24 Oliver Twist - Read By Stephanie Poppins

"Oliver Twist," written by Charles Dickens in the 19th century, tells the story of an orphan boy and his adventures in London's slums. In this episode, there is a shock in the night that disrupts the fragile peace of the darkened city streets, propelling Oliver into unforeseen challenges and encounters.

In this episode, we learn more about the death of Oliver's mother and discover clues as to who she was.

Transcript

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 24 Treats on a very poor subject,

But one is a short one and may be found of importance in this story.

It was no unfit messenger of death who disturbed the matron and the beadle as they were sitting so comfortably together.

Her body was bent by age,

Her limbs trembled with palsy.

Her face,

Distorted into a mumbling leer,

Resembled more the grotesque shaping of some wild pencil than the work of nature's hand.

Alas,

How few of nature's faces are left alone to gladden us with their beauty.

The cares,

The sorrows and hungerings of the world change them as they change hearts and it is only when those passions sleep and have lost their hold forever that the troubled clouds pass off and leave heaven's surface clear.

It is a common thing for the countenances of the dead,

Even in that fixed and rigid state,

To subside into the long-forgotten expression of sleeping infancy and settle into the very look of early life.

So calm,

So peaceful do they grow again that those who knew them in their happy childhood kneel by the coffin's side in awe and see the angel even upon earth.

"'If you please,

Mistress,

' she said to the matron.

"'Old Sally is a-going fast.

' "'Well,

What's that to me?

I can't keep her alive,

Can I?

Nobody can.

' "'No,

No,

Mistress,

' replied the old woman.

"'Nobody can.

She's far beyond the reach of help.

I've seen many a people die,

Little babes and strong men,

And I know when deaths are coming well enough.

But she's troubled in her mind.

She says she's got something to tell you,

And she'll never die quite till you come,

Mistress.

' The matron,

The worthy Mrs.

Corney,

Muttered a variety of invectives against the old woman,

Who couldn't even die without purposely annoying their betters,

And muffled herself up in a thick shawl,

Briefly requesting that Mr.

Bumble stay till she came back,

Lest anything particular should occur.

Mr.

Bumble's conduct on being left to himself was rather inexplicable.

He opened the closet,

Counted the teaspoons,

Weighed the sugar tongs,

Closely inspected a silver milk pot to ascertain it was of the genuine metal,

And having satisfied his curiosity on these points,

Put on his cocked hat cornerwise,

And danced with much gravity four distinct times around the table.

Having gone through this very extraordinary performance,

He then took off the cocked hat,

And spread himself before the fire with his back towards it,

Seemingly to be mentally engaged in taking an exact inventory of the furniture.

Meanwhile,

The old crow tottered along the passages,

Followed by the matron.

Then up the stairs,

Muttering some indistinct answers to the chiding of her companion,

Being at length compelled to pause for breath,

She gave the light into her hand and remained behind to follow as she might,

While the more nimble superior made her way to the room where the sick woman lay.

It was a bare garret room with a dim light burning at the farther end.

There was another old woman watching by the bed.

The parish apothecary's apprentice was standing by the fire making a toothpick out of a quill.

"'Cold night,

Mrs Corney?

' said this young gentleman as the matron entered.

"'Very cold indeed,

Sir,

' replied the mistress in her most civil tones and dropping a curtsy as she spoke.

"'You should get better coals out of your contractors,

' he said,

Breaking a lump on the top of the fire with a rusty poker.

"'These are not at all the sort of thing for a cold night.

' "'They're the boards choosing,

Sir,

' returned the matron.

"'The least they could do would be to keep us pretty warm,

For our places are hard enough.

' The conversation here was interrupted by a moan from the sick woman.

"'If she lasts a couple of hours,

I'll be surprised,

' said the apothecary's apprentice,

Intent upon the toothpick's point.

"'It's a break-up of the system altogether.

Is she dozing,

Old lady?

' "'The attendant stooped over the bed to ascertain and nodded in the affirmative.

