Once Oliver had recovered from the fainting fit into which Mr. Brownlow’s sudden exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the portrait was carefully avoided. In the conversation that followed, both the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin made sure not to mention Oliver’s past or his future prospects. Instead, they limited their talk to cheerful topics that might amuse the boy without causing him further distress. He was still too weak to get up for breakfast the next morning, but when he finally went down to the housekeeper’s room the following day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall. He hoped to see the face of the beautiful lady once more, but he was disappointed to find that the picture had been removed.
“Ah!” the housekeeper remarked, noticing where Oliver was looking. “It is gone, as you can see.”
“I see it is, ma’am,” Oliver replied. “Why have they taken it away?”
“It was taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow thought it seemed to worry you. He was concerned it might prevent you from getting well,” the old lady explained.
“Oh, no, not at all. It didn’t worry me, ma’am,” said Oliver. “I enjoyed looking at it. I grew quite fond of it.”
“Well, well!” the old lady said kindly. “You just focus on recovering as fast as you can, dear, and I promise it shall be hung up again. There! Now, let’s talk about something else.”
That was all the information Oliver could gather about the portrait for the time being. Since Mrs. Bedwin had been so compassionate during his illness, he tried to put the matter out of his mind. He listened attentively to the many stories she told him: stories about her lovely daughter who lived in the country with her husband, and about her son, a merchant’s clerk in the West Indies. He was such a devoted son that he wrote home four times a year, and the thought of his letters often brought tears of pride to her eyes. After she had spoken at length about the virtues of her children and her late husband—who had passed away twenty-six years ago—it was time for tea. Afterwards, she began to teach Oliver a card game called cribbage, which he learned remarkably quickly. They played with great focus until it was time for the young patient to have some warm wine and toast before going cosily to bed.
Those days of recovery were truly happy for Oliver. Everything was so quiet, neat, and orderly, and everyone treated him with such gentleness. After the noise and violence he had always lived with, this new life felt like heaven itself. As soon as he was strong enough to dress himself properly, Mr. Brownlow provided him with a complete new suit, a new cap, and a new pair of shoes. When Oliver was told he could do as he liked with his old clothes, he gave them to a servant who had been kind to him and asked her to sell them and keep the money. As Oliver watched from the window while the clothes were carried away in a sack, he felt a great sense of relief. He was delighted to think they were gone forever and that he would never have to wear those miserable rags again.
One evening, about a week after the incident with the picture, a message arrived from Mr. Brownlow. He wished to see Oliver in his study for a short talk, provided the boy felt well enough.
“Bless us!” exclaimed Mrs. Bedwin. “Let me wash your hands and part your hair neatly, child. If we had known he was going to ask for you, we would have put on a clean collar and made you look as smart as possible!”
Oliver did as he was told. Although the old lady complained that there wasn't enough time to perfectly iron the frill on his shirt, he looked so delicate and handsome that she felt quite satisfied. She remarked that she didn't think he could have looked any better, even with more time to prepare.
Feeling encouraged, Oliver knocked on the study door. When Mr. Brownlow invited him in, Oliver found himself in a small back room filled with books from floor to ceiling. A window looked out onto some pleasant gardens. Mr. Brownlow was seated at a table, reading, but he pushed his book aside and asked Oliver to sit down. Oliver obeyed, wondering how anyone could ever find the time to read so many books.
“There are a great many books here, aren’t there, my boy?” asked Mr. Brownlow, noticing Oliver’s curious expression.
“A vast number, sir,” Oliver replied. “I’ve never seen so many.”
“You shall read them if you behave well,” said the old gentleman kindly. “You will find that reading them is much better than just looking at the covers—though there are some books where the covers are definitely the best part.”
“I suppose those are the heavy ones, sir,” Oliver said, pointing to some large, gold-decorated volumes.
“Not always those,” the old gentleman replied, patting Oliver on the head with a smile. “There are other equally heavy books that are much smaller. How would you like to grow up to be a clever man and write books yourself?”
“I think I would rather read them, sir,” Oliver answered honestly.
“What! You wouldn’t want to be an author?”
Oliver thought for a moment and then suggested that it might be better to be a bookseller. This made the old gentleman laugh heartily, and he declared that Oliver had said something very clever.
“Well, well,” said Mr. Brownlow, becoming serious again. “Don’t worry! We won’t force you to be an author as long as there’s an honest trade for you to learn.” He then continued in a much more solemn tone. “Now, I want you to listen carefully to what I am about to say. I’m going to speak to you openly, because I believe you can understand me as well as many older people would.”
“Oh, please don't tell me you are going to send me away, sir!” Oliver cried out, alarmed by the man's serious tone. “Don't turn me out into the streets again. Let me stay here and be your servant, but don’t send me back to that wretched place!”
“My dear child,” said the old gentleman, moved by Oliver’s emotion. “You don't need to fear that I will desert you, unless you give me a reason to do so.”
