Oliver Twist
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
today, 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.
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
“And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning;
eh?” said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the
breakfast-table. “Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two
half-hours together!”
“You will tell me a different tale one of these days,” said Harry,
colouring without any perceptible reason.
“I hope I may have good cause to do so,” replied Mr. Losberne; “though
I confess I don’t think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up
your mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your
mother, like a dutiful son, to the sea-side. Before noon, you announce
that you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I
go, on your road to London. And at night, you urge me, with great
mystery, to start before the ladies are stirring; the consequence of
which is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when
he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all
kinds. Too bad, isn’t it, Oliver?”
“I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and
Mr. Maylie went away, sir,” rejoined Oliver.
“That’s a fine fellow,” said the doctor; “you shall come and see me
when you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication
from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be
gone?”
“The great nobs,” replied Harry, “under which designation, I presume,
you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at
all, since I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it
likely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate
attendance among them.”
“Well,” said the doctor, “you are a queer fellow. But of course they
will get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and
these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political
life. There’s something in that. Good training is always desirable,
whether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes.”
Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue
by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a
little; but he contented himself with saying, “We shall see,” and
pursued the subject no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door
shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good
doctor bustled out, to see it packed.
“Oliver,” said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, “let me speak a word with
you.”
Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him;