prompt:
Chapter: On the evening following that upon which the three worthies mentioned
in the last chapter, disposed of their little matter of business as
therein narrated, Mr. William Sikes, awakening from a nap, drowsily
growled forth an inquiry what time of night it was.

The room in which Mr. Sikes propounded this question, was not one of
those he had tenanted, previous to the Chertsey expedition, although it
was in the same quarter of the town, and was situated at no great
distance from his former lodgings.  It was not, in appearance, so
desirable a habitation as his old quarters:  being a mean and
badly-furnished apartment, of very limited size; lighted only by one
small window in the shelving roof, and abutting on a close and dirty
lane.  Nor were there wanting other indications of the good gentleman's
having gone down in the world of late:  for a great scarcity of
furniture, and total absence of comfort, together with the
disappearance of all such small moveables as spare clothes and linen,
bespoke a state of extreme poverty; while the meagre and attenuated
condition of Mr. Sikes himself would have fully confirmed these
symptoms, if they had stood in any need of corroboration.

The housebreaker was lying on the bed, wrapped in his white great-coat,
by way of dressing-gown, and displaying a set of features in no degree
improved by the cadaverous hue of illness, and the addition of a soiled
nightcap, and a stiff, black beard of a week's growth.  The dog sat at
the bedside:  now eyeing his master with a wistful look, and now
pricking his ears, and uttering a low growl as some noise in the
street, or in the lower part of the house, attracted his attention.
Seated by the window, busily engaged in patching an old waistcoat which
formed a portion of the robber's ordinary dress, was a female:  so pale
and reduced with watching and privation, that there would have been
considerable difficulty in recognising her as the same Nancy who has
already figured in this tale, but for the voice in which she replied to
Mr. Sikes's question.

'Not long gone seven,' said the girl.  'How do you feel to-night, Bill?'

'As weak as water,' replied Mr. Sikes, with an imprecation on his eyes
and limbs.  'Here; lend us a hand, and let me get off this thundering
bed anyhow.'

Illness had not improved Mr. Sikes's temper; for, as the girl raised
him up and led him to a chair, he muttered various curses on her
awkwardness, and struck her.

'Whining are you?' said Sikes.  'Come!  Don't stand snivelling there.
If you can't do anything better than that, cut off altogether.  D'ye
hear me?'

'I hear you,' replied the girl, turning her face aside, and forcing a
laugh.  'What fancy have you got in your head now?'

'Oh! you've thought better of it, have you?' growled Sikes, marking the
tear which trembled in her eye.  'All the better for you, you have.'

'Why, you don't mean to say, you'd be hard upon me to-night, Bill,'
said the girl, laying her hand upon his shoulder.

'No!' cried Mr. Sikes.  'Why not?'

'Such a number of nights,' said the girl, with a touch of woman's
tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even
to her voice: 'such a number of nights as I've been patient with you,
nursing and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the
first that I've seen you like yourself; you wouldn't have served me as
you did just now, if you'd thought of that, would you?  Come, come; say
you wouldn't.'

'Well, then,' rejoined Mr. Sikes, 'I wouldn't.  Why, damme, now, the
girls's whining again!'

'It's nothing,' said the girl, throwing herself into a chair. 'Don't
you seem to mind me.  It'll soon be over.'

'What'll be over?' demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. 'What foolery
are you up to, now, again?  Get up and bustle about, and don't come
over me with your woman's nonsense.'

At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was
delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really
weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and
fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths
with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his
threats.  Not knowing, very well, what to do, in this uncommon
emergency; for Miss Nancy's hysterics were usually of that violent kind
which the patient fights and struggles out of, without much assistance;
Mr. Sikes tried a little blasphemy: and finding that mode of treatment
wholly ineffectual, called for assistance.

'What's the matter here, my dear?' said Fagin, looking in.

'Lend a hand to the girl, can't you?' replied Sikes impatiently. 'Don't
stand chattering and grinning at me!'

With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl's
assistance, while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who
had followed his venerable friend into the room, hastily deposited on
the floor a bundle with which he was laden; and snatching a bottle from
the grasp of Master Charles Bates who came close at his heels, uncorked
it in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured a portion of its contents
down the patient's throat:  previously taking a taste, himself, to
prevent mistakes.

'Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley,' said Mr.
Dawkins; 'and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the
petticuts.'

These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially
that department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his
share in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry:  were not
long in producing the desired effect.  The girl gradually recovered her
senses; and, staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon
the pillow:  leaving Mr. Sikes to confront the new comers, in some
astonishment at their unlooked-for appearance.

'Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?' he asked Fagin.

'No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and
I've brought something good with me, that you'll be glad to see.
Dodger, my dear, open the bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that
we spent all our money on, this morning.'

In compliance with Mr. Fagin's request, the Artful untied this bundle,
which was of large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed
the articles it contained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed
them on the table, with various encomiums on their rarity and
excellence.

'Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill,' exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing
to view a huge pasty; 'sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender
limbs, Bill, that the wery bones melt in your mouth, and there's no
occasion to pick 'em; half a pound of seven and six-penny green, so
precious strong that if you mix it with biling water, it'll go nigh to
blow the lid of the tea-pot off; a pound and a half of moist sugar that
the niggers didn't work at all at, afore they got it up to sitch a
pitch of goodness,--oh no!  Two half-quartern brans; pound of best
fresh; piece of double Glo'ster; and, to wind up all, some of the
richest sort you ever lushed!'

Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his
extensive pockets, a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while
Mr. Dawkins, at the same instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw
spirits from the bottle he carried:  which the invalid tossed down his
throat without a moment's hesitation.

'Ah!' said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. 'You'll
do, Bill; you'll do now.'

'Do!' exclaimed Mr. Sikes; 'I might have been done for, twenty times
over, afore you'd have done anything to help me.  What do you mean by
leaving a man in this state, three weeks and more, you false-hearted
wagabond?'

'Only hear him, boys!' said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. 'And us
come to bring him all these beau-ti-ful things.'

'The things is well enough in their way,' observed Mr. Sikes:  a little
soothed as he glanced over the table; 'but what have you got to say for
yourself, why you should leave me here, down in the mouth, health,
blunt, and everything else; and take no more notice of me, all this
mortal time, than if I was that 'ere dog.--Drive him down, Charley!'

'I never see such a jolly dog as that,' cried Master Bates, doing as he
was desired.  'Smelling the grub like a old lady a going to market!
He'd make his fortun' on the stage that dog would, and rewive the
drayma besides.'

'Hold your din,' cried Sikes, as the dog retreated under the bed: still
growling angrily.  'What have you got to say for yourself, you withered
old fence, eh?'

'I was away from London, a week and more, my dear, on a plant,' replied
the Jew.

'And what about the other fortnight?' demanded Sikes.  'What about the
other fortnight that you've left me lying here, like a sick rat in his
hole?'

'I couldn't help it, Bill.  I can't go into a long explanation before
company; but I couldn't help it, upon my honour.'

'Upon your what?' growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. 'Here! Cut me
off a piece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out
of my mouth, or it'll choke me dead.'

'Don't be out of temper, my dear,' urged Fagin, submissively. 'I have
never forgot you, Bill; never once.'

