“You are quite certain?There is no possibility of any mistake on your part, my boy, is there?” demanded the gentleman in a tremulous voice. “Do not deceive me,by awakening hopes that are not to be fulfilled.”
“I would not for the world, sir,” replied Oliver. “Indeed you may believe me. Mr.Losberne’s words were, that she would live to bless us all for many years to come. I heard him say so.”
The tears stood in Oliver’s eyes as he recalled the scene which was the beginning of so much happiness;and the gentleman turned his face away, and remained silent, for some minutes.Oliver thought he heard him sob, more than once;but he feared to interrupt him by any fresh remark—for he could well guess what his feelings were—and so stood apart,feigning to be occupied with his nosegay.
All this time, Mr. Giles, with the white nightcap on, had been sitting on the steps of the chaise,supporting an elbow on each knee, and wiping his eyes with a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief dotted with white spots.That the honest fellow had not been feigning emotion,was abundantly demonstrated by the very red eyes with which he regarded the young gentleman, when he turned round and addressed him.
“I think you had better go on to my mother’s in the chaise, Giles,” said he.“I would rather walk slowly on, so as to gain a little time before I see her. You can say I am coming.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Harry,” said Giles:giving a final polish to his ruffled countenance with the handkerchief;“but if you would leave the postboy to say that, I should be very much obliged to you.It wouldn’t be proper for the maids to see me in this state, sir;I should never have any more authority with them if they did.”
“Well,” rejoined Harry Maylie, smiling, “you can do as you like. Let him go on with the luggage,if you wish it, and do you follow with us.Only first exchange that nightcap for some more appropriate covering, or we shall be taken for madmen.”
Mr. Giles, reminded of his unbecoming costume, snatched off and pocketed his nightcap;and substituted a hat, of grave and sober shape, which he took out of the chaise. This done,the postboy drove off; Giles, Mr. Maylie, and Oliver, followed at their leisure.
As they walked along, Oliver glanced from time to time with much interest and curiosity at the new comer.He seemed about five-and-twenty years of age, and was of the middle height;his countenance was frank and handsome; and his demeanor easy and prepossessing.Notwithstanding the difference between youth and age, he bore so strong a likeness to the old lady,that Oliver would have had no great difficulty in imagining their relationship,if he had not already spoken of her as his mother.
Mrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to receive her son when he reached the cottage.The meeting did not take place without great emotion on both sides.
“Mother!” whispered the young man; “why did you not write before?”
“I did,” replied Mrs. Maylie; “but, on reflection,I determined to keep back the letter until I had heard Mr. Losberne’s opinion.”
“But why,” said the young man, “why run the chance of that occurring which so nearly happened?If Rose had—I cannot utter that word now—if this illness had terminated differently,how could you ever have forgiven yourself!How could I ever have know happiness again!”
“If that _had_ been the case, Harry,” said Mrs. Maylie,“I fear your happiness would have been effectually blighted, and that your arrival here,a day sooner or a day later, would have been of very, very little import.”
“And who can wonder if it be so, mother?” rejoined the young man; “or why should I say, _if?_—It is—it is—you know it, mother—you must know it!”
“I know that she deserves the best and purest love the heart of man can offer,” said Mrs. Maylie;“I know that the devotion and affection of her nature require no ordinary return,but one that shall be deep and lasting. If I did not feel this, and know, besides,that a changed behaviour in one she loved would break her heart,I should not feel my task so difficult of performance,or have to encounter so many struggles in my own bosom,when I take what seems to me to be the strict line of duty.”
“This is unkind, mother,” said Harry. “Do you still suppose that I am a boy ignorant of my own mind,and mistaking the impulses of my own soul?”
“I think, my dear son,” returned Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand upon his shoulder,“that youth has many generous impulses which do not last; and that among them are some, which,being gratified, become only the more fleeting. Above all, I think” said the lady,fixing her eyes on her son’s face, “that if an enthusiastic, ardent,and ambitious man marry a wife on whose name there is a stain, which,though it originate in no fault of hers, may be visited by cold and sordid people upon her,and upon his children also: and, in exact proportion to his success in the world,be cast in his teeth, and made the subject of sneers against him: he may,no matter how generous and good his nature,one day repent of the connection he formed in early life.And she may have the pain of knowing that he does so.”
“Mother,” said the young man, impatiently, “he would be a selfish brute,unworthy alike of the name of man and of the woman you describe, who acted thus.”
“You think so now, Harry,” replied his mother.
