Oliver Twist (42 page)

“Here!” cried the voice. “Oliver, what’s the news? Miss Rose! Master 0-li-ver!”

“It is you, Giles?” cried Oliver, running up to the chaise-door.

Giles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some reply, when he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the other corner of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the news.

“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.

“You are quite certain? There is no possibility of any mistake on your part, my boy, is there?” demanded the gentleman in a tremulous voice. “Do not deceive me by awakening hopes that are not to be fulfilled.”

“I would not for the world, sir,” replied Oliver. “Indeed you may believe me. Mr. Losberne’s words were that she would live to bless us all for many years to come. I heard him say so.

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 fresh 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 on the steps on 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 in the chaise, Giles,” said he. “I would rather walk slowly on, so as to gain a little time before I see her. You can say I am coming.”

“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 luggage, 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; .Giles, Mr. Maylie, and Oliver followed at their leisure.

As they walked along, Oliver glanced from time to time with much interest and curiosity at the new-comer. He seemed about five-and-twenty years of age, and was of the middle height; his countenance was frank and handsome, and his demeanour easy and prepossessing. Notwithstanding the difference between youth and age, he bore so strong a likeness to the old lady that Oliver would have had no great difficulty in imagining their relationship if he had not already spoken of her as his mother.

Mrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to receive her son when he reached the cottage. The meeting did not take place without great emotion on both sides.

“Mother!” whispered the young man; “why did you not write before?”

“I did,” 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 word now—if this illness had terminated differently, how could you ever have forgiven yourself! How could I ever have known happiness again!”

“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 a day later would have been of very, very little import.”

“And who can wonder if it be so, mother?” rejoined the young man; “Oh why should I say,
if
?—It is—it is—you know it; mother—you must know it!”

“I know that she deserves the best and purest love 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 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 connexion 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 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 re -main 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 yourself to be carried to the highest point of hope, reftect 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 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 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.

“Nothing particular, sir,” replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.

“Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house breakers?” 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 comer 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 that 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 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 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 comer, 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.