47 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.

Warning: This episode features the death of Nancy (edited to remove intricate detail)

In this episode, Sikes and Fagin contrive to commit the worst.

Performed by Stephanie Poppins
Published by Neworld Books

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. So, Happy listening. Chapter 47 Fatal Consequences It was nearly two hours before daybreak, That time which in the autumn of the year may be truly called the dead of night, When the streets are silent and deserted, When even sounds appear to slumber and profligacy and riot have staggered home to dream. It was at this still and silent hour that Fagin sat watching in his old lair, With face so distorted and pale and eyes so red and bloodshot, He looked less like a man than like some hideous phantom, Moist from the grave and worried by an evil spirit. He sat crouching over a cold hearth, Wrapped in an old torn coverlet, With his face turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table by his side. His right hand was raised to his lips and as absorbed in thought he bit his long black nails, He disclosed amongst his toothless gums a few such fangs as should have been a dog's or rat's. Stretched upon a mattress on the floor lay a Noah claypole, Fast asleep. Towards him the old man sometimes directed his eyes, Then he brought them back again to the candle. The long burnt wick drooped almost double and hot grease fell down in clots upon the table, Plainly showing his thoughts were busy elsewhere. Indeed they were mortification at the overthrow of his notable scheme, Hatred of the girl who had dared to porter with strangers, And utter distrust of the sincerity of her refusal to yield him up. Bitter disappointment at the loss of his revenge on Sykes, The fear of detection and ruin and death, And a fierce and deadly rage kindled by all. These were the passionate considerations which, Following close upon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, Shot through the brain of Fagin, As every evil thought and blackest purposely working at his heart. He sat without changing his attitude in the least, Or appearing to take the smallest heed of time, Until his quick ear seemed to be attracted by a footstep in the street. At last, He muttered, Wiping his dry and fevered mouth. The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, And presently returned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, Who carried a bundle under one arm. There, He said, Laying the bundle on the table, Take care of that and do the most you can with it. It's been troubling enough to get. I thought I should have been here three hours ago. Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, This man was the burly frame of Sykes. Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, And locking it in the cupboard, Sat down again without speaking, But he did not take his eyes off the rubber for an instant. What now? Cried Sykes. What do you look at a man so for? Fagin raised his right hand and shook his trembling forefinger in the air, But his passion was so great, The power of speech was for the moment gone. Damn it, Said Sykes. He's gone mad. I must look to myself here. Fagin paused. I've got that to tell you, Bill, He said, Drawing his chair nearer. We'll make you worse than me. I, Returned the rubber with an incredulous air, Look sharp or Nance will think I'm lost. Lost? Cried Fagin. She's pretty well settled that in her own mind already. Sykes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew's face, And reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle, Clenched his coat collar in his huge hand and shook him sadly. Speak, He said, Or if you don't, It shall be the want of breath. Open your mouth and say what you've got to say in plain words. Out with it, You thundering old cur, Out with it. Suppose that lad that's laying there, Fagin began. Sykes turned round to where Noah was sleeping. Well, Suppose that lad was to peach, To blow upon us all, First seeking out the right folks for the purpose, Then having a meeting with them in the street to paint our likenesses, Describe every mole they might know us by, And the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, And besides, To blow upon a plan we've all been in of his own fancy. If he was left alive till I came, I'll grind his skull under the iron heel of me boot, Said Sykes incredulously. Suppose, Then, If it was Charlie, Or the Dodger, Or. . . I don't care who, Replied Sykes impatiently. Whoever it was, I'd serve him the same. Fagin looked hard at the robber, And motioning him to be silent, Stooped over the bed upon the floor and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sykes leant forward in his chair, Looking on with his hands upon his knees, As if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. Tell me that again, Once again, Just for him to hear, Said the Jew, Pointing