Oliver was surprised to see that as Mrs.Maylie said these words,she checked her lamentations as though by one effort;and drawing herself up as she spoke,became composed and firm.He was still more astonished to find that this firmness lasted;and that, under all the care and watching which ensued,Mrs. Maylie was ever ready and collected:performing all the duties which had devolved upon her,steadily, and, to all external appearances,even cheerfully. But he was young,and did not know what strong minds are capable of,under trying circumstances. How should he,when their possessors so seldom know themselves?
An anxious night ensued. When morning came, Mrs.Maylie’s predictions were but too well verified.Rose was in the first stage of a high and dangerous fever.
“We must be active, Oliver,and not give way to useless grief,” said Mrs. Maylie,laying her finger on her lip,as she looked steadily into his face;“this letter must be sent,with all possible expedition, to Mr. Losberne.It must be carried to the market-town:which is not more than four miles off,by the footpath across the field:and thence dispatched, by an express on horseback,straight to Chertsey.The people at the inn will undertake to do this:and I can trust to you to see it done, I know.”
Oliver could make no reply,but looked his anxiety to be gone at once.
“Here is another letter,” said Mrs. Maylie,pausing to reflect; “but whether to send it now,or wait until I see how Rose goes on, I scarcely know.I would not forward it, unless I feared the worst.”
“Is it for Chertsey, too, ma’am?” inquired Oliver; impatient to execute his commission,and holding out his trembling hand for the letter.
“No,” replied the old lady,giving it to him mechanically. Oliver glanced at it,and saw that it was directed to Harry Maylie, Esquire,at some great lord’s house in the country; where,he could not make out.
“Shall it go, ma’am?” asked Oliver, looking up, impatiently.
“I think not,” replied Mrs. Maylie, taking it back.“I will wait until tomorrow.”
With these words, she gave Oliver her purse,and he started off, without more delay,at the greatest speed he could muster.
Swiftly he ran across the fields,and down the little lanes which sometimes divided them:now almost hidden by the high corn on either side,and now emerging on an open field,where the mowers and haymakers were busy at their work:nor did he stop once, save now and then,for a few seconds, to recover breath, until he came,in a great heat, and covered with dust,on the little market-place of the market-town.
Here he paused, and looked about for the inn.There were a white bank, and a red brewery,and a yellow town-hall;and in one corner there was a large house,with all the wood about it painted green:before which was the sign of “The George.” To this he hastened, as soon as it caught his eye.
He spoke to a postboy who was dozing under the gateway;and who, after hearing what he wanted,referred him to the ostler;who after hearing all he had to say again,referred him to the landlord;who was a tall gentleman in a blue neckcloth,a white hat, drab breeches,and boots with tops to match,leaning against a pump by the stable-door,picking his teeth with a silver toothpick.
This gentleman walked with much deliberation into the bar to make out the bill:which took a long time making out:and after it was ready, and paid,a horse had to be saddled, and a man to be dressed,which took up ten good minutes more.Meanwhile Oliver was in such a desperate state of impatience and anxiety,that he felt as if he could have jumped upon the horse himself,and galloped away, full tear, to the next stage.At length, all was ready;and the little parcel having been handed up,with many injunctions and entreaties for its speedy delivery,the man set spurs to his horse,and rattling over the uneven paving of the market-place,was out of the town,and galloping along the turnpike-road,in a couple of minutes.
As it was something to feel certain that assistance was sent for,and that no time had been lost,Oliver hurried up the inn-yard,with a somewhat lighter heart.He was turning out of the gateway when he accidently stumbled against a tall man wrapped in a cloak, who was at that moment coming out of the inn door.
“Hah!” cried the man, fixing his eyes on Oliver,and suddenly recoiling. “What the devil’s this?”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Oliver;“I was in a great hurry to get home,and didn’t see you were coming.”
“Death!” muttered the man to himself,glaring at the boy with his large dark eyes.“Who would have thought it!Grind him to ashes!He’d start up from a stone coffin, to come in my way!”
“I am sorry,” stammered Oliver,confused by the strange man’s wild look.“I hope I have not hurt you!”
“Rot you!” murmured the man, in a horrible passion;between his clenched teeth;“if I had only had the courage to say the word,I might have been free of you in a night.Curses on your head, and black death on your heart, you imp!What are you doing here?”
The man shook his fist,as he uttered these words incoherently.He advanced towards Oliver,as if with the intention of aiming a blow at him,but fell violently on the ground: writhing and foaming, in a fit.
Oliver gazed, for a moment,at the struggles of the madman (for such he supposed him to be);and then darted into the house for help.Having seen him safely carried into the hotel,he turned his face homewards,running as fast as he could, to make up for lost time:and recalling with a great deal of astonishment and some fear,the extraordinary behaviour of the person from whom he had just parted.
The circumstance did not dwell in his recollection long,however: for when he reached the cottage,there was enough to occupy his mind,and to drive all considerations of self completely from his memory.
Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse;before mid-night she was delirious.A medical practitioner, who resided on the spot,was in constant attendance upon her;and after first seeing the patient, he had taken Mrs.Maylie aside, and pronounced her disorder to be one of a most alarming nature.“In fact,” he said,“it would be little short of a miracle, if she recovered.”
How often did Oliver start from his bed that night,and stealing out, with noiseless footstep,to the staircase, listen for the slightest sound from the sick chamber!How often did a tremble shake his frame,and cold drops of terror start upon his brow,when a sudden trampling of feet caused him to fear that something too dreadful to think of, had even then occurred!And what had been the fervency of all the prayers he had ever muttered,compared with those he poured forth, now,in the agony and passion of his supplication for the life and health of the gentle creature, who was tottering on the deep grave’s verge!
Oh!the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense,of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love,is trembling in the balance!Oh!the racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind,and make the heart beat violently,and the breath come thick,by the force of the images they conjure up before it;the desperate anxiety _to be doing something_ to relieve the pain,or lessen the danger,which we have no power to alleviate;the sinking of soul and spirit,which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces;what tortures can equal these;what reflections or endeavours can,in the full tide and fever of the time, allay them!