49 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 Guided reading, Oliver's half-brother, Monks, is apprehended by Mr Brownlow and forced to admit to colluding with Fagin, to prevent Oliver from realising his birthright.

Performed by Stephanie Poppins
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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 49 Monks and Mr Brownlow at length meet, Their conversation and the intelligence that interrupts it. The twilight was beginning to close in when Mr Brownlow alighted from a hackney coach at his own door and knelt softly. The door being opened, A sturdy man got out of the coach and stationed himself on one side of the steps, While another man, Who had been seated on the box, Dismounted too and stood upon the other side. At a sign from Mr Brownlow, They helped out a third man and taking him between them, Hurried him into the house. This man was Monks. They walked in the same manner up the stairs without speaking and Mr Brownlow preceding them, Leaded the way into a back room. At the door of this apartment, Monks who descended with evident reluctance, Stopped. The two men looked at the old gentleman as if for instructions. He knows the alternative, Said Mr Brownlow. If he hesitates or moves a finger, But as you bid him, Drag him into the street, Call for the aid of the police and impeach him as a felon in my name. How dare you say this of me? Asked monks. How dare you urge me? To it, Young man, Replied Mr Brownlow. Are you mad enough to leave this house? Unhand him. There, Sir, You're free to go and we to follow. But I warn you, By all old, Most solemn and most sacred, That instant I'll have you apprehended on a charge of fraud and robbery. I am resolute and immovable. If you are determined to be the same, Your blood be upon your own head. By what authority am I kidnapped in the street and brought here by these dogs? Asked monks, Looking from one to the other of the men who stood beside him. By mine, Replied Mr Brownlow. Those persons are indemnified by me. If you complain of being deprived of your liberty, I say again, Throw yourself for the protection of the law. I will appeal to the law too. But when you have gone too far to recede, Do not sue to me for leniency, When the power will have you passed into other hands. And do not say I'll plunge you down the gulf into which you rushed yourself. Monks was plainly disconcerted and alarmed. Besides, He hesitated. You will decide quickly, Said Mr Brownlow. If you wish me to prefer any charges, Publicly, And consign you to a punishment, The extent of which, Although I can with a shudder foresee, I cannot control, Once more I say, For you know the way. If not, And you appeal to my forbearance, And the mercy of those you deeply injured, Seat yourself without a word in that chair. It is waited for you two whole days. Monks muttered some unintelligible words, But wavered still. You will be prompt, Said Mr Brownlow. A word from me and the alternative is gone forever. Still the man hesitated. I have not the inclination to parley, Said Mr Brownlow. And as I advocate the dearest interest of others, I have not the right. Is there, Demanded Monks with a faltering tongue, Is there no middle course? None. Lock the door on the outside, Said Mr Brownlow to the attendants, And come when I ring. Shrugging his shoulders, Monks sat down. This is pretty treatment, Sir, He said, From my father's oldest friend. It's because I was your father's oldest friend, Young man. It is because the hopes and wishes of young and happy years were bound up with him, And that fair creature of his blood and kindred, Who rejoined her god in youth, And left me here a solitary, Lonely man. It is because he knelt with me beside his only sister's deathbed when he was yet a boy, On the morning that would, But heaven willed otherwise, Have made her my young wife. It is because my seared heart clung to him from that time forth, Through all his trials and ever, Till he died. It is because old recollections and associations filled my heart, And even the sight of you brings with it the old thoughts of him. It is because of all these things that I am moved to treat you gently now. Yes, Edward Leiford, Even now, And blush for your unworthiness, You bear the name. What has the name got to do with it? Asked the other, Contemplating half in silence and half in dogged wonder the agitation of his companion. What is the name to me? Nothing, Replied Mr Brownlow, Nothing to you, But it was hers, And even at this distance of time brings back to me an old man, The glow and thrill which I once felt, Only to hear it repeated by a stranger. I am very glad you have changed it, Very. This is all mighty fine, Said Monks, After a long silence to which he jerked himself in sullen defiance to and fro. But what do you want with me? You have a brother, Said Mr Brownlow, A brother the whisper of whose name in your ear when I came behind you in the street was in itself almost enough to make you accompany me here. In wonder and alarm. I have no brother, Replied Monks, You know I was an only child, Why do you talk of me as brothers, You know that as well as I. Attend to what I do know, And you may not, Said Mr Brownlow, I shall interest you by and by, I know that wretched marriage into which