'No!  I'll pound it that you han't,' replied Sikes, with a bitter grin.
'You've been scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid
shivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do
that; and Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well:
and was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn't been for the
girl, I might have died.'

'There now, Bill,' remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word.
'If it hadn't been for the girl!  Who but poor ould Fagin was the means
of your having such a handy girl about you?'

'He says true enough there!' said Nancy, coming hastily forward. 'Let
him be; let him be.'

Nancy's appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys,
receiving a sly wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with
liquor: of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin,
assuming an unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a
better temper, by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant
banter; and, moreover, by laughing very heartily at one or two rough
jokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he
condescended to make.

'It's all very well,' said Mr. Sikes; 'but I must have some blunt from
you to-night.'

'I haven't a piece of coin about me,' replied the Jew.

'Then you've got lots at home,' retorted Sikes; 'and I must have some
from there.'

'Lots!' cried Fagin, holding up is hands.  'I haven't so much as
would--'

'I don't know how much you've got, and I dare say you hardly know
yourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it,' said Sikes;
'but I must have some to-night; and that's flat.'

'Well, well,' said Fagin, with a sigh, 'I'll send the Artful round
presently.'

'You won't do nothing of the kind,' rejoined Mr. Sikes. 'The Artful's a
deal too artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get
dodged by traps and so be perwented, or anything for an excuse, if you
put him up to it.  Nancy shall go to the ken and fetch it, to make all
sure; and I'll lie down and have a snooze while she's gone.'

After a great deal of haggling and squabbling, Fagin beat down the
amount of the required advance from five pounds to three pounds four
and sixpence: protesting with many solemn asseverations that that would
only leave him eighteen-pence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes sullenly
remarking that if he couldn't get any more he must accompany him home;
with the Dodger and Master Bates put the eatables in the cupboard.  The
Jew then, taking leave of his affectionate friend, returned homeward,
attended by Nancy and the boys:  Mr. Sikes, meanwhile, flinging himself
on the bed, and composing himself to sleep away the time until the
young lady's return.

In due course, they arrived at Fagin's abode, where they found Toby
Crackit and Mr. Chitling intent upon their fifteenth game at cribbage,
which it is scarcely necessary to say the latter gentleman lost, and
with it, his fifteenth and last sixpence: much to the amusement of his
young friends.  Mr. Crackit, apparently somewhat ashamed at being found
relaxing himself with a gentleman so much his inferior in station and
mental endowments, yawned, and inquiring after Sikes, took up his hat
to go.

'Has nobody been, Toby?' asked Fagin.

'Not a living leg,' answered Mr. Crackit, pulling up his collar; 'it's
been as dull as swipes.  You ought to stand something handsome, Fagin,
to recompense me for keeping house so long. Damme, I'm as flat as a
juryman; and should have gone to sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I hadn't
had the good natur' to amuse this youngster.  Horrid dull, I'm blessed
if I an't!'

With these and other ejaculations of the same kind, Mr. Toby Crackit
swept up his winnings, and crammed them into his waistcoat pocket with
a haughty air, as though such small pieces of silver were wholly
beneath the consideration of a man of his figure; this done, he
swaggered out of the room, with so much elegance and gentility, that
Mr. Chitling, bestowing numerous admiring glances on his legs and boots
till they were out of sight, assured the company that he considered his
acquaintance cheap at fifteen sixpences an interview, and that he
didn't value his losses the snap of his little finger.

'Wot a rum chap you are, Tom!' said Master Bates, highly amused by this
declaration.

'Not a bit of it,' replied Mr. Chitling.  'Am I, Fagin?'

'A very clever fellow, my dear,' said Fagin, patting him on the
shoulder, and winking to his other pupils.

'And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell; an't he, Fagin?' asked Tom.

'No doubt at all of that, my dear.'

'And it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance; an't it,
Fagin?' pursued Tom.

'Very much so, indeed, my dear.  They're only jealous, Tom, because he
won't give it to them.'

'Ah!' cried Tom, triumphantly, 'that's where it is!  He has cleaned me
out.  But I can go and earn some more, when I like; can't I, Fagin?'

'To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up
your loss at once, and don't lose any more time.  Dodger! Charley!
It's time you were on the lay.  Come!  It's near ten, and nothing done
yet.'

In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their
hats, and left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging,
as they went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in
whose conduct, it is but justice to say, there was nothing very
conspicuous or peculiar:  inasmuch as there are a great number of
spirited young bloods upon town, who pay a much higher price than Mr.
Chitling for being seen in good society:  and a great number of fine
gentlemen (composing the good society aforesaid) who established their
reputation upon very much the same footing as flash Toby Crackit.

'Now,' said Fagin, when they had left the room, 'I'll go and get you
that cash, Nancy.  This is only the key of a little cupboard where I
keep a few odd things the boys get, my dear.  I never lock up my money,
for I've got none to lock up, my dear--ha! ha! ha!--none to lock up.
It's a poor trade, Nancy, and no thanks; but I'm fond of seeing the
young people about me; and I bear it all, I bear it all.  Hush!' he
said, hastily concealing the key in his breast; 'who's that?  Listen!'

The girl, who was sitting at the table with her arms folded, appeared
in no way interested in the arrival: or to care whether the person,
whoever he was, came or went:  until the murmur of a man's voice
reached her ears.  The instant she caught the sound, she tore off her
bonnet and shawl, with the rapidity of lightning, and thrust them under
the table. The Jew, turning round immediately afterwards, she muttered
a complaint of the heat:  in a tone of languor that contrasted, very
remarkably, with the extreme haste and violence of this action:  which,
however, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towards her at
the time.

'Bah!' he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption; 'it's the
man I expected before; he's coming downstairs.  Not a word about the
money while he's here, Nance.  He won't stop long.  Not ten minutes, my
dear.'

Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to
the door, as a man's step was heard upon the stairs without.  He
reached it, at the same moment as the visitor, who, coming hastily into
the room, was close upon the girl before he observed her.

It was Monks.

'Only one of my young people,' said Fagin, observing that Monks drew
back, on beholding a stranger.  'Don't move, Nancy.'

The girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks with an air of
careless levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin, she
stole another look; so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if
there had been any bystander to observe the change, he could hardly
have believed the two looks to have proceeded from the same person.

'Any news?' inquired Fagin.

'Great.'

'And--and--good?' asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to vex
the other man by being too sanguine.

'Not bad, any way,' replied Monks with a smile.  'I have been prompt
enough this time.  Let me have a word with you.'

The girl drew closer to the table, and made no offer to leave the room,
although she could see that Monks was pointing to her.  The Jew:
perhaps fearing she might say something aloud about the money, if he
endeavoured to get rid of her:  pointed upward, and took Monks out of
the room.

'Not that infernal hole we were in before,' she could hear the man say
as they went upstairs.  Fagin laughed; and making some reply which did
not reach her, seemed, by the creaking of the boards, to lead his
companion to the second story.

Before the sound of their footsteps had ceased to echo through the
house, the girl had slipped off her shoes; and drawing her gown loosely
over her head, and muffling her arms in it, stood at the door,
listening with breathless interest.  The moment the noise ceased, she
glided from the room; ascended the stairs with incredible softness and
silence; and was lost in the gloom above.

