- Year Published: 1838
- Language: English
- Country of Origin: England
- Source: Dickens, C. (1838). Oliver Twist.London, England; Bentley's Miscellany.
- Flesch–Kincaid Level: 8.1
- Word Count: 1,022
Dickens, C. (1838). Chapter 36: Is a Very Short One, and May Appear of No Great Importance in Its Place, But it Should Be Read Notwithstanding, As a Sequel to the Last, and a Key to One That Will Follow When Its Time Arrives.. Oliver Twist (Lit2Go Edition). Retrieved January 29, 2015, from
Dickens, Charles. "Chapter 36: Is a Very Short One, and May Appear of No Great Importance in Its Place, But it Should Be Read Notwithstanding, As a Sequel to the Last, and a Key to One That Will Follow When Its Time Arrives.." Oliver Twist. Lit2Go Edition. 1838. Web. <>. January 29, 2015.
Charles Dickens, "Chapter 36: Is a Very Short One, and May Appear of No Great Importance in Its Place, But it Should Be Read Notwithstanding, As a Sequel to the Last, and a Key to One That Will Follow When Its Time Arrives.," Oliver Twist, Lit2Go Edition, (1838), accessed January 29, 2015,.
‘And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning; eh?’ said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the breakfast-table. ‘Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two half-hours together!’
‘You will tell me a different tale one of these days,’ said Harry, colouring without any perceptible reason.
‘I hope I may have good cause to do so,’ replied Mr. Losberne; ‘though I confess I don’t think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up your mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your mother, like a dutiful son, to the sea-side. Before noon, you announce that you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I go, on your road to London. And at night, you urge me, with great mystery, to start before the ladies are stirring; the consequence of which is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn’t it, Oliver?’
‘I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr. Maylie went away, sir,’ rejoined Oliver.
‘That’s a fine fellow,’ said the doctor; ‘you shall come and see me when you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?’
‘The great nobs,’ replied Harry, ‘under which designation, I presume, you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all, since I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it likely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate attendance among them.’
‘Well,’ said the doctor, ‘you are a queer fellow. But of course they will get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political life. There’s something in that. Good training is always desirable, whether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes.’
Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but he contented himself with saying, ‘We shall see,’ and pursued the subject no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it packed.
‘Oliver,’ said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, ‘let me speak a word with you.’
Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him; much surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed.
‘You can write well now?’ said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm.
‘I hope so, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write to me—say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?’
‘Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it,’ exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission.
‘I should like to know how—how my mother and Miss Maylie are,’ said the young man; ‘and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she—they, I mean—seem happy and quite well. You understand me?’
‘Oh! quite, sir, quite,’ replied Oliver.
‘I would rather you did not mention it to them,’ said Harry, hurrying over his words; ‘because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me; and mind you tell me everything! I depend upon you.’
Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie took leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and protection.
The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should be left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants were in the garden, looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the latticed window, and jumped into the carriage.
‘Drive on!’ he cried, ‘hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing short of flying will keep pace with me, to-day.’
‘Halloa!’ cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great hurry, and shouting to the postillion; ‘something very short of flying will keep pace with me. Do you hear?’
Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible, and its rapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound its way along the road, almost hidden in a cloud of dust: now wholly disappearing, and now becoming visible again, as intervening objects, or the intricacies of the way, permitted. It was not until even the dusty cloud was no longer to be seen, that the gazers dispersed.
And there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes fixed upon the spot where the carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away; for, behind the white curtain which had shrouded her from view when Harry raised his eyes towards the window, sat Rose herself.
‘He seems in high spirits and happy,’ she said, at length. ‘I feared for a time he might be otherwise. I was mistaken. I am very, very glad.’
Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which coursed down Rose’s face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in the same direction, seemed to tell more of sorrow than of joy.