CHAPTER XXXIV

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 stupefied 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 homeward: 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.

As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white

nitecap, 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. Then, the nightcap

once again appeared: and the same voice called Oliver by his

name.

'Here!' cried the voice. 'Oliver, what's the news? Miss Rose!

Master O-li-ver!'

'Is is 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.

'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 abundently 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 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 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 depost,

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 occurence.

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 it 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 indcidental 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.

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