“It must have been a dream, Oliver,” said Harry Maylie.
“Oh, no, indeed, sir,” replied Oliver, shuddering at the very
recollection of the old wretch’s countenance; “I saw him too
plainly for that. I saw them both, as plainly as I see you now.”
“Who was the other?” inquired Harry and Mr. Losberne,
together.
“The very same man I told you of, who came so suddenly upon
me at the inn,” said Oliver. “We had our eyes fixed full upon each
other; and I could swear to him.”
“They took this way?” demanded Harry; “are you sure?”
“As I am that the men were at the window,” replied Oliver,
pointing down, as he spoke, to the hedge which divided the
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cottage garden from the meadow. “The tall man leaped over, just
there; and the Jew, running a few paces to the right, crept through
that gap.”
The two gentlemen watched Oliver’s earnest face, as he spoke,
and looking from him to each other, seemed to feel satisfied of the
accuracy of what he said. Still, in no direction were there any
appearances of the trampling of men in hurried flight. The grass
was long; but it was trodden down nowhere, save where their own
feet had crushed it. The sides and brinks of the dishes were of
damp clay; but in no one place could they discern the print of
men’s shoes, or the slightest mark which would indicate that any
feet had pressed the ground for hours before.
“This is strange!” said Harry.
“Strange?” echoed the doctor. “Blathers and Duff, themselves,
could make nothing of it.”
Notwithstanding the evidently useless nature of their search,
they did not desist until the coming on of night rendered its
further prosecution hopeless; and even then, they gave it up with
reluctance. Giles was despatched to the different ale-houses in the
village, furnished with the best description Oliver could give of the
appearance and dress of the strangers. Of these, the Jew was, at all
events, sufficiently remarkable to be remembered, supposing he
had been seen drinking, or loitering about; but Giles returned
without any intelligence, calculated to dispel or lessen the
mystery.
On the next day, fresh search was made, and the inquiries
renewed; but with no better success. On the day following, Oliver
and Mr. Maylie repaired to the market-town, in the hope of seeing
or hearing something of the men there; but this effort was equally
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fruitless. After a few days, the affair began to be forgotten, as most
affairs are, when wonder, having no fresh food to support it, dies
away of itself.
Meanwhile, Rose was rapidly recovering. She had left her
room; was able to go out; and mixing once more with the family,
carried joy into the hearts of all.
But, although this happy change had a visible effect on the little
circle, and although cheerful voices and merry laughter were once
more heard in the cottage, there was at times, an unwonted
restraint upon some there, even upon Rose herself, which Oliver
could not fail to remark. Mr. Maylie and her son were often
closeted together for a long time; and more than once Rose
appeared with traces of tears upon her face. After Mr. Losberne
had fixed a day for his departure to Chertsey, these symptoms
increased; and it became evident that something was in progress
which affected the peace of the young lady, and of somebody else
besides.
At length, one morning, when Rose was alone in the breakfast-
parlour, Harry Maylie entered; and, with some hesitation, begged
permission to speak with her for a few moments.
“A few—a very few—will suffice, Rose,” said the young man,
drawing his chair towards her. “What I shall have to say, has
already presented itself to your mind; the most cherished hopes of
my heart are not unknown to you, though from my lips you have
not yet heard them stated.”
Rose had been very pale from the moment of his entrance; but
that might have been the effect of her recent illness. She merely
bowed; and bending over some plants that stood near, waited in
silence for him to proceed. ought to have left here, before,” said
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Harry.
“You should, indeed,” replied Rose. “Forgive me for saying so,
but I wish you had.”
“I was brought here, by the most dreadful and agonising of all
apprehensions,” said the young man: “the fear of losing the one
dear being on whom my every wish and hope are fixed. You had
been dying, trembling between earth and heaven. We know that
when the young, the beautiful, and good, are visited with sickness,
their pure spirits insensibly turn towards their bright home of
lasting rest; we know, Heaven help us, that the best and fairest of
our kind, too often fade in blooming.”
There were tears in the eyes of the gentle girl, as these words
were spoken; and when one fell upon the flower over which she
bent, and glistened brightly in its cup, making it more beautiful, it
seemed as though the out-pouring of her fresh young heart,
claimed kindred naturally, with the loveliest things in nature.
