“My dear young lady,” cried old Sol. “Let you! Good gracious!”
“We always knew you by that name, and talked of you,” said Florence, glancing round, and sighing gently. “The nice old parlour! Just the same! How well I recollect it!”
Old Sol looked first at her, then at his nephew, and then rubbed his hands, and rubbed his spectacles, and said below his breath, “Ah! time, time, time!”
There was a short silence; during which Susan Nipper skilfully impounded two extra cups and saucers from the cupboard, and awaited the drawing of the tea with a thoughtful air.
“I want to tell Walter’s Uncle,” said Florence, laying her hand timidly upon the old man’s as it rested on the table, to bespeak his attention, “something that I am anxious about. He is going to be left alone, and if he will allow me—not to take Walter’s place, for that I couldn’t do, but to be his true friend and help him if I ever can while Walter is away, I shall be very much obliged to him indeed. Will you? May I, Walter’s Uncle?”
The Instrument-maker, without speaking, put her hand to his lips, and Susan Nipper, leaning back with her arms crossed, in the chair of presidency into which she had voted herself, bit one end of her bonnet strings, and heaved a gentle sigh as she looked up at the skylight.
“You will let me come to see you,” said Florence, “when I can; and you will tell me everything about yourself and Walter; and you will have no secrets from Susan when she comes and I do not, but will confide in us, and trust us, and rely upon us. And you’ll try to let us be a comfort to you? Will you, Walter’s Uncle?”
The sweet face looking into his, the gentle pleading eyes, the soft voice, and the light touch on his arm made the more winning by a child’s respect and honour for his age, that gave to all an air of graceful doubt and modest hesitation—these, and her natural earnestness, so overcame the poor old Instrument-maker, that he only answered:
“Wally! say a word for me, my dear. I’m very grateful.”
“No, Walter,” returned Florence with her quiet smile. “Say nothing for him, if you please. I understand him very well, and we must learn to talk together without you, dear Walter.”
The regretful tone in which she said these latter words, touched Walter more than all the rest.
“Miss Florence,” he replied, with an effort to recover the cheerful manner he had preserved while talking with his Uncle, “I know no more than my Uncle, what to say in acknowledgment of such kindness, I am sure. But what could I say, after all, if I had the power of talking for an hour, except that it is like you?”
Susan Nipper began upon a new part of her bonnet string, and nodded at the skylight, in approval of the sentiment expressed.
“Oh! but, Walter,” said Florence, “there is something that I wish to say to you before you go away, and you must call me Florence, if you please, and not speak like a stranger.”
“Like a stranger!” returned Walter, “No. I couldn’t speak so. I am sure, at least, I couldn’t feel like one.”
“Ay, but that is not enough, and is not what I mean. For, Walter,” added Florence, bursting into tears, “he liked you very much, and said before he died that he was fond of you, and said ‘Remember Walter!’ and if you’ll be a brother to me, Walter, now that he is gone and I have none on earth, I’ll be your sister all my life, and think of you like one wherever we may be! This is what I wished to say, dear Walter, but I cannot say it as I would, because my heart is full.”
And in its fullness and its sweet simplicity, she held out both her hands to him. Walter taking them, stooped down and touched the tearful face that neither shrunk nor turned away, nor reddened as he did so, but looked up at him with confidence and truth. In that one moment, every shadow of doubt or agitation passed away from Walter’s soul. It seemed to him that he responded to her innocent appeal, beside the dead child’s bed: and, in the solemn presence he had seen there, pledged himself to cherish and protect her very image, in his banishment, with brotherly regard; to garner up her simple faith, inviolate; and hold himself degraded if he breathed upon it any thought that was not in her own breast when she gave it to him.
Susan Nipper, who had bitten both her bonnet strings at once, and imparted a great deal of private emotion to the skylight, during this transaction, now changed the subject by inquiring who took milk and who took sugar; and being enlightened on these points, poured out the tea. They all four gathered socially about the little table, and took tea under that young lady’s active superintendence; and the presence of Florence in the back parlour, brightened the Tartar frigate on the wall.
Half an hour ago Walter, for his life, would have hardly called her by her name. But he could do so now when she entreated him. He could think of her being there, without a lurking misgiving that it would have been better if she had not come. He could calmly think how beautiful she was, how full of promise, what a home some happy man would find in such a heart one day. He could reflect upon his own place in that heart, with pride; and with a brave determination, if not to deserve it—he still thought that far above him—never to deserve it less.
Some fairy influence must surely have hovered round the hands of Susan Nipper when she made the tea, engendering the tranquil air that reigned in the back parlour during its discussion. Some counter-influence must surely have hovered round the hands of Uncle Sol’s chronometer, and moved
