 Oliver Twist Chapter 34. It was almost too much happiness to bear. Oliver felt stunned and stupefied by the unexpected intelligence. He could not weep or speak or rest. He had scarcely the power of understanding anything that had passed, until, after a long ramble in the quiet evening air, a burst of tears came to his relief, and he seemed to awaken, all at once, to a full sense of the joyful change that had occurred, and the almost insupportable load of anguish which had been taken from his breast. The night was fast closing in when he returned homeward, laden with flowers which he had culled with peculiar care for the adornment of the sick chamber. As he walked briskly along the road, he heard behind him the noise of some vehicle approaching at a furious pace. Looking round he saw that it was a post-shaze driven at great speed, and as the horses were galloping and the road was narrow, he stood leaning against a gate until it should have passed him. As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white night-cap whose face seemed familiar to him, although his view was so brief that he could not identify the person. In another second or two the night-cap was thrust out to the chase window, and a stentorian voice bellowed to the driver to stop, which he did as soon as he could pull up his horses. Then the night-cap once again appeared, and the same voice called Oliver by his name. Here! cried the voice, Oliver! What's the news? Miss Rose! Master Oliver! Is it you, Giles? cried Oliver, running up to the chase door. Giles popped out his night-cap again, preparatory to making some reply, when he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the other corner of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the news. In a word, cried the gentleman, better or worse? Better! Much better! replied Oliver hastily. Thank heaven! exclaimed the gentleman. You are sure? Quite sure! replied Oliver. The change took place only a few hours ago, and Mr. Losburn says that all danger is at an end. The gentleman said not another word, but opening the chaise door leaped out, and taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside. You are quite certain? There is no possibility of any mistake on your part, my boy, is there? demanded the gentleman in a tremulous voice. Do not deceive me by awakening hopes that are not to be fulfilled. I would not for the world, sir, replied Oliver. Indeed you may believe me, Mr. Losburn's words were that she would live to bless us all for many years to come, I heard him say so. The tears stood in Oliver's eyes as he recalled the scene, which was the beginning of so much happiness, and the gentleman turned his face away and remained silent for some minutes. Oliver thought he heard him sob more than once, but he feared to interrupt him by any fresh remark, for he could well guess what his feelings were, and so stood apart feigning to be occupied with his nose-gay. All this time Mr. Giles, with the white night-cap on, had been sitting on the steps of the chaise, supporting an elbow on each knee, and wiping his eyes with a blue cotton pocket-hacker-chief dotted with white spots. That the honest fellow had not been feigning emotion was abundantly demonstrated by the very red eyes with which he regarded the young gentleman when he turned round and addressed him. I think you had better go on to my mother's in the chaise, Giles, said he. I would rather walk slowly on, so as to gain a little time before I see her you can say I am coming. I beg your pardon, Mr. Harry, said Giles, giving a final polish to his ruffled countenance with the handkerchief, but if you would leave the post-boy to say that I should be very much obliged to you, it wouldn't be proper for the maids to see me in this state, sir. I should never have any more authority with them if they did. Well, rejoined Harry Maley, smiling, you can do as you like. Let him go on with the luggage, if you wish it, and do you follow with us. Only first exchange that night-cap for some more appropriate covering, or we shall be taken from madmen. Mr. Giles, reminded of his unbecoming costume, snatched off and pocketed his handkerchief, and substituted a hat of grave and sober shape which he took out of the chaise. This done the post-boy drove off, Giles, Mr. Maley, and Oliver followed at their leisure. As they walked along, Oliver glanced from time to time with much interest and curiosity at the newcomer. He seemed about five and twenty years of age, and was of the middle height, his countenance was frank and handsome, and his demeanor easy and prepossessing. Not with standing the difference between youth and age he bore so strong a likeness to the old lady that Oliver would have had no great difficulty in imagining their relationship if he had not already spoken of her as his mother. Mrs. Maley was anxiously waiting to receive her son when he reached the cottage. The meeting did not take place without great emotion on both sides. Mother, whispered the young man, why did you not write before? I did reply, Mrs. Maley, but on reflection I determined to keep back the letter until I had heard Mr. Losburn's opinion. But why, said the young man, why run the chance of that occurring which so nearly happened? If Rose had—I cannot utter that word now—if this illness had terminated differently, how could you ever have forgiven yourself? How could I ever have known happiness again? If that had been the case, Harry, said Mrs. Maley, I fear your happiness would have been effectually blighted and that your arrival here a day sooner or a day later would have been of very, very little import. And who can wonder if it be so, mother, rejoined the young man? Or why should I say if it is, it is, you know it, mother, you must know it? I know that she deserves the best and purest love the heart of man can offer, said Mrs. Maley. I know that a devotion and affection of her nature require no ordinary return, but one that shall be deep in lasting. If I did not feel this, and no besides, that a changed behaviour in one she loved would break her heart, I should not feel my task so difficult of performance, or have to encounter so many struggles in my own bosom when I take what seems to me to be the strict line of duty. This is unkind, mother, said Harry. Do you still suppose that I am a boy ignorant of my own mind and mistaking the impulses of my own soul? I think, my dear son, returned Mrs. Maley, laying her hand upon his shoulder, that youth has many generous impulses which do not last, and that among them are some which, being gratified, become only the more fleeting. Above all, I think, said the lady, fixing her eyes on her son's face, that if an enthusiastic, ardent, and ambitious man might marry a wife on whose name there is a stain, which, though it originate in no fault of hers, may be visited by cold and sordid people upon her, and upon his children also, and in exact proportion to his success in the world, be cast in his teeth, and made the subject of sneers against him, he may, no matter how generous and good his nature, one day repent of the connection he formed in early life, and she may have the pain of knowing that he does so. Mother, said the young man impatiently, he would be a selfish brute, unworthy alike of the name of man and of the woman you describe who acted thus. You think so now, Harry? replied his mother. And ever will, said the young man, the mental agony I have suffered during the last two days rings from me the avowal to you of a passion which, as you well know, is not one of yesterday nor one I have lightly formed. On Rose, sweet, gentle girl, my heart is set as firmly as ever heart of man was set on woman. I have no thoughts, no view, no hope in life beyond her. And if you oppose me in this great stake, you take my peace and happiness in your hands, and cast them to the wind. Mother, think better of this and of me, and do not disregard the happiness of which you seem to think so little. Harry, said Mrs. Maley, it is because I think so much of warm and sensitive hearts that I would spare them from being wounded, but we have said enough and more than enough on this matter just now. Let it rest with Rose, then, interposed Harry. You will not press these overstrained opinions of yours so far as to throw any obstacle in my way. I will not, rejoin Mrs. Maley. But I would have you consider—I have considered, was the impatient reply. Mother, I have considered, years and years. I have considered ever since I have been capable of serious reflection. My feelings remain unchanged as they ever will, and why should I suffer the pain of a delay in giving them vent which can be productive of no earthly good? No, before I leave this place Rose shall hear me. She shall, said Mrs. Maley. There is something in your manner which would almost imply that she will hear me coldly, mother, said the young man. Not coldly, rejoined the old lady, far from it. How, then, urged the young man? She has formed no other attachment. No indeed, replied his mother. You have, or I mistake, too strong a hold on her affections already. What I would say, resumed the old lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, is this. Before you stake your all on this chance, before you suffer yourself to be carried to the highest point of hope, reflect for a few moments, my dear child, on Rose's history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision, devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic. What do you mean? That I leave you to discover, replied Mrs. Maley. I must go back to her. God bless you. I shall see you again tonight, said the young man, eagerly. By and by, replied the lady, when I leave Rose. You will tell her I am here, said Harry. Of course, replied Mrs. Maley. And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to see her, you will not refuse to do this, mother. No, said the old lady. I will tell her all, and pressing her son's hand affectionately, she hastened from the room. Mr. Lawsburn and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry Maley, and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient situation, which was quite as consolatory and full of promise as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope, and to the whole of which Mr. Giles, who effected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears. Have you shot anything particular lately, Giles? inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. Nothing particular, sir, replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes. Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any housebreakers, said the doctor. None at all, sir, replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. Well, said the doctor, I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittle's? The boy is very well, sir, said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage, and sends his respectful duty, sir. That's well, said the doctor. Seeing you here reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into this quarter a moment, will you? Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance and some wonder, and was honoured with a short, whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which he made a great many bows and retired with steps of unusual statelyness. The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the parlor, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it, for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and, having called for a mug of ale, announced with an air of majesty which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attempted robbery, to deposit in the local savings-bank the sum of five and twenty pounds for his sole use and benefit. At this the two women servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, No, no, and that if they observed that he was at all haughty to his inferiors he would thank them to tell him so. And then he made a great many other remarks, no less illustrative of his humility, which were received with equal favour and applause, and were with all as original and as much to the purpose as the remarks of great men commonly are. Above stairs the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away, for the doctor was in high spirits, and however fatigued or thoughtful Harry Maley might have been at first, he was not proof against the worthy gentleman's good humour which displayed itself in a great variety of sally's and professional recollections, and an abundance of small jokes which struck Oliver as being the drolest things he had ever heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately to the evident satisfaction of the doctor who laughed immoderately at himself and made Harry laugh almost as heartily by the very force of sympathy. So they were as pleasant a party as under the circumstances they could well have been, and it was late before they retired with light and thankful hearts to take that rest of which after the doubt and suspense they had recently undergone they stood much in need. Oliver rose next morning in better heart, and went about his usual occupations with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many days. The birds were once more hung out to sing in their old places, and the sweetest wildflowers that could be found were once more gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. The melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang for days past over every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic. The dew seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves, the air to rustle among them with a sweeter music, and the sky itself to look more blue and bright. Such is the influence which the condition of our own thoughts exercise even over the appearance of external objects. Men who look on nature and their fellow men and cry that all is dark and gloomy are in the right, but the somber colors are reflections from their own jaundice eyes and heart. The real hues are delicate and need a clearer vision. It is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it at the time, that his morning expeditions were no longer made alone. Harry Maley, after the very first morning when he met Oliver coming late in home, was seized with such a passion for flowers and displayed such a taste in their arrangement as left his young companion far behind. If Oliver were behind hand in these respects, he knew where the best were to be found, and morning after morning they scoured the country together and brought home the ferris that blossomed. The window of the young lady's chamber was opened now, for she loved to feel the rich summer air stream in and revive her with its freshness. But there always stood in water just inside the lattice one particular little bunch which was made up with great care every morning. Oliver could not help noticing that the withered flowers were never thrown away, although the little vase was regularly replenished, nor could he help observing that whenever the doctor came into the garden he invariably cast his eyes up to that particular corner and nodded his head most expressively as he set forth on his morning's walk. Pending these observations the days were flying by, and Rose was rapidly recovering. Nor did Oliver's time hang heavy on his hands, although the young lady had not yet left her chamber, and there were no evening walks saved now and then for a short distance with Mrs. Maylee. He applied himself with redoubled aciduity to the instructions of the white-headed old gentleman, and laboured so hard that his quick progress surprised even himself. It was while he was engaged in this pursuit that he was greatly startled and distressed by a most unexpected occurrence. The little room in which he was accustomed to sit when busy at his books was on the ground floor at the back of the house. It was quite a cottage-room, with a lattice window around which were clusters of jessamine and honeysuckle that crept over the casement and filled the place with their delicious perfume. It looked into a garden, whence a wicked gate opened into a small paddock all beyond was fine meadowland and wood. There was no other dwelling near in that direction, and the prospect it commanded was very extensive. One beautiful evening, when the first shades of twilight were beginning to settle upon the earth, Oliver sat at this window intent upon his books. He had been pouring over them for some time, and as the day had been uncommonly sultry, and he had exerted himself a great deal, it is no disparagement to the authors, whoever they may have been, to say that gradually and by slow degrees he fell asleep. There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it holds the body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of things about it, and enable it to ramble at its pleasure. So far as an overpowering heaviness, a prostration of strength, and an utter inability to control our thoughts or power of motion can be called sleep. This is it. And yet we have a consciousness of all that is going on about us, and if we dream at such a time, words which are really spoken, or sounds which really exist at the moment, accommodate themselves with surprising readiness to our visions, until reality and imagination become so strangely blended that it is afterwards almost a matter of impossibility to separate the two. Nor is this the most striking phenomenon incidental to such a state. It is an undoubted fact that although our senses of touch and sight be for the time dead, yet our sleeping thoughts and the visionary scenes that pass before us will be influenced and materially influenced by the mere silent presence of some external object which may not have been near us when we closed our eyes, and of whose vicinity we have had no waking consciousness. Oliver knew perfectly well that he was in his own little room, that his books were lying on the table before him, that the sweet air was stirring among the creeping plants outside, and yet he was asleep. Suddenly the scene changed, the air became close and confined, and he thought with a glow of terror that he was in the Jew's house again. There sat the hideous old man in his accustomed corner, pointing at him and whispering to another man with his face averted who sat beside him. Hush, my dear! he thought he heard the Jew say. It is he, sure enough, come away. He, the other man, seemed to answer, could I mistake him, thank you? The crowd of ghosts would have put themselves into his exact shape, and he stood amongst them. There is something that would tell me how to point him out. If you buried him fifty feet deep and took me across his grave, I fancy I should know if there wasn't a mark above it, that he laid buried there. The man seemed to say this with such dreadful hatred that Oliver awoke with the fear and started up. Good Heaven, what was that which sent the blood tingling to his heart, and deprived him of his voice, and of power to move? There, there, at the window, close before him, so close that he could have almost touched him before he started back, with his eyes peering into the room and meeting his, there stood the Jew. And beside him, white with rage or fear, or both, were the scowling features of the man who had accosted him in the in-yard. It was but an instant, a glance of flash before his eyes, and they were gone. But they had recognised him, and he them, and their look was as firmly impressed upon his memory as if it had been deeply carved in stone and set before him from his birth. He stood transfixed for a moment, then leaping from the window into the garden, called loudly for help. End of Chapter 34 Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens, Chapter 35 containing the unsatisfactory result of Oliver's adventure, and a conversation of some importance between Harry Maley and Rose When the inmates of the house, attracted by Oliver's cries, hurried to the spot from which they proceeded, they found him, pale and agitated, pointing in the direction