EXPERIENCES A SUDDEN CHECK
Spring flew swiftly by, and summer came. If the village had been
beautiful at first it was now in the full glow and luxuriance of its
richness. The great trees, which had looked shrunken and bare in
the earlier months, had now burst into strong life and health; and
stretching forth their green arms over the thirsty ground, converted
open and naked spots into choice nooks, where was a deep and
pleasant shade from which to look upon the wide prospect, steeped
in sunshine, which lay stretched beyond. The earth had donned her
mantle of brightest green; and shed her richest perfumes abroad.
It was the prime and vigour of the year; all things were glad and
flourishing.
Still, the same quiet life went on at the little cottage, and the
same cheerful serenity prevailed among its inmates. Oliver had
long since grown stout and healthy; but health or sickness made no
difference in his warm feelings of a great many people. He was still
the same gentle, attached, affectionate creature that he had been
when pain and suffering had wasted his strength, and when he was
dependent for every slight attention, and comfort on those who
tended him.
One beautiful night, when they had taken a longer walk than was
customary with them: for the day had been unusually warm, and there
was a brilliant moon, and a light wind had sprung up, which was
unusually refreshing. Rose had been in high spirits, too, and they
had walked on, in merry conversation, until they had far exceeded
their ordinary bounds. Mrs. Maylie being fatigued, they returned
more slowly home. The young lady merely throwing off her simple
bonnet, sat down to the piano as usual. After running abstractedly
over the keys for a few minutes, she fell into a low and very
solemn air; and as she played it, they heard a sound as if she were
weeping.
‘Rose, my dear!’ said the elder lady.
Rose made no reply, but played a little quicker, as though the words
had roused her from some painful thoughts.
‘Rose, my love!’ cried Mrs. Maylie, rising hastily, and bending over
her. ‘What is this? In tears! My dear child, what distresses you?’
‘Nothing, aunt; nothing,’ replied the young lady. ‘I don’t know what
it is; I can’t describe it; but I feel--’
‘Not ill, my love?’ interposed Mrs. Maylie.
‘No, no! Oh, not ill!’ replied Rose: shuddering as though some
deadly chillness were passing over her, while she spoke; ‘I shall be
better presently. Close the window, pray!’
Oliver hastened to comply with her request. The young lady, making
an effort to recover her cheerfulness, strove to play some livelier
tune; but her fingers dropped powerless over the keys. Covering
her face with her hands, she sank upon a sofa, and gave vent to the
tears which she was now unable to repress.
‘My child!’ said the elderly lady, folding her arms about her, ‘I
never saw you so before.’
‘I would not alarm you if I could avoid it,’ rejoined Rose; ‘but
indeed I have tried very hard, and cannot help this. I fear I _am_
ill, aunt.’
She was, indeed; for, when candles were brought, they saw that in
the very short time which had elapsed since their return home,
the hue of her countenance had changed to a marble whiteness. Its
expression had lost nothing of its beauty; but it was changed; and
there was an anxious haggard look about the gentle face, which it
had never worn before. Another minute, and it was suffused with a
crimson flush: and a heavy wildness came over the soft blue eye.
Again this disappeared, like the shadow thrown by a passing cloud;
and she was once more deadly pale.
Oliver, who watched the old lady anxiously, observed that she was
alarmed by these appearances; and so in truth, was he; but seeing
that she affected to make light of them, he endeavoured to do the
same, and they so far succeeded, that when Rose was persuaded by
her aunt to retire for the night, she was in better spirits; and
appeared even in better health: assuring them that she felt certain
she should rise in the morning, quite well.
‘I hope,’ said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie returned, ‘that nothing is
the matter? She don’t look well to-night, but--’
The old lady motioned to him not to speak; and sitting herself down
in a dark corner of the room, remained silent for some time. At
length, she said, in a trembling voice:
‘I hope not, Oliver. I have been very happy with her for some years:
too happy, perhaps. It may be time that I should meet with some
misfortune; but I hope it is not this.’
‘What?’ inquired Oliver.
‘The heavy blow,’ said the old lady, ‘of losing the dear girl who
has so long been my comfort and happiness.’
‘Oh! God forbid!’ exclaimed Oliver, hastily.
‘Amen to that, my child!’ said the old lady, wringing her hands.
‘Surely there is no danger of anything so dreadful?’ said Oliver.
‘Two hours ago, she was quite well.’
‘She is very ill now,’ rejoined Mrs. Maylies; ‘and will be worse, I
am sure. My dear, dear Rose! Oh, what shall I do without her!’
She gave way to such great grief, that Oliver, suppressing his own
emotion, ventured to remonstrate with her; and to beg, earnestly,
that, for the sake of the dear young lady herself, she would be more
calm.
