CHAPTER LXI.

Relenting.

LORENCE had need of help. Her father's need of it was sore, and made the aid of her old friend invalu able. Death stood at his pillow. A shade, already, of what he had been, shattered in his mind, and perilously sick in body, he laid his weary head down on the bed his daugh ter's hands prepared for him, and had never raised it since.

She was always with him. He knew her, generally; though, in the wandering of his brain, he often confused the circumstances under which he spoke to her. Thus he would address her, sometimes, as if his boy were newly dead; and would tell her that although he had said nothing of her ministering at the little bedside, yet he had seen it-he had seen it; and then would hide his face and sob, and put out his worn hand. Some times he would ask her for herself. "Where is Florence?" "I am here, papa, I am here." "I don't know her!" he would cry. "We have been parted so long, that I don't know her!" and then a staring dread would be upon him, until she could soothe his perturbation; and recal the tears she tried so hard, at other times, to dry.

He rambled through the scenes of his old pursuits-through many where Florence lost him as she listened-sometimes for hours. He would repeat that childish question, "What is money?" and ponder on it, and think about it, and reason with himself, more or less connectedly, for a good answer; as if it had never been proposed to him until that moment. would go on with a musing repetition of the title of his old firm twenty thousand times, and, at every one of them, would turn his head upon his pillow. He would count his children -one-two-stop, and go back, and begin again in the same

way.

He

But this was when his mind was in its most distracted state. In all the other phases of its illness, and in those to which it was most constant, it always turned on Florence. What he would oftenest do was this: he would recal that night he had so recently remembered, the night on which she came down to his room, and would imagine that his heart smote him, and that he went out after her, and up the stairs to seek her. Then, confounding that time with the later days of the

many footsteps, he would be amazed at their number, and begin to count them as he followed her. Here, of a sudden, was a bloody footstep going on among the others: and after it there began to be, at intervals, doors standing open, througn which certain terrible pictures were seen, in mirrors, of haggard inen, concealing something in their breasts. Still, among the many footsteps and the bloody footsteps here and there, was the step of Florence. Still she was going on before. Still the restless mind went, following and counting, ever farther, ever higher, as to the summit of a mighty tower that it took years to climb.

One day he inquired if that were not Susan who had spoken a long while ago.

Florence

said "Yes, dear papa ;" and asked him would he like to see her?

He said "very much." And Susan, with no little trepida tion, showed herself at his bedside.

It seemed a great relief to him. He begged her not to go; to understand that he forgave her what she had said; and that she was to stay. Florence and he were very different now, he said, and very happy. Let her look at this! He meant his drawing the gentle head down to his pillow, and laying it beside him.

He remained like this for days and weeks. At length, lying the faint feeble semblance of a man, upon his bed, and speaking in a voice so low that they could only hear him by listening very near to his lips, he became quiet. It was dimly pleasant to him now, to lie there, with the window open, looking out at the summer sky and the trees: and, in the evening, at the sunset. To watch the shadows of the clouds and leaves, and seem to feel a sympathy with shadows. It was natural that he should.

To him, life and the world were nothing else.

He began to show now that he thought of Florence's fatigue; and often taxed his weakness to whisper to her, "go and walk, my dearest, in the sweet air. Go to your good husband!" One time when Walter was in his room, he beckoned him to come near; and to stoop down and pressing his hand, whispered an assurance to him that he knew he could trust him with his child when he was dead.

It chanced one evening, towards sunset, when Florence and Walter were sitting in his room together, as he liked to see them, that Florence, having her baby in her arms, began in a low voice, to sing to the little fellow, and sang the old tune she had so often sung to the dead child. He could not bear it af

the time; he held up his trembling hand, imploring her to stop; but next day he asked her to repeat it, and to do so often of an evening: which she did. He listening, with his face turned away.

Florence was sitting on a certain time by his window, with her work-basket between her and her old attendant, who was still her faithful companion. He had fallen into a doze. was a beautiful evening, with two hours of light to come yet; and the tranquillity and quiet made Florence very thoughtful. She was lost to everything for the moment, but the occasion when the so altered figure on the bed had first presented her to her beautiful mama; when a touch from Walter leaning on the back of her chair, made her start.

"My dear," said Walter, "there is some one down-stais who wishes to speak to you."

She fancied Walter looked grave, and asked him if anything nad happened.

"No, no, my love!" said Walter. nian myself, and spoken with him. Will you come?"

"I have seen the gentle. Nothing has happened.

Florence put her arm through his; and confiding her father to the black-eyed Mrs. Toots, who sat as brisk and smart at her work as black-eyed woman could, accompanied her husband down-stairs. In the pleasant little parlour opening on the garden, sat a gentleman, who rose to advance towards her when she came in, but turned off, by reason of some peculiarity in his egs, and was only stopped by the table.