The room remained deserted for a quarter of an hour or more; the girl
glided back with the same unearthly tread; and, immediately afterwards,
the two men were heard descending.  Monks went at once into the street;
and the Jew crawled upstairs again for the money.  When he returned,
the girl was adjusting her shawl and bonnet, as if preparing to be gone.

'Why, Nance!' exclaimed the Jew, starting back as he put down the
candle, 'how pale you are!'

'Pale!' echoed the girl, shading her eyes with her hands, as if to look
steadily at him.

'Quite horrible.  What have you been doing to yourself?'

'Nothing that I know of, except sitting in this close place for I don't
know how long and all,' replied the girl carelessly. 'Come!  Let me get
back; that's a dear.'

With a sigh for every piece of money, Fagin told the amount into her
hand.  They parted without more conversation, merely interchanging a
'good-night.'

When the girl got into the open street, she sat down upon a doorstep;
and seemed, for a few moments, wholly bewildered and unable to pursue
her way.  Suddenly she arose; and hurrying on, in a direction quite
opposite to that in which Sikes was awaiting her returned, quickened
her pace, until it gradually resolved into a violent run.  After
completely exhausting herself, she stopped to take breath:  and, as if
suddenly recollecting herself, and deploring her inability to do
something she was bent upon, wrung her hands, and burst into tears.

It might be that her tears relieved her, or that she felt the full
hopelessness of her condition; but she turned back; and hurrying with
nearly as great rapidity in the contrary direction; partly to recover
lost time, and partly to keep pace with the violent current of her own
thoughts:  soon reached the dwelling where she had left the
housebreaker.

If she betrayed any agitation, when she presented herself to Mr. Sikes,
he did not observe it; for merely inquiring if she had brought the
money, and receiving a reply in the affirmative, he uttered a growl of
satisfaction, and replacing his head upon the pillow, resumed the
slumbers which her arrival had interrupted.

It was fortunate for her that the possession of money occasioned him so
much employment next day in the way of eating and drinking; and withal
had so beneficial an effect in smoothing down the asperities of his
temper; that he had neither time nor inclination to be very critical
upon her behaviour and deportment.  That she had all the abstracted and
nervous manner of one who is on the eve of some bold and hazardous
step, which it has required no common struggle to resolve upon, would
have been obvious to the lynx-eyed Fagin, who would most probably have
taken the alarm at once; but Mr. Sikes lacking the niceties of
discrimination, and being troubled with no more subtle misgivings than
those which resolve themselves into a dogged roughness of behaviour
towards everybody; and being, furthermore, in an unusually amiable
condition, as has been already observed; saw nothing unusual in her
demeanor, and indeed, troubled himself so little about her, that, had
her agitation been far more perceptible than it was, it would have been
very unlikely to have awakened his suspicions.

As that day closed in, the girl's excitement increased; and, when night
came on, and she sat by, watching until the housebreaker should drink
himself asleep, there was an unusual paleness in her cheek, and a fire
in her eye, that even Sikes observed with astonishment.

Mr. Sikes being weak from the fever, was lying in bed, taking hot water
with his gin to render it less inflammatory; and had pushed his glass
towards Nancy to be replenished for the third or fourth time, when
these symptoms first struck him.

'Why, burn my body!' said the man, raising himself on his hands as he
stared the girl in the face.  'You look like a corpse come to life
again.  What's the matter?'

'Matter!' replied the girl.  'Nothing.  What do you look at me so hard
for?'

'What foolery is this?' demanded Sikes, grasping her by the arm, and
shaking her roughly.  'What is it?  What do you mean?  What are you
thinking of?'

'Of many things, Bill,' replied the girl, shivering, and as she did so,
pressing her hands upon her eyes.  'But, Lord!  What odds in that?'

The tone of forced gaiety in which the last words were spoken, seemed
to produce a deeper impression on Sikes than the wild and rigid look
which had preceded them.

'I tell you wot it is,' said Sikes; 'if you haven't caught the fever,
and got it comin' on, now, there's something more than usual in the
wind, and something dangerous too.  You're not a-going to--.  No,
damme! you wouldn't do that!'

'Do what?' asked the girl.

'There ain't,' said Sikes, fixing his eyes upon her, and muttering the
words to himself; 'there ain't a stauncher-hearted gal going, or I'd
have cut her throat three months ago.  She's got the fever coming on;
that's it.'

Fortifying himself with this assurance, Sikes drained the glass to the
bottom, and then, with many grumbling oaths, called for his physic.
The girl jumped up, with great alacrity; poured it quickly out, but
with her back towards him; and held the vessel to his lips, while he
drank off the contents.

'Now,' said the robber, 'come and sit aside of me, and put on your own
face; or I'll alter it so, that you won't know it agin when you do want
it.'

The girl obeyed.  Sikes, locking her hand in his, fell back upon the
pillow: turning his eyes upon her face.  They closed; opened again;
closed once more; again opened.  He shifted his position restlessly;
and, after dozing again, and again, for two or three minutes, and as
often springing up with a look of terror, and gazing vacantly about
him, was suddenly stricken, as it were, while in the very attitude of
rising, into a deep and heavy sleep.  The grasp of his hand relaxed;
the upraised arm fell languidly by his side; and he lay like one in a
profound trance.

'The laudanum has taken effect at last,' murmured the girl, as she rose
from the bedside.  'I may be too late, even now.'

She hastily dressed herself in her bonnet and shawl:  looking fearfully
round, from time to time, as if, despite the sleeping draught, she
expected every moment to feel the pressure of Sikes's heavy hand upon
her shoulder; then, stooping softly over the bed, she kissed the
robber's lips; and then opening and closing the room-door with
noiseless touch, hurried from the house.

A watchman was crying half-past nine, down a dark passage through which
she had to pass, in gaining the main thoroughfare.

'Has it long gone the half-hour?' asked the girl.

'It'll strike the hour in another quarter,' said the man: raising his
lantern to her face.

'And I cannot get there in less than an hour or more,' muttered Nancy:
brushing swiftly past him, and gliding rapidly down the street.

Many of the shops were already closing in the back lanes and avenues
through which she tracked her way, in making from Spitalfields towards
the West-End of London.  The clock struck ten, increasing her
impatience.  She tore along the narrow pavement:  elbowing the
passengers from side to side; and darting almost under the horses'
heads, crossed crowded streets, where clusters of persons were eagerly
watching their opportunity to do the like.

'The woman is mad!' said the people, turning to look after her as she
rushed away.

When she reached the more wealthy quarter of the town, the streets were
comparatively deserted; and here her headlong progress excited a still
greater curiosity in the stragglers whom she hurried past.  Some
quickened their pace behind, as though to see whither she was hastening
at such an unusual rate; and a few made head upon her, and looked back,
surprised at her undiminished speed; but they fell off one by one; and
when she neared her place of destination, she was alone.

It was a family hotel in a quiet but handsome street near Hyde Park.
As the brilliant light of the lamp which burnt before its door, guided
her to the spot, the clock struck eleven.  She had loitered for a few
paces as though irresolute, and making up her mind to advance; but the
sound determined her, and she stepped into the hall.  The porter's seat
was vacant.  She looked round with an air of incertitude, and advanced
towards the stairs.

