12 Oliver Twist - Read By Stephanie Poppins

Hello.

Welcome to Sleep Stories with Steph,

Your go-to romantic podcast that guarantees you a calm and entertaining transition into a great night's sleep.

Come with me as we immerse ourselves in a romantic journey to a time long since forgotten.

But before we begin,

Let's take a moment to focus on where we are now.

Take a deep breath in through your nose and let it out with a long sigh.

Now close your eyes and feel yourself sink deeper into the support beneath you.

It is time to relax and fully let go.

There is nothing you need to be doing now and nowhere you need to go.

Happy listening.

Chapter 12 In which Oliver is taken better care of than he ever was before and in which the narrative reverts to the merry old gentleman and his youthful friends.

The coach rattled away over nearly the same ground as that which Oliver had traversed when he first entered London in company with a Dodger.

And turning a different way when it reached the Angel at Islington,

Stopped alength before a neat house in a quiet shady street near Pentonville.

Here a bed was prepared without loss of time in which Mr Brownlow saw his young child carefully and comfortably deposited.

And here he was tended with a kindness and solicitude that knew no bounds.

But for many days Oliver remained insensible to all the goodness of his new friends.

The sun rose and sank and rose and sank again and many times after that and still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy bed dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever.

The worm does not work more surely on the dead body than does this slow creeping fire upon the living frame.

Weak and thin and pallid he awoke at last from what seemed to have been a long and troubled dream.

Feebly raising himself in the bed with his hand resting on his trembling arm,

He looked anxiously around.

What room is this?

Where have I been brought to?

Said Oliver.

This is not the place I went to sleep in.

He uttered these words in a feeble voice being very faint and weak but they were overheard at once.

The curtain at the bed's head was hastily drawn back and a motherly old lady very neatly and precisely dressed rose as she undrew it from an armchair close by in which she'd been sitting at needlework.

Hush my dear,

Said the old lady softly.

You must be very quiet or you'll be ill again and you've been very bad as bad as could be.

Lie down there,

Sir dear.

With those words the old lady very gently placed Oliver's head upon the pillow and smoothing back his hair from his forehead,

Looked so kindly and lovingly in his face that he could not help placing his little withered hand in hers and drawing it round his neck.

Save us,

Said the old lady with tears in her eyes.

What a grateful little deer it is,

Pretty creature.

What would his mother feel if she'd sat by him as I have and could see him now?

Perhaps she does see me,

Whispered Oliver folding his hands together.

Perhaps she's sat by me.

I almost feel as if she had.

That was the fever,

My dear,

Said the old lady mildly.

I suppose it was,

Replied Oliver,

Because heaven's a long way off and they're 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 for she was very ill herself before she died.

She can't know anything about me though,

Added Oliver after a moment's silence.

If she'd seen me hurt it would have made her sorrowful and her faces always look sweet and happy when I've dreamed of her.

The old lady made no reply to this but wiping her eyes first and her spectacles which lay on the counterpane afterwards as if they were part and parcel of those features,

Brought some cool stuff for Oliver to drink,

Then patting him on the cheek told him he must lie very quiet or he will be ill again.

He soon fell into a gentle doze from which he was awakened by the light of a candle.

Being brought near the bed showed him a gentleman with a very large and loud ticking gold watch in his hand.

He felt his pulse.

You are a great deal better,

Are you not my dear,

Said the gentleman.

Yes,

Thank you,

Sir,

Replied Oliver.

You're hungry too,

Aren't you?

No,

Sir,

Answered Oliver.

Hmm,

Said the gentleman.

I know you're not.

He's not hungry,

Mrs Bedwin.

The old lady made a respectful inclination of the head which seemed to say she thought the doctor was a very clever man.

You feel sleepy,

Don't you my dear,

Said the doctor.

No,

Sir,

Replied Oliver.

You're not sleepy,

Not thirsty.

Yes,

Sir,

Rather thirsty.

Just as I expected,

Mrs Bedwin,

Said the doctor.

It's very natural he should be thirsty.

You may give him a little tea,

Ma'am,

And some dry toast.

Thus the night crept slowly on.

Oliver lay awake for some time,

Counting the little circles of light which the reflection of the rush light shade threw upon the ceiling.

He traced with his languid eyes the intricate pattern of the paper on the wall.

The darkness and the steep stillness of the room were very solemn,

As they brought into the boy's mind the thought that death had been hovering there for many days and nights.

Then gradually he fell into that deep,

Tranquil sleep which eased from recent suffering alone in parts,

That calm and peaceful rest which it is pain to wake from.

