After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked,with the same meditative face,into a back anteroom opening from the yard; and there,retiring into a corner,called up before his mind’s eye a vast amphitheatre of faces over which a dusky curtain had hung for many years. “No,” said the old gentleman, shaking his head; “it must be imagination.”
He wandered over them again.He had called them into view,and it was not easy to replace the shroud that had so long concealed them.There were the faces of friends, and foes,and of many that had been almost strangers peering intrusively from the crowd;there were the faces of young and blooming girls that were now old women;there were faces that the grave had changed and closed upon,but which the mind, superior to its power,still dressed in their old freshness and beauty,calling back the lustre of the eyes,the brightness of the smile,the beaming of the soul through its mask of clay,and whispering of beauty beyond the tomb,changed but to be heightened,and taken from earth only to be set up as a light,to shed a soft and gentle glow upon the path to Heaven.
But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver’s features bore a trace. So, he heaved a sigh over the recollections he awakened; and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman, buried them again in the pages of the musty book.
He was roused by a touch on the shoulder,and a request from the man with the keys to follow him into the office.He closed his book hastily;and was at once ushered into the imposing presence of the renowned Mr. Fang.
The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall.Mr. Fang sat behind a bar, at the upper end;and on one side of the door was a sort of wooden pen in which poor little Oliver was already deposited; trembling very much at the awfulness of the scene.
Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked,middle-sized man, with no great quantity of hair,and what he had, growing on the back and sides of his head.His face was stern, and much flushed.If he were really not in the habit of drinking rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy damages.
The old gentleman bowed respectfully;and advancing to the magistrate’s desk, said,suiting the action to the word,“That is my name and address, sir.” He then withdrew a pace or two; and,with another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head,waited to be questioned.
Now, it so happened that Mr.Fang was at that moment perusing a leading article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was out of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl.
“Who are you?” said Mr. Fang.
The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.
“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper.“Who is this fellow?”
“My name, sir,” said the old gentleman,speaking _like_ a gentleman, “my name, sir,is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable person, under the protection of the bench.” Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information.
“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side,“what’s this fellow charged with?”
“He’s not charged at all, your worship,” replied the officer. “He appears against this boy, your worship.”
His worship knew this perfectly well;but it was a good annoyance, and a safe one.
“Appears against the boy, does he?” said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr.Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. “Swear him!”
“Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word,” said Mr. Brownlow; “and that is, that I really never,without actual experience, could have believed—”
“Hold your tongue, sir!” said Mr. Fang, peremptorily.
“I will not, sir!” replied the old gentleman.
“Hold your tongue this instant,or I’ll have you turned out of the office!” said Mr. Fang. “You’re an insolent impertinent fellow.How dare you bully a magistrate!”
“What!” exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.
“Swear this person!” said Fang to the clerk. “I’ll not hear another word. Swear him.”
Mr. Brownlow’s indignation was greatly roused;but reflecting perhaps,that he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it,he suppressed his feelings and submitted to be sworn at once.
“Now,” said Fang, “what’s the charge against this boy?What have you got to say, sir?”
“I was standing at a bookstall—” Mr. Brownlow began.
“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Mr. Fang. “Policeman!Where’s the policeman?Here, swear this policeman. Now, policeman, what is this?”
The policeman, with becoming humility,related how he had taken the charge;how he had searched Oliver,and found nothing on his person;and how that was all he knew about it.
“Are there any witnesses?” inquired Mr. Fang.
“None, your worship,” replied the policeman.
Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then,turning round to the prosecutor,said in a towering passion.
“Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, man, or do you not?You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there,refusing to give evidence,I’ll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will, by—”
By what, or by whom, nobody knows,for the clerk and jailor coughed very loud,just at the right moment;and the former dropped a heavy book upon the floor,thus preventing the word from being heard—accidently, of course.
With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr.Brownlow contrived to state his case; observing that,in the surprise of the moment,he had run after the boy because he had seen him running away;and expressing his hope that,if the magistrate should believe him,although not actually the thief,to be connected with the thieves,he would deal as leniently with him as justice would allow.
“He has been hurt already,” said the old gentleman in conclusion. “And I fear,” he added, with great energy, looking towards the bar,“I really fear that he is ill.”
“Oh!yes, I dare say!” said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. “Come,none of your tricks here, you young vagabond;they won’t do. What’s your name?”
Oliver tried to reply but his tongue failed him.He was deadly pale;and the whole place seemed turning round and round.
“What’s your name, you hardened scoundrel?” demanded Mr. Fang. “Officer, what’s his name?”
This was addressed to a bluff old fellow,in a striped waistcoat, who was standing by the bar.He bent over Oliver, and repeated the inquiry;but finding him really incapable of understanding the question;and knowing that his not replying would only infuriate the magistrate the more,and add to the severity of his sentence;he hazarded a guess.
“He says his name’s Tom White, your worship,” said the kind-hearted thief-taker.
“Oh, he won’t speak out, won’t he?” said Fang. “Very well, very well. Where does he live?”
“Where he can, your worship,” replied the officer;again pretending to receive Oliver’s answer.
“Has he any parents?” inquired Mr. Fang.
“He says they died in his infancy, your worship,” replied the officer: hazarding the usual reply.
At this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head;and, looking round with imploring eyes,murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of water.
“Stuff and nonsense!” said Mr. Fang: “don’t try to make a fool of me.”
“I think he really is ill, your worship,” remonstrated the officer.
“I know better,” said Mr. Fang.
“Take care of him, officer,” said the old gentleman,raising his hands instinctively; “he’ll fall down.”
“Stand away, officer,” cried Fang; “let him, if he likes.”