"'Then perhaps you'll go off in that way if you don't make a row,

' said the young man.

"'Put the light on the floor.

She won't see it there.

' "'Well,

She won't see me here when she does wake,

' said the matron snappishly.

"'Take care,

Both of you,

How you worry me again for nothing.

"'It's no part of my duty to see all the old women in the house die,

And I won't,

That's more.

"'Mind you,

That impotent old harridan.

' Then a cry came from the bed,

And she turned round.

"'Who's that?

' a hollow voice said.

"'Hush,

Hush,

' said one of the women,

Stooping over her.

"'Lie down.

' "'I'll never lie down again,

' said the woman,

Struggling.

"'I will tell her.

Come here,

Matron.

Let me whisper in your ear.

' She clutched the matron by the arm,

And forcing her into a chair by the bedside,

Was about to speak.

When looking round,

She caught sight of the two old women bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners.

"'Turn them away,

' said the woman.

"'Make haste,

Make haste.

' And the superior pushed them from the room,

Closed the door,

And returned to the bedside.

"'Now listen to me,

' said the dying woman aloud,

As if making a great effort to revive one latent spark of energy.

"'In this very room,

This very bed,

I once nursed a pretty young creature that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking,

And soiled with dust and blood.

She gave birth to a boy,

And then she died.

Let me think,

What was the year again?

"'Never mind the year,

' said the impatient matron.

"'What about her?

' "'I know,

I know,

' the dying woman cried,

Jumping fiercely up,

With her face flushed and her eyes starting from her head.

"'I robbed her,

So I did.

She wasn't even cold.

I told you she wasn't cold when I stole it.

' "'Stole what,

For God's sake?

' cried the matron,

With a gesture as if she would call for help.

"'It,

' replied the woman,

Laying her hand over the other's mouth,

"'the only thing she had.

She wanted clothes to keep her warm and food to eat,

But she kept it safe and had it in her bosom.

It was gold,

I tell you,

Rich gold,

That might have saved her life.

' "'Gold,

' echoed the matron,

Bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back.

"'Go on,

Yes,

And what of it?

Who was the mother?

Where was it?

' "'She charged me to keep it safe,

' replied the woman with a groan,

And trusted me as the only woman about.

I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck.

And the child's death,

Perhaps,

Is on me.

They would have treated him better if they'd known all.

' "'Know what?

' asked the other.

"'Speak,

Woman.

' "'The boy grew so like his mother,

' said the woman,

Rambling on,

And not heeding the question,

That I could never forget it when I saw his face.

"'Poor girl,

Poor girl,

She was so young,

Too.

Such a gentle lamb.

Wait,

There's more to tell.

I've not told you yet,

Have I?

' "'No,

' said the matron,

Inclining her head to catch the words as they came more faintly from the dying woman.

"'Be quick,

Or it may be too late.

' "'The mother,

' said the woman,

Making a more violent effort than before.

"'The mother,

When the pains of death first came upon her,

Whispered in my ear,

If the baby was born alive and thrived,

The day might come when it would not feel so much disgrace to hear its poor,

Young mother named.

"'And,

O kind heaven,

' she said,

Folding her thin hands together.

"'Whether it be boy or girl,

Raise up some friends for it in this troubled world,

And take pity upon the lone,

Desolate child abandoned to its mercy.

' "'The boy's name?

' demanded the matron.

"'They called him Oliver,

' replied the woman feebly.

"'The gold I stole was—' "'Yes,

Yes,

What?

' cried the other.

She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply,

But she drew back instinctively as she once again rose slowly and stiffly into a sitting posture,

Then clutching the cover lid with both hands,

Muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat,

And fell lifeless onto the bed.

"'Stone dead,

' said one of the old women,

Hurrying in as soon as the door was opened.

"'And nothing to tell after all,

' rejoined the matron,

Walking carelessly away.

The two crones,

To all appearance,

Too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply,

Were then left alone,

Hovering about the body.