"So, you are determined to be my travelling companion this morning, are you?" the doctor remarked as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the breakfast table. "Really, Harry, you don't seem to stay in the same frame of mind for more than half an hour at a time!"
"You will be telling a different story one of these days," Harry replied, blushing for no apparent reason.
"I hope I may have good cause to do so," Mr. Losberne answered, "though I must admit I have my doubts. Only yesterday morning you had made up your mind, in a great hurry, to stay here and accompany your mother to the seaside like a devoted son. Then, before noon, you announced that you would do me the honour of travelling with me as far as the London road. And last night, you urged me—with great mystery—to set off before the ladies were even awake. Consequently, young Oliver here is stuck at the breakfast table when he ought to be out in the fields, searching for all kinds of botanical specimens. It’s too bad, isn’t it, Oliver?"
"I would have been very sorry not to be at home when you and Mr. Maylie departed, sir," Oliver replied politely.
"You’re a good lad," the doctor said. "You must come and see me when you return. But seriously, Harry, has some message from the high-ranking officials—the 'great nobs,' as I call them—prompted this sudden urgency to leave?"
"The 'great nobs,'" Harry responded, "a title in which I assume you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all since I arrived. Furthermore, at this time of year, it is highly unlikely that anything would occur which would require my immediate attendance among them."
"Well," said the doctor, "you are a strange fellow. But of course, they will certainly get you into Parliament during the election before Christmas, and these sudden changes of mind are perhaps good preparation for a political career. There is something to be said for that; good training is always desirable, whether the race is for a political position or a trophy."
Harry Maylie looked as though he could have followed up this brief dialogue with one or two remarks that would have stunned the doctor considerably. However, he contented himself with saying, "We shall see," and let the subject drop. The carriage drove up to the door shortly afterwards, and as Giles came in to collect the luggage, the good doctor hurried out to oversee the packing.
"Oliver," Harry Maylie said in a low voice, "may I have a word with you?"
Oliver walked into the window alcove where Mr. Maylie beckoned him. He was quite surprised by the mixture of sadness and forced cheerfulness which the young man’s entire behaviour displayed.
"You can write well now, can’t you?" Harry asked, laying a hand upon his arm.
"I hope so, sir," Oliver replied.
"I shall not be home again, perhaps for some time. I would like you to write to me—say once every fortnight, every second Monday—to the General Post Office in London. Will you?"
"Oh, certainly, sir! I shall be proud to do it," Oliver exclaimed, greatly delighted by the request.
"I should like to know how—how my mother and Miss Maylie are," the young man continued. "You can fill up the pages by telling me what walks you take, what you talk about, and whether she—they, I mean—seem happy and healthy. You understand me?"
"Oh, perfectly, sir, perfectly," Oliver replied.
"I would rather you didn't mention this to them," Harry added, hurrying over his words. "It might make my mother feel obligated to write to me more often, and I wouldn't want to cause her any unnecessary worry. Let it be a secret between you and me; and mind you tell me everything! I am counting on you."
Oliver, feeling quite important and honoured by this trust, faithfully promised to be both secret and detailed in his letters. Mr. Maylie then took his leave, offering many assurances of his friendship and protection.
The doctor was already in the carriage; Giles, who it had been decided would stay behind, held the door open; and the housemaids were in the garden, watching the departure. Harry cast one brief glance at the latticed window and leaped into the vehicle.
"Drive on!" he cried. "As fast as you can go! Nothing short of flying will keep pace with me today."
"Wait!" cried the doctor, lowering the front window in a great hurry and shouting to the driver. "Something significantly slower than flying will keep pace with me. Do you hear?"
Jingling and clattering, until the distance rendered the noise inaudible and its rapid progress was only visible to the eye, the carriage wound its way along the road. It was almost hidden in a cloud of dust, disappearing entirely at times and then becoming visible again as the bends in the road permitted. It was not until even the dusty cloud had vanished that the onlookers finally went back inside.
However, there was one person who remained with her eyes fixed upon the spot where the carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away. For behind the white curtain which had hidden her from view when Harry looked up towards the window, sat Rose herself.
"He seems in high spirits and happy," she said at last. "I feared for a time that he might be otherwise. I was mistaken. I am very, very glad."
Tears can be signs of gladness as well as grief; however, those which flowed down Rose’s face as she sat thoughtfully at the window, still gazing in the same direction, seemed to speak more of sorrow than of joy.