“A creature,” continued the young man passionately, “a
creature as fair and innocent of guile as one of God’s own angels,
fluttered between life and death. Oh, who could hope, when the
distant world to which she was akin, half-opened to her view, that
she would return to the sorrow and calamity of this, Rose, Rose, to
know that you were passing away like some soft shadow, which a
light from above casts upon the earth; to have no hope that you
would be spared to those who linger here; hardly to know a reason
why you should be; to feel that you belonged to that bright sphere
whither so many of the fairest and the best have winged their early
flight; and yet to pray, amid all these consolations, that you might
be restored to those who loved you—these were distractions
almost too great to bear. They were mine, by day and night; and
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with them, came such a rushing torrent of fears, and
apprehensions, and selfish regrets, lest you should die, and never
know how devotedly I loved you, as almost bore down sense and
reason in its course. You recovered. Day by day, and almost hour
by hour, some drop of health came back, and mingling with the
spent and feeble stream of life which circulated languidly within
you, swelled it again to a high and rushing tide. I have watched
you change almost from death to life, with eyes that turned blind
with their eagerness and deep affection. Do not tell me that you
wish I had lost this; for it has softened my heart to all mankind.”
“I did not mean that,” said Rose, weeping; “I only wish you had
left here, that you might have turned to high and noble pursuits
again; to pursuits well worthy of you.”
“There is no pursuit more worthy of me, more worthy of the
highest nature that exists, than the struggle to win such a heart as
yours,” said the young man, taking her hand. “Rose, my own dear
Rose! For years—for years—I have loved you; hoping to win my
way to fame, and then come proudly home and tell you it had been
pursued only for you to share; thinking, in my day-dreams, how I
would remind you, in that happy moment, of the many silent
tokens I had given of a boy’s attachment, and claim your hand, as
in redemption of some old, mute contract that had been sealed
between us! That time has not arrived; but here, with no fame
won, and no young vision realised, I offer you the heart so long
your own, and stake my all upon the words with which you greet
the offer.”
“Your behaviour has ever been kind and noble,” said Rose,
mastering the emotions by which she was agitated. “As you
believe that I am not insensible or ungrateful, so hear my answer.”
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“It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; is it, dear Rose?”
“It is,” replied Rose, “that you must endeavour to forget me; not
as your old and dearly-attached companion, for that would wound
me deeply; but, as the object of your love. Look into the world;
think how many hearts you would be proud to gain are there.
Confide some other passion to me, if you will; I will be the truest,
warmest, and most faithful friend you have.”
There was a pause, during which, Rose, who had covered her
face with one hand, gave free vent to her tears. Harry still retained
the other.
“And your reasons, Rose,” he said, at length, in a low voice;
“your reasons for this decision?”
“You have a right to know them,” rejoined Rose. “You can say
nothing to alter my decision. It is a duty that I must perform. I owe
it, alike to others, and to myself.”
“To yourself?”
“Yes, Harry. I owe it to myself, that I, a friendless, portion less
girl, with a blight upon my name, should not give your friends
reason to suspect that I had sordidly yielded to your first passion,
and fastened myself, a clog, on all your hopes and projects. I owe it
to you and yours, to prevent you from opposing, in the warmth of
your generous nature, this great obstacle to your progress in the
world.”
“If your inclinations chime with your sense of duty—” Harry
began.
“They do not,” replied Rose, colouring deeply.
“Then you return my love?” said Harry. “Say but that, dear
Rose; say but that; and soften the bitterness of this hard
disappointment!”
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“If I could have done so, without doing heavy wrong to him I
loved,” rejoined Rose, “I could have—”
“Have received this declaration very indifferently?” said Harry.
“Do not conceal that from me, at least, Rose.”
“I could,” said Rose. “Stay,” she added, disengaging her hand,
“why should we prolong this painful interview? Most painful to
me, and yet productive of lasting happiness, notwithstanding; for
it will be happiness to know that I once held the high place in your
regard which I now occupy, and every triumph you achieve in life
will animate me with new fortitude and firmness. Farewell, Harry!
As we have met today, we meet no more; but in other relations
than those in which this conversation would have placed us, we
may be long and happily entwined; and may every blessing that
the prayers of a true and earnest heart can call down from the
source of all truth and sincerity, cheer and prosper you!”
“Another word, Rose,” said Harry. “Your reason in your own
lips, let me hear it?”
“The prospect before you,” answered Rose firmly, “is a brilliant
one. All the honours to which great talents and powerful
connections can help men in public life, are in store for you. But
those connections are proud; and I will neither mingle with such
as may hold in scorn the mother who gave me life, nor bring
disgrace or failure on the son of her who had so well supplied that
mother’s place. In a word,” said the young lady, turning away, as
her temporary firmness forsook her, “there is a stain upon my
name, which the world visits on innocent heads. I will carry it into
no blood but my own; and the reproach shall rest alone on me.”
