Spring transitioned swiftly into summer. If the village had been beautiful at first, it was now in the full glow and vibrant lushness of its richness. The massive trees, which had looked shrunken and bare in the earlier months, had now come alive with vigorous growth. Stretching their green arms over the dry ground, they converted open spots into pleasant, shaded retreats. From these cool corners, one could gaze upon the vast landscape, steeped in sunshine, which lay stretched beyond. The earth had put on her robe of brightest green and released her richest perfumes into the air. It was the very height of the year; all things were flourishing and full of life.
Despite the change in season, the same quiet life continued at the little cottage, and a cheerful serenity prevailed among its inhabitants. Oliver had long since become strong and healthy; however, his physical recovery made no difference to his character. He remained the same gentle, affectionate creature he had been when pain and suffering had wasted his strength, and when he had been dependent on his protectors for every small comfort.
One beautiful night, they took a walk that was longer than was customary for them. The day had been unusually warm, but a brilliant moon had risen, and a light breeze had sprung up, which was incredibly refreshing. Rose had been in high spirits, and they had walked on, engaged in merry conversation, until they had far exceeded their ordinary limits. As Mrs. Maylie was feeling fatigued, they returned home more slowly. Upon entering, the young lady threw off her simple bonnet and sat down to the piano as usual. After playing absent-mindedly for a few minutes, she began a low and very solemn melody; as she played, the others heard a sound as if she were weeping.
“Rose, my dear!” said the older lady.
Rose made no reply but played a little faster, as though the words had roused her from some painful thoughts.
“Rose, my love!” cried Mrs. Maylie, rising hastily and bending over her. “What is this? In tears! My dear child, what is distressing you?”
“Nothing, aunt; nothing,” replied the young lady. “I don’t know what it is; I can’t describe it; but I feel—”
“You aren’t ill, my love?” interrupted Mrs. Maylie.
“No, no! Oh, not ill!” replied Rose, shuddering as though a deadly chill were passing over her. “I shall be better presently. Close the window, please!”
Oliver hastened to comply with her request. The young lady, making an effort to recover her cheerfulness, tried to play a livelier tune; however, her fingers dropped powerless over the keys. Covering her face with her hands, she sank onto a sofa and gave way to the tears she was no longer able to repress.
“My child!” said the elderly lady, folding her arms around her. “I have never seen you like this before.”
“I would not alarm you if I could avoid it,” Rose rejoined; “but indeed, I have tried very hard and cannot help this. I fear I am ill, aunt.”
She was, indeed; for when candles were brought, they saw that in the short time since their return, her face had turned as white as marble. Her expression remained beautiful, yet it had changed; there was an anxious, haggard look about her gentle face which it had never worn before. A minute later, her skin was covered with a crimson flush, and a heavy wildness came over her soft blue eyes. Again this disappeared, like the shadow cast by a passing cloud, and she was once more deadly pale.
Oliver, who watched the old lady anxiously, observed that she was alarmed by these symptoms. He was equally terrified; but seeing that she pretended to make light of them, he endeavoured to do the same. They succeeded so far that when Rose was persuaded by her aunt to retire for the night, she seemed in better spirits. She even appeared to be in better health, assuring them that she felt certain she would wake up in the morning quite well.
“I hope,” said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie returned, “that nothing is seriously wrong? She does not look well tonight, but—”
The old lady signaled for him not to speak. Sitting down in a dark corner of the room, she remained silent for some time. At length, she said in a trembling voice:
“I hope not, Oliver. I have been very happy with her for some years—too happy, perhaps. It may be time that I should encounter some misfortune; but I hope it is not this.”
“What?” inquired Oliver.
“The heavy blow,” said the old lady, “of losing the dear girl who has so long been my comfort and happiness.”
“Oh! God forbid!” exclaimed Oliver, hastily.
“Amen to that, my child!” said the old lady, wringing her hands in distress.
“Surely there is no danger of anything so dreadful?” said Oliver. “Two hours ago, she was perfectly well.”
“She is very ill now,” rejoined Mrs. Maylie; “and she will get worse, I am sure. My dear, dear Rose! Oh, what shall I do without her!”
She gave way to such intense grief that Oliver, suppressing his own emotion, ventured to protest gently. He begged her, for the sake of the young lady herself, to remain calm.
“And consider, ma’am,” said Oliver, as tears forced themselves into his eyes despite his efforts. “Oh! consider how young and good she is, and what joy she gives to everyone around her. I am certain—quite certain—that for your sake, and for her own, she will not die. Heaven would never let her die so young.”
“Hush!” said Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand on Oliver’s head. “You think like a child, poor boy. Nevertheless, you teach me my duty. I had forgotten it for a moment, Oliver, but I hope I may be pardoned; I am old, and I have seen enough of illness to know the agony of being separated from those we love. I have also seen enough to know that it is not always the youngest and best who are spared. Yet, this should give us comfort in our sorrow; for Heaven is just, and such things teach us that there is a brighter world than this. God’s will be done!”
Oliver was surprised to see that as Mrs. Maylie spoke these words, she checked her lamentations. Straightening her posture, she became composed and firm. He was even more astonished to find that this firmness lasted. Throughout the long hours of watching that followed, Mrs. Maylie remained collected, performing all her duties steadily and even cheerfully. But he was young, and did not yet know what strong minds are capable of under trying circumstances.
An anxious night followed. When morning came, Mrs. Maylie’s predictions were confirmed. Rose was in the first stage of a high and dangerous fever.
“We must be active, Oliver, and not give way to useless grief,” said Mrs. Maylie, looking steadily at him. “This letter must be sent with all possible urgency to Mr. Losberne. It must be carried to the market town, which is four miles away across the fields. From there, it must be dispatched by a fast messenger on horseback straight to Chertsey. The people at the inn will undertake this, and I know I can trust you to see it done.”
