AND LAST
The fortunes of those who have figured in this tale are nearly closed. The
little that remains to their historian to relate, is told in few and simple
words.
Before three months had passed, Rose Fleming and Harry Maylie were married in
the village church which was henceforth to be the scene of the young clergyman's
labours; on the same day they entered into possession of their new and happy
home.
Mrs. Maylie took up her abode with her son and daughter-in-law, to enjoy,
during the tranquil remainder of her days, the greatest felicity that age and
worth can know--the contemplation of the happiness of those on whom the warmest
affections and tenderest cares of a well-spent life, have been unceasingly
bestowed.
It appeared, on full and careful investigation, that if the wreck of property
remaining in the custody of Monks (which had never prospered either in his hands
or in those of his mother) were equally divided between himself and Oliver, it
would yield, to each, little more than three thousand pounds. By the provisions
of his father's will, Oliver would have been entitled to the whole; but Mr.
Brownlow, unwilling to deprive the elder son of the opportunity of retrieving
his former vices and pursuing an honest career, proposed this mode of
distribution, to which his young charge joyfully acceded.
Monks, still bearing that assumed name, retired with his portion to a distant
part of the New World; where, having quickly squandered it, he once more fell
into his old courses, and, after undergoing a long confinement for some fresh
act of fraud and knavery, at length sunk under an attack of his old disorder,
and died in prison. As far from home, died the chief remaining members of his
friend Fagin's gang.
Mr. Brownlow adopted Oliver as his son. Removing with him and the old
housekeeper to within a mile of the parsonage-house, where his dear friends
resided, he gratified the only remaining wish of Oliver's warm and earnest
heart, and thus linked together a little society, whose condition approached as
nearly to one of perfect happiness as can ever be known in this changing world.
Soon after the marriage of the young people, the worthy doctor returned to
Chertsey, where, bereft of the presence of his old friends, he would have been
discontented if his temperament had admitted of such a feeling; and would have
turned quite peevish if he had known how. For two or three months, he contented
himself with hinting that he feared the air began to disagree with him; then,
finding that the place really no longer was, to him, what it had been, he
settled his business on his assistant, took a bachelor's cottage outside the
village of which his young friend was pastor, and instantaneously recovered.
Here he took to gardening, planting, fishing, carpentering, and various other
pursuits of a similar kind: all undertaken with his characteristic impetuosity.
In each and all he has since become famous throughout the neighborhood, as a
most profound authority.
Before his removal, he had managed to contract a strong friendship for Mr.
Grimwig, which that eccentric gentleman cordially reciprocated. He is
accordingly visited by Mr. Grimwig a great many times in the course of the year.
On all such occasions, Mr. Grimwig plants, fishes, and carpenters, with great
ardour; doing everything in a very singular and unprecedented manner, but always
maintaining with his favourite asseveration, that his mode is the right one. On
Sundays, he never fails to criticise the sermon to the young clergyman's face:
always informing Mr. Losberne, in strict confidence afterwards, that he
considers it an excellent performance, but deems it as well not to say so. It is
a standing and very favourite joke, for Mr. Brownlow to rally him on his old
prophecy concerning Oliver, and to remind him of the night on which they sat
with the watch between them, waiting his return; but Mr. Grimwig contends that
he was right in the main, and, in proof thereof, remarks that Oliver did not
come back after all; which always calls forth a laugh on his side, and increases
his good humour.
Mr. Noah Claypole: receiving a free pardon from the Crown in consequence of
being admitted approver against Fagin: and considering his profession not
altogether as safe a one as he could wish: was, for some little time, at a loss
for the means of a livelihood, not burdened with too much work. After some
consideration, he went into business as an Informer, in which calling he
realises a genteel subsistence. His plan is, to walk out once a week during
church time attended by Charlotte in respectable attire. The lady faints away at
the doors of charitable publicans, and the gentleman being accommodated with
three-penny worth of brandy to restore her, lays an information next day, and
pockets half the penalty. Sometimes Mr. Claypole faints himself, but the result
is the same.
Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, deprived of their situations, were gradually reduced to
great indigence and misery, and finally became paupers in that very same
workhouse in which they had once lorded it over others. Mr. Bumble has been
heard to say, that in this reverse and degradation, he has not even spirits to
be thankful for being separated from his wife.
As to Mr. Giles and Brittles, they still remain in their old posts, although
the former is bald, and the last-named boy quite grey. They sleep at the
parsonage, but divide their attentions so equally among its inmates, and Oliver
and Mr. Brownlow, and Mr. Losberne, that to this day the villagers have never
been able to discover to which establishment they properly belong.
Master Charles Bates, appalled by Sikes's crime, fell into a train of
reflection whether an honest life was not, after all, the best. Arriving at the
conclusion that it certainly was, he turned his back upon the scenes of the
past, resolved to amend it in some new sphere of action. He struggled hard, and
suffered much, for some time; but, having a contented disposition, and a good
purpose, succeeded in the end; and, from being a farmer's drudge, and a
carrier's lad, he is now the merriest young grazier in all Northamptonshire.
And now, the hand that traces these words, falters, as it approaches the
conclusion of its task; and would weave, for a little longer space, the thread
of these adventures.
I would fain linger yet with a few of those among whom I have so long moved,
and share their happiness by endeavouring to depict it. I would show Rose Maylie
in all the bloom and grace of early womanhood, shedding on her secluded path in
life soft and gentle light, that fell on all who trod it with her, and shone
into their hearts. I would paint her the life and joy of the fire-side circle
and the lively summer group; I would follow her through the sultry fields at
noon, and hear the low tones of her sweet voice in the moonlit evening walk; I
would watch her in all her goodness and charity abroad, and the smiling untiring
discharge of domestic duties at home; I would paint her and her dead sister's
child happy in their love for one another, and passing whole hours together in
picturing the friends whom they had so sadly lost; I would summon before me,
once again, those joyous little faces that clustered round her knee, and listen
to their merry prattle; I would recall the tones of that clear laugh, and
conjure up the sympathising tear that glistened in the soft blue eye. These, and
a thousand looks and smiles, and turns fo thought and speech--I would fain
recall them every one.
How Mr. Brownlow went on, from day to day, filling the mind of his adopted
child with stores of knowledge, and becoming attached to him, more and more, as
his nature developed itself, and showed the thriving seeds of all he wished him
to become--how he traced in him new traits of his early friend, that awakened in
his own bosom old remembrances, melancholy and yet sweet and soothing--how the
two orphans, tried by adversity, remembered its lessons in mercy to others, and
mutual love, and fervent thanks to Him who had protected and preserved
them--these are all matters which need not to be told. I have said that they
were truly happy; and without strong affection and humanity of heart, and
gratitude to that Being whose code is Mercy, and whose great attribute is
Benevolence to all things that breathe, happiness can never be attained.
Within the altar of the old village church there stands a white marble
tablet, which bears as yet but one word: 'AGNES.' There is no coffin in that
tomb; and may it be many, many years, before another name is placed above it!
But, if the spirits of the Dead ever come back to earth, to visit spots hallowed
by the love--the love beyond the grave--of those whom they knew in life, I
believe that the shade of Agnes sometimes hovers round that solemn nook. I
believe it none the less because that nook is in a Church, and
she was weak and erring.
End
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