The coach rattled away, travelling over nearly the same ground that Oliver had crossed when he first entered London with the Dodger. However, upon reaching the Angel at Islington, it turned in a different direction and eventually stopped before a neat house in a quiet, shaded street near Pentonville. Here, a bed was prepared without delay, and Mr. Brownlow saw his young charge carefully and comfortably settled. In this house, Oliver was cared for with a level of kindness and concern that knew no bounds.
But for many days, Oliver remained unaware of the goodness of his new friends. The sun rose and set many times, yet the boy still lay stretched on his uncomfortable bed, his strength fading away under the dry, consuming heat of a fever. A slow, creeping fire burned within his living frame, threatening to destroy him.
Weak, thin, and pale, he finally awoke from what seemed like a long and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in bed, with his head resting on a trembling arm, he looked around anxiously.
“What room is this? Where have I been brought to?” Oliver whispered. “This is not the place where I went to sleep.”
He spoke these words in a faint voice, as he was still incredibly weak, but they were overheard immediately. The curtain at the head of the bed was quickly drawn back, and a motherly old lady, dressed very neatly, rose from an armchair where she had been busy with her needlework.
“Hush, my dear,” said the old lady softly. “You must be very quiet, or you will fall ill again. You have been very sick—as sick as anyone could be. Lie down again, there’s a dear!” With these words, she gently placed Oliver’s head back on the pillow. As she smoothed the hair from his forehead, she looked into his face with such a loving expression that Oliver could not help reaching out his thin hand to hers.
“Heaven help us!” said the old lady with tears in her eyes. “What a grateful little child he is. Poor creature! What would his mother feel if she had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!”
“Perhaps she does see me,” whispered Oliver, folding his hands together. “Perhaps she has been sitting by me. I almost feel as if she has.”
“That was only the fever, my dear,” said the old lady mildly.
“I suppose it was,” replied Oliver, “because heaven is a long way off; and they are too happy there to come down to the bedside of a poor boy. But if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me, even there; for she was very ill herself before she died. She can’t know anything about me, though,” Oliver added after a moment’s silence. “If she had seen me hurt, it would have made her sad; and her face has always looked sweet and happy whenever I have dreamed of her.”
The old lady made no reply. Instead, she wiped her eyes and then her spectacles, which lay on the bedcover. She brought Oliver something cool to drink and, patting him on the cheek, told him again to remain quiet.
Oliver stayed very still, partly because he wanted to obey the kind lady, and partly because he was completely exhausted. He soon fell into a light sleep, from which he was awakened by the light of a candle. A gentleman with a large, loud-ticking gold watch was feeling his pulse and declared that he was much better.
“You are a great deal better, aren’t you, my dear?” the gentleman asked.
“Yes, thank you, sir,” replied Oliver.
“Yes, I know you are,” said the gentleman. “And you’re hungry, too, aren't you?”
“No, sir,” answered Oliver.
“Hmm!” said the doctor, looking very wise. “No, I know you’re not. He is not hungry, Mrs. Bedwin.”
The old lady bowed respectfully, as if to say she thought the doctor was an exceptionally clever man. The doctor seemed to share that opinion of himself. After giving Mrs. Bedwin some strict instructions about keeping Oliver neither too warm nor too cold, and approving a light meal of tea and dry toast, he hurried away. His expensive boots creaked importantly as he went downstairs.
Oliver drifted off to sleep again and didn’t wake until nearly midnight. Mrs. Bedwin tenderly bade him goodnight and left him in the care of an elderly woman who had arrived to sit with him through the night. This woman spent most of her time taking short naps by the fire, occasionally waking herself up with her own snoring.
The night passed slowly. Oliver lay awake for a while, watching the light reflecting on the ceiling or tracing the patterns on the wallpaper. The deep silence of the room felt very solemn. Realizing that death had been hovering over him for many days, he turned his face to the pillow and prayed fervently. Eventually, he fell into a deep, peaceful sleep—the kind of rest that only comes after great suffering.
When Oliver opened his eyes again, it was bright daylight, and he felt cheerful. The crisis of his illness had passed; he belonged to the living world once more.
Within three days, he was strong enough to sit in an armchair, supported by pillows. Since he was still too weak to walk, Mrs. Bedwin had him carried downstairs to her own little room. The good old lady was so delighted to see him improving that she suddenly began to cry.
“Never mind me, my dear,” she said. “I’m just having a good cry. There; it’s over now, and I feel much better.”
“You’re very, very kind to me, ma’am,” said Oliver.
