Oliver Twist
WHEREIN THE HAPPINESS OF OLIVER AND HIS FRIENDS, EXPERIENCES A SUDDEN CHECK
Spring by, and came. If the village had been at it was now in the full and of its richness. The great trees, which had looked and in the months, had now into life and health; and their green arms over the thirsty ground, open and into choice nooks, where was a and from which to look upon the wide prospect, in sunshine, which beyond. The earth had her of green; and her abroad. It was the and of the year; all were and flourishing.
Still, the same life on at the little cottage, and the same among its inmates. Oliver had long since and healthy; but health or no in his warm of a great many people. He was still the same gentle, attached, that he had been when pain and had his strength, and when he was for every attention, and on those who him.
One night, when they had taken a longer walk than was with them: for the day had been warm, and there was a moon, and a light wind had up, which was refreshing. Rose had been in high spirits, too, and they had walked on, in conversation, until they had their ordinary bounds. Mrs. Maylie being fatigued, they returned more slowly home. The lady off her bonnet, sat to the piano as usual. After over the keys for a minutes, she into a low and very air; and as she played it, they a as if she were weeping.
“Rose, my dear!” said the lady.
Rose no reply, but played a little quicker, as though the had her from some painful thoughts.
“Rose, my love!” Mrs. Maylie, hastily, and over her. “What is this? In tears! My dear child, what you?”
“Nothing, aunt; nothing,” the lady. “I don’t know what it is; I can’t it; but I feel—”
“Not ill, my love?” Mrs. Maylie.
“No, no! Oh, not ill!” Rose: as though some were over her, while she spoke; “I shall be presently. Close the window, pray!”
Oliver to with her request. The lady, making an to her cheerfulness, to play some tune; but her powerless over the keys. Covering her with her hands, she upon a sofa, and gave to the which she was now unable to repress.
“My child!” said the lady, her arms about her, “I saw you so before.”
“I would not you if I avoid it,” Rose; “but I have very hard, and cannot help this. I I am ill, aunt.”
She was, indeed; for, when were brought, they saw that in the very time which had since their return home, the of her had to a marble whiteness. Its had nothing of its beauty; but it was changed; and there was an look about the face, which it had before. Another minute, and it was with a flush: and a came over the soft eye. Again this disappeared, like the by a cloud; and she was once more pale.
Oliver, who the old lady anxiously, that she was by these appearances; and so in truth, was he; but that she to make light of them, he to do the same, and they so succeeded, that when Rose was by her aunt to retire for the night, she was in spirits; and appeared in health: assuring them that she she should in the morning, well.
“I hope,” said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie returned, “that nothing is the matter? She don’t look well to-night, but—”
The old lady to him not to speak; and herself in a dark of the room, for some time. At length, she said, in a voice:
“I 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 it is not this.”
“What?” Oliver.
“The blow,” said the old lady, “of the dear girl who has so long been my and happiness.”
“Oh! God forbid!” Oliver, hastily.
“Amen to that, my child!” said the old lady, her hands.
“Surely there is no of anything so dreadful?” said Oliver. “Two hours ago, she was well.”
“She is very now,” Mrs. Maylies; “and will be worse, I am sure. My dear, dear Rose! Oh, what shall I do without her!”
She gave way to such great grief, that Oliver, his own emotion, to with her; and to beg, earnestly, that, for the of the dear lady herself, she would be more calm.
“And consider, ma’am,” said Oliver, as the themselves into his eyes, despite of his to the contrary. “Oh! how and good she is, and what and she 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 of all she makes so happy; she will not die. Heaven will let her die so young.”
“Hush!” said Mrs. Maylie, her hand on Oliver’s head. “You think like a child, boy. But you teach me my duty, notwithstanding. I had it for a moment, Oliver, but I I may be pardoned, for I am old, and have of and death to know the of from the objects of our love. I have enough, too, to know that it is not always the and best who are to those that love them; but this should give us in our sorrow; for Heaven is just; and such teach us, impressively, that there is a world than this; and that the passage to it is speedy. God’s will be done! I love her; and He how well!”
Oliver was to see that as Mrs. Maylie said these words, she her as though by one effort; and herself up as she spoke, and firm. He was still more to that this lasted; and that, under all the and which ensued, Mrs. Maylie was and collected: all the which had upon her, steadily, and, to all appearances, cheerfully. But he was young, and did not know what minds are of, under trying circumstances. How should he, when their so know themselves?
An night ensued. When came, Mrs. Maylie’s were but too well verified. Rose was in the stage of a high and fever.
“We must be active, Oliver, and not give way to grief,” said Mrs. Maylie, her on her lip, as she looked into his face; “this must be sent, with all possible expedition, to Mr. Losberne. It must be to the market-town: which is not more than four miles off, by the across the field: and dispatched, by an on horseback, to Chertsey. The people at the will to do this: and I can trust to you to see it done, I know.”
Oliver make no reply, but looked his to be gone at once.
“Here is another letter,” said Mrs. Maylie, to reflect; “but to send it now, or wait until I see how Rose goes on, I know. I would not it, unless I the worst.”
“Is it for Chertsey, too, ma’am?” Oliver; to his commission, and out his hand for the letter.
“No,” the old lady, it to him mechanically. Oliver at it, and saw that it was to Harry Maylie, Esquire, at some great lord’s house in the country; where, he not make out.
“Shall it go, ma’am?” asked Oliver, looking up, impatiently.
“I think not,” Mrs. Maylie, taking it back. “I will wait until to-morrow.”
With these words, she gave Oliver her purse, and he started off, without more delay, at the speed he muster.