Oliver could make no reply but looked eager to leave at once.
“Here is another letter,” said Mrs. Maylie, pausing to reflect. “But whether to send it now, or wait until I see how Rose progresses, I scarcely know. I would not send it unless I feared the worst.”
“Is it for Chertsey, too, ma’am?” inquired Oliver, impatient to carry out his mission.
“No,” replied the old lady, handing it to him mechanically. Oliver glanced at it and saw it was addressed to Harry Maylie, Esquire, at a nobleman’s house in the country.
“Shall it go, ma’am?” asked Oliver.
“I think not,” replied Mrs. Maylie, taking it back. “I will wait until tomorrow.”
With these words, she gave Oliver her purse, and he started off at the greatest speed he could muster. He ran swiftly across the fields and down the narrow lanes, sometimes hidden by the tall corn and sometimes emerging into open fields where workers were busy making hay. He did not stop once, except for a few seconds to catch his breath, until he arrived, hot and covered in dust, at the market-place.
He looked around for the inn and soon spotted a large house with green-painted woodwork and a sign that read “The George.” He spoke to a boy at the gate, who referred him to the stableman, who in turn referred him to the landlord. The landlord was a tall gentleman leaning against a pump, picking his teeth with a silver toothpick.
This gentleman walked with great deliberation into the bar to prepare the bill. It took a long time to write, and even after it was paid, a horse had to be saddled and a man had to get dressed. Meanwhile, Oliver was in such a state of desperate impatience that he felt as if he could have jumped on the horse himself and galloped away. At length, all was ready. The letter was handed up with many instructions for its speedy delivery, and the man set spurs to his horse, galloping out of town in a couple of minutes.
Feeling relieved that assistance had been sent for, Oliver walked back through the inn-yard. As he was turning out of the gateway, he accidentally stumbled against a tall man wrapped in a cloak.
“Hah!” cried the man, fixing his eyes on Oliver and suddenly shrinking back. “What the devil is this?”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Oliver. “I was in a great hurry to get home and didn’t see you.”
“Death!” muttered the man to himself, glaring at the boy with large, dark eyes. “Who would have thought it! He would rise from a stone coffin to get in my way!”
“I am sorry,” stammered Oliver, confused by the stranger’s wild look. “I hope I have not hurt you.”
“Curse you!” murmured the man in a horrible passion, speaking through clenched teeth. “If I had only had the courage, I might have been free of you in one night. Curses on your head! What are you doing here?”
The man shook his fist and advanced towards Oliver as if to strike him, but suddenly he fell violently to the ground, writhing and foaming in a fit. Oliver gazed for a moment at the struggling man and then ran into the house for help. Having seen the stranger carried safely into the hotel, he turned toward home, running as fast as possible to make up for lost time.
However, the strange encounter did not stay in his mind for long. When he reached the cottage, there was enough to occupy his thoughts and drive all personal concerns from his memory. Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse; before midnight, she was delirious. A local doctor remained in constant attendance. After examining the patient, he took Mrs. Maylie aside and informed her that the disorder was of a most alarming nature. “In fact,” he said, “it would be nothing short of a miracle if she recovered.”
How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, stealing out to the staircase to listen for the slightest sound from the sickroom! How often did he tremble with terror when a sudden movement of feet made him fear that the worst had happened! He prayed with a fervency he had never felt before, pleading for the life of the gentle creature who was standing on the edge of the grave.
Oh, the agonizing suspense of standing by while the life of someone we dearly love hangs in the balance! The desperate anxiety to do something—anything—to relieve the pain, only to be confronted by our own helplessness.
Morning came, and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke in whispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, and children went away in tears. All day long, Oliver paced the garden, looking up at the darkened window of the sickroom with a shudder. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived. “It is hard,” said the good doctor, turning away. “So young, so much beloved; but there is very little hope.”
Another morning arrived. The sun shone brightly, as if it were indifferent to human misery. Surrounded by life, health, and the sounds of summer joy, the fair young girl was wasting away. Oliver crept to the old churchyard and sat on a green mound, weeping and praying in silence.
There was such peace and beauty in the scene that the thought instinctively occurred to him that this was not a time for death. He felt that Rose could surely not die when everything else was so glad and gay—that graves were for the cold winter, not for sunlight and fragrance.
A knell from the church bell broke harshly through these thoughts. It was tolling for a funeral. A group of mourners entered the gate; they wore white, for the deceased was young. Oliver turned homeward, thinking of the many kindnesses he had received from Rose. He had no cause for self-reproach, for he had been devoted to her; yet a hundred small occasions rose up before him on which he wished he had been even more helpful. We should be careful how we treat those around us, for every death brings to the survivors thoughts of things left unsaid and deeds left undone. There is no remorse as deep as that which comes too late.
When he reached home, Mrs. Maylie was sitting in the parlour. Oliver’s heart sank; she had never left her niece’s bedside, and he feared what this change meant. He learned that Rose had fallen into a deep sleep, from which she would wake either to recover or to say her final farewell.
They sat in silence for hours, afraid to speak. They watched the sun sink lower and lower, casting brilliant colors across the sky. Suddenly, their quick ears caught the sound of an approaching footstep. They both rushed to the door as Mr. Losberne entered.
“What of Rose?” cried the old lady. “Tell me at once! I can bear anything but suspense!”
“You must compose yourself,” said the doctor, supporting her. “Be calm, my dear ma’am, please.”
“Let me go! My dear child! Is she dead?”
“No!” cried the doctor passionately. “As God is merciful, she will live to bless us all for years to come.”
The lady fell upon her knees and tried to fold her hands in prayer; but the energy that had supported her for so long finally vanished with her first words of thanks, and she sank into the friendly arms extended to catch her.