“One word more, Rose. Dearest Rose! one more!” cried Harry,
throwing himself before her. “If I had been less—less fortunate,
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the world would call it—if some obscure and peaceful life had
been my destiny—if I had been poor, sick, helpless—would you
have turned from me then? Or has my probable advancement to
riches and honour, given this scruple birth?”
“Do you press me to reply,” answered Rose. “The question does
not arise, and never will. It is unfair, almost unkind, to urge it.”
“If your answer be what I almost dare to hope it is,” retorted
Harry, “it will shed a gleam of happiness upon my lonely way, and
light the path before me. It is not an idle thing to do so much, by
the utterance of a few brief words, for one who loves you beyond
all else. Oh, Rose! in the name of my ardent and enduring
attachment; in the name of all I have suffered for you, and all you
doom me to undergo; answer me this one question!”
“Then, if your lot had been differently cast,” rejoined Rose; “if
you had been even a little, but not so far, above me; if I could have
been a help and comfort to you in any humble scene of peace and
retirement, and not a blot and drawback in ambitious and
distinguished crowds, I should have been spared this trial. I have
every reason to be happy, very happy, now; but then, Harry, I own
I should have been happier.”
Busy recollections of old hopes, cherished as a girl, long ago,
crowded into the mind of Rose, while making this avowal; but they
brought tears with them, as old hopes will when they come back
withered; and they relieved her.
“I cannot help this weakness, and it makes my purpose
stronger,” said Rose, extending her hand. “I must leave you now,
indeed.”
“I ask one promise,” said Harry. “Once, and only once-more—
say within a year, but it may be much sooner—I may speak to you
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again on this subject, for the last time?”
“Not to press me to alter my right determination,” replied Rose,
with a melancholy smile; “it will be useless.”
“No,” said Harry; “to hear you repeat it, if you will—finally
repeat it! I will lay at your feet, whatever of station or fortune I
may possess; and if you still adhere to your present resolution, will
not seek, by word or act, to change it.”
“Then let it be so,” rejoined Rose; “it is but one pang the more,
and by that time I may be enabled to bear it better.”
She extended her hand again. But the young man caught her to
his bosom; and, imprinting one kiss on her beautiful forehead,
hurried from the room.
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Chapter 36
Is a very short one, and may appear of no great
importance in its place; but it should be read
notwithstanding, as a sequel to the last, and a key to
one that will follow when its time arrives.
“A nd so you are resolved to be my travelling
companion this morning; eh?” said the doctor, as
Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the breakfast-
table. “Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two half-
hours together!”
“You will tell me a different tale one of these days,” said Harry,
colouring without any perceptible reason.
“I hope I may have good cause to do so,” replied Mr. Losberne;
“though I confess I don’t think I shall. But yesterday morning you
have made up your mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to
accompany your mother, like a dutiful son, to the seaside. Before
noon, you announce that you are going to do me the honour of
accompanying me as far as I go, on your road to London. And at
night, you urge me, with great mystery, to start before the ladies
are stirring; the consequence of which is, that young Oliver here is
pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging the
meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn’t it,
Oliver!”
“I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when
you and Mr. Maylie went away, sir,” rejoined Oliver.
“That’s a fine fellow,” said the doctor; “you shall come and see
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me when you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry, has any
communication from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety
on your part to be gone?”
“The great nobs,” replied Harry, “under which designation I
presume, you include my most stately uncle, have not
communicated with me at all, since I have been here; nor, at this
time of the year, is it likely that anything would occur to render
necessary my immediate attendance among them.”
“Well,” said the doctor, “you are a queer fellow. But of course
they will get you into Parliament at the election before Christmas,
and these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for
political life. There’s something in that. Good training is always
desirable, whether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes.”
Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short
dialogue by one or two remarks that would have staggered the
doctor not a little; but he contented himself with saying, “We shall
see,” and pursued the subject no further. The post-chaise drove up
to the door shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the
baggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it packed.
“Oliver,” said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, “let me speak a
word with you.”
Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie
beckoned him; much surprised at the mixture of sadness and
boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed.
“You can write now?” said Harry, laying his hand upon his
arm.
“I hope so, sir,” replied Oliver.