“I never, never will, sir,” Oliver promised.
“I hope not,” Mr. Brownlow replied. “I have been disappointed before by people I tried to help, but I feel inclined to trust you nevertheless. I am more interested in your wellbeing than I can easily explain. The people I loved most are long dead; however, although my happiness is buried with them, I have not closed my heart to others. My past sorrows have only made my affections stronger.”
He spoke these words in a low voice, almost to himself, and remained silent for a while as Oliver sat perfectly still.
“Well!” he said at last, more cheerfully. “I only tell you this because you are young. Since you know I have suffered, perhaps you will be more careful not to hurt me. You say you are an orphan with no friends; all my inquiries so far confirm this. Tell me your story: where you came from, who raised you, and how you ended up with those thieves. Speak the truth, and you shall never be without a friend as long as I live.”
Oliver began to cry, but just as he was about to start his story, a loud, impatient knock was heard at the front door. A moment later, a servant announced that a Mr. Grimwig had arrived. Mr. Brownlow explained to Oliver that Mr. Grimwig was an old friend—a good man at heart, though his manners were a bit rough.
A stout old gentleman walked into the room, leaning on a thick cane. He was dressed in a blue coat and a broad-brimmed hat, and he had a peculiar way of twisting his face and tilting his head to one side like a parrot. He immediately held out a piece of orange peel he had found on the stairs and began to complain in a growling voice.
“Look at this!” he exclaimed. “It’s extraordinary that I can’t visit a friend without finding orange peel on the stairs. I was injured by a piece once, and I’m certain orange peel will be the death of me—or I’ll eat my own head, sir!”
This was Mr. Grimwig’s favourite expression; he offered to "eat his head" to confirm almost everything he said. He then noticed Oliver and stepped back.
“This is young Oliver Twist,” said Mr. Brownlow.
“You don't mean to say that’s the boy who had the fever?” Mr. Grimwig asked, recoiling. Then, he suddenly shouted, “That’s the boy who had the orange! If he didn’t throw this peel on the stairs, I’ll eat my head and his too!”
“No, no, he hasn’t had an orange,” Mr. Brownlow laughed. “Put down your hat and speak to him.”
Mr. Grimwig sat down and inspected Oliver through his glasses. Despite his grumpy exterior, he secretly thought Oliver looked like a very nice boy, but he loved to argue. He suggested that Oliver might be a thief and asked if the housekeeper counted the silver spoons every night.
Mr. Brownlow ignored these insults with good humour. During tea, they talked pleasantly, and Oliver began to feel more comfortable. However, when the meal ended, Mr. Grimwig turned his attention back to the boy.
“And when are you going to hear the 'true' story of this boy’s life?” Grimwig asked.
“Tomorrow morning,” Mr. Brownlow replied. “Oliver, come to my study at ten o'clock.”
Oliver hesitated slightly, confused by Mr. Grimwig’s intense stare.
“I’ll tell you what,” Grimwig whispered to his friend. “He won’t show up. I saw him hesitate. He is deceiving you.”
“I’ll swear he is not!” Mr. Brownlow replied warmly.
“If he is not,” said Mr. Grimwig, striking his cane on the floor, “I’ll—”
“I would bet my life on that boy’s honesty!” Mr. Brownlow interrupted.
At that moment, Mrs. Bedwin brought in a parcel of books that Mr. Brownlow had bought that morning. He realized he needed to return some of them and pay the bookseller, but the delivery boy had already left.
“Send Oliver,” Mr. Grimwig suggested with a sarcastic smile. “He will surely deliver them safely.”
“Yes, please let me go, sir,” Oliver begged. “I’ll run all the way.”
Mr. Brownlow had intended to keep Oliver inside, but Mr. Grimwig’s doubts made him change his mind. He wanted to prove that Oliver was trustworthy.
“You shall go, my dear,” he said. He gave Oliver the books and a five-pound note. “Tell the bookseller you have brought these back and pay him the four pounds and ten shillings I owe him. You must bring back ten shillings in change.”
“I won’t be ten minutes, sir,” Oliver said eagerly. He put the money in his pocket, took the books, and left the room. Mrs. Bedwin watched him go, feeling a strange sense of worry as he disappeared around the corner.
“He’ll be back in twenty minutes at the latest,” said Mr. Brownlow, placing his watch on the table.
“Do you really expect him to return?” Mr. Grimwig asked. “The boy has new clothes, valuable books, and a five-pound note. He’ll go back to his thief friends and laugh at you. If that boy ever returns to this house, sir, I’ll eat my head!”
The two friends sat in silence, watching the time pass as the room grew dark. Although Mr. Grimwig was not a cruel man, his pride was so great that, at that moment, he almost hoped he was right and that Oliver would not come back. The figures on the watch became harder to see in the shadows, but the two men continued to wait in the gathering gloom.