'Now, young woman!' said a smartly-dressed female, looking out from a
door behind her, 'who do you want here?'

'A lady who is stopping in this house,' answered the girl.

'A lady!' was the reply, accompanied with a scornful look. 'What lady?'

'Miss Maylie,' said Nancy.

The young woman, who had by this time, noted her appearance, replied
only by a look of virtuous disdain; and summoned a man to answer her.
To him, Nancy repeated her request.

'What name am I to say?' asked the waiter.

'It's of no use saying any,' replied Nancy.

'Nor business?' said the man.

'No, nor that neither,' rejoined the girl.  'I must see the lady.'

'Come!' said the man, pushing her towards the door.  'None of this.
Take yourself off.'

'I shall be carried out if I go!' said the girl violently; 'and I can
make that a job that two of you won't like to do.  Isn't there anybody
here,' she said, looking round, 'that will see a simple message carried
for a poor wretch like me?'

This appeal produced an effect on a good-tempered-faced man-cook, who
with some of the other servants was looking on, and who stepped forward
to interfere.

'Take it up for her, Joe; can't you?' said this person.

'What's the good?' replied the man.  'You don't suppose the young lady
will see such as her; do you?'

This allusion to Nancy's doubtful character, raised a vast quantity of
chaste wrath in the bosoms of four housemaids, who remarked, with great
fervour, that the creature was a disgrace to her sex; and strongly
advocated her being thrown, ruthlessly, into the kennel.

'Do what you like with me,' said the girl, turning to the men again;
'but do what I ask you first, and I ask you to give this message for
God Almighty's sake.'

The soft-hearted cook added his intercession, and the result was that
the man who had first appeared undertook its delivery.

'What's it to be?' said the man, with one foot on the stairs.

'That a young woman earnestly asks to speak to Miss Maylie alone,' said
Nancy; 'and that if the lady will only hear the first word she has to
say, she will know whether to hear her business, or to have her turned
out of doors as an impostor.'

'I say,' said the man, 'you're coming it strong!'

'You give the message,' said the girl firmly; 'and let me hear the
answer.'

The man ran upstairs.  Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless,
listening with quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn,
of which the chaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they
became still more so, when the man returned, and said the young woman
was to walk upstairs.

'It's no good being proper in this world,' said the first housemaid.

'Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire,' said the
second.

The third contented herself with wondering 'what ladies was made of';
and the fourth took the first in a quartette of 'Shameful!' with which
the Dianas concluded.

Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy
followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber,
lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired.

The girl's life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most
noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the
woman's original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light
step approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered,
and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another
moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame,
and shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with
whom she had sought this interview.

But struggling with these better feelings was pride,--the vice of the
lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and
self-assured.  The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the
fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the
jails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself,--even
this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the
womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected
her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so
many, many traces when a very child.

She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which
presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending
them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as
she said:

'It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady.  If I had taken offence,
and gone away, as many would have done, you'd have been sorry for it
one day, and not without reason either.'

'I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you,' replied Rose.
'Do not think of that.  Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the
person you inquired for.'

The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the
absence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl
completely by surprise, and she burst into tears.

'Oh, lady, lady!' she said, clasping her hands passionately before her
face, 'if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me,--there
would--there would!'

'Sit down,' said Rose, earnestly.  'If you are in poverty or affliction
I shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can,--I shall indeed.  Sit
down.'

'Let me stand, lady,' said the girl, still weeping, 'and do not speak
to me so kindly till you know me better.  It is growing late.
Is--is--that door shut?'

'Yes,' said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance
in case she should require it.  'Why?'

'Because,' said the girl, 'I am about to put my life and the lives of
others in your hands.  I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to
old Fagin's on the night he went out from the house in Pentonville.'

'You!' said Rose Maylie.

'I, lady!' replied the girl.  'I am the infamous creature you have
heard of, that lives among the thieves, and that never from the first
moment I can recollect my eyes and senses opening on London streets
have known any better life, or kinder words than they have given me, so
help me God!  Do not mind shrinking openly from me, lady.  I am younger
than you would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The
poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement.'

'What dreadful things are these!' said Rose, involuntarily falling from
her strange companion.

'Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady,' cried the girl, 'that you
had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you
were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness,
and--and--something worse than all--as I have been from my cradle.  I
may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will
be my deathbed.'

'I pity you!' said Rose, in a broken voice.  'It wrings my heart to
hear you!'

'Heaven bless you for your goodness!' rejoined the girl. 'If you knew
what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away
from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to
tell you what I have overheard.  Do you know a man named Monks?'

'No,' said Rose.

'He knows you,' replied the girl; 'and knew you were here, for it was
by hearing him tell the place that I found you out.'

'I never heard the name,' said Rose.

'Then he goes by some other amongst us,' rejoined the girl, 'which I
more than thought before.  Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put
into your house on the night of the robbery, I--suspecting this
man--listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark.
I found out, from what I heard, that Monks--the man I asked you about,
you know--'

'Yes,' said Rose, 'I understand.'

'--That Monks,' pursued the girl, 'had seen him accidently with two of
our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be
the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out
why.  A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he
should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a
thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own.'

'For what purpose?' asked Rose.

'He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of
finding out,' said the girl; 'and there are not many people besides me
that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery.  But
I did; and I saw him no more till last night.'

'And what occurred then?'

'I'll tell you, lady.  Last night he came again.  Again they went
upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray
me, again listened at the door.  The first words I heard Monks say were
these:  "So the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of
the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is
rotting in her coffin."  They laughed, and talked of his success in
doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and getting very wild,
said that though he had got the young devil's money safely now, he'd
rather have had it the other way; for, what a game it would have been
to have brought down the boast of the father's will, by driving him
through every jail in town, and then hauling him up for some capital
felony which Fagin could easily manage, after having made a good profit
of him besides.'

'What is all this!' said Rose.

'The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips,' replied the girl.
'Then, he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to
yours, that if he could gratify his hatred by taking the boy's life
without bringing his own neck in danger, he would; but, as he couldn't,
he'd be upon the watch to meet him at every turn in life; and if he
took advantage of his birth and history, he might harm him yet. "In
short, Fagin," he says, "Jew as you are, you never laid such snares as
I'll contrive for my young brother, Oliver."'

'His brother!' exclaimed Rose.

'Those were his words,' said Nancy, glancing uneasily round, as she had
scarcely ceased to do, since she began to speak, for a vision of Sikes
haunted her perpetually.  'And more. When he spoke of you and the other
lady, and said it seemed contrived by Heaven, or the devil, against
him, that Oliver should come into your hands, he laughed, and said
there was some comfort in that too, for how many thousands and hundreds
of thousands of pounds would you not give, if you had them, to know who
your two-legged spaniel was.'

'You do not mean,' said Rose, turning very pale, 'to tell me that this
was said in earnest?'

'He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man ever did,' replied the
girl, shaking her head.  'He is an earnest man when his hatred is up.
I know many who do worse things; but I'd rather listen to them all a
dozen times, than to that Monks once.  It is growing late, and I have
to reach home without suspicion of having been on such an errand as
this.  I must get back quickly.'

