When the residents of the house, drawn by Oliver’s cries, rushed to the spot, they found him pale and trembling. He was pointing toward the meadows behind the house, barely able to speak the words, “The Jew! The Jew!”
Mr. Giles was at a loss to understand what this outcry meant; however, Harry Maylie, whose intuition was somewhat sharper and who had heard Oliver’s history from his mother, understood the situation immediately.
“In which direction did he go?” Harry asked, grabbing a sturdy wooden stick that was standing in a corner.
“That way!” replied Oliver, indicating the path the man had taken. “I lost sight of them in an instant.”
“Then they must be in the ditch!” Harry cried. “Follow me, and stay as close as you can!” With that, he leaped over the hedge and dashed off with such speed that the others found it extremely difficult to keep up with him.
Giles followed as best as he could, and Oliver followed too. Within a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had just returned from a walk, stumbled over the hedge after them. Picking himself up with more agility than one might have expected from a man of his age, he joined the pursuit at a respectable speed, shouting loudly to ask what was the matter.
They all ran on, not stopping once to breathe until Harry, reaching a corner of the field Oliver had pointed out, began to search the nearby ditch and hedge thoroughly. This gave the rest of the party time to catch up and allowed Oliver to explain to Mr. Losberne the circumstances that had led to such a vigorous chase.
The search, however, was entirely fruitless. There were not even the traces of recent footsteps to be seen. They now stood on the top of a small hill, which provided a clear view of the open fields in every direction for several miles. The village lay in the valley to the left; but to reach it after following the path Oliver described, the men would have had to cross a wide area of open ground. It was impossible for them to have done so in such a short time without being spotted. A thick wood bordered the meadow in another direction, but they could not have reached that cover for the same reason.
“It must have been a dream, Oliver,” said Harry Maylie.
“Oh no, indeed, sir,” replied Oliver, shuddering at the mere memory of the old man’s face. “I saw him too clearly for that. I saw them both as plainly as I see you now.”
“Who was the other man?” Harry and Mr. Losberne asked together.
“The very same man I told you about, who approached me so suddenly at the inn,” said Oliver. “We looked directly at each other, and I would recognize him anywhere.”
“Are you sure they took this way?” Harry demanded.
“As sure as I am that they were at the window,” replied Oliver, pointing down to the hedge that divided the cottage garden from the meadow. “The tall man leaped over just there, and the Jew, after running a few paces to the right, crawled through that gap.”
The two gentlemen watched Oliver’s earnest face as he spoke. Looking at each other, they seemed satisfied that he was telling the truth. Nevertheless, in no direction could they find any signs of men in hurried flight. The grass was long, but it had not been flattened anywhere except where they themselves had stepped. The sides of the ditches consisted of damp clay, yet they could not find a single shoe print or the slightest mark to indicate that anyone had passed by for hours.
“This is extraordinary!” said Harry.
“Extraordinary?” echoed the doctor. “Even the most experienced detectives could make nothing of this.”
Despite the fact that their search seemed useless, they did not give up until the approach of night made it impossible to continue. Even then, they stopped with great reluctance. Giles was sent to the various local inns in the village, armed with the best description Oliver could provide of the strangers' appearance and clothing. The Jew, at least, was distinctive enough to be remembered if he had been seen drinking or loitering about; however, Giles returned without any information that might solve the mystery.
The next day, a fresh search was carried out and inquiries were renewed, but with no more success. On the following day, Oliver and Mr. Maylie traveled to the market town, hoping to hear news of the men there, but this effort was equally unsuccessful. After a few days, the incident began to be forgotten, as most things are when there is no new information to keep the curiosity alive.
Meanwhile, Rose was recovering rapidly. She had finally left her room and was able to go outside. Rejoining the family circle, she brought joy back into the hearts of everyone.
But although this happy change had a visible effect on the household, and although cheerful voices and laughter were heard once more, there was sometimes an unusual tension among them. Even Rose seemed affected, which Oliver did not fail to notice. Mrs. Maylie and her son often met privately for long periods, and on more than one occasion, Rose appeared with traces of tears on her face. After Mr. Losberne set a date for his departure, these symptoms increased. It became evident that something was happening which affected the peace of the young lady and someone else besides.
At length, one morning when Rose was alone in the breakfast room, Harry Maylie entered. With some hesitation, he asked for permission to speak with her for a moment.
“A few minutes will be enough, Rose,” said the young man, drawing a chair toward her. “What I have to say has surely already occurred to you. The deepest hopes of my heart are not unknown to you, even though you have not heard me state them clearly until now.”
Rose had been very pale from the moment he entered, though that might have been the result of her recent illness. She merely bowed her head and, bending over some plants nearby, waited in silence for him to continue.
“I… I ought to have left here sooner,” said Harry.
“You should have, indeed,” replied Rose. “Forgive me for saying so, but I wish you had.”
“I was brought here by the most agonizing of all fears,” said the young man; “the fear of losing the one person on whom all my wishes and hopes are fixed. You were dying, standing between earth and heaven. We know that when the young and the good are visited by sickness, their pure spirits naturally turn toward their eternal home. We know, Heaven help us, that the best and fairest among us often fade away in their youth.”