family, Pride, And the most sordid and narrowest of all ambition forced your unhappy father when a mere boy, You were the sole and most unnatural issue. I don't care for hard names, Interrupted Monks with a jeering laugh, You know the fact and that's enough for me. But I also know, Pursued the old gentleman, The misery, The slow torture, The protracted anguish of that ill-assaulted union. I know how viciously and wearily each of those wretched pair dragged on their heavy chain through a world that was poison to them both. I know how cold formalities were succeeded by open taunts, How indifference gave place to dislike, Dislike to hate, And hate to loathing. Until at last they wrenched the clanking bond asunder and retiring a wide space apart carried each a galling fragment of which nothing but death could break the rivets to hide it in new society beneath the gayest looks they could assume. Your mother succeeded, She forgot it soon, But it rusted and cankered at your father's heart for years. Oh, They were separated, Said Monks, And what of that? When they had been separated for some time and your mother, Wholly given up to continental frivolities, Had utterly forgotten the young husband ten good years her junior, Who, With prospects blighted, Lingered on at home, He fell among new friends. This circumstance, At least, You know already. Not I, Said Monks, Turning his eyes away and beating his foot upon the ground. Not I. Your manner, No less than your actions, Assures me you've never forgotten it or ceased to think of it with bitterness, Returned Mr Brownlow. I speak of fifteen years ago when you were not more than eleven years old and your father but one and thirty, For he was, I repeat, A boy when his father ordered him to marry. Must I go back to events which cast a shade upon the memory of your parent, Or will you spare it and disclose to me the truth? I have nothing to disclose, Rejoined Monks. You must talk on, If you will. These new friends, Then, Said Mr Brownlow, Were a naval officer, Retired from active service, Whose wife had died some half a year before and left him with two children. There had been more, But all of their family happily but two survived. They were both daughters, One beautiful creature of nineteen and the other a mere child of just two or three years old. What's all this to me? Asked Monks. They resided, Said Mr Brownlow, Without seeming to hear the interruption, In a part of the country to which your father, In his wandering, Had repaired and where he had taken up his abode. Acquaintance, Intimacy, Friendship fast followed on each other. Your father was gifted, As few men are. He had his sister's soul in person. As the old officer knew him more and more, He grew to love him. I would that it had ended there. His daughter did the same. The old gentleman paused. Monks was biting his lips with his eyes fixed upon the door. Seeing this, He immediately resumed. The end of the year found him solemnly contracted to that daughter, The object of the first true ardent only passion of a gallant girl. You're tireless of the longest, Observed Monks, Moving restlessly in his chair. It is a true tale of grief and trial and sorrow, Young man, Returned Mr Brownlow, And such tales usually are. If it had been one of unmixed joy and happiness, It would be very brief. At length, One of those rich relations to strengthen, Whose interest and importance your father had been sacrificed, As others are often, Died. And to repair the misery he'd been instrumental in occasioning, Left him money. It was necessary he should immediately repair to Rome whether this man had sped for health, And when he had died, Leaving his affairs in great confusion. He went, Was seized with mortal illness there, Was followed, The moment the intelligence reached Paris by your mother, Who carried you with her. He died the day after her arrival, Leaving no will, No will, So that the whole property fell to her and you. But before he went abroad, And as he passed through London on his way, He came to me. I never heard of that, Interrupted Monks in a tone intended to appear incredulous, But savouring more of a disagreeable surprise. He came to me and left with me, Amongst other things, A portrait painted by himself, A likeness of this poor girl which he did not wish to leave behind, And could not carry forward on his hasty journey. He was worn by anxiety and remorse almost to a shadow, Taught in a wild, Distracted way of ruin and dishonour worked by himself, Confided to me his intention to convert his whole property into money, And having settled on his wife and you a portion of his recent acquisition to fly the country, Never see it more. Even from me, His old and early friend, Whose strong attachment had taken root in the earth had covered one most dear to most, Even from me he withheld any more particular confession, Promising to write and tell me all. But alas, That was the last time. I had no letter and never saw him more. I went when all was over to the scene. I will use the term the world will freely use of his guilty love. Resolve that if my fears were realised, That erring child should find one heart and home to shelter and compassionate her. The family had left that part a week before. They had called in such trifling debts as were