‘And consider, ma’am,’ said Oliver, as the tears forced themselves
into his eyes, despite of his efforts to the contrary. ‘Oh! consider
how young and good she is, and what pleasure and comfort she gives
to all about her. I am sure--certain--quite certain--that, for your
sake, who are so good yourself; and for her own; and for the sake of
all she makes so happy; she will not die. Heaven will never let her
die so young.’
‘Hush!’ said Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand on Oliver’s head.
‘You think like a child, poor boy. But you teach me my duty,
notwithstanding. I had forgotten it for a moment, Oliver, but I hope
I may be pardoned, for I am old, and have seen enough of illness and
death to know the agony of separation from the objects of our love.
I have seen enough, too, to know that it is not always the youngest
and best who are spared to those that love them; but this should
give us comfort in our sorrow; for Heaven is just; and such things
teach us, impressively, that there is a brighter world than this;
and that the passage to it is speedy. God’s will be done! I love
her; and He knows how well!’
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 to-morrow.’
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!
Morning came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People
spoke in whispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to
time; women and children went away in tears. All the livelong day,
and for hours after it had grown dark, Oliver paced softly up and
down the garden, raising his eyes every instant to the sick chamber,
and shuddering to see the darkened window, looking as if death lay
stretched inside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived. ‘It is
hard,’ said the good doctor, turning away as he spoke; ‘so young; so
much beloved; but there is very little hope.’
Another morning. The sun shone brightly; as brightly as if it looked
upon no misery or care; and, with every leaf and flower in full
bloom about her; with life, and health, and sounds and sights of
joy, surrounding her on every side: the fair young creature lay,
wasting fast. Oliver crept away to the old churchyard, and sitting
down on one of the green mounds, wept and prayed for her, in
silence.
There was such peace and beauty in the scene; so much of brightness
and mirth in the sunny landscape; such blithesome music in the songs
of the summer birds; such freedom in the rapid flight of the rook,
careering overhead; so much of life and joyousness in all; that,
when the boy raised his aching eyes, and looked about, the thought
instinctively occurred to him, that this was not a time for death;
that Rose could surely never die when humbler things were all so
glad and gay; that graves were for cold and cheerless winter: not
for sunlight and fragrance. He almost thought that shrouds were
for the old and shrunken; and that they never wrapped the young and
graceful form in their ghastly folds.
A knell from the church bell broke harshly on these youthful
thoughts. Another! Again! It was tolling for the funeral service.
A group of humble mourners entered the gate: wearing white favours;
for the corpse was young. They stood uncovered by a grave; and there
was a mother--a mother once--among the weeping train. But the sun
shone brightly, and the birds sang on.
Oliver turned homeward, thinking on the many kindnesses he had
received from the young lady, and wishing that the time could
come again, that he might never cease showing her how grateful and
attached he was. He had no cause for self-reproach on the score of
neglect, or want of thought, for he had been devoted to her service;
and yet a hundred little occasions rose up before him, on which
he fancied he might have been more zealous, and more earnest, and
wished he had been. We need be careful how we deal with those about
us, when every death carries to some small circle of survivors,
thoughts of so much omitted, and so little done--of so many things
forgotten, and so many more which might have been repaired! There
is no remorse so deep as that which is unavailing; if we would be
spared its tortures, let us remember this, in time.
When he reached home Mrs. Maylie was sitting in the little parlour.
Oliver’s heart sank at sight of her; for she had never left the
bedside of her niece; and he trembled to think what change could
have driven her away. He learnt that she had fallen into a deep
sleep, from which she would waken, either to recovery and life, or
to bid them farewell, and die.
They sat, listening, and afraid to speak, for hours. The untasted
meal was removed, with looks which showed that their thoughts were
elsewhere, they watched the sun as he sank lower and lower, and, at
length, cast over sky and earth those brilliant hues which herald
his departure. Their quick ears caught the sound of an approaching
footstep. They both involuntarily darted to the door, as Mr.
Losberne entered.
‘What of Rose?’ cried the old lady. ‘Tell me at once! I can bear it;
anything but suspense! Oh, tell me! in the name of Heaven!’
‘You must compose yourself,’ said the doctor supporting her. ‘Be
calm, my dear ma’am, pray.’
‘Let me go, in God’s name! My dear child! She is dead! She is
dying!’
‘No!’ cried the doctor, passionately. ‘As He is good and merciful,
she will live to bless us all, for years to come.’
The lady fell upon her knees, and tried to fold her hands together;
but the energy which had supported her so long, fled up to Heaven
with her first thanksgiving; and she sank into the friendly arms
which were extended to receive her.