DOMBEY AND SON.—No. VI. BY CHARLES DICKENS.

New Zealand Spectator and Cook's Strait Guardian, Volume III, Issue 219, 4 September 1847, Page 3

DOMBEY AND SON.— No. VI. BY CHARLES DICKENS.

THE BEREAVED CHILD. "Dear aunt," said Florence, kneeling quickly down before her that she might the better and more earnestly look into her-face. " Tell me more about papa. Pray tell me about him ! Is he quite heart-broken ?" " Florence, my dear child, your papa is peculiar at times ; and you question me upou a subject which I really do not pretend to understand. I believe I have as much influence with your papa as anybody has. Still,' all I can say is, that he has said very little to me : and that I have only seen him once or twice for a minute at a time, and, indeed, have haidly seen him then, for his room has been dark. I have said to your papa * Paul ! why do you not take something stimulating?' Your papa's reply has always been, ' Louisa, have the goodness to leave me. I want nothing. I am better by myself.' If I was to be put upon my oath to-morrow, Lucretia, before a magistrate,' said Mrs. Chick, " I hays no doubt I could venture to swear to those identical words." . , "

Miss Tox expressed her admiration by saying, " My Louisa- is ever methodical !" *• In short, frlorence," resumed her aunt, "literally nothing has passed between your poor papa and myself until to-day, when I mentioned to your papa that Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles had written exceedingly kind notes — our sweet boy I Lady Skettles loved him like a : where's my pocket-hand-kerchief!" Miss Tox produced one. " Exceedingly kind notes, proposing that you should visit them for change of scene. Mentioning to your papa that I thought Miss Tox and myself might now go home, (in which he quite agreed,) I inquired if he had any objection to your accepting this invitation. He said, ' No, Louisa, not the least !' " Florence raised her tearful eyes. " At the same time, if you would prefer staying here, Florence, to paying this visit at present, or to going home with me " " I should much prefer it, aunt," was the faint rejoinder. "Why then, child," said Mrs. Chick, *' you can. It 's a strange choice, I must say. But you always were strange. Anybody else, at your time of life, and after what has passed, — my dear Miss Tox, I have lost my pocket-handkerchief again, — would be glad to leave here, one would suppose." " I should not like to feel," said Florence, "as if the house was avoided. I should not like to think that the — his — the rooms upstairs were quite empty and dreary, aunt. I would rather stay here, for the present. Ob, my brother ! Oh, my brother 1 It was a natural emotion, not to be suppressed ; and it would make way, even between the fingers of the hands with which she covered her face. The overcharged and heavy-laden breast must sometimes have that vent, or the poor, wounded, solitary heart within it would have fluttered like a bird with broken wings and sunk down in the dust. " Well, child !" said Mrs. Chick, after a pause. " I wouldn't on any account say anything unkind to you, and that I 'm sure you know. You will remain here, then, and do exactly as you like. No one will interfere with you, Florence, or wish to interfere with you, Florence, I 'm sure." Florence shook her head in sad assent. * * * And was there no one nearer and dearer than Susan to uphold the striving heart in its anguish 1 Was there no other neck to clasp, no other face to turn to, no one else to say a soothing word to such deep sorrow ? Was Florence so alone in the bleak world that nothing else remained to her? Nothing! Stricken motherless and brotherless at once ; for in the loss of little Paul that first and greatest loss fell heavily upon her, this was the only help she had. Oh, who can tell how much she needed help at first ! At first, when the house subsided into its accustomed course, and they had all gone away except the servants, and her father shut up in his own rooms, Florence could do nothing but weep, and wander up and down, and sometimes, in a sudden pang of desolate remembrance, fly to her own chamber, wring her hands, lay her face down on her bed, and know no consolation, nothing but the bitterness and cruelty of grief. This commonly ensued upon the recognition of some spot or object very tenderly associated with him ; and it made the miserable house at first a place of tgony. But it is not the nature of pure love to burn so fiercely and unkindly long. The flame that, in its grosser composition, has the taint of earth may prey upon the breast that gives it shelter, but the sacred fire from heaven is as gentle in the heart as when it rested on the heads of the assembled twelve and showed each man his brother, biightened and unhurt. The image conjured up, there soon returned the placid face, the softened voice, the loving looks, the quiet trustfulness and peace ; and Florence, though she wept still, wept more tranquilly, and courted the remembrance. It r/as not very long before the golden water, dancing on the wall, in the old place, at the old serene time, had her calm eyes fixed upon it as it ebbed away. It was not very long before that room again knew her, often sitting there, as patient and as mild as when she had watched beside the little bed. When any sharp sense of its being empty smote upon her, she could kneel beside it and pray God (it was the pouring out of her full heart) to let one angel love her ,and, remember her. It was not very long before, in the midst of the dismal house, so wide and dreary, her low voice,, in the twilight, slowly, .and stopping sometimes, touched the old air to which be had so often listened with his. drooping bead upon her arm, And after that, and when, it was quite dark, a little strain of music trembled in the room ; so softly played and sung that it was more like the mournful recollection of whjit she had done at bis requett on that last night than the reality re»

peated. But it was repeated, often, very often, in the shadowy solitude : and broken murmurs of the strain still trembled on the keys when the sweet voice was hushed in tears. Thus she gained heart to look upon the work with which her fingers had been busy by his side on the sea-shore ; and thus it was not very long before she took to it again with something of a human love for it, as if it had been sentient, and had known him ; and, sitting in a window, near her mother's picture, in the unused room so long deserted, wore away the thoughtful hours. Why did the dark eyes turn so often from this work to where the rosy children lived ? They weie not immediately suggestive of her loss, for they were all girls, four little sisters. But, they were motherless like her, and had a father. It was easy to know when he had gone out and was expected home, for the elder child was always dressed and waiting for him at the drawing-room window, or in the balcony ; and when he appeared her expectant face lighted up with joy, while the others at the high window, and always on the watch too, clapped their hands, and drummed them on the sill, and called to him. The elder child would come down to (he hall/ and put her hand in his, and lead him up the stairs ; and Florence would see her afterwards sitting by his side, or on his knee, or hanging coaxingly about his neck and talking to him ; and, though they were always gay together, he would often watch her face as if he thought her like her mother that was dead. Florence would sometimes look no more at this, and, bursting into tears, would hide behind the curtain as if she were frightened, or would hurry from the window. Yet she could not help returning ; and her work would soon fall, unheeded, from her hands again.