CHAPTER X

Oliver Stays at Mr. Brownlow's

At Mr. Brownlow's house a bed was quickly prepared for Oliver and he was carefully and comfortably laid in it; here he was looked after with a kindness that knew no bounds.

But for many days Oliver remained insensible to all the goodness of his new friends. He lay on his bed wasting away under the heat of fever. When at last he awoke from what seemed to have been a long and troubled dream he was weak, thin and pale. Praising himself in the bed, with his head resting on his trembling arm, he looked anxiously around.

"What room is this? Where have I been brought?" said Oliver. "This is not the place I went to sleep in."

A motherly old lady who had been sitting at the bed-side rose as she heard these words and said to him softly:

"Hush, my dear. You must be very quiet, or you will be ill again. Lie down again; there's a dear! "

Oliver obeyed, partly to please the old lady, who was so kind to him, and partly because he was still very weak. He soon fell into a gentle sleep, from which he was awakened by the light of a candle, to see a doctor feel his pulse and hear him say that he was a great deal better.

The doctor told Mrs. Bedwin, the kind old lady, to give him a little tea and some toast, not to keep him too warm or too cold, and then he went away.

Oliver fell asleep again; when he woke it had been a bright day for hours; he felt cheerful and happy. The most dangerous part of the disease had passed. He belonged to the world again. In three days' time he was able to sit in an easy chair, and as he was still too weak to walk, Mrs. Bedwin had him carried downstairs to her room, where she set him by the fireside and sat beside him.

The old gentleman, Mr. Brownlow, came to see him. "How do you feel, my dear? " he said.

"Very happy, sir," said Oliver. "And very grateful indeed, sir, for your goodness to me."

"Good boy," said Mr. Brownlow. "Have you given him any food, Mrs. Bedwin? "

"He has just had a basin of beautiful strong soup, sir," she replied.

After a few more questions and a little conversation with Oliver Mr. Brownlow went away.

They were happy days, those of Oliver's recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, and orderly. Everybody was kind and gentle. He was no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, a new cap and a new pair of shoes to be provided for him.

One evening Mr. Brownlow sent for Oliver to come and talk to him in his study. Oliver was admitted into a little room, quite full of books. Mr. Brownlow was seated at a table, reading. When he saw Oliver he pushed the book away from him, and told him to come near the table and sit down. Oliver did so and surveyed with curiosity the book-shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling.

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

"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 outside. How would you like to grow up a clever man and write books?"

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

"Now," said Mr. Brownlow in a more serious manner, "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 as well able to understand me as many older persons would be."

"Oh, don't tell me you are going to send me away, sir, please!" exclaimed Oliver, alarmed at the serious tone of Mr. Brownlow. "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," said Oliver.

"I hope not," said the old gentleman. "I do not think you ever will. I feel strongly inclined to trust you. You say you are an orphan, without a friend in the world; all the inquiries I have been able to make confirm this statement. Let me hear your story; where you came 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 began to tell his sad story. While he was doing so an old friend of Mr. Brownlow, called Mr. Grimwig, arrived. Mr. Grimwig was a stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, and he walked supported by a thick stick. He had a manner of twisting his head on one side when he spoke; and of looking out of the corners of his eyes at the same time, which reminded one 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, he exclaimed in a growling, discontented voice:

"Look here! do you see this! Isn't it a most extraordinary thing that I can't call at a friend's house but I find a piece of this 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 Mr. Grimwig's peculiar manner of confirming nearly every statement he made.

"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 step 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, drawing back a little. "Wait a minute! Don't speak! Stop—" continued Mr. Grimwig, 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 old gentleman. "There's always orange peel on the pavement in our street; and I know it's put there by the surgeon's boy at the corner."

Then, putting on his eye-glasses, he looked at 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 is the boy," replied Mr. Brownlow.

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

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

Mr. Brownlow asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea.

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

"I don't know," replied 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 people, are they?"

Now, the fact was that in his own heart Mr. Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver was a nice-looking and good-mannered boy; but he was very fond of contradiction. Mr. Brownlow, knowing his friend's peculiarities, bore his opposition with good humour. And so matters went very smoothly at tea, and Oliver, who made one of the party, began to feel more at ease.

"And when are you going to hear a full and true account of the life and adventures of Oliver Twist?" asked Mr. Grimwig of Mr. Brownlow, at the end of the meal, looking sideways at Oliver.

"Tomorrow morning," replied Mr. Brownlow. "I would rather he was alone with me at the time. Come up to see me tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, Oliver."

"Yes, sir," replied Oliver. He answered with some hesitation, because he was confused by Mr. Grimwig's looking hard at him.

"I'll tell you what," whispered the gentleman to Mr. Brownlow, "he won't come up to you tomorrow 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 eat my head."

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

"We will," replied Mr. Grimwig, with an annoying 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 bought at the same bookshop in front of which his pocket had been picked.

"Stop the shop-boy, Mrs. Bedwin!" said Mr. Brownlow; "there is something to go back." But the boy had gone.

"Send Oliver with the books," 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."

"You shall go, my dear," said the old man. "The books are on a chair by my table. Fetch them down."

Oliver, delighted to be of use, brought the books down and waited to hear what message he was to take.

"You are to say," said Mr. Brownlow, looking steadily at Grimwig, "you are to say that you have brought those books back; and that you have come to pay the four pounds ten I owe them. 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, and having buttoned up the bank-note in his coat pocket, and placed the books carefully under his arm, he made a respectful bow, and left the room. Mrs. Bedwin followed him to the door, giving him many directions about the nearest way, and the name of the book-seller, and the name of the street; all of which Oliver said he clearly understood. Having told him 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 nod, 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, hitting 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 grew dark so that the figures on the watch face could scarcely be seen, but there the two gentlemen continued to sit, in silence, with the watch between them.