Edith, who had taken Florence to a sofa, made a gesture with her hand as if she would have begged him to say no more.
"My lovely and accomplished relative," resumed Cousin Feenix, still ambling about at the door, "will excuse me, if, for her satisfaction, and my own, and that of my friend Dombey, whose lovely and accomplished daughter we so much admire, I complete the thread of my observations. She will remember that, from the first, she and I never alluded to the subject of her elopement. My impression, certainly, has always been, that there was a mystery in the affair which she could explain if so inclined. But my lovely and accomplished relative being a devilish resolute woman, I knew that she was not, in point of fact, to be trifled with, and therefore did not involve myself in any discussions. But, observing lately, that her accessible point did appear to be a very strong description of tenderness for the daughter of my friend Dombey, it occurred to me that if I could bring about a meeting, unexpected on both sides, it might lead to beneficial results. Therefore, we being in London, in the present private way, before going to the South of Italy, there to establish ourselves, in point of fact, until we go to our long homes, which is a devilish disagreeable reflection for a man, I applied myself to the discovery of the residence of my friend Gay—handsome man of an uncommonly frank disposition, who is probably known to my lovely and accomplished relative—and had the happiness of bringing his amiable wife to the present place. And now," said Cousin Feenix, with a real and genuine earnestness shining through the levity of his manner and his slipshod speech, "I do conjure my relative, not to stop half way, but to set right, as far as she can, whatever she has done wrong—not for the honour of her family, not for her own fame, not for any of those considerations which unfortunate circumstances have induced her to regard as hollow, and in point of fact, as approaching to humbug—but because it is wrong, and not right."
Cousin Feenix’s legs consented to take him away after this; and leaving them alone together, he shut the door.
Edith remained silent for some minutes, with Florence sitting close beside her. Then she took from her bosom a sealed paper.
"I debated with myself a long time," she said in a low voice, "whether to write this at all, in case of dying suddenly or by accident, and feeling the want of it upon me. I have deliberated, ever since, when and how to destroy it. Take it, Florence. The truth is written in it."
"Is it for Papa?" asked Florence.
"It is for whom you will," she answered. "It is given to you, and is obtained by you. He never could have had it otherwise."
Again they sat silent, in the deepening darkness.
"Mama," said Florence, "he has lost his fortune; he has been at the point of death; he may not recover, even now. Is there any word that I shall say to him from you?"
"Did you tell me," asked Edith, "that you were very dear to him?"
"Yes!" said Florence, in a thrilling voice.
"Tell him I am sorry that we ever met."
"No more?" said Florence after a pause.
"Tell him, if he asks, that I do not repent of what I have done—not yet—for if it were to do again to-morrow, I should do it. But if he is a changed man—"
