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<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Oliver Twist, by Charles Dickens</title>

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<h2 id="pgepubid00039">
      CHAPTER XXXIII — WHEREIN THE HAPPINESS OF OLIVER AND HIS FRIENDS,
      EXPERIENCES A SUDDEN CHECK
    </h2>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Rose, my dear!’ said the elder lady.
    </p>
<p>
      Rose made no reply, but played a little quicker, as though the words had
      roused her from some painful thoughts.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Rose, my love!’ cried Mrs. Maylie, rising hastily, and bending over her.
      ‘What is this? In tears! My dear child, what distresses you?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nothing, aunt; nothing,’ replied the young lady. ‘I don’t know what it
      is; I can’t describe it; but I feel—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not ill, my love?’ interposed Mrs. Maylie.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘My child!’ said the elderly lady, folding her arms about her, ‘I never
      saw you so before.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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 <i>am</i> ill, aunt.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I hope,’ said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie returned, ‘that nothing is the
      matter? She don’t look well to-night, but—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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:
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What?’ inquired Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The heavy blow,’ said the old lady, ‘of losing the dear girl who has so
      long been my comfort and happiness.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh! God forbid!’ exclaimed Oliver, hastily.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Amen to that, my child!’ said the old lady, wringing her hands.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Surely there is no danger of anything so dreadful?’ said Oliver. ‘Two
      hours ago, she was quite well.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘She is very ill now,’ rejoined Mrs. Maylies; ‘and will be worse, I am
      sure. My dear, dear Rose! Oh, what shall I do without her!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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?
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver could make no reply, but looked his anxiety to be gone at once.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Is it for Chertsey, too, ma’am?’ inquired Oliver; impatient to execute
      his commission, and holding out his trembling hand for the letter.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Shall it go, ma’am?’ asked Oliver, looking up, impatiently.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I think not,’ replied Mrs. Maylie, taking it back. ‘I will wait until
      to-morrow.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      With these words, she gave Oliver her purse, and he started off, without
      more delay, at the greatest speed he could muster.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hah!’ cried the man, fixing his eyes on Oliver, and suddenly recoiling.
      ‘What the devil’s this?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Oliver; ‘I was in a great hurry to get
      home, and didn’t see you were coming.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I am sorry,’ stammered Oliver, confused by the strange man’s wild look.
      ‘I hope I have not hurt you!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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!
    </p>
<p>
      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 <i>to be doing something</i>
      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!
    </p>
<p>
      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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You must compose yourself,’ said the doctor supporting her. ‘Be calm, my
      dear ma’am, pray.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Let me go, in God’s name! My dear child! She is dead! She is dying!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No!’ cried the doctor, passionately. ‘As He is good and merciful, she
      will live to bless us all, for years to come.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
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<h2 id="pgepubid00040">
      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
    </h2>
<p>
      It was almost too much happiness to bear. Oliver felt stunned and
      stupefied 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.
    </p>
<p>
      The night was fast closing in, when he returned homeward: laden with
      flowers which he had culled, with peculiar care, for the adornment of the
      sick chamber. As he walked briskly along the road, he heard behind him,
      the noise of some vehicle, approaching at a furious pace. Looking round,
      he saw that it was a post-chaise, driven at great speed; and as the horses
      were galloping, and the road was narrow, he stood leaning against a gate
      until it should have passed him.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
      Then, the nightcap once again appeared: and the same voice called Oliver
      by his name.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Here!’ cried the voice. ‘Oliver, what’s the news? Miss Rose! Master
      O-li-ver!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Is is you, Giles?’ cried Oliver, running up to the chaise-door.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘In a word!’ cried the gentleman, ‘Better or worse?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Better—much better!’ replied Oliver, hastily.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Thank Heaven!’ exclaimed the gentleman. ‘You are sure?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Quite, sir,’ replied Oliver. ‘The change took place only a few hours ago;
      and Mr. Losberne says, that all danger is at an end.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The gentleman said not another word, but, opening the chaise-door, leaped
      out, and taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      All this time, Mr. Giles, with the white nightcap on, had been sitting on
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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 demeanor 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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Mother!’ whispered the young man; ‘why did you not write before?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I did,’ replied Mrs. Maylie; ‘but, on reflection, I determined to keep
      back the letter until I had heard Mr. Losberne’s opinion.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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 know happiness again!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘If that <i>had</i> 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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And who can wonder if it be so, mother?’ rejoined the young man; ‘or why
      should I say, <i>if</i>?—It is—it is—you know it, mother—you
      must know it!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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 connection
      he formed in early life. And she may have the pain of knowing that he does
      so.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You think so now, Harry,’ replied his mother.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I will not,’ rejoined Mrs. Maylie; ‘but I would have you consider—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I <i>have</i> 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 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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘She shall,’ said Mrs. Maylie.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she will
      hear me coldly, mother,’ said the young man.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not coldly,’ rejoined the old lady; ‘far from it.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘How then?’ urged the young man. ‘She has formed no other attachment?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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; 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 with that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all
      matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What do you mean?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That I leave you to discover,’ replied Mrs. Maylie. ‘I must go back to
      her. God bless you!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I shall see you again to-night?’ said the young man, eagerly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘By and by,’ replied the lady; ‘when I leave Rose.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You will tell her I am here?’ said Harry.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Of course,’ replied Mrs. Maylie.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No,’ said the old lady; ‘I will tell her all.’ And pressing her son’s
      hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?’ inquired the doctor,
      when he had concluded.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nothing particular, sir,’ replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?’ said the
      doctor.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘None at all, sir,’ replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well,’ said the doctor, ‘I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort
      of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The boy is very well, sir,’ said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of
      patronage; ‘and sends his respectful duty, sir.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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 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, 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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his usual
      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, exercise, 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.
