Oliver Twist. Volume 3 of 3

This wish was immediately gratified, for a policeman stepped forward who had seen the prisoner attempt the pocket of an unknown gentleman in a crowd, and indeed take a handkerchief therefrom, which being a very old one, he deliberately put back again, after trying it on his own countenance. For this reason he took the Dodger into custody as soon as he could get near him, and the said Dodger being searched had upon his person a silver snuff-box with the owner’s name engraved upon the lid. This gentleman had been discovered on reference to the Court Guide, and being then and there present, swore that the snuff-box was his, and that he had missed it on the previous day, the moment he had disengaged himself from the crowd before referred to. He had also remarked a young gentleman in the throng particularly active in making his way about, and that young gentleman was the prisoner before him.

“Have you anything to ask this witness, boy?” said the magistrate.

“I wouldn’t abase myself by descending to hold any conversation with him,” replied the Dodger.

“Have you anything to say at all?”

“Do you hear his worship ask if you’ve anything to say?” inquired the jailer nudging the silent Dodger with his elbow.

“I beg your pardon,” said the Dodger, looking up with an air of abstraction. “Did you address yourself to me, my man?”

“I never see such an out-and-out young wagabond, your worship,” observed the officer with a grin. “Do you mean to say anything, you young shaver?”

“No,” replied the Dodger, “not here, for this ain’t the shop for justice; besides which my attorney is a-breakfasting this morning with the Wice President of the House of Commons; but I shall have something to say elsewhere, and so will he, and so will a wery numerous and respectable circle of acquaintance as’ll make them beaks wish they’d never been born, or that they’d got their footman to hang ’em up to their own hat-pegs, ’afore they let ’em come out this morning to try it upon me. I’ll – ”

“There, he’s fully committed!” interposed the clerk. “Take him away.”

“Come on,” said the jailer.

“Oh ah! I’ll come on,” replied the Dodger, brushing his hat with the palm of his hand. “Ah! (to the Bench) it’s no use your looking frightened; I won’t show you no mercy, not a ha’porth of it. You’ll pay for this, my fine fellers; I wouldn’t be you for something. I wouldn’t go free now if you was to fall down on your knees and ask me. Here, carry me off to prison. Take me away.”

With these last words the Dodger suffered himself to be led off by the collar, threatening till he got into the yard to make a parliamentary business of it; and then grinning in the officer’s face with great glee and self-approval.

Having seen him locked up by himself in a little cell, Noah made the best of his way back to where he had left Master Bates. After waiting here some time he was joined by that young gentleman, who had prudently abstained from showing himself until he had looked carefully abroad from a snug retreat, and ascertained that his new friend had not been followed by any impertinent person.

The two hastened back together to bear to Mr. Fagin the animating news that the Dodger was doing full justice to his bringing-up, and establishing for himself a glorious reputation.

CHAPTER XLIII

THE TIME ARRIVES FOR NANCY TO REDEEM HER PLEDGE TO ROSE MAYLIE. SHE FAILS. NOAH CLAYPOLE IS EMPLOYED BY FAGIN ON A SECRET MISSION

Adept as she was in all the arts of cunning and dissimulation, the girl Nancy could not wholly conceal the effect which the knowledge of the step she had taken, worked upon her mind. She remembered that both the crafty Jew and the brutal Sikes had confided to her schemes which had been hidden from all others, in the full confidence that she was trustworthy and beyond the reach of their suspicion; and vile as those schemes were, desperate as were their originators, and bitter as were her feelings towards the Jew, who had led her step by step deeper and deeper down into an abyss of crime and misery, whence was no escape, still there were times when even towards him she felt some relenting lest her disclosure should bring him within the iron grasp he had so long eluded, and he should fall at last – richly as he merited such a fate – by her hand.

