Chapter: It was almost too much happiness to bear.  Oliver felt stunned and
stupefied by the unexpected intelligence; he could not weep, or speak,
or rest.  He had scarcely the power of understanding anything that had
passed, until, after a long ramble in the quiet evening air, a burst of
tears came to his relief, and he seemed to awaken, all at once, to a
full sense of the joyful change that had occurred, and the almost
insupportable load of anguish which had been taken from his breast.

The night was fast closing in, when he returned homeward:  laden with
flowers which he had culled, with peculiar care, for the adornment of
the sick chamber.  As he walked briskly along the road, he heard behind
him, the noise of some vehicle, approaching at a furious pace.  Looking
round, he saw that it was a post-chaise, driven at great speed; and as
the horses were galloping, and the road was narrow, he stood leaning
against a gate until it should have passed him.

As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white nightcap,
whose face seemed familiar to him, although his view was so brief that
he could not identify the person.  In another second or two, the
nightcap was thrust out of the chaise-window, and a stentorian voice
bellowed to the driver to stop:  which he did, as soon as he could pull
up his horses.  Then, the nightcap once again appeared: and the same
voice called Oliver by his 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 chaise-door.

Giles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some reply,
when he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the
other corner of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the news.

'In a word!' cried the gentleman, 'Better or worse?'

'Better--much better!' replied Oliver, hastily.

'Thank Heaven!' exclaimed the gentleman.  'You are sure?'

'Quite, sir,' replied Oliver.  'The change took place only a few hours
ago; and Mr. Losberne says, that all danger is at an end.'

The gentleman said not another word, but, opening the chaise-door,
leaped out, and taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside.

'You are quite certain?  There is no possibility of any mistake on your
part, my boy, is there?' demanded the gentleman in a tremulous voice.
'Do not deceive me, by awakening hopes that are not to be fulfilled.'

'I would not for the world, sir,' replied Oliver.  'Indeed you may
believe me.  Mr. Losberne's words were, that she would live to bless us
all for many years to come.  I heard him say so.'

The tears stood in Oliver's eyes as he recalled the scene which was the
beginning of so much happiness; and the gentleman turned his face away,
and remained silent, for some minutes.  Oliver thought he heard him
sob, more than once; but he feared to interrupt him by any fresh
remark--for he could well guess what his feelings were--and so stood
apart, feigning to be occupied with his nosegay.

All this time, Mr. Giles, with the white nightcap on, had been sitting
on the steps of the chaise, supporting an elbow on each knee, and
wiping his eyes with a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief dotted with
white spots.  That the honest fellow had not been feigning emotion, was
abundantly demonstrated by the very red eyes with which he regarded the
young gentleman, when he turned round and addressed him.

'I think you had better go on to my mother's in the chaise, Giles,'
said he.  'I would rather walk slowly on, so as to gain a little time
before I see her.  You can say I am coming.'

'I beg your pardon, Mr. Harry,' said Giles:  giving a final polish to
his ruffled countenance with the handkerchief; 'but if you would leave
the postboy to say that, I should be very much obliged to you.  It
wouldn't be proper for the maids to see me in this state, sir; I should
never have any more authority with them if they did.'

'Well,' rejoined Harry Maylie, smiling, 'you can do as you like. Let
him go on with the luggage, if you wish it, and do you follow with us.
Only first exchange that nightcap for some more appropriate covering,
or we shall be taken for madmen.'

Mr. Giles, reminded of his unbecoming costume, snatched off and
pocketed his nightcap; and substituted a hat, of grave and sober shape,
which he took out of the chaise.  This done, the postboy drove off;
Giles, Mr. Maylie, and Oliver, followed at their leisure.

As they walked along, Oliver glanced from time to time with much
interest and curiosity at the new comer.  He seemed about
five-and-twenty years of age, and was of the middle height; his
countenance was frank and handsome; and his demeanor easy and
prepossessing.  Notwithstanding the difference between youth and age,
he bore so strong a likeness to the old lady, that Oliver would have
had no great difficulty in imagining their relationship, if he had not
already spoken of her as his mother.

Mrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to receive her son when he reached
the cottage.  The meeting did not take place without great emotion on
both sides.

'Mother!' whispered the young man; 'why did you not write before?'

'I did,' replied Mrs. Maylie; 'but, on reflection, I determined to keep
back the letter until I had heard Mr. Losberne's opinion.'