'But what can I do?' said Rose.  'To what use can I turn this
communication without you?  Back!  Why do you wish to return to
companions you paint in such terrible colors?  If you repeat this
information to a gentleman whom I can summon in an instant from the
next room, you can be consigned to some place of safety without half an
hour's delay.'

'I wish to go back,' said the girl.  'I must go back, because--how can
I tell such things to an innocent lady like you?--because among the men
I have told you of, there is one: the most desperate among them all;
that I can't leave:  no, not even to be saved from the life I am
leading now.'

'Your having interfered in this dear boy's behalf before,' said Rose;
'your coming here, at so great a risk, to tell me what you have heard;
your manner, which convinces me of the truth of what you say; your
evident contrition, and sense of shame; all lead me to believe that you
might yet be reclaimed.  Oh!' said the earnest girl, folding her hands
as the tears coursed down her face, 'do not turn a deaf ear to the
entreaties of one of your own sex; the first--the first, I do believe,
who ever appealed to you in the voice of pity and compassion.  Do hear
my words, and let me save you yet, for better things.'

'Lady,' cried the girl, sinking on her knees, 'dear, sweet, angel lady,
you _are_ the first that ever blessed me with such words as these, and
if I had heard them years ago, they might have turned me from a life of
sin and sorrow; but it is too late, it is too late!'

'It is never too late,' said Rose, 'for penitence and atonement.'

'It is,' cried the girl, writhing in agony of her mind; 'I cannot leave
him now!  I could not be his death.'

'Why should you be?' asked Rose.

'Nothing could save him,' cried the girl.  'If I told others what I
have told you, and led to their being taken, he would be sure to die.
He is the boldest, and has been so cruel!'

'Is it possible,' cried Rose, 'that for such a man as this, you can
resign every future hope, and the certainty of immediate rescue?  It is
madness.'

'I don't know what it is,' answered the girl; 'I only know that it is
so, and not with me alone, but with hundreds of others as bad and
wretched as myself.  I must go back.  Whether it is God's wrath for the
wrong I have done, I do not know; but I am drawn back to him through
every suffering and ill usage; and I should be, I believe, if I knew
that I was to die by his hand at last.'

'What am I to do?' said Rose.  'I should not let you depart from me
thus.'

'You should, lady, and I know you will,' rejoined the girl, rising.
'You will not stop my going because I have trusted in your goodness,
and forced no promise from you, as I might have done.'

'Of what use, then, is the communication you have made?' said Rose.
'This mystery must be investigated, or how will its disclosure to me,
benefit Oliver, whom you are anxious to serve?'

'You must have some kind gentleman about you that will hear it as a
secret, and advise you what to do,' rejoined the girl.

'But where can I find you again when it is necessary?' asked Rose.  'I
do not seek to know where these dreadful people live, but where will
you be walking or passing at any settled period from this time?'

'Will you promise me that you will have my secret strictly kept, and
come alone, or with the only other person that knows it; and that I
shall not be watched or followed?' asked the girl.

'I promise you solemnly,' answered Rose.

'Every Sunday night, from eleven until the clock strikes twelve,' said
the girl without hesitation, 'I will walk on London Bridge if I am
alive.'

'Stay another moment,' interposed Rose, as the girl moved hurriedly
towards the door.  'Think once again on your own condition, and the
opportunity you have of escaping from it.  You have a claim on me:  not
only as the voluntary bearer of this intelligence, but as a woman lost
almost beyond redemption.  Will you return to this gang of robbers, and
to this man, when a word can save you?  What fascination is it that can
take you back, and make you cling to wickedness and misery?  Oh! is
there no chord in your heart that I can touch!  Is there nothing left,
to which I can appeal against this terrible infatuation!'

'When ladies as young, and good, and beautiful as you are,' replied the
girl steadily, 'give away your hearts, love will carry you all
lengths--even such as you, who have home, friends, other admirers,
everything, to fill them.  When such as I, who have no certain roof but
the coffinlid, and no friend in sickness or death but the hospital
nurse, set our rotten hearts on any man, and let him fill the place
that has been a blank through all our wretched lives, who can hope to
cure us?  Pity us, lady--pity us for having only one feeling of the
woman left, and for having that turned, by a heavy judgment, from a
comfort and a pride, into a new means of violence and suffering.'

'You will,' said Rose, after a pause, 'take some money from me, which
may enable you to live without dishonesty--at all events until we meet
again?'

'Not a penny,' replied the girl, waving her hand.

'Do not close your heart against all my efforts to help you,' said
Rose, stepping gently forward.  'I wish to serve you indeed.'

'You would serve me best, lady,' replied the girl, wringing her hands,
'if you could take my life at once; for I have felt more grief to think
of what I am, to-night, than I ever did before, and it would be
something not to die in the hell in which I have lived.  God bless you,
sweet lady, and send as much happiness on your head as I have brought
shame on mine!'

Thus speaking, and sobbing aloud, the unhappy creature turned away;
while Rose Maylie, overpowered by this extraordinary interview, which
had more the semblance of a rapid dream than an actual occurrence, sank
into a chair, and endeavoured to collect her wandering thoughts.

Her situation was, indeed, one of no common trial and difficulty. While
she felt the most eager and burning desire to penetrate the mystery in
which Oliver's history was enveloped, she could not but hold sacred the
confidence which the miserable woman with whom she had just conversed,
had reposed in her, as a young and guileless girl.  Her words and
manner had touched Rose Maylie's heart; and, mingled with her love for
her young charge, and scarcely less intense in its truth and fervour,
was her fond wish to win the outcast back to repentance and hope.

They purposed remaining in London only three days, prior to departing
for some weeks to a distant part of the coast.  It was now midnight of
the first day.  What course of action could she determine upon, which
could be adopted in eight-and-forty hours? Or how could she postpone
the journey without exciting suspicion?

Mr. Losberne was with them, and would be for the next two days; but
Rose was too well acquainted with the excellent gentleman's
impetuosity, and foresaw too clearly the wrath with which, in the first
explosion of his indignation, he would regard the instrument of
Oliver's recapture, to trust him with the secret, when her
representations in the girl's behalf could be seconded by no
experienced person.  These were all reasons for the greatest caution
and most circumspect behaviour in communicating it to Mrs. Maylie,
whose first impulse would infallibly be to hold a conference with the
worthy doctor on the subject.  As to resorting to any legal adviser,
even if she had known how to do so, it was scarcely to be thought of,
for the same reason.  Once the thought occurred to her of seeking
assistance from Harry; but this awakened the recollection of their last
parting, and it seemed unworthy of her to call him back, when--the
tears rose to her eyes as she pursued this train of reflection--he
might have by this time learnt to forget her, and to be happier away.

Disturbed by these different reflections; inclining now to one course
and then to another, and again recoiling from all, as each successive
consideration presented itself to her mind; Rose passed a sleepless and
anxious night.  After more communing with herself next day, she arrived
at the desperate conclusion of consulting Harry.

'If it be painful to him,' she thought, 'to come back here, how painful
it will be to me!  But perhaps he will not come; he may write, or he
may come himself, and studiously abstain from meeting me--he did when
he went away.  I hardly thought he would; but it was better for us
both.'  And here Rose dropped the pen, and turned away, as though the
very paper which was to be her messenger should not see her weep.