of the meadows behind the house, and scarcely able to articulate the words, the Jew, the Jew! Mr. Giles was at a loss to comprehend what this outcry meant, but Harry Maley, whose perceptions were something quicker, and who had heard Oliver's history from his mother, understood it at once. What direction did he take, he asked, catching up a heavy stick which was standing in a corner? That, replied the Oliver, pointing out the course the man had taken. I missed them in an instant. Then they are in the ditch, said Harry, follow, and keep as near me as you can. So saying, he sprang over the hedge and darted off with a speed which rendered it a matter of exceeding difficulty for the others to keep near him. Giles followed as well as he could, and Oliver followed too, and in the course of a minute or two Mr. Lawsburn, who had been out walking and just then returned, tumbled over the hedge after them, and picking himself up with more agility than he could have been supposed to possess, struck into the same course at no contemptible speed, shouting all the while most prodigiously to know what was the matter. On they all went, nor stopped they once to breathe, until the leader striking off into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver, began to search narrowly the ditch and hedge adjoining, which afforded time for the remainder of the party to come up, and for Oliver to communicate to Mr. Lawsburn the circumstances that had led to so vigorous a pursuit. The search was all in vain. There were not even the traces of recent footsteps to be seen. They stood now on the summit of a little hill, commanding the open fields in every direction for three or four miles. There was the village in the hollow on the left, but in order to gain that, after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed out, the men must have made a circuit of open ground which it was impossible they could have accomplished in so short a time. A thick wood skirted the meadow land in another direction, but they could not have gained that covert for the same reason. It must have been a dream, Oliver, said Harry Maley. Oh, no indeed, sir, replied Oliver, shuddering at the very recollection of the old wretches' countenance. I saw him too plainly for that. I saw them both, as plainly as I see you now. Who was the other, inquired Harry and Mr. Lawsburn together? The very same man I told you of, who came so suddenly upon me at the inn, said Oliver. We had our eyes fixed full upon each other, and I could swear to him. They took this way, demanded Harry. Are you sure? As I am that the men were at the window, replied Oliver, pointing down as he spoke to the hedge which divided the cottage-garden from the meadow. The tall man leaped over just there, and the Jew running a few paces to the right crept through that gap. The two gentlemen watched Oliver's earnest face as he spoke, and looking from him to each other, seemed to feel satisfied of the accuracy of what he said. Still, in no direction were there any appearances of the trampling of men in hurried flight. The grass was long, but it was trodden down nowhere save where their own feet had crushed it. The sides and brinks of the ditches were of damp clay, but in no one place could they discern the print of men's shoes, or the slightest mark which would indicate that any feet had pressed the ground for hours before. This is strange, said Harry. Strange, echoed the doctor. Blathers and duff themselves could make nothing of it. Notwithstanding the evidently useless nature of their search, they did not desist until the coming-on-of-night rendered its further prosecution hopeless, and even then they gave it up with reluctance. Giles was dispatched to the different ale-houses in the village, furnished with the best description Oliver could give of the appearance and dress of the strangers. Of these the Jew was, at all events, sufficiently remarkable to be remembered, supposing he had been seen drinking or loitering about, but Giles returned without any intelligence calculated to dispel or lessen the mystery. On the next day fresh search was made, and the inquiries renewed, but with no better success. On the day following Oliver and Mr. Maley repaired to the market-town in the hope of seeing or hearing something of the men there, but this effort was equally fruitless. After a few days the affair began to be forgotten as most affairs are, when wonder, having no fresh food to support it, dies away of itself. Meanwhile Rose was rapidly recovering, she had left her room, was able to go out, and mixing once more with the family, carried joy into the hearts of all. But although this happy change had a visible effect on the little circle, and although cheerful voices and merry laughter were once more heard in the cottage, there were at times an unwanted restraint upon some there, even upon Rose herself which Oliver could not fail to remark. Mrs. Maley and her son were often closeted together for a long time, and more than once Rose appeared with traces of tears upon her face. After Mr. Losburn had fixed a day for his departure to Chertsey, these symptoms increased, and it became evident that something was in progress which affected the peace of the young lady and of somebody else besides. At length one morning, when Rose was alone in the breakfast parlor, Harry Maley entered, and with some hesitation begged permission to speak with her for a few moments. A few, a very few, will suffice Rose, said the young man, drawing his chair towards her. What I shall have to say has already presented itself to your mind. The most cherished hopes of my heart are not unknown to you, though from my lips you have not heard them stated. Rose had been very pale from the moment of his entrance, but that might have been the effect of her recent illness. She merely bowed, and bending over some plant that stood near, waited in silence for him to proceed. I ought to have left here before, said Harry. You should indeed, replied Rose. Forgive me for saying so, but I wish you had. I was brought here by the most dreadful and agonizing of all apprehensions, said the young man, the fear of losing the one dear being on whom my every wish and hope are fixed. You had been dying, trembling between earth and heaven. We know that when the young, the beautiful and good are visited with sickness, their pure spirits insensibly turn towards their bright home of lasting rest. We know, heaven help us, that the best and fairest of our kind too often fade in blooming. There were tears in the eyes of the gentle girl as these words were spoken, and when one fell upon the flower over which she bent and glistened brightly in its cup, making it more beautiful, it seemed as though the outpouring of her fresh young heart claimed kindred naturally with the loveliest things in nature. A creature continued the young man passionately. A creature as fair and innocent of guile as one of God's own angels, fluttered between life and death. Oh, who could hope when the distant world to which she was akin, half open to her view, that she would return to the sorrow and calamity of this? Rose, rose to know that you were passing away like some soft shadow which a light from above cast upon the earth, to have no hope that you would be spared to those who lingered here, hardly to know a reason why you should be, to feel that you belong to that bright sphere wither so many of the fairest and the best have winged their early flight, and yet to pray amid all these consolations that you might be restored to those who love you. These were distractions almost too great to bear. They were mine by day and night, and with them came such a rushing torrent of fears and apprehensions and selfish regrets lest you should die and never know how devotedly I'd loved you as almost bored down, sense and reason in its course. You recovered. Day by day and almost hour by hour some drop of health came back, and mingling with the spent and feeble stream of life which circulated languidly within you swelled it again to a high and rushing tide. I have watched you change almost from death to life with eyes that turned blind with their eagerness and deep affection. Do not tell me that you wish I had lost this, for it has softened my heart to all mankind. I did not mean that, said Rose, weeping. I only wish you had left here, that you might have turned to high and noble pursuits again, to pursuits well worthy of you. There is no pursuit more worthy of me, more worthy of the highest nature that exists than the struggle to win such a heart as yours, said the young man, taking her hand. Rose, my own dear Rose, for years, for years I have loved you, hoping to win my way to fame and then come proudly home and tell you it had been pursued only for you to share, thinking in my daydreams how I would remind you in that happy moment of the many silent tokens I had given of a boy's attachment and claim your hand as in redemption of some old mute contract that had been sealed between us. That time has not arrived, but here, with not fame won and no young vision realized, I offer you the heart so long your own and stake my all upon the words with which you greet the offer. Your behaviour has ever been kind and noble, said Rose, mastering the emotions by which she was agitated, as you believe that I am not insensible or ungrateful, so hear my answer. It is that I may endeavor to deserve you, it is, dear Rose. It is, replied Rose, that you must endeavor to forget me, not as your old and dearly attached companion, for that would wound me deeply, but as the object of your love. Look into the world. Think how many hearts you would be proud to gain are there. Confide some other passion to me, if you will. I will be the truest, warmest, and most faithful friend you have. There was a pause, drawing which Rose, who had covered her face with one hand, gave free vent to her tears. Harry still retained the other. And your reasons, Rose, he said at length in a low voice, your reasons