“Well, don’t you worry about that,” she replied. “It’s time for your broth. Mr. Brownlow might come to see you this morning, and we must look our best for him.” She began warming a bowl of broth that was so thick and nutritious that Oliver thought it could have fed hundreds of people at the workhouse.
As he ate, Oliver’s attention was drawn to a portrait hanging on the wall opposite his chair. “Are you fond of pictures, dear?” Mrs. Bedwin asked.
“I’m not sure, ma’am,” said Oliver, unable to look away. “I have seen so few. But what a beautiful, kind face that lady has!”
“Ah!” said the old lady. “Painters always make ladies look prettier than they really are, otherwise they wouldn't have any business.” She laughed heartily at her own joke.
“Whose portrait is it, ma’am?” Oliver asked.
“I really don't know, my dear,” she answered. “It isn't anyone we know. It seems to have caught your eye.”
“It is so beautiful,” Oliver replied. “But the eyes look so sorrowful. From where I am sitting, they seem to be fixed on me. It makes my heart beat,” he added in a low voice, “as if the lady were alive and wanted to speak to me, but couldn't.”
“Lord save us!” the old lady exclaimed. “Don't talk like that, child. You are just weak and nervous after your illness. Let me move your chair so you can't see it.” She turned his chair around, but the image of the face remained clearly in Oliver’s mind.
Shortly after Oliver had finished his broth, there was a soft knock at the door, and Mr. Brownlow walked in. The old gentleman looked at Oliver through his spectacles and seemed deeply moved. Oliver looked very thin and pale, and when he tried to stand up to show respect to his benefactor, he sank back into his chair, exhausted. Mr. Brownlow’s heart was so full of sympathy that his eyes filled with tears, though he tried to hide it by claiming he had a cold.
“How do you feel, my dear?” Mr. Brownlow asked.
“Very happy, sir,” Oliver replied. “And very grateful for your goodness to me.”
“Good boy,” said Mr. Brownlow. He then noticed Oliver’s confusion when he referred to him as "Tom White."
“My name is Oliver, sir,” the boy said. “Oliver Twist.”
“That’s a strange name!” the old gentleman remarked. “Why did you tell the magistrate your name was White?”
“I never told him that, sir,” Oliver replied in amazement.
The old gentleman looked at him sternly for a moment, but it was impossible to doubt the boy’s honesty. There was truth in every feature of his thin face. As Mr. Brownlow continued to stare at him, the old feeling of a mysterious resemblance returned more strongly than ever.
“I hope you are not angry with me, sir?” Oliver asked.
“No, no,” replied the old gentleman. “Wait! Bedwin, look at that!”
He pointed quickly to the portrait above Oliver’s head and then back to the boy’s face. It was an exact copy. The eyes, the head, the mouth—every feature was identical. For that moment, the expression on Oliver’s face was so perfectly like the lady in the painting that it was startling.
Oliver did not understand what had caused this sudden excitement. Not being strong enough to handle the shock of Mr. Brownlow’s shout, he fainted away.
While Oliver is being cared for, we must return to the two young pupils of the "merry old gentleman." When the Dodger and Charley Bates had joined the chase after Oliver, they were acting out of a very natural desire to protect themselves. As philosophers might say, they were simply following the law of self-preservation. Once the crowd’s attention was fully focused on Oliver, the two boys had wisely slipped away and headed home by the quickest possible route.
It was only after they had run through a maze of narrow streets that they finally stopped under a dark archway to catch their breath. Charley Bates suddenly burst into a fit of laughter, rolling on a doorstep in delight.
“What’s the matter?” the Dodger asked.
“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Charley. “I can't help it! To see him running at that speed, turning corners and hitting posts, while I had the handkerchief in my pocket and was shouting ‘Stop thief!’ after him—it was hilarious!”
“What will Fagin say?” the Dodger asked, waitng for Charley to stop laughing.
Charley stopped suddenly. The Dodger’s serious tone made him realize the situation was more complicated than he thought. “What should he say?” Charley asked.
The Dodger didn’t answer directly. He simply made a series of expressive gestures, indicating that Fagin would be far from pleased, and then turned to walk down the alley. Charley followed him, his face now much more thoughtful.
A few minutes later, the sound of footsteps on the creaking stairs alerted the old man. Fagin was sitting by the fire with a sausage and a loaf of bread. A suspicious smile appeared on his face as he listened.
“Why, what’s this?” he muttered, his expression changing. “Only two of them? Where is the third? Surely they haven’t got into trouble. Listen!”
The footsteps came closer and reached the landing. The door opened slowly, and the Dodger and Charley Bates entered, closing it quickly behind them.