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_ When the inmates of the house, attracted by Oliver's cries,
hurried to the spot from which they proceeded, they found him,
pale and agitated, pointing in the direction of the meadows
behind the house, and scarcely able to articulate the words, 'The
Jew! the Jew!'
Mr. Giles was at a loss to comprehend what this outcry meant; but
Harry Maylie, whose perceptions were something quicker, and who
had heard Oliver's history from his mother, understood it at
once.
'What direction did he take?' he asked, catching up a heavy stick
which was standing in a corner.
'That,' replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man had
taken; 'I missed them in an instant.'
'Then, they are in the ditch!' said Harry. 'Follow! And keep as
near me, as you can.' So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and
darted off with a speed which rendered it matter of exceeding
difficulty for the others to keep near him.
Giles followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed too; and
in the course of a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had been out
walking, and just then returned, tumbled over the hedge after
them, and picking himself up with more agility than he could have
been supposed to possess, struck into the same course at no
contemptible speed, shouting all the while, most prodigiously, to
know what was the matter.
On they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the
leader, striking off into an angle of the field indicated by
Oliver, began to search, narrowly, the ditch and hedge adjoining;
which afforded time for the remainder of the party to come up;
and for Oliver to communicate to Mr. Losberne the circumstances
that had led to so vigorous a pursuit.
The search was all in vain. There were not even the traces of
recent footsteps, to be seen. They stood now, on the summit of a
little hill, commanding the open fields in every direction for
three or four miles. There was the village in the hollow on the
left; but, in order to gain that, after pursuing the track Oliver
had pointed out, the men must have made a circuit of open ground,
which it was impossible they could have accomplished in so short
a time. A thick wood skirted the meadow-land in another
direction; but they could not have gained that covert for the
same reason.
'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
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 fell 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 ditches 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 dispatched 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 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. Mrs. 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 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.
'I--I--ought to have left here, before,' said 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 outpouring 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 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
daydreams, 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 not 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.'
'It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, 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 resolution. 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,
portionless, 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!'
'If I could have done so, without doing heavy wrong to him I
loved,' rejoined Rose, 'I could have--'
'Have received this declaration very differently?' 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 to-day, we meet no more; but in other
relations than those in which this conversation 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
words. From 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 has 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, 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 not 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
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 of
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. _
Read next: CHAPTER XXXVI - 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
Read previous: CHAPTER XXXIV - CONTAINS SOME INTRODUCTORY PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO NOW ARRIVES UPON THE SCENE; AND A NEW ADVENTURE WHICH HAPPENED TO OLIVER
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