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.