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
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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
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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 tonight?” said the young ma 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.
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“Nothing particular, sir,” replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the
eyes.
“Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any housebreakers?”
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 the attempted robbery to
deposit, 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 would begin to be quite proud now; whereunto Mr. Giles,
pulling out his shirt frill, replied, “No, no”; and that if they
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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 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. 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
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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 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, 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 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
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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 meadowland 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 at its pleasure. So
far as an overpowering heaviness, a prostration of strength, and an
utter inability to control our thoughts of 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,
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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 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
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his heart, and deprived him of his choice, 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 very 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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Chapter 35
Containing The Unsatisfactory Result Of Oliver’s
Adventure; And A Conversation Of Some
Importance Between Harry Maylie And Rose.
When the inmates of the house, attracted by Oliver’s
cries, hurried to the spot from which they proceeded,
they found him, pale and agitated, pointing in the
direction of the meadows behind the house, and scarcely able to
articulate the words, “The Jew! the Jew!”
Mr. Giles was at a loss to comprehend what this outcry meant;
but Harry Maylie, whose perceptions were something quicker, and
who had heard Oliver’s history from his mother, understood it at
once.
“What direction did he take?” he asked, catching up a heavy
stick which was standing in a corner.
“That,” replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man had
taken; “I missed them in an instant.”
“Then, they are in the ditch!” said Harry. “Follow! And keep as
near me as you can.” So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and
darted off with a speed which rendered it matter of exceeding
difficulty for the others to keep near him.
Giles followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed too; and
in the course of a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had been out
walking, and just then returned, tumbled over the hedge after
them, and picking himself up with more agility than he could have
been supposed to possess, struck into the same course at no
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contemptible speed, shouting all the while, most prodigiously, to
know what was the matter.
On they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the
leader, striking off into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver,
began to search, narrowly, the ditch and hedge adjoining; which
afforded time for the remainder of the party to come up; and for
Oliver to communicate to Mr. Losberne the circumstances that
had led to so vigorous a pursuit.
The search was all in vain. There were not even the traces of
recent footsteps to be seen. They stood now on the summit of a
little hill, commanding the open fields in every direction for three
or four miles. There was the village in the hollow on the left; but,
in order to gain that, after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed
out, the men must have made a circuit of open ground, which it
was impossible they could have accomplished in so short a time. A
thick wood skirted the meadowland in another direction; but they
could not have gained that covert for the same reason.
