Oliver Twist, Charles Dickens [first ebook reader .txt] 📗

“Go on, go on⁠—yes⁠—what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?”

“She charged me to keep it safe,” replied the woman with a groan, “and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child’s death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!”

“Known what?” asked the other. “Speak!”

“The boy grew so like his mother,” said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, “that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there’s more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?”

“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 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.

XXV Wherein This History Reverts to Mr. Fagin and Company

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. Chitling, 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 master 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 Artfull and dumb.”

“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, thank ’ee, 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 overnight, and have a telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass between your shoulders, if