Swiftly he ran across the fields, and the little which sometimes them: now almost by the high on either side, and now on an open field, where the and were at their work: did he stop once, save now and then, for a seconds, to breath, until he came, in a great heat, and with dust, on the little market-place of the market-town.
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 there was a large house, with all the about it painted green: which was the of “The George.” To this he hastened, as soon as it his eye.
He spoke to a who was under the gateway; and who, after what he wanted, him to the ostler; who after all he had to say again, him to the landlord; who was a tall in a neckcloth, a white hat, breeches, and with to match, against a pump by the stable-door, his teeth with a toothpick.
This walked with much into the to make out the bill: which took a long time making out: and after it was ready, and paid, a had to be saddled, and a man to be dressed, which took up ten good minutes more. Meanwhile Oliver was in such a of and anxiety, that he as if he have jumped upon the himself, and away, full tear, to the next stage. At length, all was ready; and the little parcel having been up, with many and for its delivery, the man set to his horse, and over the of the market-place, was out of the town, and along the turnpike-road, in a of minutes.
As it was something to that was sent for, and that no time had been lost, Oliver up the inn-yard, with a heart. He was out of the when he against a tall man in a cloak, who was at that moment out of the door.
“Hah!” the man, his on Oliver, and recoiling. “What the devil’s this?”
“I your pardon, sir,” said Oliver; “I was in a great to home, and didn’t see you were coming.”
“Death!” the man to himself, at the boy with his large dark eyes. “Who would have it! Grind him to ashes! He’d start up from a coffin, to come in my way!”
“I am sorry,” Oliver, by the man’s wild look. “I I have not you!”
“Rot you!” the man, in a passion; his teeth; “if I had only had the 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?”
The man his fist, as he these incoherently. He Oliver, as if with the of a at him, but on the ground: and foaming, in a fit.
Oliver gazed, for a moment, at the of the (for such he him to be); and then into the house for help. Having him safely into the hotel, he his homewards, as fast as he could, to make up for time: and with a great of and some fear, the of the person from he had just parted.
The did not in his long, however: for when he the cottage, there was to his mind, and to drive all of self from his memory.
Rose Maylie had worse; mid-night she was delirious. A medical practitioner, who on the spot, was in upon her; and after the patient, he had taken Mrs. Maylie aside, and her to be one of a most nature. “In fact,” he said, “it would be little of a miracle, if she recovered.”
How often did Oliver start from his that night, and out, with noiseless footstep, to the staircase, for the from the chamber! How often did a shake his frame, and cold of terror start upon his brow, when a of him to that something too to think of, had then occurred! And what had been the of all the prayers he had muttered, with those he forth, now, in the and of his for the life and health of the creature, who was on the grave’s verge!
Oh! the suspense, the fearful, suspense, of by while the life of one we love, is in the balance! Oh! the that upon the mind, and make the violently, and the come thick, by the of the images they up it; the to be doing something to the pain, or the danger, which we have no power to alleviate; the of and spirit, which the sad of our produces; what can equal these; what or can, in the full and of the time, them!
Morning came; and the little was and still. People spoke in whispers; appeared at the gate, from time to time; and children away in tears. All the day, and for hours after it had dark, Oliver up and the garden, his every to the chamber, and to see the window, looking as if death inside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived. “It is hard,” said the good doctor, away as he spoke; “so young; so much beloved; but there is very little hope.”
Another morning. The sun brightly; as as if it looked upon no or care; and, with every and flower in full about her; with life, and health, and and of joy, her on every side: the lay, fast. Oliver away to the old churchyard, and on one of the green mounds, and prayed for her, in silence.
There was such peace and in the scene; so much of and in the sunny landscape; such music in the of the birds; such in the of the rook, overhead; so much of life and in all; that, when the boy his eyes, and looked about, the to him, that this was not a time for death; that Rose surely die when were all so and gay; that were for cold and winter: not for and fragrance. He almost that were for the old and shrunken; and that they the and in their folds.
A from the church on these thoughts. Another! Again! It was for the service. A group of entered the gate: white favours; for the was young. They by a grave; and there was a mother—a mother once—among the train. But the sun brightly, and the sang on.
Oliver homeward, on the many he had from the lady, and that the time come again, that he might her how and he was. He had no for self-reproach on the score of neglect, or want of thought, for he had been to her service; and yet a hundred little occasions rose up him, on which he he might have been more zealous, and more earnest, and he had been. We need be how we with those about us, when every death to some small circle of survivors, of so much omitted, and so little done—of so many forgotten, and so many more which might have been repaired! There is no so as that which is unavailing; if we would be its tortures, let us this, in time.
When he home Mrs. Maylie was in the little parlour. Oliver’s at of her; for she had left the of her niece; and he to think what have her away. He learnt that she had into a sleep, from which she would waken, either to and life, or to them farewell, and die.
They sat, listening, and to speak, for hours. The was removed, with looks which that their were elsewhere, they the sun as he and lower, and, at length, over sky and earth those which his departure. Their quick ears the of an footstep. They to the door, as Mr. Losberne entered.
“What of Rose?” the old lady. “Tell me at once! I can it; anything but suspense! Oh, tell me! in the name of Heaven!”
“You must yourself,” said the doctor supporting her. “Be calm, my dear ma’am, pray.”
“Let me go, in God’s name! My dear child! She is dead! She is dying!”
“No!” the doctor, passionately. “As He is good and merciful, she will live to us all, for years to come.”
The lady upon her knees, and to her hands together; but the energy which had supported her so long, up to Heaven with her thanksgiving; and she into the arms which were to her.
