow, to let him go out of my sight.'

At this moment, Oliver looked gaily round, and nodded before he

turned the corner. The old lady smilingly returned his

salutation, and, closing the door, went back, to her own room.

'Let me see; he'll be back in twenty minutes, at the longest,'

said Mr. Brownlow, pulling out his watch, and placing it on the

table. 'It will be dark by that time.'

'Oh! you really expect him to come back, do you?' inquired Mr.

Grimwig.

'Don't you?' asked Mr. Brownlow, smiling.

The spirit of contradiction was strong in Mr. Grimwig's breast,

at the moment; and it was rendered stronger by his friend's

confident smile.

'No,' he said, smiting the table with his fist, 'I do not. The

boy has a new suit of clothes on his back, a set of valuable

books under his arm, and a five-pound note in his pocket. He'll

join his old friends the thieves, and laugh at you. If ever that

boy returns to this house, sir, I'll eat my head.'

With these words he drew his chair closer to the table; and there

the two friends sat, in silent expectation, with the watch

between them.

It is worthy of remark, as illustrating the importance we attach

to our own judgments, and the pride with which we put forth our

most rash and hasty conclusions, that, although Mr. Grimwig was

not by any means a bad-hearted man, and though he would have been

unfeignedly sorry to see his respected friend duped and deceived,

he really did most earnestly and strongly hope at that moment,

that Oliver Twist might not come back.

It grew so dark, that the figures on the dial-plate were scarcely

discernible; but there the two old gentlemen continued to sit, in

silence, with the watch between them.
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