Oliver Twist
CONTAINING THE UNSATISFACTORY RESULT OF OLIVER’S ADVENTURE; AND A CONVERSATION OF SOME IMPORTANCE BETWEEN HARRY MAYLIE AND ROSE
When the of the house, by Oliver’s cries, to the spot from which they proceeded, they him, and agitated, pointing in the direction of the the house, and able to the words, “The Jew! the Jew!”
Mr. Giles was at a to what this meant; but Harry Maylie, were something quicker, and who had Oliver’s history from his mother, it at once.
“What direction did he take?” he asked, up a which was in a corner.
“That,” Oliver, pointing out the 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 over the hedge, and off with a speed which it of for the others to keep near him.
Giles as well as he could; and Oliver too; and in the of a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had been out walking, and just then returned, over the after them, and himself up with more than he have been to possess, into the same at no speed, all the while, most prodigiously, to know what was the matter.
On they all went; stopped they once to breathe, until the leader, off into an of the by Oliver, to search, narrowly, the and adjoining; which time for the of the party to come up; and for Oliver to to Mr. Losberne the that had to so a pursuit.
The search was all in vain. There were not the of footsteps, to be seen. They now, on the of a little hill, the open in every direction for three or four miles. There was the village in the on the left; but, in order to that, after the Oliver had pointed out, the men must have a of open ground, which it was they have in so a time. A thick the meadow-land in another direction; but they not have that for the same reason.
“It must have been a dream, Oliver,” said Harry Maylie.
“Oh no, indeed, sir,” Oliver, at the very of the old wretch’s countenance; “I saw him too for that. I saw them both, as as I see you now.”
“Who was the other?” Harry and Mr. Losberne, together.
“The very same man I told you of, who came so upon me at the inn,” said Oliver. “We had our full upon each other; and I to him.”
“They took this way?” Harry: “are you sure?”
“As I am that the men were at the window,” Oliver, pointing down, as he spoke, to the which the cottage-garden from the meadow. “The tall man over, just there; and the Jew, a to the right, through that gap.”
The two Oliver’s face, as he spoke, and looking from him to each other, to satisfied of the of what he said. Still, in no direction were there any of the of men in flight. The was long; but it was nowhere, save where their own had it. The and of the were of clay; but in no one place they the print of men’s shoes, or the mark which would that any had pressed the ground for hours before.
“This is strange!” said Harry.
“Strange?” the doctor. “Blathers and Duff, themselves, make nothing of it.”
Notwithstanding the nature of their search, they did not until the on of night its hopeless; and then, they gave it up with reluctance. Giles was to the different ale-houses in the village, with the best Oliver give of the and dress of the strangers. Of these, the Jew was, at all events, to be remembered, he had been drinking, or about; but Giles returned without any intelligence, calculated to or the mystery.
On the next day, fresh search was made, and the renewed; but with no success. On the day following, Oliver and Mr. Maylie repaired to the market-town, in the of or something of the men there; but this was fruitless. After a days, the to be forgotten, as most are, when wonder, having no fresh food to support it, dies away of itself.
Meanwhile, Rose was recovering. She had left her room: was able to go out; and mixing once more with the family, into the of all.
But, although this happy had a visible on the little circle; and although voices and were once more in the cottage; there was at times, an upon some there: upon Rose herself: which Oliver not fail to remark. Mrs. Maylie and her son were often together for a long time; and more than once Rose appeared with of upon her face. After Mr. Losberne had a day for his to Chertsey, these increased; and it that something was in progress which the peace of the 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, permission to speak with her for a moments.
“A few—a very few—will suffice, Rose,” said the man, his chair her. “What I shall have to say, has already presented itself to your mind; the most of my are not unknown to you, though from my you have not them stated.”
Rose had been very from the moment of his entrance; but that might have been the of her illness. She bowed; and over some plants that near, waited in for him to proceed.
“I—I—ought to have left here, before,” said Harry.
“You should, indeed,” Rose. “Forgive me for saying so, but I wish you had.”
“I was here, by the most and of all apprehensions,” said the man; “the of the one dear being on my every wish and are fixed. You had been dying; earth and heaven. We know that when the young, the beautiful, and good, are visited with sickness, their pure turn their home of rest; we know, Heaven help us! that the best and of our kind, too often in blooming.”
There were in the of the girl, as these were spoken; and when one upon the flower over which she bent, and in its cup, making it more beautiful, it as though the of her fresh heart, naturally, with the in nature.