Tears came to the eyes of the gentle girl as these words were spoken.
“A creature,” continued the young man passionately, “as innocent as an angel, hovered between life and death. Oh, who could hope, when that distant world half opened to her view, that she would return to the sorrow of this one? Rose, to know that you were passing away like a soft shadow; to have no hope that you would stay with us; to feel that you belonged to that bright sphere where so many of the best have gone—these thoughts were almost too much to bear. I struggled with them day and night, along with the selfish regret that you might die without ever knowing how devotedly I loved you. But you recovered. Day by day, your health returned. I have watched you change from death back to life with eyes that were almost blinded by deep affection. Do not tell me that you wish I had not experienced this, for it has softened my heart toward all of humanity.”
“I did not mean that,” said Rose, weeping. “I only meant that I wish you had left so that you could return to your noble ambitions—pursuits that are worthy of you.”
“There is no pursuit more worthy of me than the struggle to win a heart like yours,” said the young man, taking her hand. “Rose, my own dear Rose! For years I have loved you, hoping to achieve fame so that I could come home and share it with you. I thought how I would remind you of the many silent signs of my attachment and claim your hand. That time has not yet arrived; I have not yet won fame, but I offer you the heart that has been yours for so long.”
“Your behavior has always been kind and noble,” said Rose, struggling to control her emotions. “As I am sure you know I am not ungrateful, please hear my answer.”
“It is that I may try to deserve you, isn't it, dear Rose?”
“It is,” replied Rose, “that you must try to forget me—not as your old and dear companion, for that would hurt me deeply, but as the object of your love. Look at the world; think of how many other women would be proud to win your heart. I will be the truest, warmest, and most faithful friend you have.”
There was a pause, during which Rose covered her face with one hand and gave way to her tears. Harry still held the other.
“And your reasons, Rose?” he asked at length in a low voice. “What are your reasons for this decision?”
“You have a right to know them,” Rose rejoined. “But you can say nothing to change my mind. This is a duty I must perform. I owe it both to others and to myself.”
“To yourself?”
“Yes, Harry. I owe it to myself that I, a girl with no family or inheritance and with a stain upon my name, should not let your relatives suspect that I greedily accepted your love. I would not want to become an obstacle to your progress in the world.”
“If your feelings match your sense of duty—” Harry began.
“They do not,” replied Rose, blushing deeply.
“Then you return my love?” said Harry. “Say only that, dear Rose, and ease the pain of this disappointment!”
“If I could have said so without doing a great wrong to the man I love,” Rose replied, “I would have answered very differently.”
“Do not hide that from me, at least,” said Harry.
“I would have,” said Rose. “But stay!” she added, withdrawing her hand. “Why should we prolong this painful interview? It is deeply painful for me, yet it brings a kind of lasting happiness to know that I once held a high place in your heart. Every success you achieve in life will give me new strength. Farewell, Harry! We shall not meet like this again. May every blessing follow you.”
“One more word, Rose,” said Harry. “Tell me your reason in your own words.”
“The future before you is a brilliant one,” answered Rose firmly. “You have the talent and the connections to achieve great honors in public life. But those connections are proud. I will not join a family that might look down on the mother who gave me life, nor will I bring disgrace upon the son of the woman who has been like a mother to me. In short, there is a stain on my name which the world blames on the innocent. I will not bring that into your family; the burden shall rest on me alone.”
“One word more, Rose! Dearest Rose!” cried Harry, throwing himself before her. “If I had been less fortunate—if I had lived an obscure and peaceful life—if I had been poor, sick, or helpless—would you have turned away from me then? Or is it only my success that has created this doubt?”
“Do not ask me to answer that,” Rose replied. “That situation will never happen.”
“If your answer is what I hope it is,” Harry insisted, “it will bring a gleam of happiness to my lonely path. Tell me, for the sake of all I have suffered for you, answer this one question!”
“Then,” Rose rejoined, “if your life had been different; if you had been only a little above me; if I could have been a help and comfort to you in a humble, quiet home, rather than a drawback in ambitious crowds, I would have been spared this trial. I should have been much happier then, Harry.”
Memories of old hopes she had cherished as a girl rushed into Rose’s mind as she made this confession, and she began to cry.
“I cannot help this weakness, but it only makes my purpose stronger,” said Rose, extending her hand. “I must leave you now.”
“I ask for one promise,” said Harry. “Once more—only once, perhaps within a year—let me speak to you again on this subject for the last time.”
“It will be useless to ask me to change my mind,” replied Rose with a sad smile.
“No,” said Harry. “I only ask to hear your final decision then. I will offer you whatever status or fortune I possess, and if you still refuse, I will never try to change your mind again.”
“Then let it be so,” Rose agreed. “It is only one more painful moment, and by then I may be better able to bear it.”
She offered her hand again. The young man pulled her toward him, kissed her forehead, and quickly hurried from the room.