In three days' time,

He was able to sit in an easy chair,

Well propped up with pillows,

And as he was still too weak to walk,

Mrs Bedwin had him carried downstairs into the housekeeper's room,

Which belonged to her.

Having him set here by the fireside,

The good old lady sat herself down too,

And being in a state of considerable delight at seeing him so much better,

She forthwith began to cry most violently.

Never mind,

My dear,

She said.

I'm only having a regular good cry.

It's all over now,

And I'm quite comfortable.

You're very,

Very kind to me,

Mum,

Said Oliver.

Never you mind that,

My dear,

Said the old lady.

That's got nothing to do with you,

And it's a full time you've had of it,

For the doctor says Mr Brown may come in to see you this morning,

And we must get up our best looks,

Because the better we look,

The more he'll be pleased.

With this,

The old lady applied herself to warming up in a little saucepan,

A basin full of broth.

Are you fond of pictures,

Dear?

Inquired the old lady,

Seeing that Oliver had fixed his eyes upon a portrait which hung against the wall.

I don't quite know,

Mum,

Said Oliver,

Without taking his eyes from the canvas.

I've seen so few,

I hardly know.

What a beautiful,

Mild face that lady is.

Ah,

Said the old lady,

Painters always make ladies out prettier than they are,

Or they wouldn't get any custom,

Child.

That man that invented the machine for taking likenesses might have known that would never succeed.

It's a deal too,

Honest,

A deal,

Said the old lady,

Laughing very heartily at her own cuteness.

Is that a likeness,

Mum?

Said Oliver.

Yes,

Said the old lady,

Looking up from a moment.

Who's Mum?

Asked Oliver.

Why,

Really,

My dear,

I don't know,

Answered the old lady,

It's not a likeness of anybody you or I know,

I expect.

It seems to strike your fancy,

Dear.

It's so pretty,

Replied Oliver.

You're sure you're not afraid of it,

Said the old lady,

Observing in great surprise the look of awe in which the child regarded the painting.

No,

Replied Oliver quickly,

But the eyes look so sorrowful,

And where I sit,

They seem fixed upon me,

As if it was alive and wanted to speak but couldn't.

Lord save us,

Exclaimed the old lady,

Starting.

Don't talk in that way,

Child,

You're weak and nervous after your illness.

Let me wield your chair round to the other side and then you won't see it.

There.

But Oliver did see it in his mind's eye,

As distinctly as if he had not altered his position,

But he thought it better not to worry the kind old lady.

He'd scarcely swallowed his last spoonful of broth when there came a soft rap at the door.

In walked Mr Brown.

Poor,

Poor boy,

He said,

Clearing his throat.

I'm rather hoarse this morning,

Mrs Bedwin,

I'm afraid I've caught a cold.

I hope not,

Sir,

Said Mrs Bedwin,

Everything you have had has been well aired,

Sir.

I don't know,

Bedwin,

I don't know,

Said Mr Brownlow.

And how do you feel,

My dear?

Looking at Oliver.

Very happy,

Sir,

Replied Oliver,

And very grateful indeed for your goodness to me.

He's just had a base and a beautiful strong broth,

Sir,

Replied Mrs Bedwin,

Drawing herself up slightly and laying strong emphasis on the last word.

Ugh,

Said Mr Brownlow,

With a slight shudder,

A couple of glasses of port wine would have done him a great deal more good,

Wouldn't they,

Tom White,

Eh?

My name is Oliver,

Sir,

Replied the little invalid,

With a look of great astonishment.

Oliver,

Said Mr Brownlow,

Oliver what?

Oliver White,

Eh?

No,

Sir,

Twist,

Oliver,

Twist.

Queer,

Nay,

Said the old gentleman,

What made you tell the magistrate your name was White?

I never told him so,

Sir,

Returned Oliver in amazement.

This sounded so like a falsehood that the old gentleman looked somewhat sternly in Oliver's face.

Some mistake,

Said Mr Brownlow,

But although his motive for looking steadily at Oliver no longer existed,

The old idea of the resemblance between his features and some familiar face came upon him so strongly,

He could not withdraw his gaze.

I hope you're not angry with me,

Sir,

Said Oliver,

Raising his eyes beseechingly.

No,

No,

Replied the old gentleman,

What's this,

Bedwin,

Look here.

He pointed hastily to the picture over Oliver's head and then to the boy's face.

There was its living copy.

The eyes,

The head,

The mouth,

Every feature was the same.

The expression was,

For the instant,

So precisely alike that the minutest line seemed copied with startling accuracy.

Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation,

For not being strong enough to bear the start it gave him,

He fainted away.