Dombey and Son
“By hating you, Mama?” cried Florence, winding her arm round her neck,
and returning the look.
“Hush! Begin by thinking well of me,” said the beautiful lady. “Begin
by believing that I will try to make you happy, and that I am prepared
to love you, Florence. Good-bye. We shall meet again soon. Good-bye!
Don’t stay here, now.”
Again she pressed her to her breast she had spoken in a rapid manner,
but firmly—and Florence saw her rejoin them in the other room.
And now Florence began to hope that she would learn from her new and
beautiful Mama, how to gain her father’s love; and in her sleep that
night, in her lost old home, her own Mama smiled radiantly upon the
hope, and blessed it. Dreaming Florence!
CHAPTER XXIX.
The Opening of the Eyes of Mrs Chick
Miss Tox, all unconscious of any such rare appearances in connexion
with Mr Dombey’s house, as scaffoldings and ladders, and men with their
heads tied up in pocket-handkerchiefs, glaring in at the windows like
flying genii or strange birds,—having breakfasted one morning at about
this eventful period of time, on her customary viands; to wit, one
French roll rasped, one egg new laid (or warranted to be), and one
little pot of tea, wherein was infused one little silver scoopful of
that herb on behalf of Miss Tox, and one little silver scoopful on
behalf of the teapot—a flight of fancy in which good housekeepers
delight; went upstairs to set forth the bird waltz on the harpsichord,
to water and arrange the plants, to dust the nick-nacks, and, according
to her daily custom, to make her little drawing-room the garland of
Princess’s Place.
Miss Tox endued herself with a pair of ancient gloves, like dead
leaves, in which she was accustomed to perform these avocations—hidden
from human sight at other times in a table drawer—and went methodically
to work; beginning with the bird waltz; passing, by a natural
association of ideas, to her bird—a very high-shouldered canary,
stricken in years, and much rumpled, but a piercing singer, as
Princess’s Place well knew; taking, next in order, the little china
ornaments, paper fly-cages, and so forth; and coming round, in good
time, to the plants, which generally required to be snipped here and
there with a pair of scissors, for some botanical reason that was very
powerful with Miss Tox.
Miss Tox was slow in coming to the plants, this morning. The weather
was warm, the wind southerly; and there was a sigh of the summer-time
in Princess’s Place, that turned Miss Tox’s thoughts upon the country.
The pot-boy attached to the Princess’s Arms had come out with a can and
trickled water, in a flowering pattern, all over Princess’s Place, and
it gave the weedy ground a fresh scent—quite a growing scent, Miss Tox
said. There was a tiny blink of sun peeping in from the great street
round the corner, and the smoky sparrows hopped over it and back again,
brightening as they passed: or bathed in it, like a stream, and became
glorified sparrows, unconnected with chimneys. Legends in praise of
Ginger-Beer, with pictorial representations of thirsty customers
submerged in the effervescence, or stunned by the flying corks, were
conspicuous in the window of the Princess’s Arms. They were making late
hay, somewhere out of town; and though the fragrance had a long way to
come, and many counter fragrances to contend with among the dwellings
of the poor (may God reward the worthy gentlemen who stickle for the
Plague as part and parcel of the wisdom of our ancestors, and who do
their little best to keep those dwellings miserable!), yet it was
wafted faintly into Princess’s Place, whispering of Nature and her
wholesome air, as such things will, even unto prisoners and captives,
and those who are desolate and oppressed, in very spite of aldermen and
knights to boot: at whose sage nod—and how they nod!—the rolling world
stands still!
Miss Tox sat down upon the window-seat, and thought of her good Papa
deceased—Mr Tox, of the Customs Department of the public service; and
of her childhood, passed at a seaport, among a considerable quantity of
cold tar, and some rusticity. She fell into a softened remembrance of
meadows, in old time, gleaming with buttercups, like so many inverted
firmaments of golden stars; and how she had made chains of
dandelion-stalks for youthful vowers of eternal constancy, dressed
chiefly in nankeen; and how soon those fetters had withered and broken.
Sitting on the window-seat, and looking out upon the sparrows and the
blink of sun, Miss Tox thought likewise of her good Mama
deceased—sister to the owner of the powdered head and pigtail—of her
virtues and her rheumatism. And when a man with bulgy legs, and a rough
voice, and a heavy basket on his head that crushed his hat into a mere
black muffin, came crying flowers down Princess’s Place, making his
timid little roots of daisies shudder in the vibration of every yell he
gave, as though he had been an ogre, hawking little children, summer
recollections were so strong upon Miss Tox, that she shook her head,
and murmured she would be comparatively old before she knew it—which
seemed likely.
In her pensive mood, Miss Tox’s thoughts went wandering on Mr Dombey’s
track; probably because the Major had returned home to his lodgings
opposite, and had just bowed to her from his window. What other reason
could Miss Tox have for connecting Mr Dombey with her summer days and
dandelion fetters? Was he more cheerful? thought Miss Tox. Was he
reconciled to the decrees of fate? Would he ever marry again? and if
yes, whom? What sort of person now!
A flush—it was warm weather—overspread Miss Tox’s face, as, while
entertaining these meditations, she turned her head, and was surprised
by the reflection of her thoughtful image in the chimney-glass. Another
flush succeeded when she saw a little carriage drive into Princess’s
Place, and make straight for her own door. Miss Tox arose, took up her
scissors hastily, and so coming, at last, to the plants, was very busy
with them when Mrs Chick entered the room.