But these were the mere wanderings of a mind unable wholly to detach itself from old companions and associations, though enabled to fix itself steadily on one object, and resolved not to be turned aside by any consideration. Her fears for Sikes would have been more powerful inducements to recoil while there was yet time; but she had stipulated that her secret should be rigidly kept – she had dropped no clue which could lead to his discovery – she had refused, even for his sake, a refuge from all the guilt and wretchedness that encompassed her – and what more could she do? She was resolved.

Though every mental struggle terminated in this conclusion, they forced themselves upon her again and again, and left their traces too. She grew pale and thin even within a few days. At times she took no heed of what was passing before her, or no part in conversations where once she would have been the loudest. At others she laughed without merriment, and was noisy without cause or meaning. At others – often within a moment afterwards – she sat silent and dejected, brooding with her head upon her hands, while the very effort by which she roused herself told more forcibly than even these indications that she was ill at ease, and that her thoughts were occupied with matters very different and distant from those in course of discussion by her companions.

It was Sunday night, and the bell of the nearest church struck the hour. Sikes and the Jew were talking, but they paused to listen. The girl looked up from the low seat on which she crouched and listened too, intently. Eleven.

“An hour this side of midnight,” said Sikes, raising the blind to look out, and returning to his seat. “Dark and heavy it is too. A good night for business this.”

“Ah!” replied the Jew. “What a pity, Bill, my dear, that there’s none quite ready to be done.”

“You’re right for once,” replied Sikes gruffly. “It is a pity, for I’m in the humour too.”

The Jew sighed, and shook his head despondingly.

“We must make up for lost time when we’ve got things into a good train, that’s all I know,” said Sikes.

“That’s the way to talk, my dear,” replied the Jew, venturing to pat him on the shoulder. “It does me good to hear you.”

“Does you good, does it!” cried Sikes. “Well, so be it.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the Jew, as if he were relieved by even this concession. “You’re like yourself to-night, Bill – quite like yourself.”

“I don’t feel like myself when you lay that withered old claw on my shoulder, so take it away,” said Sikes, casting off the Jew’s hand.

“It makes you nervous, Bill, – reminds you of being nabbed, does it?” said the Jew, determined not to be offended.

“Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil,” returned Sikes, “not by a trap. There never was another man with such a face as yours, unless it was your father, and I suppose he is singeing his grizzled red beard by this time, unless you came straight from the old ’un without any father at all betwixt you, which I shouldn’t wonder at a bit.”

Fagin offered no reply to this compliment; but, pulling Sikes by the sleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room.

“Hallo!” cried Sikes. “Nance. Where’s the gal going to at this time of night?”

“Not far.”

“What answer’s that?” returned Sikes. “Where are you going?”

“I say, not far.”

“And I say where?” retorted Sikes in a loud voice. “Do you hear me?”

“I don’t know where,” replied the girl.

“Then I do,” said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. “Nowhere. Sit down.”

“I’m not well. I told you that before,” rejoined the girl. “I want a breath of air.”

“Put your head out of the winder, and take it there,” replied Sikes.

“There’s not enough there,” said the girl. “I want it in the street.”

“Then you won’t have it,” replied Sikes, with which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press. “There,” said the robber. “Now stop quietly where you are, will you.”

“It’s not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me,” said the girl turning very pale. “What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Know what I’m – Oh!” cried Sikes turning to Fagin, “she’s out of her senses, you know, or she daren’t talk to me in that way.”

“You’ll drive me on to something desperate,” muttered the girl placing both hands upon her breast as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. “Let me go, will you, – this minute, – this instant – ”

“No!” roared Sikes.

“Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It’ll be better for him. Do you hear me?” cried Nancy, stamping her foot upon the ground.

“Hear you!” repeated Sikes, turning round in his chair to confront her. “Ay, and if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a grip on your throat as’ll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has come over you, you jade – wot is it?”

“Let me go,” said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself down on the floor before the door, she said, – “Bill, let me go; you don’t know what you’re doing – you don’t indeed. For only one hour – do – do.”