“And ever will!” said the young man. “The mental agony I have suffered, during the last two days,wrings from me the avowal to you of a passion which, as you well know, is not one of yesterday,nor one I have lightly formed. On Rose, sweet, gentle girl!my heart is set, as firmly as ever heart of man was set on woman. I have no thought, no view,no hope in life, beyond her; and if you oppose me in this great stake,you take my peace and happiness in your hands, and cast them to the wind. Mother,think better of this, and of me, and do not disregard the happiness of which you seem to think so little. ”
“Harry,” said Mrs. Maylie, “it is because I think so much of warm and sensitive hearts,that I would spare them from being wounded. But we have said enough, and more than enough, on this matter, just now.”
“Let it rest with Rose, then,” interposed Harry.“You will not press these overstrained opinions of yours, so far, as to throw any obstacle in my way?”
“I will not,” rejoined Mrs. Maylie; “but I would have you consider—”
“I _have_ considered!” was the impatient reply; “Mother, I have considered, years and years. I have considered,ever since I have been capable of serious reflection. My feelings remain unchanged,as they ever will; and why should I suffer the pain of a delay in giving them vent,which can be productive of no earthly good?No!Before I leave this place, Rose shall hear me.”
“She shall,” said Mrs. Maylie.
“There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she will hear me coldly, mother, ” said the young man.
“Not coldly,” rejoined the old lady; “far from it.”
“How then?” urged the young man. “She has formed no other attachment?”
“No, indeed,” replied his mother; “you have, or I mistake,too strong a hold on her affections already. What I would say,” resumed the old lady,stopping her son as he was about to speak, “is this. Before you stake your all on this chance;before you suffer yourself to be carried to the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments,my dear child, on Rose’s history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision:devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind,and with that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic.”
“What do you mean?”
“That I leave you to discover,” replied Mrs. Maylie. “I must go back to her. God bless you!”
“I shall see you again tonight?” said the young man, eagerly.
“By and by,” replied the lady; “when I leave Rose.”
“You will tell her I am here?” said Harry.
“Of course,” replied Mrs. Maylie.
“And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?”
“No,” said the old lady; “I will tell her all.” And pressing her son’s hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room.
Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding.The former now held out his hand to Harry Maylie;and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated,in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend,a precise account of his patient’s situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise,as Oliver’s statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles,who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears.
“Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?” inquired the doctor, when he had concluded.
“Nothing particular, sir,” replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.
“Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?” said the doctor.
“None at all, sir,” replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity.
“Well,” said the doctor, “I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?”
“The boy is very well, sir,” said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; “and sends his respectful duty, sir.”
“That’s well,” said the doctor. “Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles,that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed,at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour.Just step into this corner a moment, will you?”
Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder,and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which,he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of unusual stateliness.The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the parlour,but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither,and having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly effective,that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attempted robbery,to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twenty pounds,for his sole use and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted up their hands and eyes,and supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, “No, no”;and that if they observed that he was at all haughty to his inferiors,he would thank them to tell him so. And then he made a great many other remarks,no less illustrative of his humility, which were received with equal favour and applause, and were,withal, as original and as much to the purpose, as the remarks of great men commonly are.
Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away;for the doctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or thoughtful Harry Maylie might have been at first,he was not proof against the worthy gentleman’s good humour,which displayed itself in a great variety of sallies and professional recollections,and an abundance of small jokes, which struck Oliver as being the drollest things he had ever heard,and caused him to laugh proportionately; to the evident satisfaction of the doctor,who laughed immoderately at himself, and made Harry laugh almost as heartily,by the very force of sympathy. So, they were as pleasant a party as, under the circumstances,they could well have been; and it was late before they retired, with light and thankful hearts,to take that rest of which, after the doubt and suspense they had recently undergone, they stood much in need.
Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his usual occupations,with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many days. The birds were once more hung out,to sing, in their old places; and the sweetest wild flowers that could be found,were once more gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty.The melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for days past,over every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic.The dew seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves;the air to rustle among them with a sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue and bright.Such is the influence which the condition of our own thoughts, exercise,even over the appearance of external objects. Men who look on nature, and their fellow-men,and cry that all is dark and gloomy, are in the right;but the sombre colours are reflections from their own jaundiced eyes and hearts.The real hues are delicate, and need a clearer vision.