She had taken up the same pen, and laid it down again fifty times, and
had considered and reconsidered the first line of her letter without
writing the first word, when Oliver, who had been walking in the
streets, with Mr. Giles for a body-guard, entered the room in such
breathless haste and violent agitation, as seemed to betoken some new
cause of alarm.

'What makes you look so flurried?' asked Rose, advancing to meet him.

'I hardly know how; I feel as if I should be choked,' replied the boy.
'Oh dear!  To think that I should see him at last, and you should be
able to know that I have told you the truth!'

'I never thought you had told us anything but the truth,' said Rose,
soothing him.  'But what is this?--of whom do you speak?'

'I have seen the gentleman,' replied Oliver, scarcely able to
articulate, 'the gentleman who was so good to me--Mr. Brownlow, that we
have so often talked about.'

'Where?' asked Rose.

'Getting out of a coach,' replied Oliver, shedding tears of delight,
'and going into a house.  I didn't speak to him--I couldn't speak to
him, for he didn't see me, and I trembled so, that I was not able to go
up to him.  But Giles asked, for me, whether he lived there, and they
said he did.  Look here,' said Oliver, opening a scrap of paper, 'here
it is; here's where he lives--I'm going there directly!  Oh, dear me,
dear me!  What shall I do when I come to see him and hear him speak
again!'

With her attention not a little distracted by these and a great many
other incoherent exclamations of joy, Rose read the address, which was
Craven Street, in the Strand.  She very soon determined upon turning
the discovery to account.

'Quick!' she said.  'Tell them to fetch a hackney-coach, and be ready
to go with me.  I will take you there directly, without a minute's loss
of time.  I will only tell my aunt that we are going out for an hour,
and be ready as soon as you are.'

Oliver needed no prompting to despatch, and in little more than five
minutes they were on their way to Craven Street.  When they arrived
there, Rose left Oliver in the coach, under pretence of preparing the
old gentleman to receive him; and sending up her card by the servant,
requested to see Mr. Brownlow on very pressing business.  The servant
soon returned, to beg that she would walk upstairs; and following him
into an upper room, Miss Maylie was presented to an elderly gentleman
of benevolent appearance, in a bottle-green coat.  At no great distance
from whom, was seated another old gentleman, in nankeen breeches and
gaiters; who did not look particularly benevolent, and who was sitting
with his hands clasped on the top of a thick stick, and his chin
propped thereupon.

'Dear me,' said the gentleman, in the bottle-green coat, hastily rising
with great politeness, 'I beg your pardon, young lady--I imagined it
was some importunate person who--I beg you will excuse me.  Be seated,
pray.'

'Mr. Brownlow, I believe, sir?' said Rose, glancing from the other
gentleman to the one who had spoken.

'That is my name,' said the old gentleman.  'This is my friend, Mr.
Grimwig.  Grimwig, will you leave us for a few minutes?'

'I believe,' interposed Miss Maylie, 'that at this period of our
interview, I need not give that gentleman the trouble of going away.
If I am correctly informed, he is cognizant of the business on which I
wish to speak to you.'

Mr. Brownlow inclined his head.  Mr. Grimwig, who had made one very
stiff bow, and risen from his chair, made another very stiff bow, and
dropped into it again.

'I shall surprise you very much, I have no doubt,' said Rose, naturally
embarrassed; 'but you once showed great benevolence and goodness to a
very dear young friend of mine, and I am sure you will take an interest
in hearing of him again.'

'Indeed!' said Mr. Brownlow.

'Oliver Twist you knew him as,' replied Rose.

The words no sooner escaped her lips, than Mr. Grimwig, who had been
affecting to dip into a large book that lay on the table, upset it with
a great crash, and falling back in his chair, discharged from his
features every expression but one of unmitigated wonder, and indulged
in a prolonged and vacant stare; then, as if ashamed of having betrayed
so much emotion, he jerked himself, as it were, by a convulsion into
his former attitude, and looking out straight before him emitted a long
deep whistle, which seemed, at last, not to be discharged on empty air,
but to die away in the innermost recesses of his stomach.

Mr. Browlow was no less surprised, although his astonishment was not
expressed in the same eccentric manner.  He drew his chair nearer to
Miss Maylie's, and said,

'Do me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the
question that goodness and benevolence of which you speak, and of which
nobody else knows anything; and if you have it in your power to produce
any evidence which will alter the unfavourable opinion I was once
induced to entertain of that poor child, in Heaven's name put me in
possession of it.'

'A bad one!  I'll eat my head if he is not a bad one,' growled Mr.
Grimwig, speaking by some ventriloquial power, without moving a muscle
of his face.

'He is a child of a noble nature and a warm heart,' said Rose,
colouring; 'and that Power which has thought fit to try him beyond his
years, has planted in his breast affections and feelings which would do
honour to many who have numbered his days six times over.'

'I'm only sixty-one,' said Mr. Grimwig, with the same rigid face. 'And,
as the devil's in it if this Oliver is not twelve years old at least, I
don't see the application of that remark.'

'Do not heed my friend, Miss Maylie,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'he does not
mean what he says.'

'Yes, he does,' growled Mr. Grimwig.

'No, he does not,' said Mr. Brownlow, obviously rising in wrath as he
spoke.

'He'll eat his head, if he doesn't,' growled Mr. Grimwig.

'He would deserve to have it knocked off, if he does,' said Mr.
Brownlow.

'And he'd uncommonly like to see any man offer to do it,' responded Mr.
Grimwig, knocking his stick upon the floor.

Having gone thus far, the two old gentlemen severally took snuff, and
afterwards shook hands, according to their invariable custom.

'Now, Miss Maylie,' said Mr. Brownlow, 'to return to the subject in
which your humanity is so much interested.  Will you let me know what
intelligence you have of this poor child:  allowing me to promise that
I exhausted every means in my power of discovering him, and that since
I have been absent from this country, my first impression that he had
imposed upon me, and had been persuaded by his former associates to rob
me, has been considerably shaken.'

Rose, who had had time to collect her thoughts, at once related, in a
few natural words, all that had befallen Oliver since he left Mr.
Brownlow's house; reserving Nancy's information for that gentleman's
private ear, and concluding with the assurance that his only sorrow,
for some months past, had been not being able to meet with his former
benefactor and friend.

'Thank God!' said the old gentleman.  'This is great happiness to me,
great happiness.  But you have not told me where he is now, Miss
Maylie.  You must pardon my finding fault with you,--but why not have
brought him?'

'He is waiting in a coach at the door,' replied Rose.

'At this door!' cried the old gentleman.  With which he hurried out of
the room, down the stairs, up the coachsteps, and into the coach,
without another word.

When the room-door closed behind him, Mr. Grimwig lifted up his head,
and converting one of the hind legs of his chair into a pivot,
described three distinct circles with the assistance of his stick and
the table; sitting in it all the time.  After performing this
evolution, he rose and limped as fast as he could up and down the room
at least a dozen times, and then stopping suddenly before Rose, kissed
her without the slightest preface.

'Hush!' he said, as the young lady rose in some alarm at this unusual
proceeding.  'Don't be afraid.  I'm old enough to be your grandfather.
You're a sweet girl.  I like you.  Here they are!'

