CONTAINS SOME INTRODUCTORY PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO A
YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO NOW ARRIVES UPON THE SCENE, AND A NEW
ADVENTURE WHICH HAPPENED TO OLIVER.
IT was almost too much happiness to bear. Oliver felt stunned and
stupified by the unexpected intelligence; he could not weep, or speak,
or rest. He had scarcely the power of understanding anything that had
passed, until, after a long ramble in the quiet evening air, a burst
of tears came to his relief, and he seemed to awaken all at once to
a full sense of the joyful change that had occurred, and the almost
insupportable load of anguish which had been taken from his breast.
The night was fast closing in when he returned homewards, laden with
flowers which he had culled with peculiar care for the adornment of
the sick chamber. As he walked briskly along the road, he heard behind
him the noise of some vehicle approaching at a furious pace. Looking
round, he saw that it was a post-chaise, driven at great speed; and as
the horses were galloping, and the road was narrow, he stood leaning
against a gate until it should have passed him by.
As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white nightcap,
whose face seemed familiar to him, although his view was so brief
that he could not identify the person. In another second or two, the
nightcap was thrust out of the chaise-window, and a stentorian voice
bellowed to the driver to stop, which he did as soon as he could pull
up his horses, when the nightcap once again appeared, and the same
voice called Oliver by his name.
“Here!” cried the voice. “Master Oliver, what’s the news? Miss
Rose—Master O-li-ver.”
“Is it you, Giles?” cried Oliver, running up to the chaise-door.
Giles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some reply,
when he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the
other corner of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the news.
“In a word,” cried the gentleman, “better or worse?”
“Better—much better!” replied Oliver, hastily.
“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed the gentleman. “You are sure?”
“Quite, sir,” replied Oliver; “the change took place only a few hours
ago, and Mr. Losberne says, that all danger is at an end.”
The gentleman said not another word, but, opening the chaise-door,
leaped out, and taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside.
“This is quite certain?—there is no possibility of any mistake on your
part, my boy, is there?” demanded the gentleman, in a tremulous voice.
“Pray do not deceive me by awakening any 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 further
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
upon 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 portmanteaus, 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, and
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 demeanour singularly easy
and prepossessing. Notwithstanding the differences 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, even 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, and the meeting did not take place without great emotion
on both sides.
“Oh, mother!” whispered the young man, “why did you not write before?”
“I did write,” 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, or I been happy 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 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 well deserves the best and purest love that 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
so much a boy as not to know my own mind, or to mistake the impulses of
my own soul?”
“I think, my dear fellow,” 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, ambitious young man
has a wife on whose name 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 connexion he formed in early life, and she may have the pain and
torture of knowing that he does so.”
“Mother,” said the young man, impatiently, “he would be a mere 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 undisguised 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, or
view, or 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 warm feelings 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,—“I have considered
for years—considered almost 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, anxiously.
“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 that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all
matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic.”
“What do you mean?”
“That I leave to you to discover,” replied Mrs. Maylie. “I must go back
to Rose. God bless you!”
“I shall see you again to-night?” 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 that,” 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 housebreakers?” said the
doctor, maliciously.
“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 so well. 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
majestic 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 twenty-five pounds for his sole use and benefit. At this, the two
women-servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr.
Giles would begin to be quite proud now; whereunto 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 so much in need.
Oliver rose next morning in better heart, and went about his usual
early 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 and fragrance. The
melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to
hang for days past over every object, beautiful as they 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 exercises 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 require 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 behind-hand in these respects, however, 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 and surely
recovering.
Nor did Oliver’s time hang heavy upon 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 as it pleases. 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 even if we dream, 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 a matter
of impossibility to separate the two. Nor is this the most striking
phenomenon incidental to such a state. It is an ascertained 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.
[Illustration: _Monks and the Jew._]
Oliver knew perfectly well that he was in his own little room, that his
books were lying on the table before him, and 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 him, sure
enough. Come away.”
“He!” the other man seemed to answer; “could I mistake him, think you?
If a crowd of devils 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 should know, if there wasn’t a mark above it, that he lay
buried there. Wither his flesh, I should!”
The man seemed to say this with such dreadful hatred that Oliver awoke
with the fear, and started up.
Good God! what was that which sent the blood tingling to his heart,
and deprived him of voice, or 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 very man who had
accosted him at 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, and then, leaping from the window into the garden, called
loudly for help.