It is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it at the time,that his morning expeditions were no longer made alone. Harry Maylie,after the very first morning when he met Oliver coming laden home,was seized with such a passion for flowers, and displayed such a taste in their arrangement,as left his young companion far behind. If Oliver were behindhand in these respects,he knew where the best were to be found;and morning after morning they scoured the country together,and brought home the fairest that blossomed. The window of the young lady’s chamber was opened now;for she loved to feel the rich summer air stream in, and revive her with its freshness;but there always stood in water, just inside the lattice, one particular little bunch,which was made up with great care, every morning.Oliver could not help noticing that the withered flowers were never thrown away,although the little vase was regularly replenished; nor, could he help observing,that whenever the doctor came into the garden,he invariably cast his eyes up to that particular corner, and nodded his head most expressively,as he set forth on his morning’s walk. Pending these observations, the days were flying by; and Rose was rapidly recovering.
Nor did Oliver’s time hang heavy on his hands, although the young lady had not yet left her chamber,and there were no evening walks, save now and then, for a short distance, with Mrs. Maylie.He applied himself, with redoubled assiduity,to the instructions of the white-headed old gentleman,and laboured so hard that his quick progress surprised even himself.It was while he was engaged in this pursuit,that he was greatly startled and distressed by a most unexpected occurrence.
The little room in which he was accustomed to sit, when busy at his books, was on the ground-floor,at the back of the house. It was quite a cottage-room, with a lattice-window:around which were clusters of jessamine and honeysuckle, that crept over the casement,and filled the place with their delicious perfume. It looked into a garden,whence a wicket-gate opened into a small paddock; all beyond, was fine meadow-land and wood.There was no other dwelling near, in that direction;and the prospect it commanded was very extensive.
One beautiful evening, when the first shades of twilight were beginning to settle upon the earth,Oliver sat at this window, intent upon his books. He had been poring over them for some time; and,as the day had been uncommonly sultry, and he had exerted himself a great deal,it is no disparagement to the authors, whoever they may have been, to say,that gradually and by slow degrees, he fell asleep.
There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it holds the body prisoner,does not free the mind from a sense of things about it, and enable it to ramble at its pleasure.So far as an overpowering heaviness, a prostration of strength,and an utter inability to control our thoughts or power of motion, can be called sleep, this is it;and yet, we have a consciousness of all that is going on about us, and, if we dream at such a time,words which are really spoken, or sounds which really exist at the moment,accommodate themselves with surprising readiness to our visions,until reality and imagination become so strangely blended that it is afterwards almost matter of impossibility to separate the two.Nor is this, the most striking phenomenon incidental to such a state. It is an undoubted fact,that although our senses of touch and sight be for the time dead, yet our sleeping thoughts,and the visionary scenes that pass before us, will be influenced and materially influenced,by the _mere silent presence_ of some external object;which may not have been near us when we closed our eyes:and of whose vicinity we have had no waking consciousness.
Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room;that his books were lying on the table before him;that the sweet air was stirring among the creeping plants outside. And yet he was asleep. Suddenly,the scene changed; the air became close and confined; and he thought, with a glow of terror,that he was in the Jew’s house again. There sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed corner,pointing at him, and whispering to another man, with his face averted, who sat beside him.
“Hush, my dear!” he thought he heard the Jew say; “it is he, sure enough. Come away.”
“He!” the other man seemed to answer; “could I mistake him, think you?If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and he stood amongst them,there is something that would tell me how to point him out. If you buried him fifty feet deep,and took me across his grave, I fancy I should know, if there wasn’t a mark above it, that he lay buried there?”
The man seemed to say this, with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver awoke with the fear, and started up.
Good Heaven!what was that, which sent the blood tingling to his heart, and deprived him of his voice, and of power to move!There—there—at the window—close before him—so close,that he could have almost touched him before he started back: with his eyes peering into the room, and meeting his: there stood the Jew!And beside him, white with rage or fear, or both,were the scowling features of the man who had accosted him in the inn-yard.
It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and they were gone.But they had recognised him, and he them; and their look was as firmly impressed upon his memory,as if it had been deeply carved in stone, and set before him from his birth.He stood transfixed for a moment; then, leaping from the window into the garden, called loudly for help.
CHAPTER XXXV. CONTAINING THE UNSATISFACTORY RESULT OF OLIVER’S ADVENTURE;AND A CONVERSATION OF SOME IMPORTANCE BETWEEN HARRY MAYLIE AND ROSE
When the inmates of the house, attracted by Oliver’s cries,hurried to the spot from which they proceeded, they found him, pale and agitated,pointing in the direction of the meadows behind the house,and scarcely able to articulate the words, “The Jew!the Jew!”
