บทที่ บทที่ 33 · WHEREIN THE HAPPINESS OF OLIVER AND HIS FRIENDS, EXPERIENCES A SUDDEN CHECK

. WHEREIN THE HAPPINESS OF OLIVER AND HIS FRIENDS, EXPERIENCES A SUDDEN CHECK

WHEREIN THE HAPPINESS OF OLIVER AND HIS FRIENDS, EXPERIENCES A SUDDEN

CHECK

Spring flew swiftly by, and summer came. If the village had been

beautiful at first it was now in the full glow and luxuriance of its

richness. The great trees, which had looked shrunken and bare in the

earlier months, had now burst into strong life and health; and

stretching forth their green arms over the thirsty ground, converted

open and naked spots into choice nooks, where was a deep and pleasant

shade from which to look upon the wide prospect, steeped in sunshine,

which lay stretched beyond. The earth had donned her mantle of

brightest green; and shed her richest perfumes abroad. It was the prime

and vigour of the year; all things were glad and flourishing.

Still, the same quiet life went on at the little cottage, and the same

cheerful serenity prevailed among its inmates. Oliver had long since

grown stout and healthy; but health or sickness made no difference in

his warm feelings of a great many people. He was still the same gentle,

attached, affectionate creature that he had been when pain and

suffering had wasted his strength, and when he was dependent for every

slight attention, and comfort on those who tended him.

One beautiful night, when they had taken a longer walk than was

customary with them: for the day had been unusually warm, and there was

a brilliant moon, and a light wind had sprung up, which was unusually

refreshing. Rose had been in high spirits, too, and they had walked on,

in merry conversation, until they had far exceeded their ordinary

bounds. Mrs. Maylie being fatigued, they returned more slowly home. The

young lady merely throwing off her simple bonnet, sat down to the piano

as usual. After running abstractedly over the keys for a few minutes,

she fell into a low and very solemn air; and as she played it, they

heard a sound as if she were weeping.

“Rose, my dear!” said the elder lady.

Rose made no reply, but played a little quicker, as though the words

had roused her from some painful thoughts.

“Rose, my love!” cried Mrs. Maylie, rising hastily, and bending over

her. “What is this? In tears! My dear child, what distresses you?”

“Nothing, aunt; nothing,” replied the young lady. “I don’t know what it

is; I can’t describe it; but I feel—”

“Not ill, my love?” interposed Mrs. Maylie.

“No, no! Oh, not ill!” replied Rose: shuddering as though some deadly

chillness were passing over her, while she spoke; “I shall be better

presently. Close the window, pray!”

Oliver hastened to comply with her request. The young lady, making an

effort to recover her cheerfulness, strove to play some livelier tune;

but her fingers dropped powerless over the keys. Covering her face with

her hands, she sank upon a sofa, and gave vent to the tears which she

was now unable to repress.

“My child!” said the elderly lady, folding her arms about her, “I never

saw you so before.”

“I would not alarm you if I could avoid it,” rejoined Rose; “but indeed

I have tried very hard, and cannot help this. I fear I _am_ ill, aunt.”

She was, indeed; for, when candles were brought, they saw that in the

very short time which had elapsed since their return home, the hue of

her countenance had changed to a marble whiteness. Its expression had

lost nothing of its beauty; but it was changed; and there was an

anxious haggard look about the gentle face, which it had never worn

before. Another minute, and it was suffused with a crimson flush: and a

heavy wildness came over the soft blue eye. Again this disappeared,

like the shadow thrown by a passing cloud; and she was once more deadly

pale.

Oliver, who watched the old lady anxiously, observed that she was

alarmed by these appearances; and so in truth, was he; but seeing that

she affected to make light of them, he endeavoured to do the same, and

they so far succeeded, that when Rose was persuaded by her aunt to

retire for the night, she was in better spirits; and appeared even in

better health: assuring them that she felt certain she should rise in

the morning, quite well.