Florence then remembered Cousin Feenix, whom she had not at first recognised in the shade of the leaves. Cousin Fee. nix took her hand, and congratulated her upon her marriage.

"I could have wished, I am sure," said Cousin Feenix, sitting down as Florence sat, "to have had an earlier opportunity of offering my congratulations; but, in point of fact, so many painful occurrences have happened, treading, as a man may say on one another's heels, that I have been in a devil of a state myself, and perfectly unfit for every description of society. The only description of society I have kept, has been my own; and it certainly is anything but flattering to a man's good opinion of his own resources, to know that, in point of fact, he has the capacity of boring himself to a perfectly unlimited extent."

Florence divined, from some indefinable constraint and anxiety in this gentleman's manner-which was always a gentleman's, in spite of the harmless little eccentricities that attached to it-and from Walter's manner no less, that some.

thing more immediately tending to some object was to follow this.

"I have been mentioning to my friend Mr. Gay, if I may be allowed to have the honour of calling him so," said Cousin Feenix, "that I am rejoiced to hear that my friend Dombey is very decidedly mending. I trust my friend Dombey will not allow his mind to be too much preyed upon, by any mere loss of fortune. I cannot say that I have ever experienced any very great loss of fortune myself: never having had, in point of fact, any great amount of fortune to lose. But as much as I could lose, I have lost; and I don't find that I particularly care about it. I know my friend Dombey to be a devilish honourable man; and it's calculated to console my friend Dombey very much, to know, that this is the universal sentiment. Even Tommy Screwzer,-man of an extremely bilious habit, with whom my friend Gay is probably acquainted cannot say a byllable in disputation of the fact."

Florence felt, more than ever, that there was something to come; and looked earnestly for it. So earnestly, that Cousin Feenix answered, as if she had spoken.

"The fact is," said Cousin Feenix, "that my friend Gay and myself have been discussing the propriety of entreating a favour at your hands; and that I have the consent of my friend Gay-who has met me in an exceedingly kind and open manner, for which I am very much indebted to him—to solicit it. I am sensible that so amiable a lady as the lovely and accom plished daughter of my friend Dombey will not require much urging; but I am happy to know, that I am supported by my friend Gay's influence and approval. As in my parliamentary time, when a man had a motion to make of any sort-which happened seldom in those days, for we were kept very tight in hand, the leaders on both sides being regular martinets, which was a devilish good thing for the rank and file, like myself, and prevented our exposing ourselves continually, as a great many of us had a feverish anxiety to do-as, in my parliamentary time, I was about to say, when a man had leave to let off any little private pop-gun, it was always considered a great point for him to say that he had the happiness of believing that his sentiments were not without an echo in the breast of Mr. Pitt; the pilot, in point of fact, who had weathered the storm. Upon which a devilish large number of fellows immediately cheered, and put him in spirits. Though the fact is, that these fellows, being under orders to cheer most excessively whenever Mr. Pitt's name was mentioned, became so proficient that it always weke

'em. And they were so entirely innocent of what was going on, otherwise, that it used to be commonly said by Conversa. tion Brown-four bottle man at the Treasury board, with whom the father of my friend Gay was probably acquainted, for it was before my friend Gay's time-that if a man had risen in his place, and said that he regretted to inform the house that there was an honourable member in the last stage of convulsions in the Lobby, and that the honourable member's name was Pitt, the approbation would have been vociferous."

This postponement of the point, put Florence in a flutter; and she looked from Cousin Feenix to Walter, in increasing agitation.

"My love," said Walter, "there is nothing the matter."

"There is nothing the matter, upon my honour," said Cousin Feenix; "and I am deeply distressed at being the means of causing you a moment's uneasiness. I beg to assure you that there is nothing the matter. The favour that I have to ask is, simply-but it really does seem so exceeding singular, that I should be in the last degree obliged to my friend Gay if he would have the goodness to break the-in point of fact, the .ce," said Cousin Feenix.

Walter thus appealed to, and appealed to no less in the look that Florence turned towards him, said:

"My dearest, it is no more than this. That you will ride to London with this gentleman, whom you know."

"And my friend Gay, also-I beg your pardon!" inter rupted Cousin Feenix.

"And with me-and make a visit somewhere."

"To whom?" asked Florence, looking from one to the other. "If I might entreat," said Cousin Feenix, "that you would not press for an answer to that question, I would venture to ake the liberty of making the request."

"Do you know, Walter ?" said Florence.

"Yes,"

"And think it right?"

"Yes. Only because I am sure that you would, too. Though there may be reasons I very well understand, which make it better that nothing more should be said beforehand."

"If papa is still asleep, or can spare me if he is awake, I will go immediately," said Florence. And rising quietly, and glancing at then. with a look that was a little alarmed but perfectly confiding, left the room.

When she came back, ready to bear them company, they were talking together, gravely, at the window; and Florence