CHAPTER XXXII.

WHEREIN THE HAPPINESS OF OLIVER AND HIS FRIENDS EXPERIENCES A SUDDEN

CHECK.

SPRING flew swiftly by, and summer came; and 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 out 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, and 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 to those about him, (though they do in the feelings

of a great many people,) and he was still the same gentle, attached,

affectionate creature that he had been when pain and suffering had

wasted his strength, and he was dependent for every slight attention

and comfort on those who tended him.

One beautiful night 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 was fatigued, and 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 her sob as if she were weeping.

“Rose, my dear?” said the elder lady.

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

had roused her from some painful thoughts.

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

her. “What is this? Your face is bathed 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 so low to-night, and——”

“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; “at least, I shall be

better presently. Close the window, pray.”

Oliver hastened to comply with the request; and the young lady, making

an effort to recover her cheerfulness, strove to play some livelier

tune; but her fingers dropped powerless on the keys, and 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 elder lady, folding her arms about her, “I never

saw you thus 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 yet it was changed, and there was an

anxious, haggard look about that 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, and assured them that she felt certain she should wake

in the morning quite well.

“I hope, ma’am,” said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie returned, “that nothing

serious is the matter? Miss Maylie doesn’t look well to-night, but——”

The old lady motioned 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, and it may be time that I should meet with

some misfortune; but I hope it is not this.”

“What misfortune, ma’am?” inquired Oliver.

“The heavy blow,” said the old lady, almost inarticulately, “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 should I do without her!”

The lady sank beneath her desponding thoughts, and 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 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. God will never let her die yet.”

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

like a child, poor boy; and although what you say may be natural, it is

wrong. But you teach me my duty, notwithstanding. I had forgotten it

for a moment, Oliver, and I hope I may be pardoned, for I am old, and

have seen enough of illness and death to know the pain they leave to

those behind. 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 rather than sorrow, for Heaven is just, and such

things teach us impressively that there is a far brighter world than

this, and that the passage to it is speedy. God’s will be done! but I

love her, and He alone knows how well!”

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

she checked her lamentations as though by one struggle, and drawing

herself up as she spoke, became quite 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 devolved upon her

steadily, and, to all external appearance, even cheerfully. But he was

young, and did not know what strong minds are capable of under trying

circumstances. How should he, indeed, when their possessors so seldom

know themselves?

An anxious night ensued, and 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 fields, 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 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 him mechanically. Oliver glanced

at it, and saw that it was directed to Harry Maylie, Esquire, at some

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 till

to-morrow.”

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 into 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 emerged, 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 was a white bank,

and a red brewery, and a yellow town-hall; and in one corner a large

house, with all the wood about it painted green, before which was the

sign of “The George,” to which he hastened directly it caught his eye.

Oliver 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, and was leaning against a pump by the

stable-door, picking his teeth with a silver toothpick.

This gentleman walked with much deliberation to 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.

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, and was turning out of the gateway when he accidentally

stumbled against a tall man, wrapped in a cloak, who was that moment

coming out at 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’d have thought it! Grind him to ashes! He’d start up

from a marble coffin to come in my way!”

“I am sorry, sir,” stammered Oliver, confused by the strange man’s wild

look. “I hope I have not hurt you?”

“Rot his bones!” 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 him in a night. Curses light upon your head, and

black death upon your heart, you imp! What are you doing here?”

The man shook his fist, and gnashed his teeth, as he uttered these

words incoherently; and advancing towards Oliver, as if with the

intention of aiming a blow at him, fell violently on the ground,

writhing and foaming, in a fit.

Oliver gazed for a moment at the fearful 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, and before midnight 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 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!

The suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while

the life of one we dearly love is trembling in the balance—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;

and the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of

our helplessness produces,—what tortures can equal these, and what

reflections or efforts 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,

and 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 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 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 never wrapped the young and graceful form within 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, and they wore 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 homewards, 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 shewing 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, for every death

carries with it 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, that such recollections are among

the bitterest we can have. 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; and with looks which shewed 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, and they both involuntarily darted towards 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!” gasped Mrs. Maylie. “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 to Heaven with her

first thanksgiving, and she sank back into the friendly arms which were

extended to receive her.