    </p>
<p>
      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, 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 corner, 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.
    </p>
<p>
      Nor did Oliver’s time hang heavy on his hands, although the young lady had
      not yet left her chamber, and there were no evening walks, save now and
      then, for a short distance, with Mrs. Maylie. He applied himself, with
      redoubled assiduity, to the instructions of the white-headed old
      gentleman, and laboured so hard that his quick progress surprised even
      himself. It was while he was engaged in this pursuit, that he was greatly
      startled and distressed by a most unexpected occurrence.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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 some time; and, as the day had been
      uncommonly sultry, and he had exerted himself a great deal, it is no
      disparagement to the authors, whoever they may have been, to say, that
      gradually and by slow degrees, he fell asleep.
    </p>
<p>
      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 at its pleasure. 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, if we dream at such a time, 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 matter of impossibility to
      separate the two. Nor is this, the most striking phenomenon incidental to
      such a state. It is an undoubted fact, that although our senses of touch
      and sight be for the time dead, yet our sleeping thoughts, and the
      visionary scenes that pass before us, will be influenced and materially
      influenced, by the <i>mere silent presence</i> of some external object;
      which may not have been near us when we closed our eyes: and of whose
      vicinity we have had no waking consciousness.
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that his
      books were lying on the table before him; 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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hush, my dear!’ he thought he heard the Jew say; ‘it is he, sure enough.
      Come away.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He!’ the other man seemed to answer; ‘could I mistake him, think you? If
      a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and he
      stood amongst them, there is something that would tell me how to point him
      out. If you buried him fifty feet deep, and took me across his grave, I
      fancy I should know, if there wasn’t a mark above it, that he lay buried
      there?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The man seemed to say this, with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver awoke
      with the fear, and started up.
    </p>
<p>
      Good Heaven! what was that, which sent the blood tingling to his heart,
      and deprived him of his voice, and of 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 man who had
      accosted him in the inn-yard.
    </p>
<p>
      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 it had been deeply carved in
      stone, and set before him from his birth. He stood transfixed for a
      moment; then, leaping from the window into the garden, called loudly for
      help.
    </p>
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<h2 id="pgepubid00041">
      CHAPTER XXXV — CONTAINING THE UNSATISFACTORY RESULT OF OLIVER’S
      ADVENTURE; AND A CONVERSATION OF SOME IMPORTANCE BETWEEN HARRY MAYLIE AND
      ROSE
    </h2>
<p>
      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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What direction did he take?’ he asked, catching up a heavy stick which
      was standing in a corner.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That,’ replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man had taken; ‘I
      missed them in an instant.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It must have been a dream, Oliver,’ said Harry Maylie.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Who was the other?’ inquired Harry and Mr. Losberne, together.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘They took this way?’ demanded Harry: ‘are you sure?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The two gentlemen watched Oliver’s earnest face, as he spoke, and looking
      from him to each other, seemed to feel 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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘This is strange!’ said Harry.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Strange?’ echoed the doctor. ‘Blathers and Duff, themselves, could make
      nothing of it.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I—I—ought to have left here, before,’ said Harry.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You should, indeed,’ replied Rose. ‘Forgive me for saying so, but I wish
      you had.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, dear Rose?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And your reasons, Rose,’ he said, at length, in a low voice; ‘your
      reasons for this decision?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘To yourself?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘If your inclinations chime with your sense of duty—’ Harry began.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘They do not,’ replied Rose, colouring deeply.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Then you return my love?’ said Harry. ‘Say but that, dear Rose; say but
      that; and soften the bitterness of this hard disappointment!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘If I could have done so, without doing heavy wrong to him I loved,’ 
      rejoined Rose, ‘I could have—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Have received this declaration very differently?’ said Harry. ‘Do not
      conceal that from me, at least, Rose.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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 <i>will</i> 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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Another word, Rose,’ said Harry. ‘Your reason in your own words. From
      your own lips, let me hear it!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Do not press me to reply,’ answered Rose. ‘The question does not arise,
      and never will. It is unfair, almost unkind, to urge it.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I cannot help this weakness, and it makes my purpose stronger,’ said
      Rose, extending her hand. ‘I must leave you now, indeed.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not to press me to alter my right determination,’ replied Rose, with a
      melancholy smile; ‘it will be useless.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
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