Mr. Giles was at a loss to comprehend what this outcry meant; but Harry Maylie,whose perceptions were something quicker, and who had heard Oliver’s history from his mother, understood it at once.
“What direction did he take?” he asked, catching up a heavy stick which was standing in a corner.
“That,” replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man had taken; “I missed them in an instant.”
“Then, they are in the ditch!” said Harry. “Follow!And keep as near me, as you can.” So saying, he sprang over the hedge,and darted off with a speed which rendered it matter of exceeding difficulty for the others to keep near him.
Giles followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed too; and in the course of a minute or two,Mr. Losberne, who had been out walking, and just then returned, tumbled over the hedge after them,and picking himself up with more agility than he could have been supposed to possess,struck into the same course at no contemptible speed, shouting all the while, most prodigiously, to know what was the matter.
On they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the leader,striking off into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver, began to search, narrowly,the ditch and hedge adjoining; which afforded time for the remainder of the party to come up;and for Oliver to communicate to Mr. Losberne the circumstances that had led to so vigorous a pursuit.
The search was all in vain. There were not even the traces of recent footsteps, to be seen.They stood now, on the summit of a little hill,commanding the open fields in every direction for three or four miles.There was the village in the hollow on the left; but, in order to gain that,after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed out, the men must have made a circuit of open ground,which it was impossible they could have accomplished in so short a time.A thick wood skirted the meadow-land in another direction;but they could not have gained that covert for the same reason.
“It must have been a dream, Oliver,” said Harry Maylie.
“Oh no, indeed, sir,” replied Oliver, shuddering at the very recollection of the old wretch’s countenance;“I saw him too plainly for that. I saw them both, as plainly as I see you now.”
“Who was the other?” inquired Harry and Mr. Losberne, together.
“The very same man I told you of, who came so suddenly upon me at the inn,” said Oliver.“We had our eyes fixed full upon each other; and I could swear to him.”
“They took this way?” demanded Harry: “are you sure?”
“As I am that the men were at the window,” replied Oliver, pointing down, as he spoke,to the hedge which divided the cottage-garden from the meadow. “The tall man leaped over,just there; and the Jew, running a few paces to the right, crept through that gap.”
The two gentlemen watched Oliver’s earnest face, as he spoke, and looking from him to each other,seemed to feel satisfied of the accuracy of what he said. Still,in no direction were there any appearances of the trampling of men in hurried flight.The grass was long; but it was trodden down nowhere, save where their own feet had crushed it.The sides and brinks of the ditches were of damp clay;but in no one place could they discern the print of men’s shoes,or the slightest mark which would indicate that any feet had pressed the ground for hours before.
“This is strange!” said Harry.
“Strange?” echoed the doctor. “Blathers and Duff, themselves, could make nothing of it.”
Notwithstanding the evidently useless nature of their search,they did not desist until the coming on of night rendered its further prosecution hopeless;and even then, they gave it up with reluctance.Giles was dispatched to the different ale-houses in the village,furnished with the best description Oliver could give of the appearance and dress of the strangers.Of these, the Jew was, at all events, sufficiently remarkable to be remembered,supposing he had been seen drinking, or loitering about;but Giles returned without any intelligence, calculated to dispel or lessen the mystery.
On the next day, fresh search was made, and the inquiries renewed; but with no better success.On the day following, Oliver and Mr. Maylie repaired to the market-town,in the hope of seeing or hearing something of the men there; but this effort was equally fruitless.After a few days, the affair began to be forgotten, as most affairs are, when wonder,having no fresh food to support it, dies away of itself.
Meanwhile, Rose was rapidly recovering. She had left her room: was able to go out;and mixing once more with the family, carried joy into the hearts of all.
But, although this happy change had a visible effect on the little circle;and although cheerful voices and merry laughter were once more heard in the cottage;there was at times, an unwonted restraint upon some there: even upon Rose herself:which Oliver could not fail to remark. Mrs.Maylie and her son were often closeted together for a long time;and more than once Rose appeared with traces of tears upon her face. After Mr.Losberne had fixed a day for his departure to Chertsey, these symptoms increased;and it became evident that something was in progress which affected the peace of the young lady, and of somebody else besides.
At length, one morning, when Rose was alone in the breakfast-parlour, Harry Maylie entered; and,with some hesitation, begged permission to speak with her for a few moments.
“A few—a very few—will suffice, Rose,” said the young man, drawing his chair towards her.“What I shall have to say, has already presented itself to your mind;the most cherished hopes of my heart are not unknown to you,though from my lips you have not heard them stated.”
