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 hay-makers 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 marketplace 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
hostler; 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
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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 accidentally 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 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
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in a fit.
Oliver gazed, for a moment, at the struggle 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-
complacency from his memory.
Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse; before midnight 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 footsteps, 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 tramping 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 uttered, 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
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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 at 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 joys 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 blithsome
music in the songs of the summer birds; such freedom in the rapid
flight of the rook, careering overhead; so much of life and
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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 over 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
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could have driven her away. He learned 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; and 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.
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Chapter 34
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
night-cap, 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 night-cap was thrust out of the chaise window,
and a stentorian voice bellowed to the driver to stop; which he did,
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as soon as he could pull up his horses. Then, the night-cap 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 it you, Giles?” cried Oliver, running up to the chaise door.
Giles popped out his night-cap 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 did not say 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
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his feelings were—and so stood apart, feigning to be occupied with
his nosegay.
All this time, Mr. Giles, with the white night-cap 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 night-cap for some more
appropriate covering, or we shall be taken for madmen.”
Mr. Giles, reminded of his unbecoming costume, snatched off
and pocketed his night-cap; 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 newcomer. He seemed about
five-and-twenty years of age, and was of the middle height; his
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countenance was frank and handsome; and his demeanour 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
known 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,
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