'But why,' said the young man, 'why run the chance of that occurring
which so nearly happened?  If Rose had--I cannot utter that word
now--if this illness had terminated differently, how could you ever
have forgiven yourself!  How could I ever have know happiness again!'

'If that _had_ been the case, Harry,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'I fear your
happiness would have been effectually blighted, and that your arrival
here, a day sooner or a day later, would have been of very, very little
import.'

'And who can wonder if it be so, mother?' rejoined the young man; 'or
why should I say, _if_?--It is--it is--you know it, mother--you must
know it!'

'I know that she deserves the best and purest love the heart of man can
offer,' said Mrs. Maylie; 'I know that the devotion and affection of
her nature require no ordinary return, but one that shall be deep and
lasting.  If I did not feel this, and know, besides, that a changed
behaviour in one she loved would break her heart, I should not feel my
task so difficult of performance, or have to encounter so many
struggles in my own bosom, when I take what seems to me to be the
strict line of duty.'

'This is unkind, mother,' said Harry.  'Do you still suppose that I am
a boy ignorant of my own mind, and mistaking the impulses of my own
soul?'

'I think, my dear son,' returned Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand upon his
shoulder, 'that youth has many generous impulses which do not last; and
that among them are some, which, being gratified, become only the more
fleeting.  Above all, I think' said the lady, fixing her eyes on her
son's face, 'that if an enthusiastic, ardent, and ambitious man marry a
wife on whose name there is a stain, which, though it originate in no
fault of hers, may be visited by cold and sordid people upon her, and
upon his children also: and, in exact proportion to his success in the
world, be cast in his teeth, and made the subject of sneers against
him:  he may, no matter how generous and good his nature, one day
repent of the connection he formed in early life.  And she may have the
pain of knowing that he does so.'

'Mother,' said the young man, impatiently, 'he would be a selfish
brute, unworthy alike of the name of man and of the woman you describe,
who acted thus.'

'You think so now, Harry,' replied his mother.

'And ever will!' said the young man.  'The mental agony I have
suffered, during the last two days, wrings from me the avowal to you of
a passion which, as you well know, is not one of yesterday, nor one I
have lightly formed.  On Rose, sweet, gentle girl! my heart is set, as
firmly as ever heart of man was set on woman.  I have no thought, no
view, no hope in life, beyond her; and if you oppose me in this great
stake, you take my peace and happiness in your hands, and cast them to
the wind.  Mother, think better of this, and of me, and do not
disregard the happiness of which you seem to think so little.'

'Harry,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'it is because I think so much of warm and
sensitive hearts, that I would spare them from being wounded. But we
have said enough, and more than enough, on this matter, just now.'

'Let it rest with Rose, then,' interposed Harry.  'You will not press
these overstrained opinions of yours, so far, as to throw any obstacle
in my way?'

'I will not,' rejoined Mrs. Maylie; 'but I would have you consider--'

'I _have_ considered!' was the impatient reply; 'Mother, I have
considered, years and years.  I have considered, ever since I have been
capable of serious reflection.  My feelings remain unchanged, as they
ever will; and why should I suffer the pain of a delay in giving them
vent, which can be productive of no earthly good?  No!  Before I leave
this place, Rose shall hear me.'

'She shall,' said Mrs. Maylie.

'There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she
will hear me coldly, mother,' said the young man.

'Not coldly,' rejoined the old lady; 'far from it.'

'How then?' urged the young man.  'She has formed no other attachment?'

'No, indeed,' replied his mother; 'you have, or I mistake, too strong a
hold on her affections already.  What I would say,' resumed the old
lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, 'is this.  Before you
stake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried
to the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my dear child,
on Rose's history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her
doubtful birth may have on her decision:  devoted as she is to us, with
all the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of
self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her
characteristic.'

'What do you mean?'

'That I leave you to discover,' replied Mrs. Maylie.  'I must go back
to her.  God bless you!'

'I shall see you again to-night?' said the young man, eagerly.

'By and by,' replied the lady; 'when I leave Rose.'

'You will tell her I am here?' said Harry.

'Of course,' replied Mrs. Maylie.

'And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how
I long to see her.  You will not refuse to do this, mother?'

'No,' said the old lady; 'I will tell her all.'  And pressing her son's
hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room.

Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment
while this hurried conversation was proceeding.  The former now held
out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged
between them.  The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious
questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient's
situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as
Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of
which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened
with greedy ears.

'Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?' inquired the
doctor, when he had concluded.

'Nothing particular, sir,' replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.

'Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?' said
the doctor.

'None at all, sir,' replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity.