Rose had been very pale from the moment of his entrance;but that might have been the effect of her recent illness. She merely bowed;and bending over some plants that stood near, waited in silence for him to proceed.
“I—I—ought to have left here, before,” said Harry.
“You should, indeed,” replied Rose. “Forgive me for saying so, but I wish you had.”
“I was brought here, by the most dreadful and agonising of all apprehensions,” said the young man;“the fear of losing the one dear being on whom my every wish and hope are fixed.You had been dying; trembling between earth and heaven. We know that when the young, the beautiful,and good, are visited with sickness, their pure spirits insensibly turn towards their bright home of lasting rest; we know, Heaven help us!that the best and fairest of our kind, too often fade in blooming.”
There were tears in the eyes of the gentle girl, as these words were spoken;and when one fell upon the flower over which she bent, and glistened brightly in its cup,making it more beautiful, it seemed as though the outpouring of her fresh young heart,claimed kindred naturally, with the loveliest things in nature.
“A creature,” continued the young man, passionately,“a creature as fair and innocent of guile as one of God’s own angels, fluttered between life and death. Oh!who could hope, when the distant world to which she was akin, half opened to her view,that she would return to the sorrow and calamity of this!Rose, Rose, to know that you were passing away like some soft shadow, which a light from above,casts upon the earth; to have no hope that you would be spared to those who linger here;hardly to know a reason why you should be;to feel that you belonged to that bright sphere whither so many of the fairest and the best have winged their early flight;and yet to pray, amid all these consolations,that you might be restored to those who loved you—these were distractions almost too great to bear.They were mine, by day and night; and with them, came such a rushing torrent of fears,and apprehensions, and selfish regrets, lest you should die,and never know how devotedly I loved you, as almost bore down sense and reason in its course.You recovered. Day by day, and almost hour by hour, some drop of health came back,and mingling with the spent and feeble stream of life which circulated languidly within you,swelled it again to a high and rushing tide. I have watched you change almost from death, to life,with eyes that turned blind with their eagerness and deep affection.Do not tell me that you wish I had lost this; for it has softened my heart to all mankind.”
“I did not mean that,” said Rose, weeping; “I only wish you had left here,that you might have turned to high and noble pursuits again; to pursuits well worthy of you.”
“There is no pursuit more worthy of me: more worthy of the highest nature that exists:than the struggle to win such a heart as yours,” said the young man, taking her hand. “Rose, my own dear Rose!For years—for years—I have loved you; hoping to win my way to fame,and then come proudly home and tell you it had been pursued only for you to share; thinking,in my daydreams, how I would remind you, in that happy moment,of the many silent tokens I had given of a boy’s attachment, and claim your hand,as in redemption of some old mute contract that had been sealed between us!That time has not arrived; but here, with not fame won, and no young vision realised,I offer you the heart so long your own,and stake my all upon the words with which you greet the offer.”
“Your behaviour has ever been kind and noble.” said Rose,mastering the emotions by which she was agitated.“As you believe that I am not insensible or ungrateful, so hear my answer.”
“It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, dear Rose?”
“It is,” replied Rose, “that you must endeavour to forget me;not as your old and dearly-attached companion, for that would wound me deeply; but,as the object of your love. Look into the world; think how many hearts you would be proud to gain,are there. Confide some other passion to me, if you will; I will be the truest, warmest, and most faithful friend you have.”
There was a pause, during which, Rose, who had covered her face with one hand,gave free vent to her tears. Harry still retained the other.
“And your reasons, Rose,” he said, at length, in a low voice; “your reasons for this decision?”
“You have a right to know them,” rejoined Rose. “You can say nothing to alter my resolution.It is a duty that I must perform. I owe it, alike to others, and to myself.”
“To yourself?”
“Yes, Harry. I owe it to myself, that I, a friendless, portionless, girl,with a blight upon my name, should not give your friends reason to suspect that I had sordidly yielded to your first passion,and fastened myself, a clog, on all your hopes and projects. I owe it to you and yours,to prevent you from opposing, in the warmth of your generous nature,this great obstacle to your progress in the world.”
“If your inclinations chime with your sense of duty—” Harry began.
“They do not,” replied Rose, colouring deeply.
“Then you return my love?” said Harry. “Say but that, dear Rose; say but that;and soften the bitterness of this hard disappointment!”
“If I could have done so, without doing heavy wrong to him I loved,” rejoined Rose, “I could have—”