Bildungsromans; Boys -- Fiction; Criminals -- Fiction; Kidnapping victims -- Fiction; London (England) -- Fiction; Orphans -- Fiction
She extended her hand again, but the young man caught her to his bosom,
and imprinting one kiss upon her beautiful forehead, hurried from the
room.
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.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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