outstanding, Discharged them and left the place by night. Why or whither, None can tell. When your brother, A feeble, Ragged, Neglected child, Was cast in my way by a stronger hand than chance, And rescued by me from a life of vice and infamy. What? Cried monks. By me? Said Mr Brownlow. I told you I should interest you before long, I say by me. I see your cunning associate suppressed by name, Although for aught he knew it would be quite strange to your ears. When this young boy was rescued by me, And lay recovering from sickness in my house, His strong resemblance to this picture I have spoken on struck me with astonishment. Even when I first saw him in all his dirt and misery, There was a lingering expression in his face that came upon me like a glimpse of some old friend flashing on one in a vivid dream. I need not tell you he was snared away before I knew his history. Why not? Asked monks hastily. Because you know it well. Denial to me is vain. I shall show you I know more than that. You can't prove anything against me, Stammered monks. I defy you to do it. We shall see, Returned the old gentleman. I lost the boy, And no efforts of mine could recover him. Your mother being dead, I knew that you alone could solve the problem. There was a will, Was there not, Which your mother destroyed, Leaving the secret and gain to you at her own death. It contained a reference to some child likely to be the result of this sad connection, Which child was born and accidentally encountered by you when your suspicions were first awakened by his resemblance to your father. You repaired to the place of his birth. There existed proofs of his birth and parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by you and now, In your own words, To your accomplice, The Jew. No, No, No, Returned the coward, Overwhelmed by these accumulated charges. Every word is true, Cried the gentleman. Every word that has passed between you and this detested villain is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers and brought them to my ear. The sight of the persecuted child has turned vice itself and given it the courage and almost the attributes of virtue. Now murder has been done, To which you were morally, If not really, A party. No, Interposed Monks, I knew nothing of that. I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn't know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel. It was the partial disclosure of your secret, Replied Mr Brownlow. Will you disclose the whole? Yes, I will. Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts and repeat it before witnesses? That I promise too. Then remain quietly here until such a document is drawn up and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem almost advisable for the purpose of attesting it. If you insist upon that, I'll do that also, Replied Monks. You must do more than that, Said Mr Brownlow. You must make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child for such he is although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned and then go where you please. In this world you need meat no more. Monks now paced up and down, Meditating with dark and evil looks on this proposal and the possibilities of evading it, Torn by his fears on the one hand and his hatred on the other. The door was hurriedly unlocked and a gentleman, Mr Losburn, Entered the room in violent agitation. The man will be taken, Cried. He'll be taken tonight. Who, The murderer? Asked Mr Brownlow. Yes, Replied the other. His dog has been seen lurking about some old haunt and there seems little doubt his master either is or will be there under cover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in every direction. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by government tonight. I will give fifty more, Said Mr Brownlow, And proclaim it with my own lips upon the spot if I can reach it. Where is Mr Mailie? Harry, As soon as he'd seen your friend here safe in a coach with you, He hurried off to where he heard this. Mounting his horse, He sallied forth to join the first party at some place in the outskirts. Fagin, Said Mr Brownlow, What of him? When I last heard he'd not been taken, But he will be, They're sure of him. Have you made up your mind? Asked Mr Brownlow in a low voice of monks. Yes, He replied. You'll be secret with me? I will. Remain here until I return. It is your only hope of safety. Then Lossburn and Brownlow left the room and the door was again locked. What have you done? Asked Lossburn in a whisper. All that I could hope to do and even more. Coupling the poor girl's intelligence with my previous knowledge, And the result of our good friend's enquiries, I left him no loophole of escape, And laid bare the whole villainy, Which by these lights became plain as day. Write and appoint the evening after tomorrow at seven for the meeting. We shall be down there a few hours more, But shall require rest, Especially the young lady who may have greater need of firmness than either you or I can quite foresee just now. But my blood boils to avenge this poor murdered creature. Which way have they taken? Drive straight to the office and you'll be in time, Replied Mr Lossburn. I will remain there. And the two gentlemen hastily separated, Each in a fever of excitement, And wholly uncontrollable.