The news brought such a wave of happiness that it was almost overwhelming. Oliver felt stunned by the unexpected intelligence; he could not weep, nor speak, nor rest. He was hardly able to comprehend anything that had occurred until, after a long walk in the quiet evening air, a burst of tears brought him relief. He seemed to awaken, all at once, to a full sense of the joyful change and the unbearable weight of anguish that had been lifted from his heart.
Night was falling when he returned home, carrying a large bunch of flowers which he had selected with great care to decorate the sickroom. As he walked briskly along the road, he heard the sound of a vehicle approaching at a furious pace. Looking round, he saw a carriage being driven at high speed. Since the horses were galloping and the road was narrow, he stood leaning against a gate to let it pass.
As it dashed by, Oliver caught a brief glimpse of a man in a white nightcap. The face seemed familiar, although the view was so short that he could not identify the person. A second later, the nightcap was thrust out of the window, and a loud, booming voice shouted to the driver to stop. As soon as the driver could pull up the horses, the nightcap appeared again, and the same voice called Oliver by name.
“Here!” cried the voice. “Oliver, what’s the news? Miss Rose! Master O-li-ver!”
“Is it you, Giles?” cried Oliver, running up to the carriage door.
Giles popped his head out again to reply, but he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman in the other corner of the carriage, who eagerly demanded the news.
“In a word!” cried the gentleman. “Is she better or worse?”
“Better—much better!” replied Oliver hastily.
“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed the gentleman. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure, sir,” replied Oliver. “The change took place only a few hours ago, and Mr. Losberne says that all danger is over.”
The gentleman said nothing more, but opening the door, he leaped out. Taking Oliver by the arm, he led him aside.
“You are quite certain? There is no possibility of a mistake, is there?” the gentleman asked in a trembling voice. “Do not deceive me by raising hopes that might not be fulfilled.”
“I would not do that for the world, sir,” replied Oliver. “You may truly believe me. Mr. Losberne’s exact words were that she would live to bless us all for many years to come. I heard him say so.”
Tears stood in Oliver’s eyes as he recalled the scene that had started such happiness. The gentleman turned his face away and remained silent for several minutes. Oliver thought he heard him sob more than once, but he was afraid to interrupt him; he could well imagine the man’s feelings, so he stood apart, pretending to be busy with his flowers.
All this time, Mr. Giles, still wearing his white nightcap, had been sitting on the steps of the carriage, wiping his eyes with a spotted blue handkerchief. It was clear that the honest fellow was not pretending to be emotional, as his eyes were very red when he finally looked at the young gentleman.
“I think you should go on to my mother’s in the carriage, Giles,” the gentleman said. “I would prefer to walk slowly, to compose myself before I see her. You can tell her I am coming.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Harry,” said Giles, giving his face a final wipe with his handkerchief, “but if you would let the driver say that, I should be very grateful. It wouldn’t be right for the maids to see me in this state, sir; I would lose all my authority over them.”
“Well,” replied Harry Maylie, smiling, “do as you like. Let the driver go on with the luggage, and you can follow us. But first, exchange that nightcap for a more appropriate hat, or people will think we are madmen.”
Reminded of his appearance, Mr. Giles snatched off the nightcap and put on a formal hat which he took from the carriage. Once this was done, the carriage drove off, and Giles, Mr. Maylie, and Oliver followed at their leisure.
As they walked, Oliver glanced with curiosity at the newcomer. He appeared to be about twenty-five years old and was of medium height. His face was handsome and honest, and his manner was easy and charming. Despite the difference in their ages, he bore such a strong resemblance to the old lady that Oliver would have easily guessed their relationship even if Harry had not called her his mother.
Mrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to receive her son. Their meeting was filled with deep emotion on both sides.
“Mother!” whispered the young man. “Why did you not write sooner?”
“I did,” replied Mrs. Maylie, “but after reflecting, I decided to keep the letter back until I had heard Mr. Losberne’s final opinion.”
“But why,” said the young man, “why risk what almost happened? If Rose had—I cannot say the word—if this illness had ended differently, how could you ever have forgiven yourself? How could I ever have been happy again?”
“If that had been the case, Harry,” said Mrs. Maylie, “I fear your happiness would have been destroyed regardless. Your arrival a day sooner or later would have made very little difference.”
“And who can wonder at that, mother?” rejoined the young man. “You know how I feel—you must know it!”
“I know that she deserves the purest love a man can offer,” said Mrs. Maylie. “I know that her devotion requires a deep and lasting return. If I did not believe this, my duty would not be so difficult, and I would not have to struggle so much with my own conscience.”
“This is unkind, mother,” said Harry. “Do you still think I am a boy who doesn't know his own mind?”
“I think, my dear son,” returned Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand on his shoulder, “that youth has many generous impulses that do not last. Above all, I think,” she said, looking him in the eye, “that if an ambitious man marries a woman whose name carries a stain—even if it is not her fault—he may one day regret it. Society can be cruel, and people may use her past to insult him or his children. In spite of his good nature, he might eventually resent the marriage, and she would have the pain of knowing it.”
“Mother,” said the young man impatiently, “any man who acted like that would be a selfish brute, unworthy of the woman you describe.”
“You think so now, Harry,” replied his mother.
“And I always will!” said the young man. “The agony I have suffered during the last two days makes me confess a passion that is not new. My heart is set on Rose as firmly as a heart can be. I have no hopes in life beyond her. Mother, do not disregard the happiness that depends on this.”