for this decision. You have a right to know them, rejoined Rose. You can say nothing to alter my resolution. It is a duty that I must perform. I owe it alike to others and to myself. To yourself? Yes, Harry, I owe it to myself, that I, a friendless, portionless girl, with a blight upon my name, should not give your friends reason to suspect that I had sordidly yield to your first passion and fashioned myself a clog on all your hopes and projects. I owe it to you and yours to prevent you from opposing, in the warmth of your generous nature, this great obstacle to your progress in the world. If your inclinations chime with your sense of duty, Harry began, they do not replied, Rose, colouring deeply. Then you return my love, said Harry. Say but that, dear Rose, say but that and soften the bitterness of this hard disappointment. If I could have done so without doing heavy wrong to him I love, rejoined Rose. I could have received this declaration very differently, said Harry. Do not conceal that from me at least, Rose. I could, said Rose. Stay, she added, disengaging her hand. Why should we prolong this painful interview? Most painful to me and yet productive of lasting happiness notwithstanding, for it will be happiness to know that I once held the high place in your regard which I now occupy, and every triumph you achieve in life will animate me with new fortitude and firmness. Farewell, Harry. As we have met today we meet no more, but in other relations than those in which this conversation have placed us we may be long and happily entwined, and may every blessing at the prayers of a true and earnest heart can call down from the source of all truth and sincerity, cheer and prosper you. Another word, Rose, said Harry. Your reason, in your own words, from your own lips, let me hear it. The prospect before you, answered Rose firmly, is a brilliant one. All the honors to which great talents and powerful connections can help men in public life are in store for you. But these connections are proud, and I will neither mingle with such as may hold and scorn the mother who gave me life, nor bring disgrace or failure on the son of her who has so well supplied that mother's place. In a word, said the young lady, turning away as her temporary firmness for sook her, there is a stain upon my name which the world visits on innocent heads. I will carry it into no blood but my own, and the reproach shall rest alone on me. One word more, dearest Rose, one more, cried Harry, throwing himself before her. If I had been less, less fortunate the world would call it, if some obscure and peaceful life had been my destiny, if I had been poor, sick, helpless, would you have turned from me then, or has my probable advancement to riches and honor given this scruple birth? Do not press B to reply, answered Rose. The question does not arise and never will. It is unfair, almost unkind to urge it. If your answer be what I almost dare to hope it is, retorted Harry, it will shed a gleam of happiness upon my lonely way and like the path before me. It is not an idle thing to do so much by the utterance of a few brief words for one who loves you beyond all else. O Rose, in the name of my ardent and enduring attachment, in the name of all I have suffered for you and all you do me to undergo, answer me this one question. Then if your lot had been differently cast, rejoined Rose, if you had been even a little, but not so far above me, if I could have been a help and comfort to you in any humble scene of peace and retirement, and not a blot and drawback in ambitious and distinguished crowds, I should have been spared this trial. I have every reason to be happy, very happy now. But then, Harry, I own, I should have been happier. Busy recollections of old hopes cherished as a girl long ago crowded into the mind of Rose while making this avowal. But they brought tears with them, as old hopes will when they come back withered, and they relieved her. I cannot help this weakness, and it makes my purpose stronger, said Rose, extending her hand. I must believe you now, indeed. I ask one promise, said Harry, once, and only once more, say within a year, but it may be much sooner. I may speak to you again on this subject for the last time. Not to press me to alter my right determination, replied Rose, with a melancholy smile. It will be useless. No, said Harry, to hear you repeat it, if you will, finally repeat it. I will lay at your feet whatever of station of fortune I may possess, and if you still adhere to your present resolution, will not seek my word or act to change it. Then let it be so, rejoined Rose. It is but one pang the more, and by that time I may be unable to bear it better. She extended her hand again. But the young man caught her to his bosom, and imprinting one kiss on her beautiful forehead, hurried from the room. END OF CHAPTER XXXV Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens Chapter XXXVI is a very short one, and may appear of no great importance in its place, but it should be read notwithstanding as a sequel to the last, and a key to one that will follow when its time arrives. And so you are resolved to be my traveling companion this morning, eh? said the doctor, as Harry Maley joined him and Oliver at the breakfast-table, while you are not of the same mind or intention two-half hours together. You will tell me a different tale one of these days, said Harry, colouring without any perceptible reason. I hope I may have good cause to do so, replied Mr. Lasburn, though I confess I don't think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up your mind in a great hurry to stay here, and to accompany your mother like a dutiful son to the seaside. Before noon you announced that you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I go on your road to London. And at night you urged me, with great mystery, to start before the ladies are stirring, the consequences of which is that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast, when he ought to be ranging the meadows after a botanical phenomena of all kinds too bad, isn't it, Oliver? I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr. Maley went away, sir, rejoined Oliver. That's a fine fellow, said the doctor. You shall come and see me when you return. But to speak seriously, Harry, has any communication from the great knobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone? The great knobs, replied Harry, under which designation I presume you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all, since I have been here. Nor at this time of the year is it likely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate attendance among them. Well, said the doctor, you are a queer fellow. But, of course, they will get you into Parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political life. There's something in that. Good training is always desirable whether the race be for place cup or sweepstakes. Harry Maley looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little, but he contented himself with saying, We shall see, and pursue the subject no further. The post-chase drove up to the door shortly afterwards, and Giles coming in for the luggage the good doctor bustled out to see it packed. Oliver, said Harry Maley, in a low voice, let me speak a word with you. Oliver walked into the window recess to which Mr. Maley beckoned him, much surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits which his whole behaviour displayed. You can write well now, said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm. I hope so, sir, replied Oliver. I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time. I wish you would write to me, say, once a fortnight, every alternate Monday to the General Post Office in London. Will you? Oh, certainly, sir. I should be proud to do it, exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission. I should like to know how my mother and Miss Maley are, said the young man, and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take and what you talk about, and whether she, they, I mean, seem happy and quite well. You understand me? Oh, quite, sir, quite, replied Oliver. I would rather you did not mention it to them, said Harry, hurrying over his words, because it might make my mother anxious to write me off there, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me, and mind you tell me everything, I depend upon you. Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications, Mr. Maley took leave of him with many assurances of his regard and protection. The doctor was in the chase. Giles, who it had been arranged should be left behind, held the door open in his hand, and the women servants were in the garden looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the latest window, and jumped into the carriage. Drive on, he cried, hard, fast, full gallop. Nothing short of flying will keep pace with me to-day. Hello, cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great hurry and shouting to the bastillion. Something very short of flying will keep pace with me. Do you hear? Jingling and clattering till distance rendered its noise inaudible, and its rapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound its way along the road, almost hidden in a cloud of dust, now wholly disappearing, and now becoming visible again, as intervening objects or the intricacies of the way permitted. It was not until even the dusty cloud was no longer to be seen that the gazers dispersed. And there was one looker on, who remained with eyes fixed upon the spot where the carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away, for behind the white curtain which had shrouded her from view when Harry raised his eyes towards the window sat Rose herself. He seems in high spirits and happy, she said at length. I feared for a time he might be otherwise. I was mistaken. I am very, very glad. Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief, but those which course down Rose's face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in the same direction, seem to tell more of sorrow than of joy. END OF CHAPTER XXXVII Mr. Bumble sat in the work-house parlor with his eyes mootily fixed on the cheerless grate. Wents, as it was summertime, no brighter gleam proceeded, than the reflection of certain sickly rays of the sun, which were sent back from its cold and shining surface. A paper fly-cage dangled from the ceiling, to which he occasionally raised his eyes in gloomy thought, and as the heedless insects hovered round the gaudy network, Mr. Bumble would heave a deep sigh while a more gloomy shadow overspread his countenance. Mr. Bumble was meditating. It might be that the insects brought to mind some painful passage in his own past life. Nor was Mr. Bumble's gloom the only thing calculated to awaken a pleasing melancholy in the bosom of a spectator. There were not wanting other appearances, and those closely connected with his own person, which announced that a great change had taken place in the position of his affairs. The laced coat and the cocked hat, where were they? He still wore knee-bridges and dark cotton stockings on his nether-limbs, but they were not THE-bridges. The coat was wide-skirted, and in that respect, like THE coat, but oh, how different! The mighty cocked hat was replaced by a modest round one. Mr. Bumble was no longer a beetle. There are some promotions in life which, independent of the more substantial rewards they offer, require peculiar value and dignity from the coats and waistcoats connected with them. A field-martial has his uniform, a bishop his silk apron, a counsellor his silk gown, a beetle his cocked hat. Stripped the bishop of his apron, or the beetle of his hat and lace, what are they? Men, mere men. Dignity and even holiness too sometimes are more questions of coat and waistcoat than some people imagine. Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corny, and was the master of the workhose. Another beetle had come into power. On him the cocked hat, gold laced coat, and staff had all three descended. And to-morrow, two months it was done, said Mr. Bumble with a sigh. It seems a age. Mr. Bumble might have meant that he had concentrated a whole existence of happiness into the short space of eight weeks, but the sigh there was a vast deal of meaning in the sigh. I sold myself, said Mr. Bumble, pursuing the same train of reflection, for six teaspoons, a pair of sugar tongs, and a milk-pot, with a small quantity of second-hand furniture, and twenty pound in money. I went very reasonable, cheap, dirt-cheap. Cheap! cried a shrill voice in Mr. Bumble's ear. You would have been dear at any price, and dear enough I paid for you. Lord above knows that. Mr. Bumble turned, and encountered the face of his interesting consort, who, imperfectly comprehending the few words he had overheard of his complaint, had hazarded the foregoing remark at a venture. Mrs. Bumble, ma'am, said Mr. Bumble, with a sentimental sternness. Well! cried the lady. Have the goodness to look at me, said Mr. Bumble, fixing his eyes upon her. If she stands such an eye as that, said Mr. Bumble to himself, she can stand anything. It is a eye I never knew to fail with poppers. If it fails with her, my power is gone. Whether an exceedingly small expansion of eye be sufficient to quell poppers, who, being likely fed, are in no very high condition, or whether the late Mrs. Corny was particularly proof against eagle glances, are matters of opinion. The matter of fact is that the matron was in no way overpowered by Mr. Bumble's scowl, but on the contrary, treated it with great disdain, and even raised a laugh there at, which sounded as though it were genuine. On hearing this most unexpected sound, Mr. Bumble looked first incredulous and afterwards amazed. He then relapsed into his former state, nor did he rouse himself until his attention was a gain awakened by the voice of his partner. Are you going to set snoring there all day, inquired Mrs. Bumble? I am going to sit here as long as I think proper, ma'am, rejoined Mr. Bumble. And although I was not snoring, I shall snore gape, sneeze, laugh, or cry, as the humour strikes me, such being my prerogative. Your prerogative, sneered Mrs. Bumble with ineffable contempt. I said the word, ma'am, said Mr. Bumble, the prerogative of a man is to command. And what's the prerogative of a woman in the name of goodness? cried the relict of Mr. Corny deceased. To obey, ma'am, thundered Mr. Bumble, your late unfortunate husband should have taunted you, and then perhaps he might have been alive now. I wish he was, poor man. Mrs. Bumble, seeing at a glance that the decisive moment had now arrived, and that a blow struck for the mastership on one side or other, must necessarily be final and conclusive, no sooner heard this allusion to the dead and gone, that she dropped into a chair, and with a loud scream that Mr. Bumble was a hard-hearted brute, fell into a paroxysm of tears. But tears were not the things to find their way to Mr. Bumble's soul. His heart was waterproof. Like washable beaver-hats that improved with rain, his nerves were rendered stouter and more vigorous by showers of tears, which, being tokens of weakness, and so far tacit admissions of his own power, pleased and exalted him. He eyed his good lady with looks of great satisfaction, and begged in an encouraging manner that she should cry her hardest the exercise being looked upon by the faculty as strongly conducive to health. It opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises the eyes, and softens down the temper, said Mr. Bumble, so cry away. As he discharged himself of this pleasantry, Mr. Bumble took his hat from a peg, and putting it on rather rakeishly on one side as a man might who felt he had asserted his superiority in a becoming manner, thrust his hands into his pockets, and sauntered towards the door with much ease and waggishness depicted in his whole appearance. Now Mrs. Corny that was had tried the tears because they were less troublesome than a manual assault, but she was quite prepared to make trial of the latter mode of proceeding as Mr. Bumble was not long in discovering. The first proof he experienced of the fact was conveyed in a hollow sound immediately succeeded by the sudden flying off of his hat to the opposite end of the room. This preliminary proceeding, laying bare his head, the expert lady clasping him tightly round the throat with one hand, inflicted a shower of blows, dealt with singular vigor and dexterity upon it with the other. This done she created a little variety by scratching his face and tearing his hair, and having by this time inflicted as much punishment as she deemed necessary for the offense, she pushed him over a chair which was luckily well situated for the purpose and defied him to talk about his prerogative again if he dared. Get up, said Mrs. Bumble, in a voice of command, and take yourself away from here, unless you want me to do something desperate. Mr. Bumble rose with a very rueful confidence, wondering much what something desperate might be. Picking up his hat he looked towards the door. Are you going, demanded Mrs. Bumble? Certainly my dear, certainly rejoined Mr. Bumble, making a quicker motion towards the door. I didn't intend to—I'm going, my dear. You are so very violent that really I—at this instant Mrs. Bumble stepped hastily forward to replace the carpet which had been kicked up in the scuffle. Mr. Bumble immediately darted out of the room without bestowing another thought on his unfinished sentence, leaving the late Mrs. Corney in full possession of the field. Mr. Bumble was fairly taken by surprise and fairly beaten. He had a decided propensity for bullying, derived no inconsiderable pleasure from the exercise of petty cruelty, and consequently was, it is needless to say, a coward. This is by no means a disparagement to his character, for many official personages who are held in high respect and admiration are the victims of similar infirmities. The remark is made indeed rather in his favour than otherwise, and with the view of impressing the reader with a just sense of his qualifications for office. But the measure of his degradation was not yet full. After making a tour of the house and thinking for the first time that the poor laws really were too hard on people, and that men who ran away from their wives, leaving them chargeable to the parish, ought injustice to be visited with no punishment at all, but rather rewarded as meritorious individuals who had suffered much. Mr. Bumble came to a room where some of the female poppers were usually employed in washing the parish linen, when the sound of voices and conversation now proceeded. "'Him!' said Mr. Bumble, summing up all his native dignity. "'These women at least shall continue to respect the prerogative. Hello, hello there. What do you mean by this noise, you hussies?' With these words Mr. Bumble opened the door and walked in with a very fierce and angry manner, which was at once exchanged for a most humiliated and cowering air, as his eyes unexpectedly rested on the form of his lady-wife. "'My dear!' said Mr. Bumble. I didn't know you were here.' "'Didn't know I was here,' repeated Mrs. Bumble. "'What do you do here?' "'I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their work properly, my dear,' replied Mr. Bumble, glancing distractedly at a couple of old women at the wash-tub, who were comparing notes of admiration at the work-host master's humility. "'You thought they were talking too much,' said Mrs. Bumble. "'What business is it of yours?' "'Why, my dear,' urged Mr. Bumble, submissively, "'what business is it of yours?' demanded Mrs. Bumble again. "'It's very true, your matron here, my dear,' submitted Mr. Bumble. "'But I thought you mightn't be in the way just then.' "'I'll tell you what, Mr. Bumble,' returned his lady. "'We don't want any of your interference. You're a good deal too fond of poking your nose into things that don't concern you, making everybody in the house laugh the moment your back is turned, and making yourself look like a fool every hour in the day. Be off! Come!' Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings the delight of the two old poppers, who were tittering together most rapturously, hesitated for an instant. Mrs. Bumble, whose patience brooked no delay, caught up a bowl of soap-suds, and motioning him towards the door, ordered him instantly to depart on pain of receiving the contents upon his portly person. What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked dejectedly round and slunk away, and as he reached the door the titterings of the poppers broke into a shrill chuckle of irrepressible delight. It wanted but this. He was degraded in their eyes. He had lost caste and station before the very poppers. He had fallen from all the heightened pomp of beadleship to the lowest depth of the most snubbed hen-peckery. All in two months, said Mr. Bumble, filled with dismal thoughts. Two months! No more than two months ago I was not only my own master, but everybody else's, so far as the parochial workhouse was concerned, and now it was too much. Mr. Bumble boxed the ears of the boy who opened the gate for him, for he had reached the portal in his reverie, and walked distractedly into the street. He walked up one street and down another until exercise had abated the first passion of his grief, and then the revulsion of feeling made him thirsty. He passed to great many public houses, but at length paused before one in a byway whose parlor, as he gathered from a hasty peep over the blinds, was deserted, saved by one solitary customer. It began to rain heavily at the moment. This determined him. Mr. Bumble stepped in, and ordering something to drink as he passed the bar, entered the apartment into which he had looked from the street. The man who was seated there was tall and dark, and wore a large cloak. He had the ear of a stranger, and seen by a certain haggardness in his look, as well as by the dusty soils in his dress, to have travelled some distance. He eyed Bumble a scant as he entered, but scarcely deigned to nod his head in acknowledgment of his salutation. Mr. Bumble had quite dignity enough for two, supposing even that the stranger had been more familiar, so he drank his gin and water in silence, and read the paper with great show of pomp and circumstance. It so happened, however, as it will happen very often, when men fall into company under such circumstances, that Mr. Bumble felt every now and then a powerful inducement which he could not resist to steal a look at the stranger, and that whatever he did so he withdrew his eyes in some confusion to find that the stranger was at that moment stealing a look at him. Mr. Bumble's awkwardness was enhanced by the very remarkable expression of the stranger's eye, which was keen and bright, but shadowed by a scowl of distrust and suspicion, unlike anything he had ever observed before, and repulsive to behold. When they had encountered each other's clan several times in this way, the stranger, in a harsh deep voice, broke silence. Were you looking for me, he said, when you peered in at the window? Not that I am aware of. Unless you'll, Mr.— Here, Mr. Bumble, stop short, for he was curious to know the stranger's name, and thought in his impatience he might supply the blank. I see you are not, said the stranger, an expression of quiet sarcasm playing about his mouth, or you have known my name. You don't know it. I would recommend you not to ask for it. I mention o' harm, young man," observed Mr. Bumble, majestically, and have done none, said the stranger. Another silence succeeded this short dialogue, which was again broken by the stranger. I have seen you before, I think, said he. You were diffantly dressed at that time, and I only passed you in the street, but I should know you again. You were bedal here once, were you not? I was, said Mr. Bumble, in some surprise, parochial bedal. Just so, rejoined the other, nodding his head, it was in that character I saw you. What are you now? Master of the workhouse, rejoined Mr. Bumble, slowly and impressively to check any undue familiarity the stranger might otherwise assume. Master of the workhouse, young man. You have the same eye to your own interest that you always had, I doubt not. Resume the stranger looking keenly into Mr. Bumble's eyes as he raised them in astonishment at the question. Don't scruple to answer freely, man. I know you pretty well, you see. I suppose a married man, replied Mr. Bumble, shading his eyes with his hand, and surveying the stranger from head to foot in evident perplexity, is not more averse to turning an honest petty when he can than a single one. Parochial officers are not so well-paid that they can afford to refuse any little extra fee when it comes to them in a civil and proper manner. The stranger smiled and nodded his head again, as much to say he had not mistaken his man, then rang the bell. Fill this glass again, he said, handing Mr. Bumble's empty tumbler to the landlord. Let it be strong and hot. You like it so, I suppose? Not too strong, replied Mr. Bumble with a delicate cough. You understand what that means, landlord, said the stranger, dryly. The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a steaming joram of which the first gulp brought the water into Mr. Bumble's eyes. Now listen to me, said the stranger, after closing the door and window. I've come down to this place today to find you out, and by one of those chances which the devil throws in the way of his friend sometimes, you walked into the very room I was sitting in, while you were uppermost in my mind. I want some information from you. I don't ask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is. Put up that to begin with. As he spoke he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to his companion carefully as though unwilling that the chinking of money should be heard without. When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins to see that they were genuine and had put them up with much satisfaction in his waistcoat pocket, he went on. Carry your memory back. Let me see. Twelve years last winter. It's a long time, said Mr. Bumble. Very good. I've done it. The scene, the workhouse. Good. And the time, night. Yes. And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves, gave birth to peeling children for the parish to rear, and hid their shame wrought them in the grave. The lying in-room, I suppose, said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the stranger's excited description. Yes, said the stranger. A boy was born there. A many boys observed Mr. Bumble shaking his head despondingly. A morain on the young devils, cried the stranger. I speak of one. A meek-looking, pale-faced boy who was a apprentice down here to a coffin-maker. I wish he had made his coffin and screwed his body in it, and who afterwards ran away to London as it was supposed. Why, you mean Oliver. Young Twist, said Mr. Bumble. I remember him, of course. There wasn't an obstinate or young rascal. It's not of him I want to hear. I've heard enough of him, said the stranger, stopping Mr. Bumble in the outset of a tirade on the subject of poor Oliver's vices. It's of a woman. The hag that nursed his mother. Where is she? Where is she, said Mr. Bumble, whom the gin and water had rendered facetious? It would be hard to tell. There's no midwifery there, whichever place she's gone to, so I suppose she's out of employment anyway. What do you mean, demanded the stranger, sternly, that she died last winter, rejoined Mr. Bumble. The man looked fixedly at him when he had given this information, and although he did not withdraw his eyes for some time afterwards, his gaze gradually became vacant and abstracted, and he seemed lost in thought. For some time he appeared doubtful whether he ought to be relieved or disappointed by the intelligence, but at length he breathed more freely and withdrawing his eyes observed that it was no great matter. With that he rose, as if to depart. But Mr. Bumble was cunning enough, and he at once saw that an opportunity was opened for the lucrative disposal of some secret in the possession of his better half. He well remembered the night of old Sally's death, which the occurrences of that day had given him good reason to recollect, as the occasion on which he had proposed to Mrs. Morney. And although that lady had never confided to him the disclosure of which she had been the solitary witness, he had heard enough to know that it related to something that had occurred in the old woman's attendance as work-house nurse upon the young mother of Oliver Twist. Hastily calling this circumstance to mind, he informed the stranger with an air of mystery that one woman had been closeted with the old Herodine shortly before she died, and that she could, as he had reason to believe, throw some light on the subject of his inquiry. "'How can I find her?' said the stranger, throwed off his guard, and plainly showing that all her fears, whatever they were, were aroused afresh by the intelligence. "'Only through me,' rejoined Mr. Bumble. "'When?' cried the stranger, hastily. "'Tomorrow,' rejoined Bumble. "'At night of the evening,' said the stranger, producing a scrap of paper and writing doubt upon it out of a scare addressed by the waterside, in characters that betrayed his agitation. "'At night of the evening bring her to me there. I needn't tell you to be secret. It's your interest.' With these words he led the way to the door, after stopping to pay for the liquor that had been drunk, shortly remarking that their roads were different, he departed without more ceremony than an emphatic repetition of the hour of appointment for the following night. And glancing at the address, the parochial functionary observed that it contained no name. The stranger had not gone far, so he made after him to ask it. "'What do you want?' cried the man, turning quickly round