“I hope,” said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie returned, “that nothing is the

matter? She don’t look well tonight, but—”

The old lady motioned to him not to speak; and sitting herself down in

a dark corner of the room, remained silent for some time. At length,

she said, in a trembling voice:

“I hope not, Oliver. I have been very happy with her for some years:

too happy, perhaps. It may be time that I should meet with some

misfortune; but I hope it is not this.”

“What?” inquired Oliver.

“The heavy blow,” said the old lady, “of losing the dear girl who has

so long been my comfort and happiness.”

“Oh! God forbid!” exclaimed Oliver, hastily.

“Amen to that, my child!” said the old lady, wringing her hands.

“Surely there is no danger of anything so dreadful?” said Oliver. “Two

hours ago, she was quite well.”

“She is very ill now,” rejoined Mrs. Maylie; “and will be worse, I am

sure. My dear, dear Rose! Oh, what shall I do without her!”

She gave way to such great grief, that Oliver, suppressing his own

emotion, ventured to remonstrate with her; and to beg, earnestly, that,

for the sake of the dear young lady herself, she would be more calm.

“And consider, ma’am,” said Oliver, as the tears forced themselves into

his eyes, despite of his efforts to the contrary. “Oh! consider how

young and good she is, and what pleasure and comfort she gives to all

about her. I am sure—certain—quite certain—that, for your sake, who are

so good yourself; and for her own; and for the sake of all she makes so

happy; she will not die. Heaven will never let her die so young.”

“Hush!” said Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand on Oliver’s head. “You think

like a child, poor boy. But you teach me my duty, notwithstanding. I

had forgotten it for a moment, Oliver, but I hope I may be pardoned,

for I am old, and have seen enough of illness and death to know the

agony of separation from the objects of our love. I have seen enough,

too, to know that it is not always the youngest and best who are spared

to those that love them; but this should give us comfort in our sorrow;

for Heaven is just; and such things teach us, impressively, that there

is a brighter world than this; and that the passage to it is speedy.

God’s will be done! I love her; and He knows how well!”

Oliver was surprised to see that as Mrs. Maylie said these words, she

checked her lamentations as though by one effort; and drawing herself

up as she spoke, became composed and firm. He was still more astonished

to find that this firmness lasted; and that, under all the care and

watching which ensued, Mrs. Maylie was ever ready and collected:

performing all the duties which had devolved upon her, steadily, and,

to all external appearances, even cheerfully. But he was young, and did

not know what strong minds are capable of, under trying circumstances.

How should he, when their possessors so seldom know themselves?

An anxious night ensued. When morning came, Mrs. Maylie’s predictions

were but too well verified. Rose was in the first stage of a high and

dangerous fever.

“We must be active, Oliver, and not give way to useless grief,” said

Mrs. Maylie, laying her finger on her lip, as she looked steadily into

his face; “this letter must be sent, with all possible expedition, to

Mr. Losberne. It must be carried to the market-town: which is not more

than four miles off, by the footpath across the field: and thence

dispatched, by an express on horseback, straight to Chertsey. The

people at the inn will undertake to do this: and I can trust to you to

see it done, I know.”

Oliver could make no reply, but looked his anxiety to be gone at once.

“Here is another letter,” said Mrs. Maylie, pausing to reflect; “but

whether to send it now, or wait until I see how Rose goes on, I

scarcely know. I would not forward it, unless I feared the worst.”

“Is it for Chertsey, too, ma’am?” inquired Oliver; impatient to execute

his commission, and holding out his trembling hand for the letter.

“No,” replied the old lady, giving it to him mechanically. Oliver

glanced at it, and saw that it was directed to Harry Maylie, 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 haymakers

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 market-place 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 ostler; 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 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

accidently 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 had 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, in a fit.

Oliver gazed, for a moment, at the struggles 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 completely from his memory.

Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse; before mid-night 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 footstep, 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 trampling

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 muttered, 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 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 that 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 joy,

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 blithesome music in the songs of the

summer birds; such freedom in the rapid flight of the rook, careering

overhead; so much of life and 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 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 could have driven

her away. He learnt 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, 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.