Oliver Twist; or, The Parish Boy's Progress. IllustratedDickens, Charles
General
Oliver Twist; or, The Parish Boy's Progress. Illustrated
Dickens, Charles
Bildungsromans; Boys -- Fiction; Criminals -- Fiction; Kidnapping victims -- Fiction; London (England) -- Fiction; Orphans -- Fiction
The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see
each other’s faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a
fire in the eyes of both, which could not be mistaken.
‘I mean,’ said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguise was now
useless, ‘not too violent for safety. Be crafty, Bill, and not too
bold.’
Sikes made no reply; but, pulling open the door, of which Fagin had
turned the lock, dashed into the silent streets.
Without one pause, or moment’s consideration; without once turning
his head to the right or left, or raising his eyes to the sky, or
lowering them to the ground, but looking straight before him with
savage resolution: his teeth so tightly compressed that the strained
jaw seemed starting through his skin; the robber held on his
headlong course, nor muttered a word, nor relaxed a muscle, until
he reached his own door. He opened it, softly, with a key; strode
lightly up the stairs; and entering his own room, double-locked the
door, and lifting a heavy table against it, drew back the curtain of
the bed.
The girl was lying, half-dressed, upon it. He had roused her from
her sleep, for she raised herself with a hurried and startled look.
‘Get up!’ said the man.
‘It is you, Bill!’ said the girl, with an expression of pleasure at
his return.
‘It is,’ was the reply. ‘Get up.’
There was a candle burning, but the man hastily drew it from the
candlestick, and hurled it under the grate. Seeing the faint light
of early day without, the girl rose to undraw the curtain.
‘Let it be,’ said Sikes, thrusting his hand before her. ‘There’s
enough light for wot I’ve got to do.’
‘Bill,’ said the girl, in the low voice of alarm, ‘why do you look
like that at me!’
The robber sat regarding her, for a few seconds, with dilated
nostrils and heaving breast; and then, grasping her by the head and
throat, dragged her into the middle of the room, and looking once
towards the door, placed his heavy hand upon her mouth.
‘Bill, Bill!’ gasped the girl, wrestling with the strength of
mortal fear,--‘I--I won’t scream or cry--not once--hear me--speak to
me--tell me what I have done!’
‘You know, you she devil!’ returned the robber, suppressing his
breath. ‘You were watched to-night; every word you said was heard.’
‘Then spare my life for the love of Heaven, as I spared yours,’
rejoined the girl, clinging to him. ‘Bill, dear Bill, you cannot
have the heart to kill me. Oh! think of all I have given up, only
this one night, for you. You _shall_ have time to think, and save
yourself this crime; I will not loose my hold, you cannot throw me
off. Bill, Bill, for dear God’s sake, for your own, for mine, stop
before you spill my blood! I have been true to you, upon my guilty
soul I have!’
The man struggled violently, to release his arms; but those of the
girl were clasped round his, and tear her as he would, he could not
tear them away.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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