to Sykes as he spoke. Tell you what? Asked the sleepy Noah, Shaking himself pettishly. That's about Nancy, Said Fagin, Clutching Sykes by the wrist. You followed her, Didn't you? Yeah, To London Bridge. Yeah, Where she met two people. So she did. A gentleman and a lady she'd gone to of her own accord before, Who asked her to give up all her pals, And monks first, Which she did, To describe him, Which he did, And to tell her what house it was that we met her, And go to, Which he did. She did all this, Sykes. She told it every word, And without a threat, Without a murmur. You're right, Replied Noah, Scratching his head. That's just what it was. And what did they say about last Sunday? About last Sunday, Replied Noah. I told you that before. Tell it again, Cried Fagin, Tightening his grasp on Sykes, And brandishing his other hand aloft as the phone flew from his lips. They asked her why she didn't come last Sunday, She promised. And she said she couldn't, Said Noah. Why, Why, Tell him that? Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, The man she'd told them of before, Replied Noah. Told them what more of him, Cried Fagin. What more of the man she'd told them before? Tell him that, Tell him that. She couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to. So the first time she went to see the lady, Made me laugh when she said it, She gave him a drink of laudanum, Said Noah. Elves, Fire, Cried Sykes, Breaking fiercely from the dune. Let me go. Flinging the old man from him, He rushed from the room and darted wildly and furiously up the stairs. Only a word, Be all, Cried Fagin, Following him hastily. Only a word, Just a word. The word would not have been exchanged, But that the housebreaker was unable to open the door. He was expending fruitless oaths and violence when the Jew came panting up. Let me out, Said Sykes. Don't speak to me, It's not safe. Let me out, I say. Hear me speak a word, Rejoined Fagin, Laying his hand upon the lock. You won't be, Well, Replied the other. Too violent will you be. The day was breaking and there was light enough for the men to see each other's faces. They exchanged one brief glance. There was fire in the eyes of both, Which could not be mistaken. I mean, Said Fagin, Showing he felt all disguise was now useless. Not too violent for safety. Be crafty, Be all, And not too bold. Sykes made no reply, But pulling open the door of which Fagin had turned the lock, He dashed into the silent streets. Without one pause or moment's consideration, Without once turning his head to the right or left, Or raising his eyes to the sky, Or lowering them to the ground, He looked straight before him with savage resolution, His teeth so tightly compressed the strange jaw seemed started through his skin. He held on his headlong course, Nor muttered a word, Nor relaxed a muscle until he reached his own door. Opening softly with a key, He strode lightly up the stairs, And entering his own room, Double-locked the door, And lifting a heavy table against it, Drew back the curtain of the bed. The girl was lying half-dressed upon it. He had roused her from her sleep, For she raised herself with a hurried and startled look. Get up, Said the man. It's you, Bill, Said the girl, With an expression of pleasure as his return. It is, Was the reply. Get up. There was a candle burning, But the man hastily drew it from the candlestick, And hurled it under the grate. The girl rose to undraw the curtain. Let it be, Said Sykes, Thrusting his hand before her. Bill, Said the girl, In a low voice of alarm. Why do you look at me like that? Then her arms were clasped tightly round his. Bill, She cried, Striving to lay her head upon his breast. The gentleman and that dear lady told me tonight are for home, In some foreign country where I could end my days in solitude and peace. Let me see them again and beg them on my knees to show the same mercy and goodness to you, And let us both leave this dreadful place, And far apart lead better lives, And forget how we've lived, Accepting prayers, And never see each other more. It's never too late to repent. They told me so, And I feel it now. But we must have time, A little time. The housebreaker freed one arm and grasped his pistol. The certainty of immediate detection, If he fired, Flashed across his mind. And he beat it twice with all the force he could summon upon the upturned face that almost touched his own. Nancy fell, Nearly blinded with the blood that rained down from a deep gash in her forehead. But she raised herself with difficulty onto her knees, Drew from her bosom a white handkerchief, Rose Mailey's own, And holding it up in her folded hands, As high towards heaven as her feeble strength would allow, Breathed one last prayer for mercy to her maker. It was a ghastly figure to look upon, The murderer staggering backward to the wall, And shutting up the sight with his hand, Seizing a heavy club to strike her down.