as Bumble touched him on the arm. "'Following me?' "'Only to ask a question,' said the other, pointing to the scrap of paper. "'What name am I to ask for?' "'Monks,' rejoined the man, and strode, hastily away. CHAPTER XXXVIII It was a dull, close, overcast summer evening. The clouds, which had been threatening all day, spread out in a dense and sluggish mass of vapor, already yielded large drops of rain, and seemed to presage a violent thunderstorm, when Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, turning out to the main street of the town, directed their course towards a scattered little colony of runeous houses distant from it some mile and a half where thereabouts, and directed on a low, unwholesome swamp bordering upon the river. They were both wrapped in old and shabby, otter garments, which might perhaps serve the double purpose of protecting their persons from the rain and sheltering them from observation. The husband carried a lantern, from which, however, no light yet shone, and trudged on a few paces in front, as though the way being dirty, to give his wife the benefit of treading in his heavy footprints. They went on, in profound silence, every now and then Mr. Bumble relaxed his pace, and turned his head as if to make sure that his help-bait was following, then discovering that she was close at his heels, he mended his rate of walking, and proceeded at a considerable increase of speed towards their place of destination. This was far from being a place of doubtful character, for it had long been known as the residence of none but low ruffians, who under various pretenses of living by their labour subsisted chiefly on plunder and crime. It was a collection of mere hovels, some hastily built with loose bricks, others of old, worm-eaten ship-timber, jumbled together without any attempt at order or arrangement, and planted for the most part within a few feet of the river's bank. A few leaky boats, drawn up on the mud, and made fast to the dwarf wall which skirted it, and here and there an ore or coil of rope appeared at first to indicate that the inhabitants of these miserable cottages pursued some avocation on the river, but a glance at the sheltered and useless condition of the articles thus displayed would have led a passer-by without much difficulty to the conjecture that they were disposed there rather for the preservation of appearances than with any view to their being actually employed. In the heart of this cluster of huts, and skirting the river which its upper stories overhung, stood a large building formally used as a manufactory of some kind. It had in its day probably furnished employment to the inhabitants of the surrounding tenements, but it had long since grown to ruin. The rat, the worm, and the action of the damp had weakened and rotted the piles on which it stood, and a considerable portion of the building had already sunk down into the water, while the remainder, tottering and bending over the dark stream, seemed to want a favorable opportunity of following its old companion and involving itself in the same fate. It was before this ruinous building that the worthy couple paused as the first peel of distant thunder reverberated in the air, and the rain commenced pouring violently down. The place should be somewhere here, said Bumble, consulting a scrap of paper he held at his hand. Hello there! cried a voice from above. Following the sound, Mr. Bumble raised his head and described a man looking out of the door, breast high on the second story. Stand still a minute! cried the voice. I'll be with you directly, with which the head disappeared and the door closed. Is that the man? asked Mr. Bumble's good lady. Mr. Bumble nodded in the affirmative. Then mind what I told you, said the matron, and be careful to say as little as you can or you'll betray us at once. Mr. Bumble, who had eyed the building with very rueful looks, was apparently about to express some doubts relative to the advisability of proceeding any further with the enterprise just then, when he was prevented by the appearance of monks who opened a small door near which they stood and beckoned them inwards. Come in! he cried impatiently, stamping his foot upon the ground. Don't keep me here! The woman, who had hesitated at first, walked boldly in without any other invitation. Mr. Bumble, who was ashamed or afraid to leg behind, followed obviously very ill at ease and with scarcely any of that remarkable dignity which was usually his chief characteristic. What the devil made you stand lingering there in the wet, said monks, turning round and addressing Bumble after he had bolted the door behind them. We were only cooling ourselves, stammered Bumble, looking apprehensively about him. Cooling your cells! retorted monks. Not all the rain that ever fell or ever will fall will put as much of hell's fire out as a man can carry about with him. You won't cool yourself so easily. Don't think it. With this agreeable speech, monks turned short upon the matron and bent his gaze upon her till even she, who was not easily cowed, was feigned to withdraw her eyes and turn them towards the ground. This is the woman, is it? demanded monks. That is the woman, replied Mr. Bumble, mindful of his wife's caution. You think women never can keep secrets, I suppose, said the matron, interposing and returning as she spoke, the searching look of monks. I know they will always keep one till it's found out, said monks. And what may that be? asked the matron. The loss of their own good name, replied monks. So by the same rule, if a woman's party to a secret that might hang or transport her, I'm not afraid of her telling it to anybody, not I. Do you understand, mistress? Now, rejoined the matron, slightly colouring as she spoke. Of course you don't, said monks. How should you? Bestowing something half-way between a smile and a frown upon his two companions, and again beckoning them to follow him, the man hesitated across the apartment, which was of considerable extent but low in the roof. He was preparing to ascend a steep staircase, or rather ladder leading to another floor of warehouses above, with a bright flash of lightning streamed down the aperture, and a peel of thunder followed, which shook the crazy building to its centre. Hear it, he cried, streaking back. Hear it, rolling and crashing on as if it echoed through a thousand caverns where the devils were hiding from it. I hate the sound. He remained silent for a few moments, and then removing his hand subtly from his face, showed to the unspeakable discomposure of Mr. Bumble that it was much distorted and discoloured. These fits come over me now and then, said monks observing his alarm, and thunder sometimes brings them on. Don't mind me now, it's all over for this once. Thus speaking he led the way up the ladder, and hastily closing the window-shutter of the room into which it led, lowered a lantern which hung at the end of a rope and pulley passed through one of the heavy beans in the ceiling, and which cast a dim light upon an old table and three chairs that were placed beneath it. Now, said monks, when they had all three seated themselves, the sooner we come to our business the better for all. The woman knows what it is, does she? The question was addressed to Bumble, but his wife anticipated the reply by intimating that she was perfectly acquainted with it. He is right in saying that you were with this hag the night she died, and that she told you something about the mother of the boy you named, replied the matron, interrupting him. Yes. The first question is, of what nature was her communication? said monks. That's the second, observed the woman, with much deliberation. The first is, what may the communication be worth? Who the devil can tell that without knowing of what kind it is? asked monks. Nobody better than you, I am persuaded, answered Mrs. Bumble, who did not want for spirit as her yoke-fellow could abundantly testify. said monks significantly, and with a look of eager inquiry. There may be money's worth to get, eh? Perhaps there may was the composed reply. Something that was taken from her, said monks. Something that she wore. Something that you had better bid, interrupted Mrs. Bumble. I have heard enough already to assure me that you are the man I ought to talk to. Mr. Bumble, who had not yet been admitted by his better half into any greater share of the secret that he had originally possessed, listened to this dialogue with outstretched neck and distended eyes, which he directed towards his wife and monks by turns in undisguised astonishment, increased, if possible, when the latter sternly demanded what some was required for the disclosure. What's it worth to you? asked the woman, as collectively as before. It may be nothing. It may be twenty pounds, replied monks. Speak out, and let me know which. Add five pounds to the sum you have named. Give me five and twenty pounds in gold, said the woman, and I'll tell you all I know, not before. Five and twenty pounds, exclaimed monks, drawing back. I spoke as plainly as I could, replied Mrs. Bumble. It's not a large sum, either. Not a large sum for a paltry secret that may be nothing when it's told, cried monks impatiently, and which has been lying dead for twelve years past or more? Such matters keep well like good wine. Often double their value in course of time, answered the matron, still preserving the resolute indifference she had assumed. As to lying dead? There are those who will lie dead for twelve thousand years to come, or twelve million for anything you or I know who will tell strange tales at last. What if I pay it for nothing? asked monks, hesitating. You can easily take it away again, replied the matron. I am but a woman, alone here, and unprotected. Not alone, my dear, nor unprotected neither, submitted Mr. Bumble in a voice tremulous with fear. I am here, my dear, and besides, said Mr. Bumble, his teeth chattering as he spoke, Mr. Monks is too much of a gentleman to attempt any