“A creature,” the man, passionately, “a as and of as one of God’s own angels, life and death. Oh! who hope, when the world to which she was akin, opened to her view, that she would return to the and of this! Rose, Rose, to know that you were away like some soft shadow, which a light from above, upon the earth; to have no that you would be to those who here; to know a why you should be; to that you to that so many of the and the best have their early flight; and yet to pray, all these consolations, that you might be to those who loved you—these were almost too great to bear. They were mine, by day and night; and with them, came such a of fears, and apprehensions, and selfish regrets, you should die, and know how I loved you, as almost and in its course. You recovered. Day by day, and almost hour by hour, some of health came back, and with the and of life which you, it again to a high and tide. I have you almost from death, to life, with that with their and affection. Do not tell me that you wish I had this; for it has my to all mankind.”
“I did not that,” said Rose, weeping; “I only wish you had left here, that you might have to high and again; to well of you.”
“There is no more of me: more of the nature that exists: than the to win such a as yours,” said the man, taking her hand. “Rose, my own dear Rose! For years—for years—I have loved you; to win my way to fame, and then come proudly home and tell you it had been only for you to share; thinking, in my daydreams, how I would you, in that happy moment, of the many I had of a boy’s attachment, and your hand, as in of some old mute that had been sealed us! That time has not arrived; but here, with not won, and no realised, I offer you the so long your own, and my all upon the with which you the offer.”
“Your has been and noble.” said Rose, the by which she was agitated. “As you that I am not or ungrateful, so my answer.”
“It is, that I may to you; it is, dear Rose?”
“It is,” Rose, “that you must to me; not as your old and dearly-attached companion, for that would me deeply; but, as the object of your love. Look into the world; think how many you would be proud to gain, are there. Confide some other to me, if you will; I will be the truest, warmest, and most friend you have.”
There was a pause, which, Rose, who had her with one hand, gave free to her tears. Harry still the other.
“And your reasons, Rose,” he said, at length, in a low voice; “your for this decision?”
“You have a right to know them,” Rose. “You can say nothing to my resolution. It is a that I must perform. I it, to others, and to myself.”
“To yourself?”
“Yes, Harry. I it to myself, that I, a friendless, portionless, girl, with a upon my name, should not give your friends to that I had to your passion, and myself, a clog, on all your and projects. I it to you and yours, to prevent you from opposing, in the of your nature, this great to your progress in the world.”
“If your with your of duty—” Harry began.
“They do not,” Rose, deeply.
“Then you return my love?” said Harry. “Say but that, dear Rose; say but that; and the of this hard disappointment!”
“If I have done so, without doing to him I loved,” Rose, “I have—”
“Have this very differently?” said Harry. “Do not that from me, at least, Rose.”
“I could,” said Rose. “Stay!” she added, her hand, “why should we this painful interview? Most painful to me, and yet of happiness, notwithstanding; for it will be to know that I once the high place in your which I now occupy, and every you in life will me with new and firmness. Farewell, Harry! As we have met to-day, we meet no more; but in other relations than those in which this have us, we may be long and entwined; and may every that the prayers of a true and can call from the of all truth and sincerity, and you!”
“Another word, Rose,” said Harry. “Your in your own words. From your own lips, let me it!”
“The you,” answered Rose, firmly, “is a one. All the to which great and powerful can help men in public life, are in store for you. But those are proud; and I will neither with such as may in the mother who gave me life; or failure on the son of her who has so well that mother’s place. In a word,” said the lady, away, as her temporary her, “there is a upon my name, which the world visits on heads. I will it into no blood but my own; and the shall alone on me.”
“One word more, Rose. Dearest Rose! one more!” Harry, himself her. “If I had been less—less fortunate, the world would call it—if some and peaceful life had been my destiny—if I had been poor, sick, helpless—would you have from me then? Or has my to and honour, this birth?”
“Do not press me to reply,” answered Rose. “The question not arise, and will. It is unfair, almost unkind, to it.”
“If your answer be what I almost to it is,” Harry, “it will a of upon my way, and light the path me. It is not an thing to do so much, by the of a words, for one who loves you all else. Oh, Rose: in the name of my and attachment; in the name of all I have for you, and all you me to undergo; answer me this one question!”
“Then, if your had been cast,” Rose; “if you had been a little, but not so far, above me; if I have been a help and to you in any of peace and retirement, and not a and in and crowds; I should have been this trial. I have every to be happy, very happy, now; but then, Harry, I own I should have been happier.”
Busy of old hopes, as a girl, long ago, into the mind of Rose, while making this avowal; but they with them, as old will when they come withered; and they her.
“I cannot help this weakness, and it makes my purpose stronger,” said Rose, her hand. “I must you now, indeed.”
“I ask one promise,” said Harry. “Once, and only once more,—say 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 my right determination,” Rose, with a smile; “it will be useless.”
“No,” said Harry; “to you repeat it, if you will—finally repeat it! I will at your feet, of station of I may possess; and if you still to your present resolution, will not seek, by word or act, to it.”
“Then let it be so,” Rose; “it is but one the more, and by that time I may be to it better.”
She her hand again. But the man her to his bosom; and one on her forehead, from the room.
