With many talkative assurances that they would be pleasantly surprised by the criminal’s appearance, the doctor drew the young lady’s arm through his own. Offering his other hand to Mrs. Maylie, he led them upstairs with a great deal of ceremony and importance.
“Now,” the doctor whispered, as he softly turned the handle of a bedroom door, “let us see what you think of him. He hasn't been shaved recently, but he doesn’t look at all fierce despite that. Wait, though! Let me first make sure he is ready for visitors.”
Stepping ahead of them, he peered into the room. Motioning for them to follow, he closed the door behind them and gently drew back the bed curtains. There, instead of the stubborn, dark-faced villain they had expected to see, lay a mere child. He was worn out by pain and exhaustion, sunk into a deep, heavy sleep. His wounded arm, carefully bandaged and held in splints, was crossed over his chest. His head rested on his other arm, which was partly hidden by his long hair as it spread across the pillow.
The kind gentleman held the curtain in his hand and looked on in silence for a minute or two. While he was watching the patient, the younger lady glided softly past him. Seating herself in a chair by the bedside, she gently brushed Oliver’s hair away from his face. As she leaned over him, her tears fell upon his forehead.
The boy stirred and smiled in his sleep, as if these marks of pity had triggered some pleasant dream of a love he had never known. In the same way, a strain of gentle music, the sound of rippling water in a quiet place, the scent of a flower, or the mention of a familiar word can sometimes bring back dim memories of a happier existence. These visions vanish like a breath and cannot be recalled by any effort of the mind, yet they seem to remind us of a soul that existed long before this life began.
“What can this mean?” the elderly lady whispered. “This poor child could never have been a student of robbers!”
“Evil,” the surgeon remarked, replacing the curtain, “can live in many places. Who is to say that a beautiful exterior cannot hide a wicked soul?”
“But at such a young age!” Rose insisted.
“My dear young lady,” the surgeon replied, mournfully shaking his head, “crime, like death, does not only target the old and withered. The youngest and most beautiful are too often its chosen victims.”
“But can you—oh, can you really believe that this delicate boy has been a willing companion to the worst outcasts of society?” Rose asked.
The surgeon shook his head in a way that suggested he feared it was entirely possible. Observing that they might wake the patient, he led them into an adjoining room.
“But even if he has been wicked,” Rose continued, “think how young he is. Think that he may never have known a mother’s love or the comfort of a home. Perhaps cruelty, violence, or the simple need for bread drove him to join men who forced him into a life of guilt. Aunt, dear aunt, for mercy’s sake, think of this before you let them drag this sick child to a prison. A prison would surely destroy any chance he has to change for the better. Oh, as you love me, and as you know that I have never lacked parents because of your goodness—though I might have been just as helpless as this poor child—have pity on him before it is too late!”
“My dear love,” said the older lady, pulling the weeping girl toward her, “do you really think I would harm a hair on his head?”
“Oh, no!” Rose replied eagerly.
“Certainly not,” the old lady said. “My days are drawing to an end, and I hope for mercy to be shown to me as I show it to others. What can I do to save him, sir?”
“Let me think, ma’am,” the doctor said. “Let me think.”
Mr. Losberne put his hands in his pockets and paced up and down the room. He stopped frequently, balancing on his toes and frowning deeply. After several exclamations of “I’ve got it!” followed by “No, I haven’t,” and more pacing, he finally came to a complete stop and spoke.
“I think if you give me full permission to bully Giles and that boy Brittles, I can manage it. Giles is a faithful old servant, I know, but you can reward him in other ways for being such a good shot. You don’t object to that?”
“Not unless there is some other way to save the child,” Mrs. Maylie replied.
“There is no other way,” said the doctor. “Take my word for it.”
“Then my aunt grants you full power,” Rose said, smiling through her tears. “But please, don’t be harder on the poor men than is absolutely necessary.”
“You seem to think,” the doctor retorted, “that everyone is hard-hearted today except yourself, Miss Rose. I only hope that the first eligible young man who falls in love with you finds you in such a compassionate mood. I wish I were a young man myself so I could take advantage of such a favorable opportunity!”
“You are just as much a boy as poor Brittles,” Rose replied, blushing.
“Well,” the doctor said, laughing heartily, “that isn’t very difficult! But back to the boy. The most important part of our agreement is this: he will wake in an hour or so. Although I told that thick-headed constable downstairs that the boy mustn’t be moved or spoken to, I think we can talk to him safely. However, I insist on this condition—that I examine him in your presence. If we judge from what he says that he is truly a bad character, he must be left to his fate without any further interference from us. Is it a bargain?”
“He cannot be a hardened criminal,” Rose said. “It’s impossible.”