In fact, as he threw himself at one dexterous dive into his former
seat, Mr. Brownlow returned, accompanied by Oliver, whom Mr. Grimwig
received very graciously; and if the gratification of that moment had
been the only reward for all her anxiety and care in Oliver's behalf,
Rose Maylie would have been well repaid.

'There is somebody else who should not be forgotten, by the bye,' said
Mr. Brownlow, ringing the bell.  'Send Mrs. Bedwin here, if you please.'

The old housekeeper answered the summons with all dispatch; and
dropping a curtsey at the door, waited for orders.

'Why, you get blinder every day, Bedwin,' said Mr. Brownlow, rather
testily.

'Well, that I do, sir,' replied the old lady.  'People's eyes, at my
time of life, don't improve with age, sir.'

'I could have told you that,' rejoined Mr. Brownlow; 'but put on your
glasses, and see if you can't find out what you were wanted for, will
you?'

The old lady began to rummage in her pocket for her spectacles. But
Oliver's patience was not proof against this new trial; and yielding to
his first impulse, he sprang into her arms.

'God be good to me!' cried the old lady, embracing him; 'it is my
innocent boy!'

'My dear old nurse!' cried Oliver.

'He would come back--I knew he would,' said the old lady, holding him
in her arms.  'How well he looks, and how like a gentleman's son he is
dressed again!  Where have you been, this long, long while?  Ah! the
same sweet face, but not so pale; the same soft eye, but not so sad.  I
have never forgotten them or his quiet smile, but have seen them every
day, side by side with those of my own dear children, dead and gone
since I was a lightsome young creature.'  Running on thus, and now
holding Oliver from her to mark how he had grown, now clasping him to
her and passing her fingers fondly through his hair, the good soul
laughed and wept upon his neck by turns.

Leaving her and Oliver to compare notes at leisure, Mr. Brownlow led
the way into another room; and there, heard from Rose a full narration
of her interview with Nancy, which occasioned him no little surprise
and perplexity.  Rose also explained her reasons for not confiding in
her friend Mr. Losberne in the first instance.  The old gentleman
considered that she had acted prudently, and readily undertook to hold
solemn conference with the worthy doctor himself.  To afford him an
early opportunity for the execution of this design, it was arranged
that he should call at the hotel at eight o'clock that evening, and
that in the meantime Mrs. Maylie should be cautiously informed of all
that had occurred.  These preliminaries adjusted, Rose and Oliver
returned home.

Rose had by no means overrated the measure of the good doctor's wrath.
Nancy's history was no sooner unfolded to him, than he poured forth a
shower of mingled threats and execrations; threatened to make her the
first victim of the combined ingenuity of Messrs. Blathers and Duff;
and actually put on his hat preparatory to sallying forth to obtain the
assistance of those worthies.  And, doubtless, he would, in this first
outbreak, have carried the intention into effect without a moment's
consideration of the consequences, if he had not been restrained, in
part, by corresponding violence on the side of Mr. Brownlow, who was
himself of an irascible temperament, and party by such arguments and
representations as seemed best calculated to dissuade him from his
hotbrained purpose.

'Then what the devil is to be done?' said the impetuous doctor, when
they had rejoined the two ladies.  'Are we to pass a vote of thanks to
all these vagabonds, male and female, and beg them to accept a hundred
pounds, or so, apiece, as a trifling mark of our esteem, and some
slight acknowledgment of their kindness to Oliver?'

'Not exactly that,' rejoined Mr. Brownlow, laughing; 'but we must
proceed gently and with great care.'

'Gentleness and care,' exclaimed the doctor.  'I'd send them one and
all to--'

'Never mind where,' interposed Mr. Brownlow.  'But reflect whether
sending them anywhere is likely to attain the object we have in view.'

'What object?' asked the doctor.

'Simply, the discovery of Oliver's parentage, and regaining for him the
inheritance of which, if this story be true, he has been fraudulently
deprived.'

'Ah!' said Mr. Losberne, cooling himself with his pocket-handkerchief;
'I almost forgot that.'

'You see,' pursued Mr. Brownlow; 'placing this poor girl entirely out
of the question, and supposing it were possible to bring these
scoundrels to justice without compromising her safety, what good should
we bring about?'

'Hanging a few of them at least, in all probability,' suggested the
doctor, 'and transporting the rest.'

'Very good,' replied Mr. Brownlow, smiling; 'but no doubt they will
bring that about for themselves in the fulness of time, and if we step
in to forestall them, it seems to me that we shall be performing a very
Quixotic act, in direct opposition to our own interest--or at least to
Oliver's, which is the same thing.'

'How?' inquired the doctor.

'Thus.  It is quite clear that we shall have extreme difficulty in
getting to the bottom of this mystery, unless we can bring this man,
Monks, upon his knees.  That can only be done by stratagem, and by
catching him when he is not surrounded by these people.  For, suppose
he were apprehended, we have no proof against him.  He is not even (so
far as we know, or as the facts appear to us) concerned with the gang
in any of their robberies. If he were not discharged, it is very
unlikely that he could receive any further punishment than being
committed to prison as a rogue and vagabond; and of course ever
afterwards his mouth would be so obstinately closed that he might as
well, for our purposes, be deaf, dumb, blind, and an idiot.'

'Then,' said the doctor impetuously, 'I put it to you again, whether
you think it reasonable that this promise to the girl should be
considered binding; a promise made with the best and kindest
intentions, but really--'

'Do not discuss the point, my dear young lady, pray,' said Mr.
Brownlow, interrupting Rose as she was about to speak. 'The promise
shall be kept.  I don't think it will, in the slightest degree,
interfere with our proceedings.  But, before we can resolve upon any
precise course of action, it will be necessary to see the girl; to
ascertain from her whether she will point out this Monks, on the
understanding that he is to be dealt with by us, and not by the law;
or, if she will not, or cannot do that, to procure from her such an
account of his haunts and description of his person, as will enable us
to identify him.  She cannot be seen until next Sunday night; this is
Tuesday.  I would suggest that in the meantime, we remain perfectly
quiet, and keep these matters secret even from Oliver himself.'

Although Mr. Losberne received with many wry faces a proposal involving
a delay of five whole days, he was fain to admit that no better course
occurred to him just then; and as both Rose and Mrs. Maylie sided very
strongly with Mr. Brownlow, that gentleman's proposition was carried
unanimously.

'I should like,' he said, 'to call in the aid of my friend Grimwig.  He
is a strange creature, but a shrewd one, and might prove of material
assistance to us; I should say that he was bred a lawyer, and quitted
the Bar in disgust because he had only one brief and a motion of
course, in twenty years, though whether that is recommendation or not,
you must determine for yourselves.'

'I have no objection to your calling in your friend if I may call in
mine,' said the doctor.

'We must put it to the vote,' replied Mr. Brownlow, 'who may he be?'

'That lady's son, and this young lady's--very old friend,' said the
doctor, motioning towards Mrs. Maylie, and concluding with an
expressive glance at her niece.

Rose blushed deeply, but she did not make any audible objection to this
motion (possibly she felt in a hopeless minority); and Harry Maylie and
Mr. Grimwig were accordingly added to the committee.

