“And your best, Uncle,” said Walter, with his pleasant laugh, “is the best best that I know. You’ll not forget what you’re to send me, Uncle?”
“No, Wally, no,” replied the old man; “everything I hear about Miss Dombey, now that she is left alone, poor lamb, I’ll write. I fear it won’t be much though, Wally.”
“Why, I’ll tell you what, Uncle,” said Walter, after a moment’s hesitation, “I have just been up there.”
“Ay, ay, ay?” murmured the old man, raising his eyebrows, and his spectacles with them.
“Not to see her,” said Walter, “though I could have seen her, I daresay, if I had asked, Mr Dombey being out of town: but to say a parting word to Susan. I thought I might venture to do that, you know, under the circumstances, and remembering when I saw Miss Dombey last.”
“Yes, my boy, yes,” replied his Uncle, rousing himself from a temporary abstraction.
“So I saw her,” pursued Walter, “Susan, I mean: and I told her I was off and away to-morrow. And I said, Uncle, that you had always had an interest in Miss Dombey since that night when she was here, and always wished her well and happy, and always would be proud and glad to serve her in the least: I thought I might say that, you know, under the circumstances. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes, my boy, yes,” replied his Uncle, in the tone as before.
“And I added,” pursued Walter, “that if she—Susan, I mean—could ever let you know, either through herself, or Mrs Richards, or anybody else who might be coming this way, that Miss Dombey was well and happy, you would take it very kindly, and would write so much to me, and I should take it very kindly too. There! Upon my word, Uncle,” said Walter, “I scarcely slept all last night through thinking of doing this; and could not make up my mind when I was out, whether to do it or not; and yet I am sure it is the true feeling of my heart, and I should have been quite miserable afterwards if I had not relieved it.”
His honest voice and manner corroborated what he said, and quite established its ingenuousness.