CHAPTER XXXV.
IS A VERY SHORT ONE, AND MAY APPEAR OF NO GREAT IMPORTANCE
IN ITS PLACE, BUT IT SHOULD BE READ NOTWITHSTANDING, AS A
SEQUEL TO THE LAST, AND A KEY TO ONE THAT WILL FOLLOW WHEN
ITS TIME ARRIVES.
“AND so you are resolved to be my travelling-companion this
morning—eh?” said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at
the breakfast-table. “Why, you are not in the same mind or intention
two half-hours together.”
“You will tell me a different tale one of these days,” said Harry,
colouring without any perceptible reason.
“I hope I may have good cause to do so,” replied Mr. Losberne; “though
I confess I don’t think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up
your mind, in a great hurry to stay here, and accompany your mother,
like a dutiful son, to the sea-side; before noon, you announce that you
are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I go on your
road to London; and at night, you urge me with great mystery to start
before the ladies are stirring; the consequence of which is, that young
Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging
the meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn’t it,
Oliver?”
“I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and
Mr. Maylie went away, sir,” rejoined Oliver.
“That’s a fine fellow,” said the doctor; “you shall come and see me
when you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry, has any communication
from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be
gone?”
“The great nobs,” replied Harry, “under which designation, I presume,
you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all
since I have been here, nor, at this time of the year, is it likely
that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate attendance
among them.”
“Well,” said the doctor, “you are a queer fellow. But of course they
will get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and
these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political
life. There’s something in that; good training is always desirable,
whether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes.”
Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue
by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a
little, but he contented himself with saying, “We shall see,” and
pursued the subject no further. The post-chaise drove up to the door
shortly afterwards, and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good
doctor bustled out to see it packed away.
“Oliver,” said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, “let me speak a word with
you.”
Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him;
much surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which
his whole behaviour displayed.
“You can write well now,” said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm.
“I hope so, sir,” replied Oliver.
“I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would
write to me—say once a fortnight, every alternate Monday, to the
General Post Office in London: will you?” said Mr. Maylie.
“Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it,” exclaimed Oliver,
greatly delighted with the commission.
“I should like to know how—how my mother and Miss Maylie are,” said
the young man; “and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks
you take, and what you talk about, and whether she—they, I mean, seem
happy and quite well. You understand me?”
“Oh! quite, sir, quite,” replied Oliver.
“I would rather you did not mention it to them,” said Harry, hurrying
over his words; “because it might make my mother anxious to write to
me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret
between you and me, and mind you tell me every thing; I depend upon
you.”
Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance,
faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications,
and Mr. Maylie took leave of him with many warm assurances of his
regard and protection.
The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should
be left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants
were in the garden looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the
latticed window, and jumped into the carriage.
“Drive on!” he cried, “hard, fast, full gallop; nothing short of flying
will keep pace with me to-day.”
“Halloa!” cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great
hurry, and shouting to the postilion, “something very short of flying
will keep pace with me. Do you hear?”
Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible,
and its rapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound
its way along the road almost hidden in a cloud of dust, now wholly
disappearing, and now becoming visible again, as intervening objects or
the intricacies of the way permitted. It was not until even the dusty
cloud was no longer to be seen that the gazers dispersed.
And there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes fixed upon the spot
where the carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away;
for behind the white curtain which had shrouded her from view when
Harry raised his eyes towards the window, sat Rose herself.
“He seems in high spirits and happy,” she said, at length. “I feared
for a time he might be otherwise—I was mistaken. I am very, very glad.”
Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which coursed
down Rose’s face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in
the same direction, seemed to tell more of sorrow than of joy.