“How is my sweetest friend!” exclaimed Miss Tox, with open arms.
A little stateliness was mingled with Miss Tox’s sweetest friend’s
demeanour, but she kissed Miss Tox, and said, “Lucretia, thank you, I
am pretty well. I hope you are the same. Hem!”
Mrs Chick was labouring under a peculiar little monosyllabic cough; a
sort of primer, or easy introduction to the art of coughing.
“You call very early, and how kind that is, my dear!” pursued Miss Tox.
“Now, have you breakfasted?”
“Thank you, Lucretia,” said Mrs Chick, “I have. I took an early
breakfast”—the good lady seemed curious on the subject of Princess’s
Place, and looked all round it as she spoke—“with my brother, who has
come home.”
“He is better, I trust, my love,” faltered Miss Tox.
“He is greatly better, thank you. Hem!”
“My dear Louisa must be careful of that cough” remarked Miss Tox.
“It’s nothing,” returned Mrs Chick. “It’s merely change of weather. We
must expect change.”
“Of weather?” asked Miss Tox, in her simplicity.
“Of everything,” returned Mrs Chick. “Of course we must. It’s a world
of change. Anyone would surprise me very much, Lucretia, and would
greatly alter my opinion of their understanding, if they attempted to
contradict or evade what is so perfectly evident. Change!” exclaimed
Mrs Chick, with severe philosophy. “Why, my gracious me, what is there
that does _not_ change! even the silkworm, who I am sure might be
supposed not to trouble itself about such subjects, changes into all
sorts of unexpected things continually.”
“My Louisa,” said the mild Miss Tox, “is ever happy in her
illustrations.”
“You are so kind, Lucretia,” returned Mrs Chick, a little softened, “as
to say so, and to think so, I believe. I hope neither of us may ever
have any cause to lessen our opinion of the other, Lucretia.”
“I am sure of it,” returned Miss Tox.
Mrs Chick coughed as before, and drew lines on the carpet with the
ivory end of her parasol. Miss Tox, who had experience of her fair
friend, and knew that under the pressure of any slight fatigue or
vexation she was prone to a discursive kind of irritability, availed
herself of the pause, to change the subject.
“Pardon me, my dear Louisa,” said Miss Tox, “but have I caught sight of
the manly form of Mr Chick in the carriage?”
“He is there,” said Mrs Chick, “but pray leave him there. He has his
newspaper, and would be quite contented for the next two hours. Go on
with your flowers, Lucretia, and allow me to sit here and rest.”
“My Louisa knows,” observed Miss Tox, “that between friends like
ourselves, any approach to ceremony would be out of the question.
Therefore—” Therefore Miss Tox finished the sentence, not in words but
action; and putting on her gloves again, which she had taken off, and
arming herself once more with her scissors, began to snip and clip
among the leaves with microscopic industry.
“Florence has returned home also,” said Mrs Chick, after sitting silent
for some time, with her head on one side, and her parasol sketching on
the floor; “and really Florence is a great deal too old now, to
continue to lead that solitary life to which she has been accustomed.
Of course she is. There can be no doubt about it. I should have very
little respect, indeed, for anybody who could advocate a different
opinion. Whatever my wishes might be, I could not respect them. We
cannot command our feelings to such an extent as that.”
Miss Tox assented, without being particular as to the intelligibility
of the proposition.
“If she’s a strange girl,” said Mrs Chick, “and if my brother Paul
cannot feel perfectly comfortable in her society, after all the sad
things that have happened, and all the terrible disappointments that
have been undergone, then, what is the reply? That he must make an
effort. That he is bound to make an effort. We have always been a
family remarkable for effort. Paul is at the head of the family; almost
the only representative of it left—for what am I—I am of no
consequence—”
“My dearest love,” remonstrated Miss Tox.
Mrs Chick dried her eyes, which were, for the moment, overflowing; and
proceeded:
“And consequently he is more than ever bound to make an effort. And
though his having done so, comes upon me with a sort of shock—for mine
is a very weak and foolish nature; which is anything but a blessing I
am sure; I often wish my heart was a marble slab, or a paving-stone—”
“My sweet Louisa,” remonstrated Miss Tox again.
“Still, it is a triumph to me to know that he is so true to himself,
and to his name of Dombey; although, of course, I always knew he would
be. I only hope,” said Mrs Chick, after a pause, “that she may be
worthy of the name too.”
Miss Tox filled a little green watering-pot from a jug, and happening
to look up when she had done so, was so surprised by the amount of
expression Mrs Chick had conveyed into her face, and was bestowing upon
her, that she put the little watering-pot on the table for the present,
and sat down near it.
“My dear Louisa,” said Miss Tox, “will it be the least satisfaction to
you, if I venture to observe in reference to that remark, that I, as a
humble individual, think your sweet niece in every way most promising?”
“What do you mean, Lucretia?” returned Mrs Chick, with increased
stateliness of manner. “To what remark of mine, my dear, do you refer?”
“Her being worthy of her name, my love,” replied Miss Tox.
“If,” said Mrs Chick, with solemn patience, “I have not expressed
myself with clearness, Lucretia, the fault of course is mine. There is,
perhaps, no reason why I should express myself at all, except the
intimacy that has subsisted between us, and which I very much hope,
Lucretia—confidently hope—nothing will occur to disturb. Because, why