“Harry,” said Mrs. Maylie, “it is because I care so much about your happiness that I want to protect you both from being wounded. But we have said enough for now.”
“Let the decision rest with Rose, then,” Harry insisted. “You will not stand in my way, will you?”
“I will not,” she replied, “but I want you to consider—”
“I have considered!” was the impatient reply. “I have thought about this for years. My feelings will never change. Before I leave this place, Rose shall hear me.”
“She shall,” said Mrs. Maylie.
“Your tone implies she will receive me coldly, mother,” said the young man.
“Not coldly,” rejoined the old lady, “far from it.”
“What then? Is there someone else?”
“No,” replied his mother. “You already have a strong hold on her affections. What I mean is this: before you stake everything on this chance, reflect on Rose’s history. Consider how the knowledge of her doubtful birth might affect her decision. She is completely devoted to us and is capable of great self-sacrifice.”
“What do you mean?”
“I will leave you to discover that for yourself,” replied Mrs. Maylie. “I must go back to her. God bless you!”
Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at the other end of the room during this private conversation. The doctor now greeted Harry warmly and provided a detailed account of the patient’s condition, which was very encouraging. Mr. Giles, who was pretending to be busy with the luggage, listened to every word.
“Have you shot anything lately, Giles?” asked the doctor.
“Nothing in particular, sir,” replied Mr. Giles, blushing deeply.
“No thieves or house-breakers caught?” joked the doctor.
“None at all, sir,” replied Mr. Giles seriously.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear it, because you are so good at it,” said the doctor. “How is Brittles?”
“The boy is very well, sir,” said Mr. Giles, regaining his usual superior tone.
“I’m glad to hear it. Mr. Giles, your mistress asked me to perform a small task for you. Step into the corner for a moment, would you?”
After a short whispered conversation, Mr. Giles bowed many times and walked away with great dignity. He went straight to the kitchen, called for a mug of ale, and announced majestically that his mistress, in recognition of his "bravery" during the attempted robbery, had deposited twenty-five pounds in the local savings bank for his benefit. The other servants were very impressed, and Giles accepted their praise with an air of mock humility, as great men often do.
Upstairs, the evening passed cheerfully. The doctor was in high spirits, and his humor soon cheered up Harry Maylie. They shared jokes and stories, and Oliver found the doctor’s professional anecdotes to be the funniest things he had ever heard. It was late before they retired to bed, feeling thankful for the rest they so desperately needed.
Oliver woke the next morning feeling more hopeful than he had for many days. The birds were placed outside to sing, and fresh wild flowers were gathered for Rose. The gloom that had seemed to hang over everything had vanished like magic. The dew sparkled more brightly, the air sounded sweeter, and the sky looked bluer. It is remarkable how our internal thoughts influence our perception of the world around us.
Oliver’s morning walks were no longer solitary. Harry Maylie, after seeing Oliver come home with flowers, was suddenly seized with a passion for gardening. Morning after morning, they explored the countryside together and brought home the most beautiful blossoms. Although Rose’s window was now open to let in the summer air, there was always a fresh bouquet inside the room. Oliver noticed that while the vase was refilled daily, the withered flowers were never thrown away.
As the days passed, Rose continued to recover rapidly. Oliver spent his time studying under the guidance of the old gentleman who taught him. He worked with such determination that his progress was impressive. However, it was during one of these study sessions that a terrifying event occurred.
The small room where Oliver studied was on the ground floor at the back of the house. It was a charming room with a window surrounded by jasmine and honeysuckle, which filled the air with a delicious scent. It looked out over a garden and toward the distant woods. No other houses were nearby, and the view was extensive.
One sultry evening, as twilight began to fall, Oliver sat at the window with his books. Because the day had been uncommonly hot and he had worked hard, he gradually fell into a deep sleep.
There is a type of sleep that captures the body but leaves the mind aware of its surroundings. It is a state of total exhaustion where we cannot control our thoughts, yet we have a strange consciousness of what is happening around us. In this state, real sounds often blend with our dreams until it is impossible to separate reality from imagination. Furthermore, even if our eyes are closed, our sleeping thoughts can be influenced by the silent presence of someone nearby.
Oliver knew he was in his room; he knew his books were on the table and that the breeze was moving the plants outside. Yet, he was dreaming. Suddenly, the scene changed. The air felt close and suffocating, and he realized with horror that he was back in the house of the old Jew, Fagin. There sat the hideous man in his usual corner, whispering to another man whose face was turned away.
“Hush, my dear!” Oliver thought he heard Fagin say. “It is him, for sure. Come away.”
“Him!” the other man replied. “Do you think I could mistake him? Even if a hundred ghosts took his shape, I would know him. Even if he were buried fifty feet deep, I would know where he lay.”
The man spoke with such intense hatred that Oliver woke up in terror.
Good Heaven! What he saw sent a chill through his heart and left him unable to move or speak. There—at the window—so close that he could have touched him—stood the Jew! And beside him, his face white with rage, was the scowling man Oliver had encountered at the inn.
It lasted only a second, like a flash of lightning, before they were gone. But they had recognized him, and he had recognized them. Their terrifying expressions were burned into his memory. Oliver stood frozen for a moment; then, leaping from the window into the garden, he shouted loudly for help.