"Certainly—with great pleasure," stammered Alden in extreme confusion, which he could scarcely conceal, and without the slightest consciousness that he was telling an enormous falsehood, but with full assurance that he should like to oblige Miss Cavendish.
"I hope it will not inconvenience you to deliver this in person, Mr. Lytton," added Emma.
"Certainly not, Miss Cavendish," replied Alden, telling unconscious fib the second.
"For, you see, I am rather anxious about our friend. She left in ill health. She is almost a stranger in Charlottesville. And—this is the point—I have not heard from her, by letter or otherwise, since she left us; so I fear she may be too ill to write, and may have no friend near to write for her. This is why I tax your kindness to deliver the letter in person and find out how she is; and—write and let us know. I am asking a great deal of you, Mr. Lytton," added Emma, with a deprecating smile.
"Not at all. It is a very small service that you require. And I hope you know that I should be exceedingly happy to have the opportunity of doing any very great service for you, Miss Cavendish," replied Alden, truthfully and earnestly.
For in itself it was a very small service that Miss Cavendish had required of him, and he would have liked and even preferred another and a greater, and, in fact, a different service.
"Many thanks," said Miss Cavendish, with a frank smile, as she left the letter in his hands.
Then the adieus were all said, and promises of frequent correspondence and future visits exchanged among the young ladies. And the travelers departed, and the young hostess re-entered her lonely home and resumed her usual routine of domestic duties.
She was anxious upon more than one account.
More than a week had passed since the departure of Mary Grey, and yet, as she had told Alden Lytton, she had never heard even of her safe arrival at Charlottesville, and she feared that her protégée might be suffering from nervous illness among strangers.