violence on parochial persons. Mr. Monks is aware that I am not a young man, my dear, and also that I am a little run to seed, as I may say. But he has heard, I say I have no doubt Mr. Monks has heard, my dear, that I am a very determined officer with very uncommon strength, if I am once roused. I only want a little rousing, that's all. As Mr. Bumble spoke, he made a melancholy faint of grasping his lantern with fierce determination, and plainly showed by the alarmed expression of every feature that he did want a little rousing, and not a little, prior to making any very warlike demonstration, unless indeed against poppers or other person or persons trained down for the purpose. You are a fool, said Mrs. Bumble in reply, and had better hold your tongue. He had better have it cut out before he came, if he can't speak at a lower tone, said Monks grimly. So he's your husband, eh? He's my husband, tittered the matron, perrying the question. I thought as much when you came in, rejoined Monks, marking the angry glance which the lady darted at her spouse as she spoke, so much the better. I have less hesitation in dealing with two people when I find that there's only one will between them. I'm in earnest. See here! He thrust his hand into a side pocket, and producing a canvas bag, told out twenty-five sovereigns on the table, and pushed them over to the woman. Now, he said, gather them up, and when this cursed peel of thunder, which I feel is coming up to break over the housetop, is gone, let's hear your story. The thunder, which seemed in fact much nearer, and to shiver and break almost over their heads, having subsided, Monks raising his face from the table, bent forward to listen to what the woman should say. The faces of the three nearly touched as the two men lent over the small table in their eagerness to hear, and the woman also lent forward to render her whisper audible. The sickly rays of the suspended lantern falling directly upon them aggravated the paleness and anxiety of their countenances, which, encircled by the deepest gloom and darkness, looked ghastly in the extreme. When this woman, that we called old Sally, died, the matron began, she and I were alone. Was there no one by, asked Monks, and the same hollow whisper, no sick wretch or idiot in some other bed, no one who could hear and might by possibility understand? Not a soul, replied the woman. We were alone. I stood alone beside the body when death came over it. Good, said Monks, regarding her attentively, go on. She spoke of a young creature, resumed the matron, who had brought a child into the world some years before, not merely in the same room, but in the same bed in which she then lay dying. I, said Monks, with quivering lip and glancing over his shoulder, blood, how things come about! The child was the one you named to him last night, said the matron, nodding carelessly towards her husband. The mother, this nurse, had robbed. In life, asked Monks. In death, replied the woman, with something like a shutter, she stole from the corpse when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother had prayed her with her last breath to keep for the infant's sake. She sold it, cried Monks, with desperate eagerness. Did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before? As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this, said the matron, she fell back and died. Without saying more, cried Monks, in a voice which from its very suppression seemed only the more furious. It's a lie! I'll not be played with. She said more. I'll tear the life out of you both, but I'll know what it was. She didn't utter another word, said the woman, to all appearance unmoved, as Mr. Bumble was very far from being, by the strange man's violence. But she clutched my gown violently with one hand which was partly closed, and when I saw that she was dead and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper, which contained interposed Monks stretching forward. Nothing, replied the woman. It was a pawnbroker's duplicate. For what, demanded Monks? In good time I'll tell you, said the woman. I judged that she had kept the trinket for some time in the hope of turning it to better account, and then had pawned it, and had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker's interest year by year, and prevent its running out, so that if anything came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it, and as I tell you, she died with a scrap of paper all worn and tattered in her hand. The time was out in two days. I thought something might one day come of it too, and so redeemed the pledge. Where is it now? asked Monks quickly. There, replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it, she hastily threw upon the table a small kid-beg, scarcely large enough for a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon tore open with trembling hands. It contained a little gold locket, in which were two locks of hair and a plain gold wedding-ring. "'Has the word Agnes engraved on the inside?' said the woman. There is a blank left for the surname, and then follows the date, which is within a year before the child was born. I found out that. This is all,' said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the contents of the little packet. All,' replied the woman. Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story was over, and no mention made of taking the five and twenty pounds back again, and now he took courage to wipe the perspiration which had been trickling over his nose unchecked during the whole of the previous dialogue. "'I know nothing of the story beyond what I can guess at,' said his wife, addressing Monks after a short silence, and I want to know nothing, for it's safe or not. But I may ask you two questions, may I?' You may ask,' said Monks, with some show of surprise, but whether I answer or not is another question. Which makes three, observed Mr. Bumble, essaying a stroke of facetiousness. Is that what you expected to get from me?' demanded the matron. "'It is,' replied Monks. The other question. What do you propose to do with it? Can it be used against me?' "'Never,' rejoined Monks. Not against me, either. See here. But don't move a step forward, or your life is not worth a bulrush.' With these words he suddenly wheeled the table aside, and pulling an iron ring in the boarding threw back a large trapped door which opened close at Mr. Bumble's feet, and caused that gentleman to retire several paces backward with great precipitation. "'Look down,' said Monks, lowering the lantern into the gulf. Don't fear me. I could have let you down quietly enough when you were seated over it, if that had been my game.' Thus encouraged the matron drew near to the brink, and even Mr. Bumble himself, impelled by curiosity, ventured to do the same. The turbid water, swollen by the heavy rain, was rushing rapidly on below, and all other sounds were lost in the noise of its plashing and eddying against the green and slimy piles. There had once been a water mill beneath, the tide foaming and chafing round the few rotten stakes, and fragments of machinery that yet remained, seemed to dart onward with a new impulse when freed from the obstacles which had unavailingly attempted to stem its headlong course. "'If you flung a man's body down there, where would it be to-morrow morning?' said Monks, swinging the lantern to and fro in the dark well. "'Twelve miles down the river, and cut to pieces beside,' replied Bumble, recording at the thought. Monks drew the little packet from his breast, where he had hurriedly thrust it, and tying it to a leaden weight which had formed a part of some pulley, and was lying on the floor, dropped it into the stream. It fell straight, as true as a dye, cloved the water with a scarcely audible splash, and was gone. The three looking into each other's faces seemed to breathe more freely. "'There,' said Monks, closing the trap door, which fell heavily back into its former position. "'If the sea ever gives up its dead, as books say it will, it will keep its gold and silver to itself and that trash among it. We have nothing more to say, and may break up our pleasant party. By all means, observed Mr. Bumble, with great alacrity. "'You'll keep a quiet tongue in your head, will you?' said Monks, with a threatening look. "'I am not afraid of your wife.' "'You may depend upon me, young man,' answered Mr. Bumble, bowing himself gradually towards the ladder, with excessive politeness. "'On everybody's account, young man. On my own, you know, Mr. Monks. I am glad for your sake to hear it,' remarked Monks. "'Light your lantern, and get away from here as fast as you can.' He was fortunate that the conversation terminated at this point, or Mr. Bumble, who had bowed himself to within six inches of the ladder, would infallibly have pitched headlong into the room below. He lighted his lantern from that which Monks had detached from the rope, and now carried in his hand, and making no effort to prolong the discourse, descended in silence followed by his wife. Monks brought up the rear, after pausing on the steps to satisfy himself that there were no other sounds to be heard than the beating of the rain without, and the rushing of the water. They traversed the lower room, slowly and with caution, for Monks started at every shadow, and Mr. Bumble, holding his lantern a foot above the ground, walked not only with remarkable care, but with a marvellously light step for a gentleman of his figure, looking nervously about him for hidden trap-doors. The gate at which they had entered was softly unfastened and open by Monks, merely exchanging a nod with their mysterious acquaintance, the married couple emerged into the wet and darkness outside. They were no sooner gone, than Monks, who appeared to entertain an invincible repugnus to being left alone, called to a boy who had been hidden somewhere below. Bidding him go first and bear the light, he returned to the chamber he had just quitted. End of Chapter 38