'Well,' said the doctor, 'I am sorry to hear it, because you do that
sort of thing admirably.  Pray, how is Brittles?'

'The boy is very well, sir,' said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone
of patronage; 'and sends his respectful duty, sir.'

'That's well,' said the doctor.  'Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr.
Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so
hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small
commission in your favour.  Just step into this corner a moment, will
you?'

Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder,
and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on
the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with
steps of unusual stateliness.  The subject matter of this conference
was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily
enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and
having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty,
which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in
consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that
attempted robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of
five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and benefit.  At this, the two
women-servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr.
Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, 'No, no'; and that if they
observed that he was at all haughty to his inferiors, he would thank
them to tell him so.  And then he made a great many other remarks, no
less illustrative of his humility, which were received with equal
favour and applause, and were, withal, as original and as much to the
purpose, as the remarks of great men commonly are.

Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away; for
the doctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or thoughtful
Harry Maylie might have been at first, he was not proof against the
worthy gentleman's good humour, which displayed itself in a great
variety of sallies and professional recollections, and an abundance of
small jokes, which struck Oliver as being the drollest things he had
ever heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately; to the evident
satisfaction of the doctor, who laughed immoderately at himself, and
made Harry laugh almost as heartily, by the very force of sympathy.
So, they were as pleasant a party as, under the circumstances, they
could well have been; and it was late before they retired, with light
and thankful hearts, to take that rest of which, after the doubt and
suspense they had recently undergone, they stood much in need.

Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his usual
occupations, with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many
days.  The birds were once more hung out, to sing, in their old places;
and the sweetest wild flowers that could be found, were once more
gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. The melancholy which had
seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for days past, over
every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic.  The dew
seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves; the air to rustle
among them with a sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue
and bright. Such is the influence which the condition of our own
thoughts, exercise, even over the appearance of external objects.  Men
who look on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and
gloomy, are in the right; but the sombre colours are reflections from
their own jaundiced eyes and hearts.  The real hues are delicate, and
need a clearer vision.

It is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it at the time,
that his morning expeditions were no longer made alone. Harry Maylie,
after the very first morning when he met Oliver coming laden home, was
seized with such a passion for flowers, and displayed such a taste in
their arrangement, as left his young companion far behind.  If Oliver
were behindhand in these respects, he knew where the best were to be
found; and morning after morning they scoured the country together, and
brought home the fairest that blossomed.  The window of the young
lady's chamber was opened now; for she loved to feel the rich summer
air stream in, and revive her with its freshness; but there always
stood in water, just inside the lattice, one particular little bunch,
which was made up with great care, every morning.  Oliver could not
help noticing that the withered flowers were never thrown away,
although the little vase was regularly replenished; nor, could he help
observing, that whenever the doctor came into the garden, he invariably
cast his eyes up to that particular corner, and nodded his head most
expressively, as he set forth on his morning's walk.  Pending these
observations, the days were flying by; and Rose was rapidly recovering.

Nor did Oliver's time hang heavy on his hands, although the young lady
had not yet left her chamber, and there were no evening walks, save now
and then, for a short distance, with Mrs. Maylie. He applied himself,
with redoubled assiduity, to the instructions of the white-headed old
gentleman, and laboured so hard that his quick progress surprised even
himself.  It was while he was engaged in this pursuit, that he was
greatly startled and distressed by a most unexpected occurrence.

The little room in which he was accustomed to sit, when busy at his
books, was on the ground-floor, at the back of the house.  It was quite
a cottage-room, with a lattice-window: around which were clusters of
jessamine and honeysuckle, that crept over the casement, and filled the
place with their delicious perfume.  It looked into a garden, whence a
wicket-gate opened into a small paddock; all beyond, was fine
meadow-land and wood.  There was no other dwelling near, in that
direction; and the prospect it commanded was very extensive.

One beautiful evening, when the first shades of twilight were beginning
to settle upon the earth, Oliver sat at this window, intent upon his
books.  He had been poring over them for some time; and, as the day had
been uncommonly sultry, and he had exerted himself a great deal, it is
no disparagement to the authors, whoever they may have been, to say,
that gradually and by slow degrees, he fell asleep.