'We stay in town, of course,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'while there remains
the slightest prospect of prosecuting this inquiry with a chance of
success.  I will spare neither trouble nor expense in behalf of the
object in which we are all so deeply interested, and I am content to
remain here, if it be for twelve months, so long as you assure me that
any hope remains.'

'Good!' rejoined Mr. Brownlow.  'And as I see on the faces about me, a
disposition to inquire how it happened that I was not in the way to
corroborate Oliver's tale, and had so suddenly left the kingdom, let me
stipulate that I shall be asked no questions until such time as I may
deem it expedient to forestall them by telling my own story.  Believe
me, I make this request with good reason, for I might otherwise excite
hopes destined never to be realised, and only increase difficulties and
disappointments already quite numerous enough.  Come!  Supper has been
announced, and young Oliver, who is all alone in the next room, will
have begun to think, by this time, that we have wearied of his company,
and entered into some dark conspiracy to thrust him forth upon the
world.'

With these words, the old gentleman gave his hand to Mrs. Maylie, and
escorted her into the supper-room.  Mr. Losberne followed, leading
Rose; and the council was, for the present, effectually broken up.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: In the evening after Monks had his meeting with the Bumbles, Sikes wakes up from a nap in his usual vicious temper. He is living in slum-like rooms near his former home. He is marked by the ravages of illness compounded with extreme poverty. Nancy is present, and she is "pale and reduced with watching and privation." Anyway, Sikes has recovered enough strength to abuse his only friend. The girl protests that this hard treatment is a poor return for the patient care that she has given. Then she faints from exhaustion. At that moment, Fagin comes in with The Artful Dodger and Charley Bates. The combined help of all present restore Nancy to her senses. The newcomers have brought an abundance of food and drink. Nevertheless, Sikes complains spitefully at having been neglected during three weeks of sickness. Fagin protests that he has been out of town for a week and hindered from coming during the rest of the time. Sikes demands five pounds but is obliged to settle for less. He will trust only Nancy to deliver the money, so the entire company except Sikes leave. At Fagin's residence, they find Crackit and Chitling. Toby goes off with the money he won from Chitling, and being nudged to action by Fagin, the boys also leave. As Fagin is about to get the money for Sikes, he is stopped by the sound of a voice. Unobserved by the old man, Nancy snatches off her shawl and bonnet and shoves them under the table. Fagin remarks that it is a man he expects, who proves to be Monks. Nancy acts strangely and does not budge from the table, so Fagin takes his visitor to another part of the house. The instant they leave, Nancy goes to the door and then also climbs the stairs. Fifteen minutes later, she comes back. When Fagin re-enters the room alone, the girl is apparently ready to be off, and he gives her the money. Nancy is highly distraught. Outside, she first starts in a direction opposite from the way to Sike's place. Then, in tears, she turns back and hastens to Sikes with the money. The next day, Sikes does not at first notice that Nancy has "the abstracted and nervous manner of one who is on the eve of some bold and hazardous step." But in the evening, while he is guzzling his gin toddies, the man comments on her strange appearance, finally concluding that she is getting the fever. When Sikes asks for his medicine, Nancy turns her back to pour it. After an interval of restlessness, the sick man sinks into a sound sleep. Leaving the bedside, Nancy notes that the opium has taken effect. Nancy quickly gets ready, kisses Bill, and bolts from the house. It is almost ten o'clock as the girl begins a mad dash through the London streets. An hour later, she stops at a family hotel in Hyde Park. She asks to see Miss Maylie but is barred by the servants. After some delay, Nancy gets a message through to Rose, imploring an interview. Rose responds by having the bedraggled girl shown upstairs to wait in an anteroom. Nancy mobilizes her pride to meet Rose Maylie but breaks down when she is received with kindness. After confessing that she waylaid Oliver and then delivering some insight into her shocking history, Nancy declares that she would surely be murdered if her present action were known. Then Nancy asks Rose if she knows Monks. Rose says, "No," but her visitor replies, "He knows you." Nancy explains that she learned of Rose's location by overhearing it from the man who calls himself Monks. Nancy goes on to tell how she eavesdropped on Fagin and Monks. Monks offered a sum if Oliver were recovered and more if Fagin made a thief out of him. Monks's motives were not mentioned before the girl's shadow on the wall alarmed him. Then just last night, Nancy listened to the conspirators again. Monks stated that all traces of the boy's identity were eliminated and Monks has his money. However, he would prefer to have the lad suffer all of the indignities of imprisonment and worse. Monks announced his determination relentlessly to persecute the butt of his hatred -- his brother Oliver. Nancy also heard Monks say that Mrs. Maylie and her niece would give a fortune to know who Oliver is. Then Nancy announces that she must be on her way. Rose wants to know what steps she can take, and Nancy's only suggestion is to seek the advice of some trustworthy gentleman. The girl insists that she must return to her associates at all costs, although Rose repeatedly offers her protection and assistance. But Nancy rejects every overture, arguing that it is too late for her to turn back to a better life. She is fully aware that Sikes is a violent criminal who may yet kill her, but she is irresistibly drawn to the only person who ever filled the void in her existence. In case she should be sought, Nancy promises to walk on London Bridge every Sunday night from eleven o'clock until midnight. There she will meet Rose and whomever Miss Maylie elects to take into her confidence. Refusing even a gift of money, Nancy starts back for her dreary lodgings with Sikes. Rose is left emotionally exhausted. Rose and her aunt expect to be in London two more days. She is perplexed over the selection of someone to whom she can entrust Nancy's information. There are objections to all of the persons available to her. The next day, Rose gives in to the necessity of consulting Harry, but beginning a letter to him is a painful step. Her efforts are interrupted by the entrance of Oliver, unusually excited. He reports that as he was out walking with Giles, he saw Mr. Brownlow enter a house. Giles learned that it was the gentleman's house and secured the address. Rose sees a way out of her quandary and immediately determines to take Oliver to Brownlow. Rose goes in alone to see Brownlow and finds him with Grimwig. The young lady announces that she has knowledge of Oliver Twist. Grimwig is severely disturbed. Brownlow eagerly listens to Rose's report of all that has happened to Oliver since the gentlemen last saw him, without divulging Nancy's discoveries. In reply to Brownlow's inquiry, Rose admits that Oliver is waiting outside. The old gentleman dashes out of the house and into the coach. Brownlow brings the boy into the room and Grimwig greets him cordially. The reunion between Oliver and Mrs. Bedwin is a joyous one. Rose privately confers with Brownlow about Nancy's disclosures. He volunteers to tell Mr. Losberne that evening and advises that Mrs. Maylie be quietly informed. When the doctor learns of the developments, he becomes characteristically carried away with indignation. Brownlow pacifies him and argues the advantages of discretion. To set the law on the gang would not benefit Oliver. Brownlow believes it is essential to trap Monks alone. In order to find out from Nancy how they can get at the villain, it is necessary to wait calmly until next Sunday. Brownlow recommends that nothing be done until then, and that Oliver not be told about the turn of events. Brownlow's proposals are accepted. He requests that Grimwig be admitted to their proceedings; and Mr. Losberne agrees on the condition that Harry Maylie also be included. With these provisions settled, Mrs. Maylie announces her intention to spare no time or expense in helping Oliver. Mr. Brownlow ends the meeting by telling of his wish to remain silent for a time about his abrupt departure from the country.