“Very well,” the doctor replied. “In that case, you have even more reason to agree to my plan.”
Finally, the agreement was made, and they sat down to wait with some impatience for Oliver to wake up.
The ladies’ patience was tested longer than Mr. Losberne had expected. Hour after hour passed, and Oliver remained in a heavy sleep. It was evening before the kind doctor brought them news that the boy was finally well enough to speak. He was very ill and weak from blood loss, but he was so anxious to explain himself that the doctor felt it was better to let him speak than to force him to wait until morning.
The conversation was long. Oliver told them his entire simple history, though he was often forced to stop due to pain and a lack of strength. It was a solemn thing to hear, in that darkened room, the feeble voice of a sick child describing the long list of troubles and misfortunes that cruel men had forced upon him. If those who oppress others could only hear the testimony of such suffering, there would surely be less injustice and cruelty in the world.
Oliver’s pillow was smoothed by gentle hands that night, and he was watched by kind and virtuous people as he slept. He felt so calm and happy that he felt he could have died without a single complaint.
As soon as the interview was over and Oliver was resting again, the doctor wiped his eyes and headed downstairs to confront Mr. Giles. Finding the parlours empty, he decided he could achieve a better effect in the kitchen, so he went straight there.
Assembled in the kitchen were the female servants, Brittles, Giles, the tinker, and the local constable. The constable was a man with a large staff, a large head, and large boots. He looked as though he had been drinking a significant amount of ale—which, in fact, he had.
They were still discussing the previous night’s adventures. Mr. Giles was boasting about his presence of mind when the doctor entered. Brittles, with a mug of ale in his hand, was agreeing with everything Giles said even before he had finished saying it.
“Sit still!” the doctor said, waving his hand.
“Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Giles. “The mistress wished for some ale to be served, and as I was in the mood for company, I am having mine here with the others.”
Brittles led a low murmur of appreciation for Mr. Giles’s kindness. Giles looked around with a patronizing air, as if to say that as long as they behaved, he would continue to be their friend.
“How is the patient tonight, sir?” Giles asked.
“So-so,” the doctor replied. “I’m afraid you’ve gotten yourself into a bit of trouble there, Mr. Giles.”
“I hope you don’t mean to say, sir,” Giles said, trembling, “that he is going to die? If I thought that, I would never be happy again. I wouldn’t want to kill a boy—not for all the silver in the county!”
“That’s not the point,” the doctor said mysteriously. “Mr. Giles, are you a Protestant?”
“Yes, sir, I hope so,” stammered Giles, who had turned very pale.
“And what about you, boy?” the doctor said, turning sharply toward Brittles.
“Lord bless me, sir!” Brittles replied, jumping in surprise. “I’m the same as Mr. Giles, sir.”
“Then tell me this,” the doctor said to both of them. “Are you prepared to swear, under oath, that the boy upstairs is the same boy who was put through the little window last night? Come on, out with it! We are ready for your answer!”
The doctor, who was usually considered the most good-tempered man alive, asked this in such a terrifying tone of anger that Giles and Brittles—who were already confused by the ale—stared at each other in shock.
“Pay close attention to the answer, constable,” the doctor said, shaking his finger solemnly. “Something important may come of this soon.”
The constable looked as wise as possible and grabbed his staff of office, which had been leaning against the chimney.
“It is a simple question of identity, you see,” the doctor added.
“That’s exactly what it is, sir,” the constable replied, coughing violently because he had tried to finish his ale too quickly.
“The house is broken into,” the doctor said, “and two men catch a split-second glimpse of a boy in the middle of gunpowder smoke and total darkness. Then, a boy comes to the same house the next morning, and just because his arm is bandaged, these men seize him—putting his life in danger—and swear he is the thief. Now, the question is, are these men right? And if not, what kind of legal trouble are they in?”
The constable nodded deeply. He remarked that if that wasn't the law, he’d like to know what was.
“I ask you again,” the doctor thundered, “can you, on your solemn oaths, identify that boy?”
Brittles looked doubtfully at Giles; Giles looked doubtfully at Brittles. The constable leaned in to hear the reply, and the others waited in breathless silence. Suddenly, a bell rang at the gate, followed by the sound of wheels.
“It’s the runners!” Brittles cried, looking incredibly relieved.
“The what?” the doctor exclaimed, now looking shocked himself.
“The Bow Street officers from London, sir,” Brittles replied, picking up a candle. “Mr. Giles and I sent for them this morning.”
“What?” the doctor cried.
“Yes,” Brittles replied. “I sent a message with the coachman. I only wonder they weren't here sooner.”
“You did, did you?” the doctor muttered, walking away in frustration. “Then confound your slow ways down here, that's all I can say!”