CHAPTER XXXIII. 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 stupified 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 homewards, laden with flowers which he had culled with peculiar care for the adornment As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white nightcap, 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, when the nightcap once again appeared, and the same voice called Oliver by his name. “Here!” cried the voice. “Master 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 nightcap again, preparatory “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. “This is quite certain?—there is no possibility of any mistake on your part, my boy, is there?” demanded the gentleman, in a tremulous voice. “Pray do not deceive me by awakening any hopes that are not to be fulfilled.” “I would not for the world, sir,” replied Oliver. “Indeed you may believe me. Mr. 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 further 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 upon 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 “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 portmanteaus, 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, and Giles, Mr. Maylie, and Oliver, followed at their leisure. As they walked along, Oliver glanced from Mrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to receive her son when he reached the cottage, and the meeting did not take place without great emotion on both sides. “Oh, mother!” whispered the young man, “why did you not write before?” “I did write,” 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 “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 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 well deserves the best and purest love that 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 so much a boy as not to know my own mind, or to mistake the impulses of my own soul?” “I think, my dear fellow,” 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, ambitious young man has a wife on whose name 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 connexion he formed in early life, and she may have the pain and torture of knowing that he does so.” “Mother,” said the young man, impatiently, “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 undisguised 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, or view, or 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 warm feelings 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,—“I have considered for years—considered almost 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, anxiously. “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 “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 that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic.” “What do you mean?” “That I leave to you to discover,” replied Mrs. Maylie. “I must go back to Rose. 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 that,” 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 housebreakers?” said the doctor, maliciously. “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 so well. 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 Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away, for the doctor was in 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 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 Nor did Oliver’s time hang heavy upon his hands, although the young lady had not yet left her chamber, and there were no evening walks, 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 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 as it pleases. 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 even if we dream, 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 a matter of impossibility to separate the two. Nor is this the most striking phenomenon incidental to such a state. It is an ascertained fact, that although our senses of touch and sight be for the time dead, yet our Oliver knew perfectly well that he was in his own little room, that his books were lying on the table before him, and 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 him, sure enough. Come away.” “He!” the other man seemed to answer; “could I mistake him, think you? If a crowd of devils were to put themselves into his exact The man seemed to say this with such dreadful hatred that Oliver awoke with the fear, and started up. Good God! what was that which sent the blood tingling to his heart, and deprived him of voice, or 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 at 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 |