There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it
holds the body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of things
about it, and enable it to ramble at its pleasure.  So far as an
overpowering heaviness, a prostration of strength, and an utter
inability to control our thoughts or power of motion, can be called
sleep, this is it; and yet, we have a consciousness of all that is
going on about us, and, if we dream at such a time, words which are
really spoken, or sounds which really exist at the moment, accommodate
themselves with surprising readiness to our visions, until reality and
imagination become so strangely blended that it is afterwards almost
matter of impossibility to separate the two.  Nor is this, the most
striking phenomenon incidental to such a state.  It is an undoubted
fact, that although our senses of touch and sight be for the time dead,
yet our sleeping thoughts, and the visionary scenes that pass before
us, will be influenced and materially influenced, by the _mere silent
presence_ of some external object; which may not have been near us when
we closed our eyes:  and of whose vicinity we have had no waking
consciousness.

Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that
his books were lying on the table before him; that the sweet air was
stirring among the creeping plants outside.  And yet he was asleep.
Suddenly, the scene changed; the air became close and confined; and he
thought, with a glow of terror, that he was in the Jew's house again.
There sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed corner, pointing at
him, and whispering to another man, with his face averted, who sat
beside him.

'Hush, my dear!' he thought he heard the Jew say; 'it is he, sure
enough.  Come away.'

'He!' the other man seemed to answer; 'could I mistake him, think you?
If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and
he stood amongst them, there is something that would tell me how to
point him out.  If you buried him fifty feet deep, and took me across
his grave, I fancy I should know, if there wasn't a mark above it, that
he lay buried there?'

The man seemed to say this, with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver
awoke with the fear, and started up.

Good Heaven!  what was that, which sent the blood tingling to his
heart, and deprived him of his voice, and of power to move!
There--there--at the window--close before him--so close, that he could
have almost touched him before he started back:  with his eyes peering
into the room, and meeting his:  there stood the Jew!  And beside him,
white with rage or fear, or both, were the scowling features of the man
who had accosted him in the inn-yard.

It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and they
were gone.  But they had recognised him, and he them; and their look
was as firmly impressed upon his memory, as if it had been deeply
carved in stone, and set before him from his birth. He stood transfixed
for a moment; then, leaping from the window into the garden, called
loudly for help.

 Oliver can hardly believe that Rose will get better, so he goes for a walk and cries about it in private. He comes back with an armful of flowers for Rose's room just as night is falling. A post-chaise passes him on the road at full gallop. The passengers see him, and call for the driver to stop. One of the passengers is Mr. Giles, who immediately asks Oliver how Rose is doing. Oliver says that she's better, and the second man jumps out of the carriage and asks Oliver if he's quite sure about it. He seems to care an awful lot. Oliver's sure. The gentleman turns away and sobs with relief. Mr. Giles does the same. They all walk back to the house together . Oliver notices that the young gentleman is about twenty-five years old, and looks a lot like Mrs. Maylie, so Oliver assumes he's her son. When they arrive at the house, Harry asks his mother why she didn't write sooner, because if Rose had died and he hadn't been there, he would have been miserable forever. Then they get in a debate about whether or not he should marry Rose--he wants to, and says he's been in love with her since forever . But Mrs. Maylie says that Rose will say no, because she has a blight on her name and she would be afraid of dragging him down socially. Harry says he doesn't care; his heart is set on Rose. And he says he'll talk to Rose about it before he leaves again. Mrs. Maylie says fine, go ahead and talk to her, but she doesn't think Rose will say yes--Rose wouldn't want to keep Harry back professionally or socially, so even though she loves him, Mrs. Maylie predicts that she'll say no. Mrs. Maylie leaves to go check on Rose, and Mr. Losberne comes over to say hi to Harry and to Mr. Giles. Mr. Losberne tells Mr. Giles something in a whisper, which Mr. Giles goes down to the kitchen to repeat to all of the servants, with great importance. Because of his "gallantry" on the night of the attempted robbery, Mrs. Maylie has given him a gift of twenty-five pounds . The other servants are appropriately impressed. Meanwhile, Mr. Losberne, Harry, and Oliver are chatting away upstairs, and don't go to bed until late. Oliver wakes up in a better mood, and, because he can't go on long walks without Rose, he spends more time on his schoolwork. He's sitting in his little study at the back of the house with the window open, and he falls asleep over his work . He has a bad dream that he's back in Fagin's house, and shut up there again. He half wakes up because he feels like he's being watched. And sure enough, he is--by Fagin, and the man who had gotten all crazy at the inn. They're standing by the open window and staring at him. Oliver is understandably creeped out. Just as they realize that Oliver sees them, the second guy was saying that he'd recognize Oliver anywhere. Oliver sees all this in a flash, and then runs, calling for help from the rest of the house.

